Killer Dreams

"Just after seven. You need to get dressed, baby. We've only got an hour before your appointment." I let her go, and she sat up on the edge of the bed. Tracy was in her work clothes, a navy business suit with a white blouse. She'd somehow passed the bar after my accident and landed a job in St. Paul with the Ramsey County Attorney's office. She'd been working her ass off since the beginning of October.

I'd healed enough to get around with a walker, then a cane. The bullet that hit me did a lot of damage, shattering the socket of my right hip and the supporting bone. The surgeon that night was saving my life, not performing miracles. I'd had two more surgeries since then. They couldn't put an artificial hip in because there wasn't enough solid bone to attach the new socket. Today was my three-month follow-up from my last surgery.

After the shooting, I was in a wheelchair for three months. We couldn't continue living in a walk-up studio on the fourth floor of our Uptown studio. Hell, we couldn't afford it anyway. I was still employed and drawing a salary, but we depended on me working overtime to pay the bills. I needed around-the-clock care for a few months so Tracy couldn't hold a job. We moved into her parent's single-level townhome in Woodbury to save money. By the time I could get around independently, they had gone to Arizona for the winter.

"Was it the same dream?" I could hear the worry in her voice.

"Yeah. I need a shower." I hadn't told her the details of my dream; I couldn't do that to her. How could I tell her I saw her death? And not just her final moments. No, Tracy doesn't die of cancer or in a car accident. She dies at my hand, her screams reverberating in my head until she bleeds out.

I can't reveal the details of how I torture and kill her sometime in the future.

Instead, I told her it was a flashback from the shooting, and I was yelling for her because I could feel myself dying. When she asks for more details, I tell her that I can't remember. I lie to her because I'm a coward. I can't reveal what I do to her. I say I woke up in a panic, and it's all a blur now.

It's not. I see every detail.

The sheets were damp with my sweat, and Tracy started stripping them after I stood up. "You should talk to someone about it. That's the third time this month you've woken that way."

I left my cane by the open bathroom door, turning around while gripping the steel bars her father had installed for me. They'd given up the master bedroom for us because of the attached bathroom with a walk-in shower. "I don't want to talk to anyone about it, honey. What good does it do me to rehab like hell to get my job back, only to get put on the rubber gun squad?"

"You don't have to talk to a department shrink. We could see someone else."

I turned on the shower, then dropped my sleep shorts. "The city pays the bills, and they'd ask the questions. We can't afford to see anyone on our own." I sat in a shower chair, cleaning myself while I thought about what I should do with her. I knew how much Tracy loved me; she had proven it every day since I got shot.

It was me that was no good for her. How could I stay in her life, knowing I would murder her eventually? I didn't know when the dream would become a reality. I didn't recognize the bedroom. Tracy looked older, maybe in her early thirties? Her boobs were twice as big as they are now, but I didn't know if that was from having kids or seeing a doctor. Kids would be even worse; how fucked up would my children be after learning what Dad did to Mom?

I finished my shower and got dressed. I knew I was due for x-rays and an exam, so I wore cotton shorts and a T-shirt under a warm-up suit. Tracy had her coat on when I reached the door, and she helped me don my ski jacket and hat before going into the garage. The garage door was open, and the wheelchair-capable van was already running. It was a loaner from a charity helping officers injured in the line of duty. Tracy held my arm as I walked to the passenger side and got in, then she went to the driver's side. "Thanks for warming up the car," I said.

"It's ten below zero, baby. Even the garage can't keep this thing warm." We drove through rush-hour traffic to United Hospital in St. Paul. She let me off by the door, then met me in the lobby by the skyway from the parking garage. We arrived in Doctor Ibanez's office with ten minutes to spare.

"Relax," she told me as I bounced my left leg. "You've done everything you can in rehab, honey. I'm proud of you."

It hadn't been easy. The hip was fragile early on, so I did a lot of exercise in a pool until I could walk again. I needed a cane, but the limp wasn't as noticeable now. "If I can get back on limited duty, I can cover extra shifts. It's driving me nuts sitting at home all day."

The work-ups took about forty minutes. We waited another hour before the doctor came in and gave me a thorough physical exam. "What's the verdict, Doc? Can I go back on the job?"

