Sample chapters from Secrets Never End,
Book Four in the Ro Delahanty Series
Chapter One
10-16 – Domestic Disturbance
Friday, June 16, 2006, just before 1 a.m.
Fort Armstrong One-Nine.” It was dispatcher Rex Haskell on the radio. Ro blinked several times and once again wiped an already tear-soaked uniform sleeve across her eyes, momentarily unsure about what to do. Her cop instinct knew exactly what was required, but the hurting part resented the intrusion on her pity party and wanted to ignore it.
For three weeks after seeing Kate gunned down, Ro Delahanty had held it together, needing to be strong and supportive for Mike and for Tuck. But tonight, alone in Mr. Pete somewhere in the north part of Fort Armstrong County, the sorrow and anguish finally caught up with her and she’d lost it. For half an hour sobbing and howling, with only a few cows in a nearby pasture to share her grief.
Damn it, can’t you leave me alone for even a few minutes?
“Fort Armstrong One-Nine.” There was now the slightest hint of insistence in Haskell’s voice. Ro had never not responded to a dispatcher’s first call.
After a second, with a still scratchy throat half-growl of impatience, Ro picked up the mic and responded, “One-Nine.” She wanted to ignore Haskell, but it was simply not permissible for him to need to hail her a third time!
“There is a 10-16 call” − domestic disturbance – “at 10088 County K Road. A neighbor reported hearing shouting and screaming,” he said in the professional, matter-of-fact tone dispatchers cultivate.
Holding the mic away from her face, Ro muttered, “Oh, shit.” She knew the address, a trailer park on the outskirts of the small, unincorporated town of Manda. And was all too familiar with the circumstances of this particular “domestic disturbance” call.
Almost as if he sensed Ro’s reluctance, Haskell added, “You are 10-60” – in the vicinity. In other words, hers was the nearest unit.
“10-04,” Ro acknowledged, then paused to figure out her exact location to give Haskell an ETA. By a quirk of cop karma, her semi-aimless “patrolling” so far tonight while preoccupied with her angst had resulted in being on County K, near to Manda − You are 10-60 – although she needed a reference point to tell how far.
Several hundred yards to her right was a traditional big barn with two silos. While there were hundreds of “barns” around the county, only a few wooden ones remained, most having been abandoned in favor of metal pole buildings, let alone one the farmer kept freshly painted in red. Once a commonplace sight around the county, it was now a distinctive landmark.
She was four miles east of Manda.
“En route, ETA five.”
“10-04.”
The 10-16 was one Ro responded to several times previously. Heather and Roy Sutherland lived in one of the trailers, along with the woman’s pre-teen son, Billy Gaither.
Ro was sure Sutherland was a wife beater. The trailers were close together, so it was easy for neighbors to hear when the couple argued, which was often. On previous calls, when Ro knocked on the trailer door, it was always Heather who answered, although Roy was usually visible scowling in the background. Ro could tell the woman had been crying and even had what later might turn into bruises on her arms and face. However, Heather always insisted that while they might have been a little noisy, nothing had happened.
If a victim won’t acknowledge abuse… If none of the neighbors would say they’d seen abuse… If Deputy Delahanty witnessed no abuse… Well, there wasn’t much a cop could do. This always rankled her strong protective instincts, to say nothing of tonight exacerbating the frustration this likely waste of time call was intruding on her sob fest. And yes, she was being selfish right now, but didn’t care.
Ro used her light bar, but left the siren silent, the road empty at this time of night.
There were fifty trailers in the park on narrow twenty by sixty-foot lots, arranged around a U-shaped gravel drive. The Sutherland’s trailer was near the back. As Ro slowed down the patrol car, her headlights illuminated the trailer’s small front yard. Expecting to see a yard like most others in the park, littered with an assortment of junk, broken lawn chairs, rusted-out swings, discarded tools, but empty of people, what appeared in her headlights cracked open a volcano of wrath Ro knew lurked deep within, but always kept under rigid control because as a cop it was necessary.
She discovered her fury streak in seventh grade when several bullies were roughing up her friend, Atti Mehra. Without a second’s hesitation, Ro’d attacked. Using makeshift judo moves literally improvised on the spot, she’d put the three bigger boys on their butts and was about to mete out even more harsh retribution on them for preying on her friend when a school coach stepped in, breaking up the fight. Later, he shared with Mike and Kate how startled he’d been by the rage he’d seen in Ro’s eyes.
Ro spent several days on an in-school suspension and several weeks in after-school detentions for fighting. In follow-up conversations with her father, she learned one of the many things inherited from him, besides looks, height and red hair, was an Irish temper that could go out of control if not kept in check. At the coach’s suggestion, Ro enrolled in Aikido-style judo classes to learn how to discipline and focus her latent anger, eventually earning a black belt.
Bringing the patrol car to a stop, she snatched the mic from its dashboard bracket and with no preliminaries radioed, “10-78” – send back-up – “One-Nine location,” then slammed the transmission into park, dropped the mic on the seat, threw open the driver’s door and charged…
Her headlights had illuminated Roy Sutherland in his front yard using a wide leather belt with the buckle end out to beat on a small boy, which Ro assumed was his stepson, Billy Gaither. The child was shirtless, curled up in a fetal position on the ground to protect himself. Even from twenty feet away, welts were obvious on his bare back, several bleeding from cuts inflicted by the buckle.
