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CHAPTER NINETEEN
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HICKS
I had left Paulson’s office with my head reeling. I felt sick to my stomach. I really wanted to get out of there and think matters through, but fate had other ideas.
There was a domestic disturbance on the northern end of my normal beat, just off Nolensville Road. It was from the home of Bob and Mary Miller, repeat offenders and names I knew well. This was the third such call I’d gotten to their home in the last two years. I didn’t want to call Falco in from his day off, but hell, it was his third day on the job, I didn’t think he’d mind. I was already in and had already built rapport with the Millers. It only made sense for me to go . . . but not without backup.
I called Falco. I told him what I knew. A neighbor called in claiming to have heard screaming and loud banging noises coming from the Miller home. I told him they were repeat customers and I had been to the home on two previous calls.
“I’m in route,” he said. “Should be at the station in five.”
“I’m on the road, already,” I told him. “Meet me at the house. From where you are now, you may beat me by a minute or two. Wait for me.” I gave him the address.
Sure enough, Falco beat me to the Miller house. He was dressed in civilian clothes, as was I. Each of us had our badges clipped to our belts, fully visible. Identification would not be an issue since I already knew the Millers.
Falco had parked on the street in his personal vehicle, a real piece of shit Ford Focus, and was standing by his truck, a new looking Ford. I pulled the patrol car up behind him. I did not use the red and blues.
I saw Falco, dressed in tight jeans with a blue button-down shirt opened to the center of his chest. The shirt was tight, exposing the outline of his broad shoulders and amazing biceps. The man was looking fine.
“Thanks for coming,” I said, getting out of the cruiser.
“You bet,” he replied.
“I’ll take the lead,” I told him. “I know them.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” he promised.
“They get pretty violent with each other, but I’ve never felt the need to draw my weapon. I’ve had to throw Bob in the tank before and let him cool off, but to be honest with you, Mary may be the hardest to handle.”
“Roger that,” he said.
I heard screaming and shouting as I walked up to the door and banged on it, “Mr. and Mrs. Miller! Open up. It’s the police.”
The shouting stopped as soon as they heard the sound of my voice.
“Is that you Hicks?” I heard a male voice answer.
“Yes, Bob, it’s me,” I replied.
He opened the door, holding his forehead. I could see blood trickling down his face and between his fingers.
“You’d better get in here,” he said. “She’s on a rampage.”
I could hear his wife, Mary, screaming and breaking plates in the kitchen.
“Is she armed?” Falco asked.
He looked at Falco as though he had just arrived on earth from another world, “Yeah, with cups, saucers, pans and the random steak knife,” he said. “And she is deadly accurate.”
“Mr. Miller, what did you do?” I asked.
He shrugged, “The usual.”
I let out a sigh, “Jesus, when will you ever learn to keep your dick in your pants?”
He shrugged again, “I always do . . . around her. We wouldn’t have this problem if she showed any interest in it.”
“Falco, call an ambulance,” I instructed before turning back to Mr. Miller, “This is Officer Falco. He will take care of you.”
“Don’t you need me for backup?” Falco asked me.
“No, I got this,” she said. “No offense, but with Mrs. Miller, I’m better off without another male present.”
“Roger that.” Falco stepped forward, “Mr. Miller, think you can step outside with me, please? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
I walked to the entrance of the kitchen. Mrs. Miller was still breaking dishes and screaming obscenities.
Domestic calls were among my least favorite calls to deal with because none of them were cut and dry. In Tennessee, I didn’t have the luxury of using too much discretion when it came to DV. If I showed up at the door, you can bet someone was going to jail. Occasionally, I would treat the DV case as a violation of a noise ordinance, as if the neighbors complained that the music was too loud, but in this case, since Mr. Miller was injured, I wouldn’t be able to do that.
Someone was going to jail, and in this case, it was going to be Mary Miller. Mutual battery occurs when two domestic partners use physical force on each other. It is my job to determine who the primary physical aggressor is and that is the person who goes to jail. According to Tennessee law, I was not required to arrest the person who is not the primary aggressor. In the case of today, Mr. Miller’s bleeding forehead gave me only one choice.
“Mrs. Miller,” I called out. “It’s Officer Hicks. I need you to stop breaking things so I can come in and talk to you.”
“Go away!” she commanded.
“Can’t do that, Mrs. Miller,” I responded.
“That bastard cheated on me, again,” she screamed.
