Zero Police

A Story by

When the law, zero tolerance and personal emotions get thrown into the same pot.

Rusty moonlight. The man in the brown jacket ran his boot-heel down his attacker’s shin. The mugger screamed and the knife he was wielding fell away from its target; a face. Jack Thompson’s face.

Slow motion.

As he turned, Jack tried to elbow the man behind him but the second mugger was too quick and he felt his skin split as a knuckleduster rammed down and raked across his head. And then there was nothing. Nothing but fog. No pain. That had fled onto a back-burner.

Jack stumbled against the alley wall and slid down; his body like a sack of cats all trying to get out and run in different directions at the same time.

The two muggers were kicking him then, the knife-man cursing as each kick sent pain flaming up his sore shin. But the agony only made him kick harder. Jack heard rather than felt a couple of ribs go.

Then it was all about training. He curled into a ball to limit damage and stopped responding. No sounds, no signs that he was conscious. Training well taught, well learned.

“Grab his hair. Let’s see his face,” said the knife-man. His weedy nasal voice trembled as he gasped, “I’m gonna teach him not to go kicking people. And... I’m gonna remind him to bring money next time.”

“Yeah,” said the other mugger, as he grabbed Jack’s hair and yanked his face round towards the pair of them. His fingers were stubby and his grip strong.

“He just wasted our time. We could have been mugging someone with money.”

The knife-man chuckled as he knelt beside Jack.

“True. Everyone’s got to have a job. We’re just self-employed. People should respect that. Now pull harder; show me more of his face. I’m gonna make him look real pretty.”

Jack rolled to one side then. The pistol came smoothly out of its holster and he shot the big man, the one holding his hair. He didn’t go flying through the air. This wasn’t Hollywood. His cheeks blew out like a squirrel’s as the air was forced up from his chest. He seemed to cough, quietly. His eyes were confused for a moment. Then he fell back. Dead.

All this with time slowing. When it stopped the barrel of the gun was aimed straight at the man with the knife. He didn’t breathe. He just stared. And stared. Then began to shake his head. Slowly at first, then faster.

“No, man. Please. Please don’t. I didn’t... I wasn’t going to... Please don’t...”

Slowly, deliberately, he moved his right hand away then dropped the knife.

“See, there’s no reason now, man. I... Please. Please don’t kill me.”

Jack struggled to his feet, feeling the rough brickwork playing fish hooks with his spine. Knife-man stayed on his knees. Crying. Drops then rivers then a flood.

“Zero Police,” Jack said, fumbling his badge out from his inside jacket pocket.

He saw the mugger’s face change. A mask of utter hatred floated across it. He tried to cover it up but, in that second, the policeman saw it. And knife-man knew that he had. Time was up. He bit down on his lower lip. Sharp. Blood. Jack glanced both ways in the alley. Empty. He put the barrel of the gun against the mugger’s right eye and fired. Zero Police. Trademark.

He turned and, fumbling his badge and gun back into place, ran. As fast as the pain in his ribs would let him.

They are not vigilantes. They are recognised by the City. But only in back rooms.

Not on paper and never, ever, in public. The City even funds them. Exceptional creative accounting.

No question the Police do a fine job. Considering. Hampered as they are by the Justice System. By the lawyers who hunt for loopholes and the silken skills of the courtroom dance. Who is the best actor on the day...

Golden paydays when criminals go free.

But not the Zero Police. Zero tolerance. You commit a crime, you die. Simple. Effective. Sure, they are hated but only by those who have something to hide. Some darkness. Some crime. And by the police...

Crime has dipped dramatically since the Zeroes were formed. Obviously the penalty is off-putting but there is another little, shall we say, encouragement? There are never any witnesses.

The Zero Police are unknown, unrecognizable. The man next door, maybe?

Officers Mackay and Spinetti sat quietly. There was a tension in the squad car. Something that should not exist between long time partners. Mackay sucked his Slush Puppy. A long fat sound that matched his belly.

“He can’t know,” he thought. “No way. He can’t possibly know.”