Heather Sutherland, who was much smaller than her husband, only five feet and a little over a hundred pounds, was trying to grab his arm, crying, and screaming, “Stop it! Stop it!”
Using a free left hand, Sutherland viciously backhanded the woman, knocking her to the ground.
Chapter Two
Ro’s Fury
Friday, June 16, 2006, 1:50 a.m.
Sutherland was shouting at the child what sounded like “faggy,” but hearing a car crunch to a stop on the gravel lane, he turned, and with a nasty grin brandished the belt, challenging Ro, “Oh, here’s my favorite pussy cop again! You want some of this, too?”
Ro had to close her left fist tightly to keep from drawing her Sig and shooting this bastard on the spot. To her, he was no better than a rabid dog needing to be put down. But that would be an execution. Even though she thought it was what ought to be done, she also knew it would not happen.
Interpreting the cop’s hesitation as fear, Sutherland swung the belt in a wide arc at the left side of Ro’s head. If the big buckle had connected, it would surely have split her skull and probably left her as a vegetable.
But instead of drawing the powerful .357 handgun – now justified by the direct attack on a police officer – unnoticed by Sutherland, Ro used her right hand to withdraw an expandable baton from its pouch on her kit belt. She brought the deployed hardened steel instrument up and across to meet the down-arcing belt a few inches from the buckle. The force of the blow nearly tore the baton from Ro’s hand. Instead, the belt’s momentum wound itself around the baton several times. Ro quickly brought her other hand up, so was grasping both ends, then twisted it left over right, forcibly yanking the belt from Sutherland’s grasp. She tossed both aside.
Sutherland snarled, “Shit!”
Ro wanted to “dance” with this moron badly, play with him, deliver painful jabs and kicks to sensitive areas, slam him to the ground, teach him a lesson, but the cop part won out.
“Mr. Sutherland, I am placing you under arrest for assault. Drop to your knees and place your hands behind your head,” she ordered, except a part of her secretly hoped he would not comply.
He obliged by shouting, “Fuck you, bitch,” and went on the offensive. He put his hands up in a classic karate ready position and charged, except Ro, who was good at spotting an opponent’s tells, noticed he hadn’t placed his feet correctly to have the proper balance for an attack. Either he was faking it or was rusty and had forgotten the basics.
Most of Ro’s martial arts schooling was in Aikido judo, which emphasized throws and holds designed to subdue an opponent. She’d also taken classes in the Israeli-inspired street-fighting style of Krav Maga, done training in the aggressiveness of karate but was especially drawn to the Wing Chun form of kung fu, with its focus on the entire body, on balance and centeredness.
Ro stepped back with her right foot, placing it perpendicular to her left so it would help both for leverage and ease of pivoting as needed and positioned her hands palms out, almost as if intending to push Sutherland away. It was a defensive stance taught in Krav Maga to quickly deflect an aggressor’s strikes.
Again, misinterpreting the gesture as a sign Ro was afraid, Sutherland attacked, trying to throw a variety of punches at Ro’s face, which were easily blocked.
Becoming desperate, Sutherland muttered, “God damn you,” and attempted to change tactics by grabbing Ro’s left wrist with his right hand, probably as preparation to pull her into a toss.
Except it was the opening Ro had been looking for. She clamped her right hand across the top of his fingers, literally holding them in place on her wrist, then curled her left hand up and over his wrist and twisted it counterclockwise, forcing Sutherland into a crouching position to avoid having his wrist snapped. It was a painful submissive move called a Waterfall Wristlock.
While wristlocks were an effective way to neutralize an attacker, many law enforcement agencies banned them because if not executed correctly or if the prisoner struggled too much, the wrist could easily shatter. The Fort Armstrong County Sheriff’s Department policy was wrist locks were permitted, but only in extreme situations. Ro knew she could defend this as an “extreme situation.”
Her plan had been to rotate Sutherland around, force him face down in the dirt, place a knee in his back to hold him in position, retrieve her handcuffs with her free hand, and put him in custody.
But the unthinkable happened. Heather Sutherland scrambled over and started grabbing at Ro’s arm, saying, “Leave my husband alone! You’re hurting him!”
Which confused her. The man had cruelly beaten her son and savagely smashed her across the face, yet the woman was now defending him.
Boy, you’ve sure bought into the victim role, Ro thought.
“Do not interfere!” Ro ordered, pushing the woman away with her left forearm, but keeping the pressure on Sutherland’s wrist with the right. “Your husband is under arrest for assault.”
“You can’t arrest me,” Sutherland growled from his face-first position on the ground. “I have a right to discipline my family.”
Ro knew the right pressure could break his wrist and desperately wanted to do it to teach him a lesson he’d never forget, thinking, You do NOT beat on kids or women! That is NOT allowed, period. Not while I’m around.