“That may be, but it still doesn’t give you the right to assault him.”
“I don’t want to assault him,” she responded. “I want to kill him.”
“Afraid you can’t do that, either,” I said. “I’m coming in now, and we’ll talk about it.”
“Ok, fuck it,” she said. “I’m tired.”
I slowly walked into the kitchen, with my hand position on the butt of my pistol. Protocol dictated that in a case of clear violence, I should have it drawn and pointed ahead of me, but I knew Mrs. Miller. I wasn’t about to scare the shit out of the poor woman.
When I caught my first glimpse of the poor woman, she was sitting at a table, sobbing, looking haggard and spent. She seemed calm now, at least.
“Am I going to have to go to jail?” she asked me.
“I’m afraid so,” I told her.
“What am I going to do?”
“I’m not supposed to do this, but I can recommend a really good domestic violence lawyer,” I said. “He also handles divorces.”
“I don’t want to divorce him,” she claimed.
“Well, then maybe you two should seek counseling.”
“He won’t go,” she told me. “I’ve tried many times.”
“Can you prove he was cheating?” I asked.
“Yes. I know who it is,” she said. “She works in the appliance section of Home Depot. I found a Motel 6 key card in his wallet, so I hacked into his Facebook account and went through his private messages. There was all manner of filthy talk. When I saw a post where she said she wanted to pee on him . . . again, I just lost it.”
What an ass wipe, I thought.
I sighed, “Well, I certainly understand why you are upset. I take it he doesn’t want a divorce, either?”
“No. In his case, he knows he can’t afford it,” she said. “In my case, I don’t want to be alone. I just want the cheating to stop.”
“What is this Jezebel’s name?” I asked.
“Suzanne. Suzanne Littleton, why?”
“She’s at the Home Depot on Nolensville Road?”
“Yeah, why?”
“No reason,” I lied. “Listen, Mrs. Miller. One way for you to approach this is to threaten divorce, even if you don’t intend to go through with it.”
“What good would that do?”
I pulled a business card from my breast pocket, “Give this lawyer a call. Tell him what you told me—all of it, including the fact you don’t really want a divorce. This guy is good, real good. He’ll scare the ever-loving shit out of your husband. If you want counseling, this will get him to counseling.”
“Really?”
It had been my experience that if you want to really intimidate a man like Bob Miller, threaten his wallet.
“Really,” I repeated.
My phone buzzed. I received a text. It was from Captain Paulson. It read, ‘The DA said no charges will be filed against you. You’re all clear but I will need that modified report from you first thing in the morning.’
I put my phone back in my pocket and held out the business card. Mrs. Miller took it, “Are you supposed to be giving me all this advice?”
I shook my head, “No. Actually, I could get in a lot of trouble for it. It’s not my place.”
She smiled for the first time, slipping the card in the back pocket of her jeans, “I won’t say a thing.”
An hour later, the ambulance took Mr. Miller away and Mrs. Miller had been arrested and was behind bars. I had shared the whole story with Falco. He listened intently. I was furious and the more I told him about what had happened the angrier I was becoming.
“Want to get a cup of coffee, Hicks?” Falco asked me.
“No, you go home,” I told him. “Enjoy the rest of your day off. I need to make a stop.”
“Where?” he asked.
“At Home Depot.”
“You’re going to pay Mr. Miller’s mistress a visit?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“You shouldn’t be doing that,” he said. We don’t have . . .”
“It’s not your worry, Falco. Go home.”
“It’s a horrible idea, Hicks,” he told me. “Intimidating a woman who has done nothing illegal, and doing so at her place of business in front of her coworkers? That’s insane.”
“I know the risks,” I replied.
“You are already under a microscope for excessive force,” he snipped. “The last thing you need is some woman calling in a complaint that you were pushing her around. It’s not your place to play judge, jury and executioner.”
“You know, Falco,” I replied. “I resent your holier-than-thou attitude.”
You’re the one under a microscope, bud, I thought to myself but didn’t say. And you’re the one pissing me off right now. Falco had no idea how close I was to taking the captain’s advice. It would be so easy. All I had to do was change one line in a report and indicate that I was inside the restaurant when the gunshot went off. That’s all I have to do. I’d be off the hook and bye-bye Falco.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said.
“Like I said, Falco, go home.”
“No. I am coming with you.”
“Suit yourself, but if you aren’t going to help, then stay the hell out of my way.”