He turned to me and leaned forward. "I warned you this rehabilitation would be lengthy, David. You've done well, but we have to be realistic here. There was extensive bone, muscle, and nerve damage. We were able to fix some of it, but not all. Getting you to walk again was a victory."

I was not too fond of the direction of this conversation. "What are you trying to say?"

"We have to manage our expectations for your case. Physical therapy can improve your range of motion and strength but can't strengthen your bone. A broken vase doesn't get stronger after you glue it back together." He turned to the x-ray on the computer screen. "Your pelvis will never regain its strength and integrity, David. If I can have you walking with a minor limp, that's a success. Running is out of the question."

"I have to be able to run, Doc. I've got bad guys to catch."

He shook his head. "Not anymore. I've spoken with the chief physician for the city, and we've reviewed your progress. We concluded that your injury has resulted in a permanent disability preventing you from returning to the Minneapolis Police. The city is starting the paperwork for your medical retirement."

It was like a punch to my gut. All I ever wanted was to be a cop, and they were taking it away? "Isn't it early for that? Maybe in a few months, things will change?"

"I'm sorry, David. We did the best we could, and more surgeries won't help. You worked your ass off to get this far, but some things are too much to overcome. You should speak to your Union representatives about your benefits package."

I left the office in shock. Tracy was trying to cheer me up as we drove home. "I did some research just in case," she told me. "The city has to provide you medical care until you are sixty-five. That's a huge benefit. You also get a pension."

"Whoop-de-frickin' doo," I said. "Fifty percent of my average pay in my last five years. It's only been the last three where I've made decent money. We couldn't live on my salary plus overtime, so how will we afford a place again now?"

"I'm working now, and in a few years, I'll be making decent money. My parents will help us." I nodded, thinking they'd already done so much for us. I'd gone from being a great cop to a charity case. "You should talk to my friend about filing suit."

"Your personal-injury attorney friend? The one who wants to sue Vanessa and the city over the shooting?"

"It doesn't hurt to talk to her. Now that they've decided on medical retirement, we know how much income you're losing."

It felt like sour grapes. "Vanessa quit after the shooting."

"I know, but the city indemnifies her. She fired when she shouldn't have, and it ended your career. If the training wasn't adequate, the city is at fault. We could win a court judgment."

"And I'd be stabbing the Department in the back."

"We should meet with her and discuss the case. Nothing has to happen right now."

A month later, I was in my dress blues for one last time. The Chief gave me a nice plaque with my badge on it. I took photos with my friends and coworkers as they wished me a happy retirement, then we headed to a bar for one last night out. I got so drunk that they had to load me in my wheelchair to get me home.

Things spiraled down from there. Tracy was working sixty-plus-hour weeks, so I had a lot of time to drink and feel sorry for myself. The boozing didn't stop the nightmares, and my marriage was on the rocks before the city settled our lawsuit.

Tracy tried to keep us together, but I was too determined to push us apart. My wife deserved more from a partner than a thirty-year-old cripple on a pension. She was young, beautiful, and intelligent. She would do fine without me.

Two years after the shooting, Tracy finally signed the divorce papers I sent her. I took my share of the settlement and moved away. I bought a small cabin in the Iron Range, four hours north, near Lake Superior.

The nightmares became less frequent with time. Maybe I'd changed the future by leaving? After all, if I wasn't there, I couldn't kill her. I took another drink of bourbon and prayed she would be all right.

Chapter 4

Detective Talia Devine's POV

Richard H. Rowan Public Safety Training Center

St. Paul, Minnesota

September 20 ^th , 2021

"And STOP! Recover!" Sergeant Kelly's deep voice rang out across mats in the training room. The almost two dozen veteran St. Paul Police officers stopped grappling with each other and stood up in groups of three. They ranged in age from twenty-two to fifty. All were breathing hard, hands on their uniform pants, and bent over from the exertion. They wore their duty uniforms during the training, with a few exceptions. Their shoes stayed off on the mats, and dummy guns, tasers, and pepper spray canisters filled their belts. We'd been practicing two-on-one takedown and handcuffing techniques for the last ten minutes.