“Beating your kid is not discipline, Mr. Sutherland, it’s child abuse. And if I have anything to say about it, you’re gonna spend a long time in jail for it.” A part of Ro knew she had probably crossed a line; a cop wasn’t supposed to be judge and jury.
Between the wristlock and knee into Sutherland’s back, it effectively pinned him to the ground, although he continued to squirm, trying to find an escape. Ro wanted to retrieve her handcuffs, but Heather Sutherland kept clawing at her, so she had to use her free hand to fend the woman off.
The fracas drew a crowd of curious neighbors, even at two o’clock in the morning. Ro thought, This is turning into a real shit show!
She wanted to scream into Sutherland’s ear, “Quit your squirming, asshole!” She wanted to shout at Mrs. Sutherland, “Back off, you stupid bitch!”
But knew while male cops could get away with cursing out perps, female cops didn’t have the same privilege, especially in front of witnesses. Which only added to her irritation at the insane situation.
What Ro did was shout at the spectators, “Anyone got a cell phone? Call 9-1-1 for an ambulance! This young man,” she jerked her head in the boy’s direction, who was still curled in his protective position, whimpering, “needs medical attention.”
A middle-aged woman fumbled in her jeans, then pulled out a phone.
The three “combatants” were at a stalemate. Ro couldn’t release her hold on Sutherland’s wrist to restrain Mrs. Sutherland, who kept clawing at her, more an annoyance than an actual threat, so all she could do is keep pushing the woman away.
Chapter Three
You Could Lose Your Son
Friday, June 16, 2006, around 2:02 a.m.
Fortunately, this is when Ro’s backup, Corporal Rick Matero, Armstrong Two-Six, arrived. Climbing out of his patrol car, he glanced around, the briefest hint of a smile playing across his face at Ro’s predicament. While he could see there was no obvious danger demanding his immediate intervention, the situation certainly was not under control.
Ro and Matero were friends, so she didn’t rankle at his barely disguised amusement, but did glare at him. “Help me get this…,” she said, almost adding “scumbag,” a typical cop pejorative, but changed it to a sarcastic, “gentleman in handcuffs. He is under arrest for assault. Oh, and kindly read him his rights.”
Matero pulled out his regulation metal handcuffs and not too gently clamped one on Sutherland’s free left wrist, yanked it around to clamp the other cuff to his right wrist, taking over from Ro. “Sir, you are under arrest,” he intoned, “you have the right to remain silent…”
When Ro could let go of Sutherland’s wrist, she rose and grasped Heather Sutherland by the shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. The woman was crying and pleading, “Please don’t arrest my husband. He didn’t mean it.”
That’s not the way I saw it, Ro thought.
Ro almost had to shout into the woman’s face, “Ma’am, listen to me! I do not have a choice now. I witnessed your husband beat your son with a belt. By law, I must report it as child abuse. I saw him strike you, I have to report that as domestic assault.”
Ro paused, giving the woman time to process what was being said. “You need to realize lots of state child protective people will want to talk to you, to your neighbors, and to me. If you don’t pull yourself together, you could lose your son. Do you understand me? They could decide you’re not a fit mother. Take him away from you!”
Ro knew it was bordering on the insensitive, but had to get through to the woman, make her focus. Indeed, Ro’s harsh words were like a slap across the face. Heather Sutherland took in a long breath and stared at Ro with an expression halfway between fear and comprehension.
“No… No… They can’t…”
Ro now tried to soften her voice. “Mrs. Sutherland, I’m not saying they will take your son away. I’m simply trying to make you understand they could if you’re not careful. Right now, you need to make Billy your priority; protect him.”
Heather Sutherland blinked several times, finally comprehending what Ro was not saying aloud, “You have to choose between your son and your husband.”
Heather Sutherland stared at Ro for a second, nodded and muttered softly, “My son…” The woman had made her choice.
***
As is often the case, follow-up activities to an incident take three or four times more work than the actual event.
Matero loaded Sutherland in the back of his cruiser and transported him to the county jail to await going before a judge in the morning.
Meanwhile, waiting for the ambulance to come for Billy, Ro took down the names of the witnesses who’d been watching for her incident report.
The EMTs arrived, put temporary bandages on Billy’s wounds, some of which looked like they would need stitches, and transported him to the hospital. His mother accompanied him in the ambulance.
Ro followed in the patrol car, on the way asking dispatch to call the state’s child protective service, knowing there would be a social worker at the hospital, likely within the hour.
Once in the hospital’s parking lot, she retrieved a disposable camera from the war bag in her trunk and, with the ER staff as witnesses, took a dozen pictures of Billy’s wounds and Mrs. Sutherland’s bruises. If Ro had anything to say about it, Roy Sutherland would not harm his wife or stepson again.
Ro waited for the state representative to show up, then gave a preliminary verbal report of what had transpired. It was now up to the hospital staff and social worker to determine what would happen next for Billy and his mother.
It was going on five-thirty; she’d had nothing to eat, so took a half-hour break for breakfast in the just opening hospital cafeteria. Then it was to the deputy’s ready room at the sheriff’s department headquarters and its bank of computers to file an official incident report.
© 2024 by David F. Ramacitti, writing as Dave Lager