Sketches in the Night

Sketches in the Night

I The Cop

He left Homicide a little after midnight, turned east on 51^st and headed towards the lake, for his apartment off South University. He rubbed his eyes, tried to wipe away the burn that had come with working thirty hours straight, then he yawned, pinched away a lacrimal tear as he pulled up to the red light at Cottage Grove. He yawned again, shook his head, saw something moving beyond the shadowy pools of light ahead, moving off to the right through heavy snow -- "Drexel Square, at this time of night? In this weather?" -- he said aloud, and he squinted, tried to see through the fat, heavy flakes now drifting on the roadway .

Then...

...he picked up the radio's mic and switched to the main department frequency...

"4120."

"4120, go ahead.

"4120, show me back in service at 51^st and Cottage Grove, four male-blacks attacking another subject, no description at this time."

"4120, at zero-zero-twenty-two hours. 4120, will you need back-up?"

"4120, 10-4. Could you also roll paramedics at this time?"

"4120, at zero-zero-twenty-three hours." Several units checked en route, but none were close.

Captain of Detectives Burt Redmaine punched the accelerator and jumped the curb, drove up onto the slippery grass and chased the group down, and he put his reds and blues on as he neared the four assailants. They had a small, light complected boy pinned to the snowy turf, and one of the kids, a black kid about 18 years old, had a knife out. Redmaine bailed out of the Ford Explorer with his Sig P-220 drawn, yelled "Hands where I can see 'em!"

The kids laughed, and one of the teens reached in his jacket; he went from focusing on four suspects to one, flinched when brightness flared, then Redmaine squeezed off a round; the Remington 45ACP SJHP hitting the armed kid center mass. The boy crumpled, fell to the snow -- while the three remaining kids looked stunned, hesitated, then took off to the south. He ran up to the suspect and checked carotids for a pulse, felt nothing and scuttled across the snow to the victim, now writhing just a few feet away. He found deep cuts on the kid's forearms and hands -- classic defensive wounds -- as well as a deep laceration across the boy's gut -- but he stood, his senses suddenly on full alert.

One of the other kids, the kid with the knife, was running for him, the knife in his hand cocked overhead, and Redmaine coiled into a Weaver stance, quickly aimed then shouted: "Stop, or I'm putting you down!"

The kid seemed to slow, but Redmaine saw bloodlust in the kid's eyes, a pulsing, grim determination, the eagerness to kill, and at five yards he fired once. The heavy, slow moving bullet hit the kid in the neck, and at such close range the impact was devastating. As the boy staggered backwards under the impact, his all but severed head kept moving forward -- then let go and flew through the air, landing just a few feet from the writhing kid's body.

Pistol still up and at the ready, he turned and swept the scene, then jogged back to the Explorer's radio. "4120, signal thirty three, repeat three-three, shots fired, two suspects down, two fleeing on foot down Bowen, for Drexel. Both male, black, approximately 18, six feet, one fifty, Suspect One wearing red sweatpants and a gold hooded sweatshirt, Suspect Two solid navy or black sweats, white stripes down the arms and legs. Victim on the scene with multiple stab wounds, expedite EMS Code 3." He grabbed the first aid kit from the back of the Ford and ran back to the victim, checked the kid's pulse, made a rough count of heartbeats, guessed it was over one-fifty so knew he was bleeding out. He ripped open a pouch of coagulant and dumped it on the belly wound, then dug out a surgical pad and covered the laceration, applied as much pressure as he dared.

He looked up, swept his horizon again, checked the shadows, cocked his head -- but all he heard now was an avalanche of sirens headed down 51^st and in from the lake.

"Did you get 'em?" the boy asked, his voice almost lost in the darkness.

He turned, looked down at the kid. "Howya doin', sport?" Redmaine said, trying not to sound alarmed, then: "Yeah, I got 'em."

"I think they got me, too," the boy sighed, then he just stopped breathing. Redmaine ripped open the kid's shirt and placed his hands over the sternum and began compressions, then rescue breathing, alternating as best he could in the howling wind and driving snow. A patrol car jumped the curb a moment later, and two officers joined him by the boy's side, helped administer CPR as a steady stream of back-up arrived. Within minutes paramedics had the kid in the box and they rolled down Cottage Grove for the ER at the University of Chicago Medicine, leaving Redmaine almost breathless as the adrenaline rush began to fade...

