[Lady Justice 15] - Lady Justice and the Vet Read online

  “Can’t do that,” I replied. “If I tell the captain, I’ll be on desk duty until the shrink clears me. I couldn’t stand that. Besides, it doesn’t bother me during the day.”

  “Well, you need to do something. One of these nights you’re going to hurt yourself --- or me.”

  I knew she was right. I had to do something. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was hurt Maggie.

  “You look like crap,” Ox said as we pulled out of the station. “Rough night?”

  “Yeah, I had the dream again --- woke up tangled in the covers and sweating like a pig. It scares Maggie to death. She wants me to see the department’s shrink, but you know what that means.”

  “Desk duty.” He thought for a moment. “You know, there might be another way. Judy has been going to the VA Hospital and doing some volunteer work. I know they have a group session for the guys with PTSD. I’ll bet she could get you into one of those sessions.”

  Judy, Ox’s wife of just over a year, was an MP in the army and served two tours overseas before returning to the states and becoming an officer in the Kansas City Police Department. She was tough as nails, but a real sweetheart.

  “PTSD? Sessions with war veterans? I couldn’t. What I’ve experienced isn’t even in the same ballpark as what those guys have been through.”

  “Walt, listen to me. You’re damn near seventy years old. You were shot at by a maniac and the only thing that saved your life was an exploding dye pack and then you jumped off a three-story building. Maybe that doesn’t rank up there with a firefight with the Taliban, but it would sure as hell give me nightmares. If the sessions help those guys, maybe they will help you.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I replied.

  At that moment, the radio interrupted. “Car 54, what’s your twenty?”

  Ox keyed the mike. “We’re on Wornall just south of the Plaza.”

  “Proceed to 6247 Cherry. There’s a home invasion in progress.”

  “Roger that,” Ox replied and I switched on the lights and siren.

  When we pulled up in front of the brick Cape Cod, an elderly man was standing in the door. His wife was clinging to his arm and both were obviously scared to death.

  “He ran out the back door!” he said, frantically waving his arms. “He heard your siren and ran. Be careful! He has a gun!”

  “You go right and I’ll go left,” Ox said.

  Cautiously, we made our way around the house. I reached the rear of the home just in time to see the

  perp running through the back yards of the neighboring houses.

  “I’ve got him!” I shouted.

  Ox puffed up beside me. “Go! I’ll be right behind.”

  Even though Ox is twenty-five years my junior, his two-hundred and fifty pound frame makes him more of a lumbering lineman than a halfback.

  I took off after the perp and while I wasn’t closing the gap, I was at least keeping up.

  Every so often, the perp would glance back to make sure that I wasn’t gaining ground.

  Finally, he tired of the cat and mouse and I saw him stop, kneel and aim a rifle in my direction.

  I made a head-long dive behind a retaining wall just as the blast from the rifle reverberated through the peaceful neighborhood. The slug smashed into a bar-b-que grill, knocking it end-over-end.

  Holy crap! I thought. That slug would’ve dropped an elephant!

  I heard Ox pounding up behind me. He hit the dirt just as another round took out a bug zapper above our heads.

  The retaining wall we were crouching behind wasn’t that tall --- maybe three feet at the most. It was plenty of cover for me, but I could see that parts of Ox’s huge body were exposed. A third shot kicked up dirt and gravel a few feet in front of us and Ox did a belly flop against the wall.

  It was obvious Ox wasn’t going to be much help trapped in his prone position. Every time I peeked over the edge of the wall, the perp fired another round, each one closer than the last.

  The mind is a curious thing --- my mind especially. There seems to be an endless supply of weird stuff stored away that always seems to pop out at the most inopportune times.

  As I was hunkering there behind the wall, staring at Ox’s behind, the thing that popped into my mind was Oliver Hardy’s famous line used in at least a dozen Laurel & Hardy movies, “Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into!”

