NED
I wish I could say that this was my first time sitting in a police car but it wasn't, not by a long shot. My time running around helping to solve mysteries had lead to me sitting with nylon zip ties on my wrists in the back of a cop car more times than I will ever admit to anyone: my parents, my friends, the gods themselves, everyone. Even though this time I got to sit in the front seat with my digital recorder and notepad in hand I still felt the twisting knot that was my stomach clench as Chief McGinnis' low growl broke through the silence.
"So Nickerson," he boomed effortlessly, his slight Irish brogue cutting through his nasally downtown Chicago accent, "whadda you think of your first ridealong?"
My stomach unclenched slightly as I turned to face the Chief, his smirk only slightly masked by his thick moustache, "It's been lower key than I am used to," I admitted, nodding towards the empty highway we were parked beside, "I was expecting more traffic to come through the checkpoint."
Chief McGinnis chuckled, reaching for his thermos of coffee. The cannister let off a plume of steam and I shivered, wishing that the anti-idling laws didn't apply to police cars parked on the sides of frigid roads, "Your little series on the dangers of impaired driving have already done wonders for reducing drunk and high drivers this holiday season," he handed me a styrofoam cup of the hottest, blackest coffee I'd ever seen, "that's part of the reason I wanted you to ridealong. I wanted to show you first hand the good you've done."
I flushed a little bit. My bosses had mostly set me to write puff pieces that were only published on the River Heights Herald's sister website RH BUZZ (seriously if I had to do another top ten list about an asinine sitcom I was going to burn my degree). I had begged and pleaded to do something that 'mattered' and after much hemming and hawing my supervisor had let me do a piece on the costs of driving impaired. It had been so well received they'd spun it out into a five part series and even published it in the Herald. I was finally making a name for myself and it was gratifying that Chief McGinnis had liked it... but there was a little niggling doubt clawing at my mind, after all he'd said it was 'part of the reason'.
My eyes narrowed slightly as my smile widened, "Thank you Chief, it is always great to hear people are enjoying my writing."
"You're a hard worker, Edward," he grinned, tipping his cup to his lips, "you'll be a great investigative journalist in no time, if they let you."
Investigative journalist? That was always the assumption. I really just want to be a standard news journalist, reporting on politics and business. But I guess I couldn't blame people, half a decade running around with a detective and I guess they didn't realize I had other dreams. I shook my head slightly, dislodging the cobwebs of my past, lest I get stuck in them.
"Perhaps you can help me on my current investigation then, Chief," I pried, holding my digital recorder up, "Why is the chief of police doing checkpoint duty and a ridealong with some nobody reporter?"
Chief McGinnis looked nervous for half a second before catching my smirk and laughing, "I'll tell you, Nickerson," he mused before staring me soberly in the eye, no trace of a smile, "but it'll have to be off the record."
Damn he was good, I thought as a tucked my recorder away. He had me on the edge of my seat wanting the answer even though I'd only been half joking when I asked the question. Maybe he should take up writing, he sure had a knack for building up suspense. The Chief stared at me grimly, " I do the checkpoints almost every December because-" he paused, drawing in a deep breath before piercing me with an electric stare, "because most of my officers have young families."
I blinked. Of all the reasons he could have given, from budgetary concerns to the little green men told him to, this was not one I had expected. My face apparently betrayed my confusion and dismay because Chief McGinnis continued without prompting, deflating from an imposing and slightly impish force of nature that filled the car to a tired, old man who looked very small. "My wife left me you know," I began to express my sympathies but he waved them aside, "nah it is fine it wasn't recent. Hell I'd be surprised if your parents were out of elementary school by the time it happened but it happened and there isn't a day that I don't remember and regret it," he poured himself another cup of coffee, staring with dead eyes out the window behind me, "I worked too much back then. Never home for the holidays. Always missing birthdays and anniversaries. She couldn't handle it."
"I am sorry to hear that. It must have been a hectic time in River Heights," I responded diplomatically.
The unfocused eyes swiveled towards me, "It wasn't the time away she couldn't take, she was a nurse. Her schedule was as crazy as mine," he shook his head sadly, "no it was the worrying," my stomach clenched, the full reason why Chief McGinnis had invited me for this ridealong unfolding before my eyes. "It was a dangerous time. The street gangs were on the rise in Chicago, spilling out into River Heights. My first year on the force we had the highest murder and violent crime rates ever recorded in town. There was a solid chance every day that I wasn't coming home and that was too much for her," he nodded his head sagely again, looking past me onto the blank stretch of highway.
The story was a sad one, especially told on the side of the road in a freezing car near Christmas, but all I was starting to feel was a curl of anger. Not at the Chief directly but at what he wanted to talk about, however, coy he was being about it.
"You can ask Chief. I don't mind, but you may not like the answer," I replied more coolly than I intended. Chief McGinnis' eyebrows raised in slight surprise before fixing me with a grim stare.
"So how is she?" he asked, the pretenses pushed aside.
The acrid feeling of stomach acid crawling up my throat caused me to burp slightly as I replied, "I don't know. She doesn't want to talk to me."
In all of my time knowing McGinnis he'd never truly looked surprised, a habit formed, I guessed, from having a group of teenagers solving some of the most bizarre mysteries on the books, from 'ghosts' to impossible locked rooms, all the damn time. But whatever the past had held Chief McGinnis looked completely dumbfounded now.
"Wh-hat?" He spluttered, "Since when?"
