Savage Rage (6 page)

But if he had to be bored in a scout car for ten hours a day, he could ask for a lot worse in company than Juliet. As long as he didn't call her Julie. He had made that mistake once and she had damn near bitten his head off. For a cute little thing, she had one hell of a temper. He admired that.

Whenever she wanted to needle him, out came “Jacky.” At least she had used the phrase “Jackeo and Juliet” only once. Over the air. Jack had responded by threatening to leave her in 51, unarmed, the next time he jumped on a call down there.

As Jack was pulling away from the curb, a unit from 51 spoke up. “CIT 01 to radio. We're clear. Do you want us to head up to that threaten suicide in 53?”

“10-4, CIT, I'd appreciate the help. I'll put the call on your screen. 5306, are you aware the CIT unit will be attending your call?”

Juliet snagged the mike. “10-4, dispatch,” she quipped rather perkily. “We're just around the corner. We'll be on scene in a minute or so, and we'll advise.”

Jack suddenly realized he had parked at Yonge Street and Eglinton Avenue after hitting the Tim Hortons. He hadn't even thought about it. This always amazed him: coppers in 53 regularly sat on busy corners when they were not on calls. In 51, if you got a quiet moment for coffee, the last thing you wanted to do was sit where the public could find you.

So now, not only was he parking like them, he was getting used to being able to grab a tea without having to do a call first.
Crap, I'm turning into a 53 cop.

Aloud, Jack asked, “What is this CIT I keep hearing on the air?”

“Crisis Intervention Team,” Juliet explained as Jack waited to turn left onto Eglinton. The intersection, bordered by towering office and condo buildings, was heavy with traffic. “It started up back in the fall. It's a cop with a psychiatric nurse on board. They handle the EDP calls. It's a 51 Division car but sometimes they come up here to help us out. I'm surprised they're still on the air; they usually head in around eleven.”

“Sounds like a good idea, but I doubt we'll need them,” Jack declared, making the turn on the red.

“Why not? It's that building on the corner. The entrance is on Holly.”

“Thanks. If this guy really wanted to kill himself, he wouldn't have called.” Jack pulled the scout car to the curb in front of the apartment building. “I mean, if he was serious, we'd be getting calls from other people after he went splat on the sidewalk.”

“Are you cynical or just crabby tonight?” Juliet tapped the At Scene button and they both got out of the car.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “My wife and I were at her parents' place for a party this evening and I got into a bit of a fight with her dad. Guess I'm still a bit peeved about it.”
That and falling in cow shit. But I'll keep that to myself.

“In-laws can be a bitch, but no need to take it out on this guy. We haven't even seen him yet and you're already declaring him a loser.”

“Come on,” Jack defended himself as they stepped into the lobby. “How many times have you gone to a call where someone's
threatening
—” he held up and crooked the first two fingers of each hand “— to kill himself and when you get there he's taken half a dozen Tylenols or he's
slashed
—” again with the quotation marks “— his wrists so lightly the cuts are barely bleeding. They just want attention, that's all.”

He lifted a quizzical eyebrow her way as he punched the elevator button.

“Okay, I get your point, but that doesn't mean everyone who calls is looking for attention.”

“Tell you what,” Jack offered as they stepped into the elevator, “if this guy turns out to be serious, I'll buy you lunch.”

Juliet flashed him her toothpaste ad smile. “You're on.”

The elevator doors opened with a cheery
ping!
on the eighteenth floor. Jack glanced in each direction. The hall was empty.

“You choose,” he told Juliet. “I always go the wrong way.”

“Yeah, me too.” She shrugged and picked left. Jack followed, keeping an eye on the hallway ahead of them over his escort's head. Just because he was willing to bet good old Ted McManus was simply another attention seeker didn't mean he was going to rule out the chance — a slim one, he was ready to admit — that Ted did want to die and wanted to take some uniformed company along with him when he went. The last thing Jack wanted to be was an example of the complacency instructors used at police colleges.

He never wanted his name attached to
You see what happens when you approach a call thinking it's bullshit? Sometimes it turns out not to be bullshit and that's how coppers die. Take these two idiots for example. . . .

