Read Cop Town for Free Online Page B
Authors: Karin Slaughter
underneath the edges.
And then she tried not to think about Virginia Woolf walking into the river with rocks in her pockets to ensure her suicide.
Flashlight on the hook. Handcuffs in the pouch. Radio transmitter clipped to the back. Shoulder mic threaded up to the epaulet. Keychain attached to the ring. Nightstick through the metal loop. Holster secured around the belt. Gun.
Gun .
Kate weighed the heavy metal revolver in her hand. She ejected the cylinder and let the brass blur as the bullets spun around. Gently, she clicked the cylinder back into place, then tucked the gun into the holster.Her fingers were oily from handling the revolver. Her thumb slipped as she snapped the leather safety strap into place.
Oddly, the gun felt heavier than anything else on her hips. She’d only fired the revolver a couple of times at the police academy, and both times all she’d been thinking about was how quickly she could get away from the grabby instructor. Kate wasn’t sure she’d cleaned the gun properly. The grip seemed greasier than it was supposed to be. The instructor wasn’t very helpful. He’d said that he was against the arming of females.
Honestly, having spent two weeks with the rest of the women in her class, Kate shared the man’s reticence. There were a few serious recruits, but many were there on a lark. More than half of them signed up for the typing pool, where they’d receive the same pay as officers on patrol. Only four women in Kate’s group had asked for street assignments.
In retrospect, maybe Kate should’ve paid more attention in typing class. Or secretarial school. Or paralegal training. Or any number of the jobs she’d tried and failed at before seeing a story in The Atlanta Journal about women police officers being trained for motorcycle patrol.
Motorcycle patrol!
Kate laughed at her naïveté. If the firearms instructors were loath to train women, the motorcycle division was downright hostile to the idea of women on bikes. The riding instructor wouldn’t even allow them inside the garage.
The bedside clock clicked as the numbers turned over. Time had jumped forward again. Noises filled the hallway—the career gals heading out to work. Soft voices. Occasional laughter. The swish-swish-swish of nylons rubbing against slim skirts.
The hat was last. Kate had worn hats before. They were all the rage in high school—pillbox mostly, like Mrs. Kennedy. Kate had found a leopard skin to match the Dylan song. She’d pinned it at a rakish angle that made Kate’s mother send her straight back to her room.
This hat would’ve sent her mother into apoplexy. Dark blue and, as with everything else to do with her uniform, overly large. Wide brim. Gold, round badge sewn onto the center. City of Atlanta Police Department.
Inside the circle was a phoenix ascending from the ashes. Resurgens . Latin: rising again.
Kate put on the hat. She looked at her reflection in the mirror.
She could do this.
She had to do this.
3
Fox sat in his car smoking a cigarette. The windows were rolled up tight. Smoke filled the space. He thought of tear gas. Not for the first time. Not for the last. The needle wouldn’t skip on that record. Lachrymatory agents, they were called, which was a fancy way of saying your eyeballs were going to be impaled on spikes. Twenty seconds of exposure was all it took. The gas overstimulated the corneal nerves. Pain, tears, coughing, sneezing, and blindness followed.
Boot camp.
Fox had stood with the men in his unit as they watched the first team get gassed. The exposure was supposed to toughen them up, prepare them for jungle warfare, but what it did was break them down. Grown men screamed like little girls. They tried to scratch out their eyes. They begged for mercy.
Fox had watched them writhe around like worms and thought they were idiots. They had all gotten the same briefing. Sure, it hurt, but you just had to wait it out. Thirty minutes later, you were fine. Thirty minutes was
And then she tried not to think about Virginia Woolf walking into the river with rocks in her pockets to ensure her suicide.
Flashlight on the hook. Handcuffs in the pouch. Radio transmitter clipped to the back. Shoulder mic threaded up to the epaulet. Keychain attached to the ring. Nightstick through the metal loop. Holster secured around the belt. Gun.
Gun .
Kate weighed the heavy metal revolver in her hand. She ejected the cylinder and let the brass blur as the bullets spun around. Gently, she clicked the cylinder back into place, then tucked the gun into the holster.Her fingers were oily from handling the revolver. Her thumb slipped as she snapped the leather safety strap into place.
Oddly, the gun felt heavier than anything else on her hips. She’d only fired the revolver a couple of times at the police academy, and both times all she’d been thinking about was how quickly she could get away from the grabby instructor. Kate wasn’t sure she’d cleaned the gun properly. The grip seemed greasier than it was supposed to be. The instructor wasn’t very helpful. He’d said that he was against the arming of females.
Honestly, having spent two weeks with the rest of the women in her class, Kate shared the man’s reticence. There were a few serious recruits, but many were there on a lark. More than half of them signed up for the typing pool, where they’d receive the same pay as officers on patrol. Only four women in Kate’s group had asked for street assignments.
In retrospect, maybe Kate should’ve paid more attention in typing class. Or secretarial school. Or paralegal training. Or any number of the jobs she’d tried and failed at before seeing a story in The Atlanta Journal about women police officers being trained for motorcycle patrol.
Motorcycle patrol!
Kate laughed at her naïveté. If the firearms instructors were loath to train women, the motorcycle division was downright hostile to the idea of women on bikes. The riding instructor wouldn’t even allow them inside the garage.
The bedside clock clicked as the numbers turned over. Time had jumped forward again. Noises filled the hallway—the career gals heading out to work. Soft voices. Occasional laughter. The swish-swish-swish of nylons rubbing against slim skirts.
The hat was last. Kate had worn hats before. They were all the rage in high school—pillbox mostly, like Mrs. Kennedy. Kate had found a leopard skin to match the Dylan song. She’d pinned it at a rakish angle that made Kate’s mother send her straight back to her room.
This hat would’ve sent her mother into apoplexy. Dark blue and, as with everything else to do with her uniform, overly large. Wide brim. Gold, round badge sewn onto the center. City of Atlanta Police Department.
Inside the circle was a phoenix ascending from the ashes. Resurgens . Latin: rising again.
Kate put on the hat. She looked at her reflection in the mirror.
She could do this.
She had to do this.
3
Fox sat in his car smoking a cigarette. The windows were rolled up tight. Smoke filled the space. He thought of tear gas. Not for the first time. Not for the last. The needle wouldn’t skip on that record. Lachrymatory agents, they were called, which was a fancy way of saying your eyeballs were going to be impaled on spikes. Twenty seconds of exposure was all it took. The gas overstimulated the corneal nerves. Pain, tears, coughing, sneezing, and blindness followed.
Boot camp.
Fox had stood with the men in his unit as they watched the first team get gassed. The exposure was supposed to toughen them up, prepare them for jungle warfare, but what it did was break them down. Grown men screamed like little girls. They tried to scratch out their eyes. They begged for mercy.
Fox had watched them writhe around like worms and thought they were idiots. They had all gotten the same briefing. Sure, it hurt, but you just had to wait it out. Thirty minutes later, you were fine. Thirty minutes was