"Burt? Where's all that blood coming from?"

"What? What blood?"

"Blood, on your arm? Are you bleeding, man?"

He felt light headed, fumbled with his jacket. He'd never seen, let alone felt the single round the first kid fired at him, and he pushed at the the pulpy wound now, the wet mass coming as a complete surprise to him. It was suddenly very bright out, and he felt dizzy, then he too lost consciousness and fell to the snow.

II The Librarian

Hector Ramirez opened the door for her, as he did almost every night, and let her in as the snow swirled around their feet, then he pulled the heavy door shut and followed her up the stairs. They lived on the same floor, worked the same shift downtown so took the same bus home every night -- and they had for years -- yet he still didn't know her name. And it almost didn't matter anymore.

He only knew she was beautiful, and there were times when he -- simply -- lusted over her. She was, perhaps, three steps ahead of him on the stairs, yet all he was aware of was her legs. Trim yet muscular and perfectly shaped, he looked forward to these few moments on the stairs more than anything else in his day -- simply because of her legs. Some nights he wanted to reach out and touch their perfect skin -- and he could see himself in his mind's eye holding them, kissing them, running his hands up their glorious nakedness.

But not tonight.

No, something was different tonight. She had always been aloof for days, but tonight something was off. Now, tonight, she was glacial, all slow-moving ice, crumbling before his eyes under the onslaught of time and slow, grinding pressure. Her movements were light, too light, yet slower than slow, and at first he thought she was giving him more time to admire her legs, but her hands, reaching for the cold metal railing, seemed unsteady, grasping, almost lost in time.

"Are you alright, Ma'am?" he said at one point, and his voice seemed to snap her out of it; she quickly finished walking up to the third floor and disappeared down the corridor to her apartment, and he watched after her for a moment, suddenly feeling anything but lust.

No, now he felt concern. Concern for her, for her wellbeing, and the realization struck him as -- almost -- funny. 'Why should I?' he said to himself. 'She's never said a word to me, in almost fifteen years! Why should I care about that lonely woman's life?'

She went in the door and shut it behind her, turned on the light-switch.

Nothing happened.

She walked over to a lamp and turned it on, and it's feeble glow tried to chase away the shadows -- but failed. She walked through the living room to her bedroom door and went inside the cold, dark room, and she took off her clothes, hung her coat and dress on hangers in the closet and put her undies in the hamper, then she took her shower -- all to get ready for him.

When she was clean she dried herself off, perfumed her special places then put on his favorite lingerie. She felt herself down there, felt her need, then walked down to his bedroom door.

Which was, as it always was, standing open just a few inches. The light was off, as it always was, and she just barely stuck her head in the door.

Her son was on top of the sheets tonight, and his naked body glowed in the ambient light of the falling snow coursing through the sheer drapes. Her eyes went to his waiting erection, standing strong and tall now, ready for her, waiting -- and she slipped into the room, sat on the foot of the bed looking at him pretending to sleep.

Still not saying a word she moved up between his legs and she saw his eyes open, saw the smile on his face, and she moved over him, took him in her mouth. She heard the sharp intake of breath, his sudden need now completely overwhelming, and she grasped the base of his cock as she began pounding him mercilessly with her mouth. This first assault was her favorite -- because he had been waiting for this moment all day and just couldn't last.

She picked up her pace, swirling her tongue over his head, feeling the pressure build on the back of her throat, then she heard his whispered pleas and this excited her most of all. She gripped the base of his cock, dug her fingernails into his skin as she picked up her pace yet again, and she felt his orgasm run up his legs into his gut, then his sudden, overwhelming release hit her. She gagged as the pressure of his release ran down her throat and she reveled in her mastery of this need they shared. She swallowed and swallowed and still he came, filling her mouth completely until his cum ran down her chin, and then they drifted -- together -- through time, to their special place.

And yet, she never took him from her mouth. Instead, she simply swirled her tongue around his head, kneaded his strength with her hands, and when he was completely hard again she slid up between his legs until her nether lips were poised over his pulsing need. She lowered herself slowly now, willing this moment to last the longest, until her lips and tight, bristly hair touched his glans. She moved as slowly as she could, yet she pushed down on him, forcing her lips apart, grating his skin with her coarse pubic mat, and when she felt him stiffen -- again -- she smiled at her mastery of his need.