I was one of three instructors providing instruction during "mat time" for continuing officer use of force training. We called it "Response to Resistance and Aggression." It taught how to subdue and control unarmed suspects using jiu-jitsu-based techniques. I helped develop the training program as a full-time instructor here between 2016 to 2019, the last two years as a Sergeant. I taught our officers de-escalation techniques, empty-hand control and defense, and teamwork-based control techniques.

The drills on team handcuffing techniques were a good example. We started with standing handcuff techniques with one officer on each side. When the suspect started resisting, we'd take him to the ground. One officer would slide behind the unarmed person and lock their arms around their torso. The other would control the legs by grabbing both thighs. The first officer would walk back, lowering the suspect to his butt slowly. Shifting to positions kneeling at his side while controlling his arms, they would put the person flat on the back. Working together, the first officer would hold his left arm pinned to the ground above his head. The second would pull the right arm low across his body, rolling him onto his stomach while moving the arms behind the back for cuffing. It was a simple and effective way to handcuff a suspect while keeping everyone safe.

I loved working here, but I passed the Detective exam at the end of 2019. I'd done six-month training rotations in Burglary/Auto, Sex Crimes, and Gangs. Now I was the junior detective in Homicide.

So what was I doing back here on a Monday morning? "Needs of the Department," as they say. The George Floyd riots sent a shockwave through the law enforcement community. The Chief responded by doubling the training on the new techniques, plus we had officers from all over the state coming to learn from us. Our program delivered results, dramatically lowering deadly force incidents, lawsuit payouts, and officer injuries. Other departments wanted to copy our success. All this meant bringing additional instructors in to help, and I was at the top of the wish list. I was assigned here every Monday now.

"We're going to shift gears now to defensive techniques," Sergeant Kelly announced. "What's the fastest way for an unarmed suspect to become an armed suspect?"

"He takes your gun," one of the students said.

"Exactly. Sometimes the bad guys get the jump on you, and before you know it, you're on your back and fighting for your life. Detective Devine, you'll demonstrate this technique with me as the aggressor."

There was a reason we did it this way. I'm a five-foot-seven female who weighs one hundred and thirty pounds. Sean Kelley is six-four and built like a linebacker. If I can hold him off, they don't have an excuse. We started with me a few feet away, my notebook out like I was taking a statement. Without warning, Sean charged me, driving me to the ground. He paused as I wrapped my legs above his hips, hooking them behind his back. "When you are defensive, you need to control the distance," I told everyone. "Keeping him close reduces the leverage he has. Go ahead and try to punch me."

Sean swung his right hand toward my face; I countered with my left hand going inside, grabbing his elbow and letting my forearm deflect the blow. He did the same with his left hand, so now I had control of both arms. He froze, and I looked out at the students. "It can be just that simple. Your goal is to keep from being injured until your fellow officers can help. He could try for your gun if beating you up doesn't work. What do you do?" Sean lowered his hand to my right side, grabbing the top of my dummy pistol.

"Don't let him have it!"

"Exactly. I drop my right hand on top of his and control the wrist. If he can't get it out of my holster, he can't use it. Keep control of his hand while you roll right. This move helps trap the hand against the ground." I rolled slightly onto my right shoulder, threading my left arm around the back of Sean's left arm and bringing it forward to grab my right wrist. "I've got full control of the weapon and his arm, plus I've established an arm lock. I can use that by sliding out, alternating my hips and shoulder, and using my body weight to force his left shoulder to the ground while moving my legs to a side control position." I demonstrated the technique. "No matter how strong the guy is, leverage works. I've got control of the suspect and can apply pressure until he releases the firearm." He tapped out, and I let him go.

We stood up, and the class divided up into pairs. Since there was an odd number of people, I ended up working with a Deputy Sheriff from the Brainerd Lakes area. He was pretty good, but I was better. He was also fishing for a date after the class ended. It would have been better if he hadn't worked how 'divine' I looked into the conversation. Did he think I hadn't heard that a thousand times in my life? "Sorry, I'm getting over a nasty divorce, and I'm not ready for that," I told him.

"It's just lunch. I'm heading out anyway. I'll buy lunch, and we can trade training techniques."

