Killer Dreams

Chapter 1

North Minneapolis, Minnesota

July 7, 2013, 12:22 AM

Officer David Hardin's POV

I looked down the alleys as my newest partner, Officer Vanessa Miles, drove down Second Avenue North near Interstate 35W. "What are we looking for," she asked.

She was new to the Northside beat, having spent most of her probationary period directing traffic and patrolling downtown streets during events. In her first year, she'd pulled her firearm once. On the north side, she'd had her gun out four times in her first ten weeks! She was eager enough, but it would take some time to get used to the pace of the night shift beat I worked.

"We're seeing a rise in copper thefts, so Sarge wants extra patrols on the warehouses and construction sites."

"So, we're doing that early? While nothing else is going on?"

I rolled my eyes. "You did NOT just say that."

She looked at me, her tanned skin backlit by the streetlights. "Don't be so superstitious. It's not like what I say here can affect what goes on outside our car. You don't understand the concept of an independent agency, do you?"

The radio call came before I could respond to her idiotic statement. Of COURSE, it could affect things. Just like talking about a no-hitter in the dugout and yelling at the television during the football game changed things. You didn't fuck with fate. "Sixteen North, Thirty North, Ten-seventy-nine, Thirteen-thirteen North Irving Avenue, respond Code 2."

Vanessa hit the lights and made a right turn. I picked up the radio, rolling my eyes at the call. Domestic situations were the worst calls to get. If you are lucky, you show up, talk the people down, and write a report. Sometimes you take a guy to jail, usually over the objections of the woman he just beat on, 'because he still loves me.' Then there are the times it goes from nothing to a deadly force situation in a heartbeat.

Domestics and traffic stops were the most common use-of-force scenarios. The Lieutenant reminded us last month that domestic disturbances led to 29% of all officer fatalities. You could never let your guard down.

The call location was showing on our computer. "Sixteen North, roger, three minutes out. Any other details?"

"Location has four prior calls this year," the dispatcher replied.

"Thirty north, ETA six minutes," came over the radio. That was Sergeant Nick Maitland, a mid-shift supervisor.

"It's probably nothing," Vanessa said.

"With four prior calls, it's something," I replied. "Just remember that whatever happens is your fault."

She shrugged her shoulders as she raced through the dark streets. "Whatever."

We stopped on Irving just south of 14^th Street. A black woman in her forties was standing on the sidewalk and waving us over. "Thank GOD you're here! I think he's going to kill her this time!"

I could hear the shouts from inside the two-story house. Constructed in the twenties, it had seen better days. Like most homes in this neighborhood, the upstairs was a separate apartment. "Who is going to kill her, Ma'am?"

"Virgil. That bum just got out of prison, and he's nothing but trouble!"

Vanessa came to my side. "Has he hit her?"

She nodded. "Beat her ass last month and was supposed to spend two months in County for it." It didn't surprise me; the County was cutting costs, and incarceration was expensive. Add in a County Attorney who pled everything down, and the criminals didn't face many sanctions.

"Upstairs?"

"Door on the right," the woman replied. "Take his ass to JAIL and leave him there!"

"I'll see what I can do," I promised. The shouts got louder, and Virgil threatened to kill her for cheating on him. She was giving him hell back, telling him he was a bum who couldn't keep a job. This situation wasn't going to de-escalate. "Let's go," I said.

"Backup?"

"He's on his way," I said as I started up the stairs to the porch. I could see the lights from Thirty approaching from the east. "You live downstairs, Ma'am?"

"Yes. Nobody else is home. It's the one on the right."

"Thanks." The owner had left the original wood door for the ground floor apartment, while a plain steel door led to the stairs for the upstairs apartment. Luckily, it was open.

I led Vanessa up the narrow stairway. Halfway up, the wall shook from an impact, followed by the sound of breaking dishes. The woman inside was screaming for help. I took the remaining stairs two at a time, pounding on the door with my fist. "MINNEAPOLIS POLICE! OPEN UP!" There wasn't a lot of room at the top of the stairs, so Vanessa was two steps down from me.

"THE FUCKING COPS! I'LL CUT YOUR FUCKING THROAT, BITCH!"