She kept this up for some time, drawing out their anticipation as long as possible...

Ramirez was walking by her apartment just then, walking down to the Super's office, and he heard her. It was impossible not to hear her...

'Moaning? Is she moaning?' He almost laughed, felt like a fool as he walked by, then he got to the office and knocked on the door.

"Come on in," he heard, so he turned the knob and went inside. "Hector? What's wrong? The sink again?"

"Yes, Mr Carlisle. I did as you say, try the drain cleaner, just like you say, but there is brown stuff coming up now, and it smells pretty bad."

"Is it flowing?"

"Yessir, pretty bad. The sink, she is about half full now."

"Okay. Let's take a look."

They walked down to Ramirez's apartment, but both stopped outside of her apartment, listened to the moans coming through the door.

"That's odd," Carlisle said. "She doesn't usually entertain men..."

"She wasn't right coming home. No sir, she moving pretty slow."

"Do you think she's ill?"

"I don't know...could be. She was slow, real slow, coming up the stairs."

The Super went to the door, knocked gently. "Mrs Simmons? Are you alright?"

The moaning continued, seemed to grow in intensity.

"Mrs Simmons?"

Still only moans.

"Mrs Simmons, I'm concerned for your safety, and I'm coming in now." He turned to Ramirez. "Hector, come in with me, please, but stay behind me."

"Si, Señor Carlisle."

Carlisle tried the door, found it unlocked and turned the knob. He stepped inside and a frigid blast hit him in the face; he saw his breath in the dark, icy air, and he walked towards sounds coming from the small bedroom on the far side of the living room. The door was ajar, and pale blue light seeped into the hallway -- and they heard laughter, faraway, the laughter of a small boy.

"Mrs Simmons?" Carlisle said as he stood outside the room. "Are you in there?"

Moans, and the boy's laughter greeted his question, and as Carlisle opened the door he heard sirens in the distance.

She was face down on the bed, writhing in ecstasy, her hands inside her thighs as an unseen lover made love to her. The two men looked at one another, and Carlisle shrugged.

"Something ain't right, señor. We better call, het her some help..."

III The Physician

He walked around the living room, dusting off his memories and taking them out for a spin one more time, looking at pictures of his wife -- and their life -- together. He came to his favorite, of her on their wedding day thirty four years ago this month, and he looked at her green eyes, her red hair aglow like a smoldering fire among copper coated trees. He stopped and looked in those eyes and he could feel the same breathlessness he'd always felt with her. The same devotion, the same sense of timelessness, almost weightlessness that came with the inrushing love he would always feel for her.

"I think it's time, Sara," he said to the image. "Time for me to come home."

He walked over to the glass wall and looked down on the city, was surprised to find it was snowing so hard and wondered why.

"Life goes on, I suspect, no matter what we expect will happen when death comes."

He sighed, thought back on his day. The sharp, jolting pain in his groin, like a hot spasm shooting from his testicles up his spine. Taking his morning shower, feeling his left testicle -- hard as a rock in the hot water, sudden icy dread shooting through his normal morning thoughts, pushing everything else from consciousness. The early morning to call to Charlotte, his internist, getting her service instead. She called a few minutes later and he explained his concerns, described what he'd felt.

"Gene, come on down as soon as you can; I'll draw for HCG, LDH-1 and AFP, get a complete panel as well as an ultrasound." Charlotte Atwood wasn't simply a colleague, she was a friend, and had been since their first year together at Pritzker. Of equal importance, she and Sara had been best friends -- since high school, at least. If there was one person who could see him through this transition, it was Charlotte, and he felt confident as he drove in to the Medical Center.

Then he thought of Judy, his sister. "I wonder where she is today?" he asked the emptiness. "I wonder why we lost touch?" He missed her, missed watching her watch Sara, and he smiled as he recalled talking to his wife about his sister.

"She loves you so much," he remembered saying once -- when her death wasn't far away.

"Try to understand her, Gene. She's all you'll have, and she's so alone in the world."

"I never understood why she couldn't move on."

"Don't you?"

