Anywhere, U.S.A. - An uneasy feeling permeated the squad room as half a dozen or so officers waited for Chief Backoff's appearance. They knew the Chief's reprimand would be harsh, biting and very personal. After all, the shooting of a nude woman had never occurred here before. And two of the three cops who pulled the triggers were in the room.
Abruptly, the squad room door banged open and Chief Backoff barreled in. The six shiny stars on his collar reflected light from the overhead bulb, which dangled from a wire in the center of the room. The department's Public Information officer entered as well.
"Where's Johnson?" barked Backoff, mentally taking a roll call. Johnson was the third shooter.
"On a donut run. We told him to bring back the gooey ones you like."
Backoff took his place behind a podium, the P I beside him.
"Gentlemen, we have a public relations nightmare. Who shot an unarmed, nude, young, pregnant woman?"
Patrolmen Higgins and Smith meekly admitted their role in the shooting. Backoff asked Higgins to explain how two husky patrolmen had to shoot a woman.
"We had a 9-1-1 call. Domestic violence at a party. Some uninvited woman crashed the affair, nude, and the host couldn't get her to leave. So he called 9-1-1. Chief, I hope they aren't making a racial issue out of this. Two of us are white, and the other shooter is black. This was an affirmative action shoot."
Smith took up the explanation. "When we got there, she was on the lawn. We asked her to leave. She wouldn't, and when she came toward us... we shot."
"Twelve times?" The Chief's voice expressed disbelief. "And that's just the shells that hit her. The home owner is still tallying up the damage caused by all the ones that missed her and hit his house."
"How am I going to sell this to the public?" inquired the P I officer.
Robinson, the rookie of the department, had an idea. "Say she reached for her waistband. That's one the public always buys."
Groans from the assemblage. Higgins looked sharply at Robinson, shaking his head. "The woman was nude."
"Wait," said Hopkins. "Don't dismiss that so easily. Robinson's right. We've used that one in six other fatalities this year, and no one ever complains. Maybe she was wearing a thong. She coulda had a derringer hidden in it. If she wasn't, Lothario could say he found a thong near the body. He's got a collection of them. He was the investigating officer. Didn't you find a thong that might have been shot off her by a wayward slug?"
Lothario, ignoring the question, offered his own solution. "The waistband excuse won't work. How about Higgins and Smith feared for their lives? We've used that one so often, that only some pointy-headed professor still complains about it when we roll out that excuse, er... explanation."
"Good Lord, gentlemen," roared the Chief. "You didn't shoot an Amazon. 'Feared for your lives?' The woman was 5' 2" and not an ounce over 110 pounds. And she was pregnant."
Lothario's face brightened. "That's it, Chief. We fired to protect the unborn infant. An act of humanity."
The P I Officer dismissed the suggestion. "She was only one month pregnant. How would you know she was with child?"
All eyes turned toward Lothario, whose reputation for maneuvering female traffic violators was well known. Sgt. Perez, nodding, wondered aloud: "Perhaps we ought to check the traffic warnings, as opposed to the tickets, that Lothario has issued. Maybe the lady's name will turn up on one. Speeding, running a light, failure to pull over... and Lothario just gives her a gentle warning? How long ago might that have been, Lothario?"
"I haven't been on traffic duty for two months. Don't look there."
"Forget it," roared the Chief. "Saving the fetus? Six of your twelve hits were in her abdomen. Let's move on. Any other suggestions?"
Smith responded: "Chief, she was armed."
An air of relief seemed to come over the meeting. This was the answer the Chief had been seeking.
"This is the first time I've heard that she was armed. Did we find a gun?"
"It wasn't a gun, Chief. She had a broken wine glass in her hand. It looked awful sharp."
"We did find a broken glass at the scene. In fact, the place was littered with broken glasses," the P I offered in support.
A skeptical Chief went on: "That might not fly. Was there any other reason to shoot this woman?"
Higgins brightened up. "Yeah, she acted like she was high on drugs. Yeah, that might explain why we feared for our lives."
"Toxicology reports will probably come in negative. Then where are we?" asked the Chief.
"Well," said Smith, searching for a justification, "She sure seemed mentally unbalanced. We shoot that kind all the time. Or maybe she wanted to commit suicide. We shot two of those in one week last year."
"What makes you think she was out of her mind?" asked Backoff.
"What 20-year-old in her right mind would come to a party buck naked?" Smith replied.
"Good Lord!" Even Higgins, the other shooter, couldn't swallow that one. "Everyone else at the party was buck naked! We were the only ones with clothes on. Well, we had been the only ones until we decided we ought to strip too, so as not to call so much attention to ourselves."
"You mean you were out of uniform when you shot her? That's a violation of our code of conduct. When we're through here I want to see both of you in my office."
The P I shook his head. "Nudity can't be our cover in this situation." There were smothered giggles at that one.
"I got it, Chief!" shouted Jones, smugly, convinced he had the answer. "She was reaching for Johnson's gun, so we had to shoot her. We often rely on that one."
The P I didn't hesitate. "She was ten feet from them when they shot. How long was her arm? We've got to show that this use of lethal force was within department policy."
"ALL OUR KILLINGS ARE WITHIN DEPARTMENT POLICY." That response came from a whole chorus of officers.
"Not every one," responded Watkins, the longest-serving member of the force. "Before you guys came aboard, we fired Kharkov after he killed a blind man carrying a white cane. Kharkov thought it was a white rifle since the guy was holding it by the barrel. When the guy turned at Kharkov's demand to halt, the 'muzzle' was pointed right at Kharkov, so he fired the fatal shot. We would have ruled that within department policy, but the public outrage was so great, the D. A. insisted we fire him. We did, he sued, got his job back, plus a couple of million for damages. He got more than the victim's family. With all that money, he didn't need the job, retired on a good pension and bought a winery in Napa. Sends us a Christmas card and a bottle each year."
"So," asked the Chief, "What's left? How are we going to explain what the press is now calling a murder by cop?"
The room was silent for a moment. Then the door banged open with a crash, and every officer in the room reached for his service weapon. Johnson, mustache flecked with bits of chocolate and white cream, drop the huge box of donuts he was carrying, as he rushed through the door and jumped behind the podium where the Chief stood. Donuts flew everywhere, rolled along the floor, leaving trails of jelly and coconut.
No one fired except Johnson, who, in self defense, had pulled out his pepper spray - he wasn't allowed a taser - by mistake and accidentally squirted the Chief, barely hitting him. The room was in an uproar over the loss of the donuts.
"Silence!" shouted the Chief, once again in command. He wiped away the spray residue, little of which hit him, since Johnson was such a poor marksman, his scores on the range always at the bottom of the list. "That's it. That's how we'll explain it."
"How's that?" asked the P I, perplexed, turning toward the Chief.
"The pepper spray. Johnson tried to spray the lady but he missed - we won't mention that part - and she kept coming with that broken glass in her hand. You had no choice but to shoot. Now, wipe off those donuts, pour the coffee, and let's get on with the day. And remember, be careful out there."