The woman screamed he had a knife, and I couldn't wait any longer. I kicked the door open, my Glock 22 held in my right hand as I caught the door with my left. I scanned the room, stopping with my gun pointed at a skinny black man by the refrigerator. Virgil stood over his girlfriend, a bloody kitchen knife in his hand. "DROP THE KNIFE," I yelled.

"FUCK YOU." He drew his hand back, getting ready to stab her again. My finger squeezed the trigger once, hitting him in the left arm. A fraction of a second later, my next shot hit the left side of his chest. I heard another shot from behind as my hip exploded in pain. I kept my pistol on Virgil as I fell forward, unable to balance myself. I saw Virgil drop the knife, so I didn't fire again.

I screamed in agony as my body hit the floor.

"DAVID!" Vanessa ran up to me, kneeling on the kitchen floor by my side. "I'm so sorry!"

"Secure him," I grunted out as I fought the pain. I rolled onto my left side, keeping my gun on a slumping Virgil as his girl screamed his name.

"What the FUCK," I heard from the door. "Thirty North, shots fired, officer down. Thirteen-thirteen North Irving." I saw Vanessa shake her head as she checked Virgil for a pulse. "Suspect is down along with the victim. Officer down, roll EMS."

Sergeant Maitland was at my side a second later. "Miles, grab a towel and apply pressure to her bleeding. Take her into the other room." She moved off, visibly shaking. Meanwhile, Sarge put his hand over the right side of my groin, where blood was spurting out from the exit wound. "David, you hang in there. I've got you, and the cavalry is coming."

He grabbed a dish towel from the oven, folded it with one hand, then pressed it to the back of my hip and the front of my abdomen by my right pocket. "She fucking shot me in the ass," I gritted out. The pressure of the improvised bandage sent stabbing pain up my side.

"I figured that," he replied. The pain was intense, and I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming. "You'll be fine; she missed your dick. Stay still, dammit!"

I could hear the sirens outside as units pulled up. Everyone responds to a call like this.

One of the responding officers set his First Responder kit with him. I could see people coming by me, and their faces told me it wasn't good. The suspect was DRT, dead right there. The woman had defensive wounds on her arms; it didn't sound bad.

Two Emergency Medical Technicians arrived with their case and a litter. "It's too fucking narrow to get the gurney up here," one of them said.

"GSW to the right hip with an exit wound at the right abdomen," the second EMT said. "Get me two pressure bandages and start a line."

I was struggling to follow everything that was happening around me. I heard Sarge tell them to take possession of Vanessa's gun and put her in a car until the shooting team arrived.

"I'm cold," I told Sarge as he held my hand.

"Quit fucking bleeding then. You're making a mess of the woman's kitchen."

I knew what it meant. I could feel the pool of blood beneath me. I was bleeding out. "Tell Tracy I love her."

"You'll tell her yourself," Maitland responded. "You're not going to fucking die on me, Officer Hardin. I've never lost one of my officers, and I'm not going to start now! You hang on, you hear me?"

I barely noticed as the EMTs cut off my duty belt and part of my pants while I lay still on my left side. I couldn't see past all the people in the room now. Even the Sarge was pushed aside by the paramedics.

"We need to move him NOW," one of the men said. The guy holding the bandages held them tight as they rolled me onto my left side. I felt the bones in my hip shifting, and I nearly passed out from the pain. I bit back a scream, taking a deep breath through the oxygen mask they'd placed over my mouth. The men attached Velcro straps after getting me on the backboard. "Lift on three."

The pain kept me awake as they maneuvered me down the narrow staircase and out to the waiting gurney. My fellow officers reached out to touch me as I was rolled to the ambulance, others shouting encouragement that I couldn't acknowledge. After the ambulance doors closed, I could feel my body shutting down.

I couldn't keep my eyes open, and it felt like I was going underwater.

People were talking around me, but it was all fuzzy.

I could feel my body jump when they used the paddles on me, but I didn't feel any pain.

"Tracy," I tried to say, but nothing came out. A light appeared to me; it was soft and comforting, and I felt myself moving to it. The world faded, and then there was nothing.

Chapter 2

Minneapolis, Minnesota

July 7, 2013, 1:52 AM

Tracy Hardin's POV

I looked out the window at the city lights from our studio apartment in the Uptown area of Minneapolis. I thought about what my husband was doing while I avoided looking at the next practice question on my screen. David is working the night shift and won't get home until after six.