  Ox’s muffled voice brought me back to reality. “Can you get to your radio? I’m laying on mine.”

  “Sure,” I replied. “If you’re suggesting that I call for backup, I’m totally on board.”

  I called dispatch and reported our situation. Help was on the way. I just hoped that it would get here in time.

  Ben Singleton was shoveling river rock into a flower bed when he heard the unmistakable report from an AK-47.

  Although it had been four years since he had heard that horrible sound, instinct and muscle memory took over his body and he flung himself to the ground and crawled for cover.

  As he hugged the ground, the images of the skirmishes in the Helmand Province flooded his mind. He heard a second shot fired and remembered seeing a comrade a few yards in front of him fall.

  “Taliban sniper,” he muttered. “Let’s get the bastard!” He looked around for his gun and was momentarily confused when he discovered that there was none.

  He grabbed his shovel, the only weapon at hand, and cautiously moved in the direction of the shots.

  By the time the third and fourth shots were fired, Ben was in position to see the engagement. Two members of his squad were pinned down behind a wall --- sitting ducks for the Taliban sniper. He could have taken the raghead out with one shot, but he had no gun. He would have to resort to hand-to-hand combat.

  Silently, he circled around behind the sniper who was totally focused on the men behind the wall. He crawled on his belly until he was within twenty feet. His muscles tensed and his fingers gripped the shovel. He took a deep breath and charged.

  Every muscle in my old body ached from the chase and from my cramped position behind the wall.

  I desperately wanted to take a peek just to make sure that the perp was still there but his aim was good enough I might see more than I had bargained for. Then I remembered a scene from a cowboy movie --- I think it might have been a Roy Rogers flick. In a similar predicament, he had put his hat on a stick and stuck it out from behind a rock.

  I removed my hat and cautiously slipped it on top of the rock wall. The ensuing blast disintegrated my hat and blew the parts that were left across the patio. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember what Roy did next, but I knew what I was going to do --- keep my head down!

  At that moment, I saw movement in the yard that backed up to the one we were in.

  I punched Ox in the butt and directed his attention to the form creeping from tree to tree.

  “Is that a shovel he’s carrying?” Ox whispered in amazement.

  “Sure looks like it,” I agreed. “You don’t suppose he’s thinking about taking the guy out with a garden tool?”

  We watched the man circle around until he was out of our line of vision.

  “That’s just crazy!” Ox declared. “Who does this guy think he is? Rambo?”

  “Well, whoever he is, he needs the element of surprise or he’ll get blown away. We have to distract the shooter --- keep his attention.”

  “How do you propose we do that?”

  “Give me your hat.”

  I waited until I figured Rambo had time to circle around the shooter, then cautiously slid Ox’s hat on top of the wall. As with mine, the hat exploded into a million pieces, only this time the report was followed by a resounding yell.

  “YEAAAAAAH!”

  We both peeked over the wall in time to see the startled shooter turn his rifle in the direction of his attacker.

  Rambo swung his shovel and struck the rifle just as the perp squeezed off another shot. The rifle flew into the bushes and Rambo charged.

&
nbsp; Ox and I scrambled over the rock wall and watched as the shovel crashed into the shooter’s head.

  We reached them both just as Rambo was about to deal a death blow to the head of the fallen perp.

  “No! Stop!” Ox ordered. “He’s down! You got him!”

  “Sir,” the man said, “let me finish him.”

  “Can’t do that,” Ox said taking hold of the man’s arm. “You did your job. Let us take it from here.”

  “Are you all right, Sergeant?” the man asked, dropping his shovel.

  “Well, I’m not a sergeant,” Ox replied. “Just a patrolman. I’m George Wilson and this is my partner, Walt Williams. Who are you?”

  The man seemed confused. “Corporal Ben Singleton. Third Battalion, Fourth Marines, Charley Company, Sir!”

