Breaking the Cycle

Breaking the Cycle

  Linda Johnson

  Copyright 2011 Linda Johnson

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  Breaking the Cycle is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  The moment she opened the squad car door, Kate Bynum heard raised voices coming from the townhouse. It was her second domestic violence call of the evening – this one had been phoned into the 911 dispatcher by a neighbor. She radioed the station about her arrival at the scene and stepped out of the police car.

  She made a quick survey of her surroundings before making her way up the front walk. It was close to one in the morning and most of the units were dark, with the notable exceptions of the one she was heading to and the one next door to it. She saw the curtains part at the neighbor’s home, a face peer out intently, and then a hasty withdrawal. The curtains swayed for a moment before growing still.

  When Kate arrived at the front door, she paused, listening intently. She could hear a man and woman arguing, but no sounds of anyone being hit, no crying, no furniture being tossed across the room. That was a good sign. Maybe she had arrived before the fight had escalated into violence.

  With her right hand resting lightly on her service revolver, she pressed the doorbell with her left. The voices from inside stopped mid-sentence, and there was a moment of silence before she heard the man’s voice. “Who the hell?” As she listened to the footsteps approaching the door, she felt the adrenalin rush through her system. She was on full alert as the door swung open and a man leaned out, his eyes bulging, his face mottled red. He opened his mouth, ready to yell at the intruder, but when he saw her uniform, he clamped it shut.

  Kate kept her voice calm, as though she were talking to a frightened child. “Good evening, sir. I’m Officer Bynum with the Chatham County Sheriff’s Office. Everything okay in there?”

  She could see hatred burning in the man’s eyes. “Fine,” he spat out.

  “One of your neighbors called us. Said it was a little noisy over here. Mind if I come in and take a look around?”

  She saw the man hesitate before he stepped back. “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Well, then, I won’t take up much of your time.” Kate kept her gaze riveted on the man as she stepped quickly through the doorway, her hand still poised over her gun. Once she was safely past him, she allowed her arms to drop to her sides. She searched the living room, looking for telltale signs of violence. She didn’t have to look far – an overturned chair, a hole punched in the wall, a lamp lying shattered next to a bare table top. No wonder the neighbor had called.

  She turned to the man, who had remained at the door like an immovable boulder. “Where’s your wife, sir?”

  In response, the man slammed the door, crossed his arms, and bellowed out, “Angie, get your ass in here.”

  A woman stepped into the room, and Kate studied her. She appeared to be walking with no impediment: no limp, her arms moving naturally. Other than a bright red mark on her left cheek, she seemed to be all right.

  “Good evening, ma’am. I’m Officer Bynum. How are--”

  “We didn’t call the police,” the woman interrupted.

  “No, ma’am. Your neighbor did.”

  “Nosy asshole. It’s none of his damn business.”

  “So then you’re all right, ma’am?”

  “I’m fine.” The woman’s eyes were as belligerent as her husband’s. “You can leave now.”

  “And what about that mark on your face? It looks like someone hit you.”

  The woman snorted. “Yeah, well I got my licks in too, so don’t you worry about me.” She put her hands on her hips, staring Kate down.

  “Are there any children in the house?”

  “No, we don’t have any kids.”

  Let’s hope it stays that way, Kate thought. “And you’re sure you’re okay? I’d be happy to take your husband down to the station for a little cooling off period.”

  “I said I was fine. All I want is for you to leave.”

  Kate stood watching the woman for a minute, willing her to change her mind. “You know, you don’t have to live like this. There are shelters.”

  “You don’t get it. My husband and I fight once in a while. It’s no big deal. Maybe you and your husband don’t fight.” The woman paused and glanced down at Kate’s empty ring finger. “Oh, I guess you’re not married. You wouldn’t know.”

  Kate gritted her teeth. “No, ma’am, I’m not married and I’m not judging you. I’m just letting you know you have options.”

  “You hear that, Billy? I got options.” The woman winked at her husband, and they both cracked a smile.

  Kate could feel the tension in the room drop, like someone had turned off a gas burner. Whatever the fight had been about, it was over now. As soon as she left, they would probably head straight for the bedroom for some make-up sex. As if on cue, the man walked over to his wife and put his arm around her.

  “You folks have a nice evening now,” Kate said, making her way to the door. When she turned around, the couple was gazing at each other, oblivious to her departure. As she walked to her squad car, she shook her head. Sometimes she felt more like a marriage counselor than a cop. When she worked the graveyard shift, half her calls were domestics, and most of the time they ended up like this one, where she diffused the situation without having to make any arrests. And the times when she did take the husband in, it was usually the wife who came to bail him out the next morning.

  What was frustrating was that most of the couples acted as though their behavior was perfectly normal. Husband and wife scream at each other; husband slaps wife around; and then it all blows over until the next time. It was a never-ending cycle, but neither husband nor wife cared. No doubt they had been raised in families where their parents had fought like this – just as Kate’s had. But that’s what she couldn’t understand – why so many children from abusive families ended up in abusive homes as adults. Living through what she did as a kid, she knew she would never allow a man to mistreat her.

  She got in her squad car and radioed in an all-clear report before she started the engine. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headrest. A memory of her parents fighting played through her mind as unwelcome as it was insistent. When the radio squawked and the dispatcher called out a report of kids spray painting graffiti at the local high school, she breathed a sigh of relief. Graffiti would be a nice change of pace.