I knew I should be sleeping, but the Bar Exam was in two more weeks. Mom and Dad, along with scholarships, paid for most of my Bachelor's from the University of Minnesota.

They couldn't pay for law school, which ran over fifty thousand a year in tuition and fees. I'd already racked up over a hundred and twenty thousand dollars in student loans, and David still had twenty-six thousand left from his college. Now that I had graduated, I had to start paying mine off.

Thank God David landed a job with the Minneapolis Police after graduating from the Law Enforcement Academy in Alexandria. It didn't pay much as a rookie, but it had good benefits, and he loved the work. My man had been killing himself with overtime since we married two years ago, while I picked up shifts as a server at a local restaurant. If I didn't pass the bar exam on my first try, it would be six months before I could try again. Our professors warned us that one in five would fail our first attempt.

I didn't want to be waiting on tables for the rest of the year. Looking down at my laptop, I read question number 87.

"A psychopathic personality that has a long history of criminal violence frequently relishes the act of brutally brutalizing old people through cruel and shocking physical torture. For no apparent reason, he chooses to torture the victim's father. Following the assault, the father was taken to the hospital and placed in intensive care. The victim was not present, but learned about it through the authorities and read about it in the press. The victim was in excruciating emotional pain and needs medical attention. Is it possible for a victim to sue a perpetrator for intentional infliction of mental distress?

A) Yes, since the behavior was shocking and outrageous.

B) Yes, because in cases of torture, the culprit faces strict accountability.

C) No, because the victim was not there when the heinous behavior took place.

D) No, because the perpetrator was unaware of the father's close family."

Huh. 'No, because the sick bastard will get his punk ass shanked in prison' wasn't one of the options, so David's answer couldn't be it. Marriage to a cop changes your outlook on the criminal justice system.

Looking back at the question, I examined the answers closely. I'd learned not to jump at the first answer that seemed right, but to understand why the others were wrong. In a multiple-choice exam, ruling out two options gives you a fifty-fifty chance of picking the right one randomly. It was rare the remaining two were a coin flip, but I carried a quarter in my pocket just in case.

'A' was true, but his behavior wasn't relevant to the question of the cause to sue. 'B' was also false for the same reason. I quickly eliminated 'D' because you couldn't use ignorance to escape the action. I clicked on 'C' and smiled when it was correct.

I heard a loud knock on the apartment door and looked up in surprise. I wasn't expecting a visitor this late, and this wasn't the safest neighborhood. I grabbed my compact 9mm pistol from the table next to my purse, holding it by the side of my leg as I walked to the door. I stayed near the wall, not going in front of the door in case a bad guy tried to kick it down. "Who is it?"

"Sergeant Thompson, Minneapolis Police, Mrs. Hardin. I need to speak to you."

I leaned over and looked out the peephole. The blood in my body ran cold as I saw the chaplain next to the uniformed Sergeant. It was the last thing any cop's wife wanted to see. "No," I whispered. The pistol clattered to the ground as my fingers stopped responding. It took a moment to undo the chain and the deadbolt before I could open the door.

Their faces told me it wasn't good. "Is David dead?"

"May we come in, Mrs. Hardin?" I nodded, my legs wobbling as I stepped aside. "Can we sit down?"

The chaplain led me to a chair at our dinette table, taking my hand as I tried to hold myself together. The Sergeant picked up the pistol and set it on top of the refrigerator before he took a seat on my other side. "There's been a shooting involving your husband," he told me. "He's been transported to the trauma center at Hennepin County Medical Center and is in surgery right now. We'll take you there."

"I need to get dressed," I said. I grabbed my jeans and some underwear from the dresser, then ran into the bathroom. My hands were shaking, but I was back out a minute later. I grabbed my phone and purse and followed them out. My hands were shaking so badly that I couldn't get the key in to lock up. The Sergeant took them from me, locking the door as the chaplain helped me walk to the stairs.

The squad car got there quickly, with lights flashing as we raced through the streets. My escorts didn't have updated information on his condition, and I was a nervous wreck when we pulled up to HCMC. Cops were everywhere, along with a couple of news vans. I ignored the cameras as I walked inside, then up an elevator to a waiting room filled with blue. The Sergeant led me to a Hispanic man with greying hair. "Mrs. Hardin, I'm Lieutenant Rodriguez, Northside Watch Commander," he told me. "Officer Hardin is still in surgery," he said as they guided me to a chair.