  Ox and I exchanged glances. It was obvious that the man who had saved our lives was not in Brookside. In his mind, he was somewhere far away engaged in a battle that I could only imagine.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Are you sure this is okay?” I asked as Judy and I drove Emanuel Cleaver Boulevard to the V.A. Hospital.

  “Absolutely!” she replied. “We have men in this group who have served in Korea, Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan. Different wars, different battles, but they all have one thing in common --- they served their country and have the scars, both physical and mental to prove it. You’ve served your country too --- just in a different uniform.”

  I was still apprehensive.

  I had never been in the military service. I was too young for Korea and the war in Vietnam was going full tilt when I graduated from high school.

  I remember signing up for the draft just before my eighteenth birthday and like many of the young bucks in my small town, I expected a call from Uncle Sam anytime. When I saw my teen idol, Elvis Presley, was conscripted, I figured that I was bound to get the call --- but it never came. I enrolled in college and by the time I had graduated, the war was winding down.

  Many of my best friends were drafted and some joined voluntarily with promises that they would never be sent to the steamy jungles of Vietnam. Most of them returned home --- but not all.

  Looking back, it was probably a good thing my number was never called. I don’t think that I would have been a very good soldier.

  I have talked to enough guys and seen enough movies to know that boot camp is designed to break the individual and mold him into ‘the unit.’ Soldiers are expected to follow orders and never question authority.

  It has to be that way.

  When the unit is pinned down in a foxhole by a .50 caliber machine gun in a fortified bunker, the leader has to know that when he gives the order to move out every last man will be scrambling up the hill. That’s the way it has always been and that’s why there are so many casualties in war.

  The last thing they need in battle is a guy saying, “You know, that really doesn’t seem like a good idea. Let’s examine our other options.”

  I don’t consider myself a coward by any means. I have faced death many times in my five years with the police department. The difference for me was I chose to do it on my own terms rather than as a direct order from a superior officer.

  That fact alone made me leery of joining this group. I had never walked in their shoes.

  Judy turned onto the long winding drive that led to the massive hospital on the hill above Cleaver Boulevard. I had driven by the place a hundred times, but this was my first visit. She pulled into the parking lot and we drove aisle after aisle looking for a place to park, but every spot was taken.

  “Is it this crowded all the time?” I asked. “There must be a thousand parking spots.”

  “All the time,” she replied. “I thought we might get lucky, but it’s not going to happen.”

  She pulled out of the lot and drove to a church a quarter of a mile away. A sign read, ‘V.A. Hospital Overflow Parking.’

  “I usually just come straight here,” she said. “I like to leave the close spots for the guys who really need them.”

  After the long walk to the hospital entrance, we entered the crowded lobby.

  I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I was surprised to see the number of men my age and older.

  “Some of these guys must be World War II vets,” I whispered to Judy.

  “War wounds don’t necessarily disappear with age,” she replied. “Many of these men have been receiving treatment for sixty years.”

  Another thing that struck me was the number of men in wheelchairs. In my experience with ‘regular’ hospitals, wheelchairs were used primarily to transport patients from treatment rooms to families waiting at the entrance with cars to take them home. Their time in the chair was brief.

  I could see with most of these men, the wheelchair had become their primary mode of travel. I couldn’t help but think of Tom Cruise in the heart-wrenching movie, Born on the Fourth of July.

  On a happier note, I also noticed many of the men were wearing ball caps bearing their unit’s insignia. It was quite obvious these men were proud to have served.

  “Would you like the nickel tour before we go to group?” Judy asked.

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Our first stop was the prosthetics department.

  My exposure to prosthetics was limited to watching a YouTube video of Oscar Pistorius, the double legged amputee that ran in the 2012 Olympics. What I saw in the ward was far removed from the glamour of the Olympics.

  Young men were struggling to adapt to the hardware that would be part of them for the rest of their lives.

  In the physical rehabilitation ward, men were learning to drag lifeless legs along with their crutches.

  I was beginning to sense that there was a deeper meaning to Judy’s ‘nickel tour.’

