Short Story Fiction
Scott A. Gese

He was a good cop seeking revenge for the death of his partner.

paybackKarl Solano/Pexels

Officer Joe Biggs and his partner were on a break. Biggs sat behind the wheel of his patrol car admiring the photo of his German Shepherd.

“They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Sandy would have been twelve today. Just look at that face. I tell you what, that dog talked to me without saying a word. Look at those eyes. What an expression…”

“Enough!, enough already! I’m so damn tired of hearing about that dog I could puke.” Johnny Martin was Joe Biggs’ partner. They’d been patrolling Chicago’s south side together for the past two months.

The South side was a hell hole. They worked the night patrol. The worst of the worst.

Hookers, junkies, drug dealers and gang members all jostling to control their piece of the cities concrete turf. And in the middle of it all were the homeless vagrants who lived on the street just trying to survive. Some nights it was a tossup as to which flowed more freely, the blood or the urine.

It was late August and the city was in the middle of a major heat wave. It was hot and sticky even at one o’clock in the morning. The heat brought out the worst of an already bad tempered population. Fuses were short. Guns and knives were drawn at the slightest provocation. People died for nothing more than an empty threat or a sideways glance.

Tonight was no different.

Biggs closed the visor where Sandy’s photo hung. “Sorry Johnny, Sandy patrolled with me for close to ten years.”

“I’ve heard that more than once. What I haven’t heard is how you lost her,” quizzed Martin.

“I’ll be talking about Sandy? Sure you want to hear?”

“Ya ya, go ahead. I’ll be a good listener,” smiled Martin.

Biggs began to tell the tale. “Sandy was my patrol partner. Like I said, we were together for close to ten years. There were many occasions when she saved my butt and there were a few times when I saved hers. We were a damn good team.

One night we got a call. A shooting on Flanders Ave., not too far from here. When we arrived I could tell there was still trouble lurking. I called for backup. Sandy and I got out to question a couple of hoods still hangin’ around. I guess I made one of them a little too nervous. He pulled a gun on me and Sandy didn’t hesitate. She went for him. He shot her and took off running. I let him go and took care of Sandy. She died in my arms.”

“Wow, that’s tragic. Sorry to hear that, Biggs. Did you catch the guy?”

“Not yet. I know who he is and where he hangs out. We drive through the area every night. He’ll show up. When he does, he’ll wish he hadn’t.”

Several weeks had gone by since Biggs told Martin about Sandy’s tragic end.

One night as they were driving through the area where Sandy was shot, Biggs suddenly hit the brakes. “Well I’ll be damned. There he is. The kid in the red hoodie. He’s the kid who killed Sandy.”

“Are you sure about that?” Asked Martin.

“Damn sure.”

Biggs hit the gas and screeched to a halt right next to the kid. Both men jumped out and the kid took off at a full sprint. Biggs was hot on his trail. Martin jumped behind the wheel and gave chase.

The kid turned down an alley. Biggs was losing ground. Unfortunately for the kid the alley was a dead end. Biggs had him trapped. The kid pulled a gun but Biggs already had him in his sights. Martin pulled in behind them, jumped out of the car and drew his weapon.

“Drop the gun and get on the ground,” Biggs demanded.

The kid did as he was told.

Biggs, seeing Martin had him covered, holstered his weapon and drew out his baton.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Biggs,” Martin shouted.

“He murdered my partner, paybacks are hell,” replied Biggs. “Don’t worry, he’ll live… barely.”

Martin called out once more. “I’m serious, Biggs.”

“So am I,” replied Biggs as he delivered the first blow.

© Copyright 2023 by Scott A. Gese All Rights Reserved.

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