Spinetti was wrestling with a chocolate bar. He swore violently as the foil ripped open without warning and he almost dropped the bar. As his partner sucked at his fingers Mackay thought about making a joke but something held his words back. The atmosphere was wrong. He sucked his Slush Puppy again.

The radio stuttered.

“Car 43. Shots reported at East 99^th between Lexington and 2^nd. Attend. I repeat. Car 43...”

But the Slush Puppy had gone out one window and the chocolate the other. Mackay made the engine explode into life as Spinetti grabbed the microphone.

“This is Car 43. On our way.”

He glanced up at the road sign. The reported location was only three blocks away. Just inside Puerto Rican territory. A heartbeat for a squad car. It was late. There was not much traffic about but the cars that were scattered before the siren and the epileptic lights.

Sheila Adams could have stepped into any crowd and vanished. She had straight mousey hair and a kind of plain, almost vague face. An unremarkable person. On the outside.

She heard the shots and pulled her gun out from its hiding place in the belly of the knitted teddy bear she always carried in her bag. Confidently, she stepped across the entrance to the alleyway. It only took a split second to take in the scene. Murder. And the killer was running straight towards her. She lifted the gun.

“Wait!” The man shouted.

Sheila paused for a second. Then the man reached towards the inside of his jacket.

“Gun,” she knew. Training.

She shot him twice. Once in the chest and once in the head; the eye. Trademark. She had not needed her instructor to tell her how good she was with a gun. Sheila knew. She had known since her military service in Afghanistan, long before she had joined the Zero Police.

The police cruiser pulled up beside her, lights swamping the scene, refusing the darkness. The woman with the gun turned slowly towards the car. Spinetti was out almost before it had stopped. He half-crouched, keeping the bonnet between them. Gun aimed. Steady.

“Freeze!” he shouted, his voice fighting the siren as it wound down.

“Stop,” the woman shouted back. “Police. I’m an officer.”

Mackay was still wrestling his bulk out from behind the wheel. A cruel thought crossed Spinetti’s mind. He dismissed it as he shouted at the woman again.

“Drop the gun!”

“But I’m police...”

“Drop it or I’ll fire.”

No point in taking chances.

The woman dropped the gun.

“Now kick it away.”

The woman glared at him but kicked the gun away.

“Down on the floor!” commanded Mackay, his own gun out, his aim steady. He was out of the cruiser and up to speed at last. “Face down. Hands behind your head. Legs spread.”

“Oh Jesus,” said the woman. But her eyes flicked from gun to gun and her shoulders slumped. She lay down. Awkwardly. Cheek against the cold sidewalk.

Spinetti didn’t need to look at Mackay to know exactly which part of the woman he was looking at. Her skirt had ridden up. He knelt beside her.

“Where’s your badge?”

“Inside my jacket. Right pocket. I’ll get it.”

“You just keep still,” murmured Spinetti.

He was sweating. His heart was pounding. The chase , the gun... The other thing... And now this. This woman’s body. It felt as if St. Elmo’s Fire was ricocheting around his mind.

He gently pulled the fashion-stitched edge of her blue jacket back and reached in, searching for the pocket. His fingers brushed her breast accidentally. Deliberately. She flinched.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Can’t seem to find the pocket.”

“You b*****d,” she said.

His hand closed around her breast. Lifted it a little as if weighing it.

“Now, now, honey. You mustn’t swear at a police officer.”

He blew a tiny kiss in her ear then fumbled in her jacket, found the pocket and pulled out the badge.

A strange look crossed his face. A momentary surprise followed by a widening grin. Spinetti eased himself upright. He held the badge out for Mackay to see. Even in the ugly sweep of the police car’s lights Mackay could see the badge clearly. The same shape as any police officer’s. But in the centre was a single, dark blue, metallic zero.

Mackay whistled softly.

“Got one,” he murmured. “A Zero. Got one of these freaks at last.”

He walked over and prodded the woman with the toe of his boot.

“Get up. Let’s have a good look at you.”

Spinetti moved to collect her gun.

“That’s far enough,” said Mackay. “Put your hands back behind your head.”

Sheila was on her knees. She moved her hands slowly. Confusion and a gathering fear crossed her pale brown eyes.