  “I’m guessing that you’ve showed me all of this for a reason,” I said.

  Judy smiled. “Can’t put anything over on you, can I? Before we go into the group session, I wanted you to have an idea of what these men have been through. You’ve seen some terrible things since you’ve been on the force, but nothing that compares to the horrors these men have experienced in battle.”

  “So all of the men in this group are suffering from PTSD?”

  “Yes, but in different degrees. Some of them are experiencing nightmares --- like you. Others are agitated and irritable to the point of violent behavior. Some have tried to extinguish the images in their heads with alcohol and drugs. The worst have completely retreated from reality and are living in a make-believe world they have created in their minds.”

  “Do these sessions help them forget about the horrors that they’ve experienced?”

  “That’s not the purpose or the goal of group therapy. Unfortunately, the images in their heads will be there forever. The goal is to help them deal with the trauma they have faced and move on with their lives --- not an easy task.”

  The group therapy room was plain and nondescript. A dozen chairs were arranged in a circle and every one of them was occupied.

  Judy introduced me to John Watson, the behavioral psychologist in charge of the meeting. He found two more chairs and widened the circle.

  I was surprised to see Corporal Ben Singleton, the landscape worker that had attacked the home invader with a shovel. Everything had been so crazy at the crime scene, I didn’t have time to adequately thank him for saving our bacon.

  “Hi, I’m Walt Williams,” I said, extending my hand. “I just wanted to thank you for helping us out yesterday.”

  I saw the blank look on his face. “Do --- do I know you?”

  “I was one of the cops pinned down by the guy firing the AK-47. Your bravery very likely saved our lives.”

  “Oh that,” he replied. “To tell you the truth, I have no idea what I did. One minute I was shoveling river rock and then the next thing I knew I was sitting in an ambulance being looked at by a paramedic. Everything in between is a blank.”

  “Well, that blank was very important to me and my partner and I just w
anted to thank you.”

  At that moment, John Watson called the meeting to order and we all took our seats.

  As I looked around the circle, some of the men could have been any guy off the street. A few of them couldn’t sit still. Their hands or legs were constantly twitching and they couldn’t seem to get comfortable in their seats. The most frightening were the ones with the vacant stares. There was no life in their eyes. I could only imagine the dark places where their minds had retreated.

  Being the new guy in group, I had drawn some quizzical glances.

  “Hey, Doll,” one of the guys said to Judy who had been sitting in long enough to become a regular, “who’s the old dude?”

  Judy introduced me and the guy’s eyes lit up. “I thought that I recognized you. You’re the old cop that saved the president!”

  “I didn’t save the president!” I protested for the umpteenth time. “I was just the cop standing closest to the shooter when he decided to surrender his weapon.”

  John Watson interrupted. “Walt, why don’t you share with the group why you’re here today?”

  This ‘group session’ had the feel of an AA meeting and I felt like I should stand and say, “Hi, I’m Walt and I’m having nightmares!”

  Sheepishly, I recounted my latest adventure, dodging bullets and diving from the top of a three-story building.

  “Since that day, I keep having nightmares and I dream that I’m falling. I wake up scared to death, thrashing around in the bed. I --- I’m even afraid I might hurt my wife.”

  Most of the men had been listening intently --- except for the men that had the blank stares. I had no idea whether they had heard a word that I’d said.

  “Any suggestions for Walt?” Watson asked.

  A fellow named Bill raised his hand. “My squad walked into an ambush. When the whole thing was over, just me and one other guy walked away. I had nightmares for months. I finally figured out that I was feeling guilty about surviving when all my buddies were lost. Why me? The nightmares didn’t stop until I came to terms with the notion that it just wasn’t my time to go and that I really had no say about when that time would be. I had to trust that the Big Guy was the one keeping track of things and my job was to just keep on living until He decided the time was right. When I accepted that, the nightmares stopped.”