"What happened?"

"He and his partner responded to a domestic disturbance call. A man was stabbing his girlfriend, and Officer Hardin and his partner fired to stop him. One of the bullets struck him in the right hip." I let out a breath, thinking that wasn't as bad. "The bullet struck an artery, and he lost a lot of blood."

"What did the doctors say?"

He let out a sigh. "They haven't come out yet. No news is good news. It means he's still fighting."

"How is Vanessa?" I'd met his partner once. I knew she must feel horrible about shooting her partner.

"She's in another room. She's taking it hard. I don't think she is ready to be out here with the others."

A few of the officers I knew came over to lend their support, but most stayed clear of our spot near the doors of the surgical waiting room. It was after five in the morning before the door opened. By then, I had the Police Chief sitting by my side in the waiting room. The surgeon was wearing scrubs with the blood of my husband on him. "Mrs. Hardin?"

"Yes?"

"Your husband is still in surgery, but I wanted to give you an update because it may be another hour before he's in recovery," the man said. "The bullet hit here," he pointed at a spot at the top of his right buttock. "It shattered against his pelvis, and one of the fragments carried through and perforated his femoral artery before exiting here. We stopped that bleeding and repaired the damage to his bowels and liver."

"He'll recover?"

"He's in grave condition," the doctor said. "Your husband lost a lot of blood. We had to revive him once in the ambulance and once on the table. Making it this far is a good sign, but the next forty-eight hours will be critical for him. There is a significant risk of infection or complications from the surgery, plus the damage to his hip. I'll let our orthopedic surgeon discuss his pelvis."

He was alive. I kept telling myself that until the next surgeon came out an hour later. I didn't care that the damage to his hip was extensive or that he'd have a long rehabilitation. I didn't care that he might have mobility problems or a limp. He was alive, and a nurse was taking me to him.

I reached his bed and took his hand in mine. He was cold and pale, and a brace covered him from his chest down to his right knee. "Don't leave me," I whispered as my left hand touched his cheek. "I love you."

They didn't let me stay long. I asked to meet with Vanessa, and we hugged and cried together as she apologized. I couldn't be mad at her; sometimes, things just happened. I was more upset with the dead convicted felon who started this all. The guy David shot had a long rap sheet, yet prosecutors allowed him to plea to lesser charges. Instead of years in prison, they let him back on the street after only thirty days.

David was in the intensive care unit when I next saw him. He woke up a day later, weak and in pain.

Ch. 3

David Hardin's POV

Six Months Later

(Trigger warning- skip to trigger end in italics if desired)

Blood soaked the bed around her torso, a bright red circle on the pale blue cotton sheet set. It had run down the sides of her naked body, growing with every beat of her weakening heart.

The words "BITCH" and "CUNT" were carved into the swell of her large breasts. Below the text, her nipples had been removed and lay next to her body. "WHORE" in six-inch letters arched across her stomach. The handle of a chef's knife was sticking out from between her legs; it was an expensive Wustof Classic Icon knife, part of a set her sister gave us for our wedding. Long legs were split wide and tied to the posts at the bottom of the bed, the sheets in between solid red.

Looking back up, I could see her arms tied off to the corners of the headboard. Her dark red hair framed her battered face. A bright red ball gag, buckled on with a leather harness, had kept the neighbors from hearing her muffled screams.

Under the blood, raised welts covered her body from the belt used to whip her body. The belt was on the floor, spatted in blood from when the cutting started later on. I leaned over the bed, looking into the green eyes now glazed over in death. After everything I had done to her, I couldn't bear to look anymore.

(End Trigger)

I reached over with a gloved hand and closed her eyes.

"TRAAAA-CY! NO! TRACY!!"

I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me hard. "DAVID! David, wake UP!"

I opened my eyes in a panic. My wife was leaning over me, concern in her eyes, her red hair framed by the morning sun through our bedroom window. "Tracy," I whispered.

She leaned over, placing her head on my chest as I struggled to calm my breathing. My heart was racing, and I could feel the adrenaline surging through my body as the nightmare faded. "You're all right, baby. It's just a dream."

"I know," I whispered back. I brought an arm around my wife's shoulders, holding her close to me as I calmed down. We didn't say anything until my pulse was back to normal. "What time is it?"