“Murderers. That’s all you are,” sneered Mackay, “You’re not police. You’re hired killers.”

Sheila mumbled, tried to say that they were all on the same side. Stopping criminals. Protecting the innocent. But Mackay cut her off.

“There is law in this country. It doesn’t always work but mostly it does.”

Spinetti watched his partner, fascinated. Spittle was running out the corner of Mackay’s mouth.

“There are crimes and there is justice. And that’s what the police bring to society. There is always justice. Always. Not murder!”

Spinetti knew his partner hated the Zeroes. But then, all police did. The Force had to hold back. Every shooting had to be scrutinised, checked for purity of purpose. Whereas, the Zeroes... But Spinetti had never realized just how deeply Mackay felt about them.

Gently then, like a soft hand moving the final pawn into place for checkmate, a smile spread across Spinetti’s face.

He stepped to the woman’s side.

“Calm down, Mackay. Stop and think, partner. There’s something you’ve forgotten.”

Mackay spluttered. He had more to say. Much more. And his temper was up.

“What the...?”

“Sometimes there are crimes that fall outside the law. Where is justice then?”

Mackay shook his head. What the hell was he talking about? Had Spinetti lost it?

Slowly, methodically, Spinetti holstered his gun.

“For example, when a man goes behind his best friend’s back.”

Mackay’s eyes narrowed. Where was Spinetti going with this?

Spinetti fumbled around in his pocket.

“Twenty years on the Force. Twenty years. Partners and friends. Friends, Mackay. Here,” he said. “Catch.”

The object glittered as it flew, spinning, towards Mackay.

“Betrayal,” continued Spinetti. “There’s no law against it but that doesn’t stop it from being wrong. Just... plain... wrong!”

A bitter shell emphasized, magnified, the words. Figures inside a glass Christmas globe.

Mackay’s jaw dropped as he caught the object. It was his badge. He had lost it. He had been moaning for days. Asking if anyone had seen it.

“And just your bad luck that I found this in the bedroom. My wife’s bedroom.”

His voice dropped to an ice cold whisper.

“My bedroom.”

Mackay looked up at Spinetti. His mouth curled. Twisted.

“And you never guessed? All these years and...”

He would have laughed but the bullet from Sheila’s gun took him through the heart. Silenced him.

Sheila snapped out of shock as Spinetti hauled her to her feet and dragged her back into the alley. He swung her around to face the car, his grip like a vice crushing a grapefruit.

“Nothing personal,” he grunted.

Then, with immense force, he propelled her into the side of the car. She had no time to think before her breath leapt out of her lungs, scalded. Spinetti continued on, rounding the front of the car. His own gun came out of its holster, as smooth as magic. Sheila’s last vision of life was the darkness of the hole in the barrel.

Swiftly, Spinetti holstered his own gun again then cleaned his fingerprints off the Zero Cop’s gun and replaced it in her hand. He jiggled it around to make sure there was enough of her palm and fingerprints to prove that she was the only one who had touched it. He replaced the badge in her jacket pocket. Then he stood up, surveying the scene slowly, making sure there were no tiny mistakes. Nothing stupid. He was satisfied.

There were sirens closing in from all directions but nevertheless he acted by the book. He returned to the car and called for back-up and medical units.

“Car 43. Officer down,” he said urgently. “I repeat, officer down.”

Spinetti stood looking at Mackay’s body. There was a joy in his heart that he had never experienced before. Made better by the thought that Cathy, his wife, his ultimate betrayer, had a lifetime of suffering ahead of her. He would see to that.

His report was simple.

As the two police officers exited the car, the woman came running from the alley too fast to be able to stop. She crashed into the side of the car. Whether it was accidental or not, Spinetti didn’t know at the time, but the woman fired her gun. He caught sight of his partner go down and shot the woman.

Simple. Perfect. All over in a fraction of a second.

And everything worked fine until the pathologist found slight chocolate stains on the woman’s blouse. Under the right breast. Stains that yielded up two fingerprints. Fingerprints that the National Database identified as belonging to Police Officer David Spinetti.

From that moment on, gathering speed all the time, his world unravelled. Into the ugly but ever welcoming arms of justice.