No thanks.

They realized they were going the wrong way after a couple of doors and turned around. As they passed the elevator, Jack half expected the doors to ping! again, expelling the fabled crisis team. He wondered what type of nurse would want to ride around in a police car.
Some tree-hugging do-gooder, no doubt. Probably volunteered for the job so she could save the poor nuts — oops, Emotionally Disturbed People, I mean — from us uncaring, ignorant cops.

With luck, they'd have Ted all bundled up and ready for a quick ride to the hospital before the crisis whatsit arrived and wanted to spend the next couple of hours chatting with Ted about his feelings.

Crap, I am cynical.

The door numbers were still climbing and Jack had just reckoned it would be the last apartment when Juliet announced, “It's the last apartment.”

“Always is.”

As they approached the door, both of them automatically turned down the volume on their radios. Jack was pleased to see Juliet slide her finger — both of them had donned their Kevlar-lined leather gloves in the elevator — over the peephole before she quickly slipped past the door. She leaned in, not quite pressing her ear up against the wood. Although the building looked clean enough not to have to worry about something crawling into your ear, why take the chance? She motioned for Jack to wait while she listened. Maybe she wasn't such a rookie after all.

A moment later Juliet shrugged, silently to say,
I didn't hear anything
. Jack nodded and tried the doorknob. It turned easily in his grasp. He looked a question at Juliet and she nodded. He pushed and the door swung gently open. Before Jack could step in, Juliet took the lead, pushing the door flat against the wall, achieving a double goal: giving them the widest view of the apartment as possible and removing any potential threat from behind the door.

Jack was definitely impressed. Juliet had not missed any of the little things that could be the precursor to the shit hitting the fan — or what Jack's training officer in 32 liked to call “the fecal matter encountering the oscillating blades.”

The door opened onto a small foyer tiled in white with a closet to their left and a tiny kitchen laid out on the right. While Juliet gave the closet a quick peek, Jack scanned the kitchen. It was clean and tidy except for a stack of unwashed dishes in the sink and a deep gouge in the drywall on the far wall. “Far” being a disputable description as the kitchen couldn't have been more than twelve feet in length. Amid a scattering of drywall chunks and dust, Jack saw a frying pan and what might have been a sandwich — it was too charred to really tell. The familiar, unpleasant smell of burnt toast lingered in the air.

Jack pointed it out to Juliet and they both shrugged.

“Ted? It's the police,” Juliet called. Her voice was firm but not aggressive. “You called 911? Ted, you in here?”

They paused, listening. A hushed sobbing was coming from farther in the apartment. The living room stretched out from the foyer and kitchen, the sofa, coffee table and TV offering little in the way of concealment. A bathroom and a smaller room, either a den or a second bedroom, lay to the left. Juliet quickly cleared them both. They crossed the living room, heading to what must have been the master bedroom and Jack felt the temperature drop, a chill carried on a breeze from the bedroom.

Open balcony door. Fuck, maybe this guy is serious after all.

The balcony door was indeed wide open, but Ted had not taken that fatal, final step. A man was huddled on the queen-sized bed that all but filled the room. Jack hoped it was Ted and not a grieving roommate.

“Ted? It's the police.” Juliet attempted to engage the sobbing man while Jack inched around the foot of the bed to the balcony door. The wind at street level had barely been noticeable, but up this high it sliced into the bedroom, as solid as an icicle. One freaking huge icicle.

Giving Ted a final glance, hoping he wasn't conning them, Jack stepped out onto the balcony. His stomach lurched disagreeably as he peered over the railing at the sidewalk below. Far, far below. Jack wasn't a fan of heights and wasted no time checking the ground for splattered bodies. The sidewalk was clear of people — dead ones at least — and he gratefully retreated to the safe side of the railing.

No way. No fucking way would I ever jump. I'd eat my gun first, if things got that bad.
He stepped inside, locking the door behind him.
But then can life ever be bad enough that offing yourself is the answer? Well, let's see what's up with Ted, shall we?