Uh-huh. You didn't have to be a detective to figure out what techniques he wanted to practice. "Then you won't mind if I ask the Sergeant to come along? He runs the program, after all."

He was thinking about it when my name came over the PA system. "Detective Devine, report to the main office. Detective Devine to the main office."

"I'm sure Sergeant Kelly would take a free lunch. Good luck." I practically ran out of there to avoid more embarrassment. Mom kept asking me when I'd find a good guy to marry, but my track record wasn't good. Todd Bannion was a Sergeant now, but he'd been a few years ahead of me when I started working patrol. He'd swept me off my feet, and we were married within four months. With our weird schedules, I didn't see him a lot. That and our jobs put a lot of strain on our marriage; he wanted me to leave patrol and have children, and I wasn't ready yet. His wandering eye ended us, though. I caught him cheating a few years in, he swore he'd never do it again, and I forgave him. Then I found out he knocked up one of the record clerks at the Precinct. He fought everything in the divorce, and I racked up a large legal debt before we finally signed the decree.

I wasn't going to date again until I paid off my last marriage!

I tossed the training weapons back into the bins, then opened the locker to grab my equipment. I turned on the radio, then holstered my Glock .45. The last thing I reached for was my cellphone. I had three missed calls and a text message from Detective James Maloney, a veteran with twenty years in Homicide. "Meet me at 198 Sixth St E, Apt 51. It's a bad one."

Shit. I stopped by the office on the way out, grabbing the message to call my Lieutenant. I called him as I walked to my car. "What's going on, Lieutenant?"

"Everything I hate, Devine. The whole office is getting pulled onto this case. This murder will get all kinds of press, and you know how I hate that."

"Who is the victim, Lieutenant?"

"Assistant County Attorney Tracy Hardin, and it's a sex crime."

Fuck. I'd worked with Hardin on a few cases last year when I did my Sex Crimes rotation. She was the prosecutor cops hoped they'd draw, and the criminals hated.

I hung up and climbed into my unmarked car, putting the flasher on the roof before speeding off for Lowertown.

Chapter 5

As I pulled up to the brick-faced five-story condo building, I saw the start of the media circus. Tracy's condominium was in a classy building overlooking Mears Park, just a few blocks from the CHS baseball field where the Twins AAA team plays. Crime scene tape and police cars blocked access to the street in front, and four news vans were set up just outside the barricades. I stopped outside the tape, and one of the uniforms approached as I rolled down my window. "Detective Devine, are you working Homicide now?"

"I just started my rotation two months ago, Jack," I replied. One nice thing about working in the Training Division is seeing everyone in the department every quarter. I didn't always remember their names, but they always remembered mine. I'm sure every single cop in the department heard when my divorce was final.

"You can park over there past the BCA truck. It's like a brass convention inside the lobby." The Bureau of Criminal Apprehension crime scene unit was a state agency that provided technical assistance to local jurisdictions. They parked in the middle of the street, next to the hearse from the Coroner's office.

"Thanks for the warning. See you around." I parked my car and got out, checking I had my crime scene supplies in my suit jacket. I carried Tyvek booties, vinyl gloves, a few Ziploc evidence bags, and my notebook and pen in the pockets since my white blouse top didn't have pockets. I hung my gold Detective shield from a chain around my neck and walked towards the door.

Jack wasn't kidding about the brass. The soaring lobby of the luxury building was full of suits and uniforms. I spotted the head of the Operations Department, Assistant Chief John Fordham. He was in charge of all the Detective divisions. He was talking with Captain Mike Cullen. He was the commander of the Robbery/Homicide Division. I'd been in Burglary/Auto, part of Property Crimes, Family and Sexual Violence, and the Gang Unit already. The only ones I hadn't rotated to were Narcotics and Vice and Special Investigations. The SI unit only took experienced detectives. After a rotation in each of the five areas, a new detective would apply for a permanent post. The Captains had a good read on you by the end of your rotation and fought to get the best people into their divisions.

In another group was Captain Lewis, the Department press liaison, the Mayor, and the County Attorney.

"Talia, over here," Detective Hank Johnson said from near the elevators. "The rest of our group is upstairs."