His blood work was loaded with tumor markers, the initial ultrasound showed his both testicles completely compromised, all the cord as well, and the radiologist expressed concern for his prostate too, and scheduled him for a STAT MRI. Once the IV was established and a HOCON dye injected, he felt the tray sliding into the tube, the tech advising him to "hold your breath," then "breathe out slowly" for the next forty five minutes. He dressed and walked up to Atwood's office feeling absolutely terrified by all these inrushing uncertainties.

"Looks like the retroperitoneal nodes are enlarged, Gene. I've talked to Rohrbacher, and he's wiped his slate, will do you tomorrow morning at seven. Check in at five thirty, nothing to eat after five this evening."

"I know the drill."

"I know you do, Gene, but there's a first time for everything."

He shook his head slightly and sighed. "I sat in this chair three years ago when you diagnosed Sara, and I was there all the way."

"It's not the same, Gene. It's you..."

"I beg to differ, Charlotte. Your words hit me that morning every bit as hard as they did her."

"That's because you're a total empath, Gene, not to mention the best neurosurgeon in the city."

"No sunshine up the ass today, okay, Charlotte? You think a dissection looks likely, don't you?"

She nodded her head. "Yup."

"Damn."

"I hate to be blunt, but have you been getting any lately?"

He shook his head. "Last time was with Sara."

"Gene? Why? You can't go on living like this...you've got to move on..."

"Charlotte...don't go there. I can't, and I won't."

Atwood sighed, shook her head again. "I know, Gene. I miss her too."

His eyes watered, he looked away. "Don't do this to me, Charlotte. Not today."

She opened a desk drawer, took out a sample box of Viagra and tossed it on the desk.

"What the Hell is that for?" he said, looking at the box with something akin to contempt in his eyes.

"Tonight."

"What about tonight?"

"Gene, I want you to go out and get laid tonight. Have an early dinner, then go out and get yourself well and truly laid."

He'd laughed at her then, but he'd picked up the box and put it in his jacket pocket.

Because he knew the score. He knew that with a full retroperitoneal dissection, with all the lymph nodes systematically dissected from his gut, massive nerve damage was assured, and loss of normal sexual function was all but assured, too.

And he reminded her that he hadn't asked a woman out on a date since 1975, the year he'd asked Sara out on their first date, "and anyway, I was never any good at the whole dating thing."

"It doesn't matter, Gene. Go to a bar. Hell, go online, find a goddamn escort -- whatever! Just pop your cork, have some fun."

Because, she didn't have to say, this was going to be the last time -- so make it a night to remember.

So, he'd texted Judy then gone home and packed a bag for the hospital, then rummaged around in the freezer until he dug up an old lasagna that wasn't too far past it's 'expired' date. He'd tried to watch the evening news but found he suddenly didn't give a damn about the world, then heavy snow moved in, started falling heavily as the clock moved inexorably towards midnight.

And in that instant he recalled what it had felt like, that first time with Sara. How he'd slipped his penis in her vagina to tentatively, and how -- in a blinding flash -- the all-enveloping warmth of her body had completely transformed everything he knew about the soul -- and what it meant to be human. He'd lasted, perhaps, thirty seconds before he 'popped his cork' that first time -- as Atwood had called it just a few hours before -- but oh, those thirty seconds! How transformative those precious moments had become to him. And to them both, he had to admit.

He looked at his watch, then at his coat -- with the little box of Viagra still safely ensconced in an inner pocket -- and then he went to their bedroom. He sat on her side of the bed, opened a drawer in her bedside table and pulled out the letter.

The letter he'd discovered one day when he was cleaning up her belongings after she passed. A letter from Judy, a letter professing undying love, dated a few years before she became sick. A letter describing just a few precious moments, details so intimate he'd cried. He remembered the sense of betrayal he'd felt when he found the letter, but then, ultimately, how he'd come to an understanding of his own shortcomings as a lover, and as a husband. He had been consumed with work for years, with completing his Fellowship, and the first time he read the letter he realized how much he'd neglected them both, and how much he'd missed their life together as a result.

He had put the letter back that day, put it back where he found it, and he never mentioned finding it to either of them, if only because, in no small measure, she had upheld her part of the bargain. She had been available to him, always, was ready to talk any time day or night, or to offer a shoulder, and she had remained his very best friend until the day she passed. What more, he asked, could you ask of a marriage, and from a friend.