"I haven't talked to her since the beginning of June."
"But-but she's told me that you've been doing good whenever I ask."
We sat in silence as the weight of the statement settled. After a minute I replied, "And she might believe that. She told me that she was leaving me for my own good. After they found the body," I couldn't bring myself to say my friend's name, "she said that it had hurt her so much losing him that she couldn't risk doing that to someone else. I tried to explain that I would care for her even if we weren't together," bitter tears formed as I remembered the blazing June night and the blazing June fight, "she threw the ring at me and told me I should learn to hate her. She said it was what she deserved. I've tried to talk to her since but she won't… won't listen," I finished lamely.
An uncomfortable silence permeated the car for minutes, hours, or days, one couldn't really tell. The traffic itself was unusually light even, not a single car had passed by, although the sheets of icy sleet that were falling was probably to blame for that rather than a sense of cosmic irony.
Suddenly the radio crackled to life causing both me and the Chief, stuck respectively in our own memories, to jump, spilling the now cold contents of our styrofoam cups down our jackets, "Dispatch to car 926. Do you copy 926?"
Chief McGinnis hesitated only long enough to place his empty cup on the dash before reaching for the radio, "This is car 926, copy Dispatch."
"Copy, 926. State troopers have reported a code 11 coming your way. They are pursuing but the vehicle is not stopping for them. They are requesting help in a rolling blockade"
"Roger, Dispatch. What is their radio code?"
"They are car T36 on frequency 151.29500."
"Roger, Dispatch. Will engage," McGinnis, expertly twisted the dials on the radio before speaking again, "Car T36 this is car 926 following up on a code 11."
"What is your location car 926?" Responded the crackling voice, a siren audible in the background.
"One mile west of the Airport Road turn off on Highway 90."
"Roger, 926. We have a single motorcycle going 100 mph. It has blown through three of our checkpoints. We have three vehicles in pursuit but are requesting help in executing a rolling roadblock."
Chief McGinnis' eyebrows reached for the brim of his hat, "Confirmation requested: did you say a motorcycle, T36?"
"10-2, affirmative," the speaker paused for a few seconds, "we are approaching your position within three minutes. Be ready to act as the south point."
"10-4, will be ready to act as south point. Requesting license plate for a 10-27."
"Roger. New York plate, 3 - 2 - Delta - Bravo - 3 - 4."
"3 - 2 - Delta -Bravo - 3 - 4," confirmed Chief McGinnis, already plugging in the plate number into the dashboard mounted toughbook.
"Roger that 926. ETA 2 minutes."
"10-4," the Chief replied slotting the radio into its holder and pressing the affirmative key on the screen to start running the license plate.
"I don't think I understood a word of that," I mused truthfully as the Chief started the car and positioned it in the leftmost lane of the highway, a determined look on his face.
"You are going to be getting more than you bargained for, that is for sure," the Chief chuckled. "We have a guy who apparently has a deathwish and has chosen this slushy, slippery night to drive 30 mph over the speed limit on a motorbike." I shivered even though since the car was running the heat had come on. Almost all incidents involving motorcycles were fatal and the weather was about as far from optimal as it was possible to be for motorbikes. "The troopers are instigating a rolling roadblock," he said, squinting in his mirror to see if he could spot the lights of the troopers yet, "which means we are going to surround the driver and force them to slow down before they hit the city limits."
"What kind of idiot rides a bike in this weather?" I pondered aloud as I caught the telltale signs of rolling lights in the side mirror.
The Chief was slowly starting to move his car into a better position, constantly glancing at the parade of four vehicles coming towards him. He flicked on the automatic setting on the radio, "Car T36, I see you. Ready to join pursuit."
"Roger, car 926," came the reply.
As the three state troopers and the motorcycle flew by Chief McGinnis floored it, easily accelerating within ten seconds to a position behind the speeding bike. The contents of the car jumbled during the sudden burst of speed, the thermos rolling under my seat, the toughbook swinging out slightly on its articulated arm.
With McGinnis in place the state troopers began to take action. One car accelerated in front of the motorbike while the other two closed in on the side, keeping pace. All four law enforcement cars kept up the speed for a few seconds, ensuring that there was no gap big enough for the bike to worm away from them before the order came in.
"Begin slow down maneuvers," shouted the radio.
I saw three sets of brake lights come on. We were still going fast but I could see the speedometer dipping below 100 mph. The bike's brake lights lit up too now. The speedometer dipped lower and lower over the next few minutes until they were crawling along the highway at 10 mph. My adrenaline high was starting to slow now too as I inspected Chief McGinnis. He was sweating bullets at the effort of keeping the perfect speed and distance from the other vehicles without causing a collision. I glanced at the toughbook as we pulled to a stop in the middle of the highway, the River Heights welcome sign visible in the distance, curious as to the fool on the bike who was slowing raising his hands above his head as four vehicles worth of law enforcement swarmed him.
My blood ran cold as I read the name. It couldn't be. I glanced out the window at the biker as he raised his helmet off his head slowly at the request of one of the troopers. Suddenly a blinding light seared my eyes, the driver was silhouetted against the headlights of a car speeding down the other side of the highway. His curls caught the light, giving him a halo. I gulped and glanced back down at the toughbook screen, willing this all not to be true. But a small, slightly unflattering drivers license picture sat to the left of the words, VEHICLE REGISTERED TO: HARDY, FRANKLIN, and I knew my ghost was real.