Juliet was sitting on the end of the bed. A nice, non-threatening position but still well out of reach. Jack passed behind her and leaned in the doorway, crossing his arms casually over his chest. He frowned when he felt his jacket pull tight across his back.
Damn, I have to get a new jacket some day.
He dropped his arms and folded his hands over the front of his gun belt.

Ted's bedroom was in about the same state as the kitchen minus the frying pan redecoration. The walls were painted a nice off-white shade, and the furniture was that rare cross of functional and stylish; the bed had drawers in the frame.
I guess in a small place like this you have to make use of all available space.
The bedsheets were rumpled and had that long-lived-in look. Jack wondered when Ted had last changed the linen.

Speaking of washing, Ted himself had the same kind of ridden hard, put away wet look to him. He was slight in build and, judging from the way his blue golf shirt — also in need of a wash — hung on him this might have been a new body weight for him. He was sitting at the head of the bed, in the middle, with his back up against the wall and his arms wrapped protectively around his knees. His head was tilted back, eyes staring listlessly at the ceiling. His hair was in serious need of trimming and his face hadn't felt the touch of a razor in some time.

Even with his head canted back, Jack could see that Ted's eyes were so heavily rimmed in red they appeared to be bleeding. Tears streamed down his cheeks unchecked to drip heedlessly from his jaw. His mouth was a grimaced slash, his frown lines etched so deeply they appeared carved into his skin. It was as if sorrow was the sole expression he knew.

What the hell could have happened to this guy?

Juliet echoed Jack's thoughts. “Ted, what's wrong? What happened today?”

Ted drew in a ragged, hitching breath. “I . . . I . . . oh, God!” His eyes slammed shut, squeezing out fresh rivers of tears.

Jack felt a shiver chase up his spine. Those stammered words carried such pain, such sheer insufferable agony, it was no wonder the man had thought of killing himself. Compassion, unexpected and sudden, brushed aside Jack's indifference.

Someone's died. Or maybe it's cancer. Or
. .
. Something.
Jack didn't want to imagine what horror could strike someone so deeply.

“Ted, we can't help unless you tell us what's wrong.” Juliet was speaking softly, coaxing Ted into trusting them.

Ted lowered his head, rubbed furiously at his eyes. “It doesn't matter,” he said, his voice harsh, strained. “It's stupid.”

“It can't be stupid if it's hurting you that much,” Jack insisted, unable to remain silent.

“Please, Ted, tell us,” Juliet urged.

Ted's head whipped to face her, his features a mask of rage. “I burned my lunch! I fucking burned my lunch,” he snarled, his voice filled with such hate and anger Jack twitched in anticipation of an attack. But Ted's anger was not directed at them. “I'm useless, so fucking useless.” His head dropped to his arms, the fury gone as quickly as it had flared.

Juliet looked over her shoulder at Jack, her eyes wide in disbelief. Jack was sure his own expression mirrored hers.
His lunch? He burned his sandwich and that's why he wants to kill himself?

“Give me a fucking break.” This Jack uttered aloud, once again unable to remain silent. “You burned your lunch?” he asked, not really believing.
“You burned your lunch?”
Louder this time and not without his own touch of anger.

Ted nodded, his face buried in his arms. He was sobbing yet again and Jack had had enough.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, knock it off!” he snapped.

Ted flinched, as if expecting to be hit and Jack was more than mad enough to lay a beating on the wimp.

“Jack —” Juliet began, but he cut her off.

“No. This is bullshit. Bullshit!” he repeated, flinging the word at Ted, feeling a vicious pang of delight when the huddled form flinched again. “He calls 911, says he's going to jump, wastes our time and for what? What? Because he burned his fucking lunch? No, this isn't right, not by a long fucking shot.”

“What's all the shouting about?”

Jack turned away from Ted and found a fire hydrant of a cop standing in the bedroom doorway. It wasn't that he was overly short, because he was only a few inches shy of Jack's height. His stocky width created an illusion of shortness. And he was wearing the weirdest uniform Jack had ever seen. He had on a blue nylon raid jacket, the kind plainclothes officers usually threw on during search warrants when they wanted to be easily identified as police, his gun belt and blue jeans. His black hair bristled in a crewcut and he definitely didn't look happy.