Cross

I
am.
Apparently not the desk sergeant, though.
    He kept me waiting on the civilian side of the glass longer than I would have liked. That was okay, I guess, no big deal. I stood around, glancing over the Annual Crime Reduction Awards on the wall until he finally informed me that he had checked me out with his captain; then he buzzed me through.
    Another uniformed officer was there waiting for me.
    “Pulaski, take Mister”—the sergeant glanced down at the sign-in sheet—“Cross back to the locker room please. He’s looking for Stemple. I thought he’d be out by now.”
    I followed him down a busy hallway, picking up strands of cop talk along the way. Pulaski pushed open a heavy swinging door into the locker room. The smell was familiar, sweat and various antiseptics.
    “Stemple! You got a visitor.”
    A young guy, late twenties, about my height but heavier, looked over. He was alone at a row of beat-up army-green lockers, and he was just pulling on a Washington Nationals road jersey. Another half-dozen or so off-duty cops were standing around, grousing and laughing about the state of the court system, which definitely was a joke these days.
    I walked over to where Stemple was putting his watch on and still basically ignoring me.
    “Could I talk to you for a minute?” I asked. I was trying to be polite, but it took an effort with this guy who liked to beat up on his girlfriend.
    “About?” Stemple barely looked my way.
    I lowered my voice. “I want to talk to you . . . about Kim Stafford.”
    All at once, the less-than-friendly welcome downgraded to pure animosity. Stemple rocked back on his heels and looked me up and down like I was a street person who’d just broken into his house.
    “What are you doing in here anyway? You a cop?”
    “I used to be a cop, but now I’m a therapist. I work with Kim.”
    Stemple’s eyes beaded and burned. He was getting the picture now, and he didn’t like what he saw. Neither did I, because I was looking at a powerfully built male who beat up on women and sometimes burned them with lit objects.
    “Yeah, well, I just pulled a double, and I’m out of here. You stay away from Kim, if you know what’s good for you. You hear me?”
    Now that we’d met, I had a professional opinion of Stemple: He was a piece of shit. As he walked away, I said, “You’re beating her up, Stemple. You burned her with a cigar.”
    The locker room got still, but I noticed that no one hurried to get in my face on Stemple’s behalf. The others just watched. A couple of them nodded, as though maybe they knew about Stemple and Kim already.
    He slowly turned back to me and puffed himself up. “What are you trying to start with me, asshole? Who the hell are you? She screwing you?”
    “It’s nothing like that. I told you, I just came here to talk. If you know what’s good for you, you should listen.”
    That’s when Stemple threw the first punch. I stepped back, and he missed, but not by much. He was definitely hot-tempered, and strong.
    It was all I needed, though, maybe all I wanted. I feinted to the left, then countered with an uppercut into his gut. Some of the air rushed out of him.
    But then his powerful arms latched around my middle. Stemple drove me hard against a row of lockers. The metal boomed with the impact. Pain radiated through my upper and lower back. I hoped nothing was broken already.
    As soon as I could get my footing again, I bulldozed him back, and he stumbled, losing his grip. He swung again. This time, he connected hard with my jaw.
    I returned the favor—a solid right to the chin—followed with a looping left hook that landed just over his eyebrow. One for me, one for Kim Stafford. Then I hit him with a right to the cheekbone.
    Stemple spun halfway around; then he surprised me and went down to the locker room floor. His right eye was already starting to close.
    My arms pulsed. I was ready for more of this punk, this coward. The fight never should have started, but it had, and I was disappointed when he didn’t get up again.
    “Is that how it is with Kim? She pisses you off, you take a swing?”
    He groaned but didn’t say anything to me.
    I said, “Listen, Stemple. You want me to keep what I know to myself, not go any higher with this? Make sure it doesn’t happen again. Ever. Keep your hands off her. And your cigars. Are we clear?”
    He stayed where he was, and that told me what I needed to know. I was halfway to the door when one of the other cops