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    Chisolm's Debt: River City, #12
    Chisolm's Debt: River City, #12
    Chisolm's Debt: River City, #12
    Ebook174 pages1 hour

    Chisolm's Debt: River City, #12

    By Frank Zafiro

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    About this ebook

    fter two tours in Vietnam and 25 years as a police officer, Thomas Chisolm is looking forward to a quiet retirement. That hope is quickly shattered when Mai, a ghost from his past, finds him and demands justice for the horrors she suffered during the Vietnam War…horrors Chisolm couldn't save her from.

    Now Chisolm must find the man responsible and bring him to justice to repay an old debt and in the hopes of putting his own demons to rest…once and for all.

    Chisolm's Debt is written by River City author Frank Zafiro and features one of River City's iconic characters. Follow Chisolm on his search as he explores the nature of moral debt, war, forgiveness, and guilt on his way to an explosive ending.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCode 4 Press
    Release dateNov 11, 2013
    ISBN9781502218360
    Chisolm's Debt: River City, #12
    Author

    Frank Zafiro

    Frank Zafiro was a police officer from 1993 to 2013. He is the author of more than two dozen crime novels. In addition to writing, Frank is an avid hockey fan and a tortured guitarist. He lives in Redmond, Oregon.  

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    • 5/5
      This book is a must-read for fans of Zafiro's River City novels and short stories. In addition to revealing more about one of his most beloved supporting characters, it is a beautifully written exploration of what it means to be a Vietnam veteran.

    Book preview

    Chisolm's Debt - Frank Zafiro

    Chisolm’s Debt

    A River City Novel

    by

    Frank Zafiro

    Contents

    1

    2

    3

    4

    5

    6

    7

    8

    9

    10

    11

    12

    13

    14

    15

    16

    17

    18

    19

    Author’s Note & Acknowledgments

    About the Author

    Other Books by Frank Zafiro

    Chisolm’s Debt

    By Frank Zafiro

    ©Copyright 2013 Frank Scalise

    All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without the prior written permission of the copyright owner(s), except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

    Code 4 Press, an imprint of Frank Zafiro, LLC

    Redmond, Oregon USA

    This is a work of fiction. While real locations may be used to add authenticity to the story, all characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

    Cover Design by Zach McCain

    Cover Photo (Chisolm model only) by Matt Rose

    For Tom Chapman,

    the real life Chisolm,

    and his delightful wife, Pam.

    Every man is guilty of all the good he didn't do.

    -Voltaire

    1

    River City, Washington

    2004

    Chisolm let the badge fall onto the desk with a loud clatter.

    Captain Robert Saylor jumped slightly, looking up from the pursuit review report that he was reading. He’d been engrossed in the document and hadn’t heard Chisolm enter. The veteran patrol officer stood in front of his desk wearing civilian clothes, an olive drab duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

    You surprised me, Tom, he said. That’s what I call silent and invisible deployment.

    Chisolm grinned. The white scar from his temple to the corner of his mouth flexed and pulled with the motion, making the grin seem more like a grimace. The warmth and humor in Chisolm’s eyes usually counter balanced the scar. Still, Saylor imagined what it might be like on the receiving end when Chisolm’s intent was not to smile but to glare.

    The mantra of every good street cop, Cap, Chisolm said.

    I suppose that’s how you managed to last so long, Saylor said.

    Chisolm nodded. That and a few other tricks.

    Saylor motioned to the heavy silver badge on his desk. On its face was the number 005, etched beneath a River City Police crest. What’s this?

    Chisolm’s grin faded slightly. Well, sir, it’s my badge.

    I know that. Why are you giving it to me?

    I’m retiring.

    Saylor cocked his head at Chisolm. Tom, I know that. I went to the retirement party last week. I even ate cake.

    It was pretty good cake, Chisolm noted.

    Cake is always good, Saylor said, absently patting his stomach. Then he pointed at the badge again. Explain.

    Chisolm shrugged. Last night was my last shift.

    I know.

    I turned in all my gear to the quartermaster this morning, right after I secured.

    Saylor nodded. That was standard for retirements.

    Chisolm nodded toward the badge. But I wanted to give that to you.

    Saylor thought he was beginning to understand, but he wanted to hear it all the same. Why?

    "Well, sir, because turning it in alongside the rest of my gear seemed….I don’t know. I suppose sacrilegious is the word I’m looking for."

    Saylor understood. The badge represented everything a cop stands for. Throwing it in a box with spare handcuffs, a leather belt and some old pens wasn’t respectful. Especially for a man like Chisolm. Okay. But why me?

    The grin returned to Chisolm’s face. You’d be surprised how goddamn hard it is to find a ranking officer around here that’s fit to take it. You’re just about the only one, as far as I can tell.

    Saylor felt a curious mixture of pride and shame. He thought about the other men and women who made up the administration of the River City Police Department. In a few of the instances, he had to admit that Chisolm was probably right. Civil service exams didn’t always single out the best leaders, and cronyism was alive and well.

    You don’t like the Chief? he asked, a trace of humor in his voice.

    Chisolm’s grin broadened. Well, Cap, I like her just fine. But she’s only been here a year. I’ve been working for you, one way or another, since I got here.

    Saylor thought about it for a moment and realized Chisolm was right. He reached out and picked up the badge. He touched the RCPD crest and Chisolm’s badge number with his thumb in what was almost a caress. That was almost twenty-five years ago, he said in a low voice.

    He’d served as the man’s field training officer when Chisolm had first come on the job in 1980. Saylor became a sergeant in 1982 and Chisolm was on his graveyard platoon. Later, when Saylor became lieutenant and the graveyard shift commander, Chisolm was once again one of his troops. Now that he was the patrol captain, everyone wearing a uniform worked for him, including Chisolm.

    Until now.

    Jesus, he said quietly, where does the time go?

    It doesn’t go anywhere, Chisolm said. It just goes.

    Saylor smiled. Always the philosopher, Tom.

    It’s an acquired calling, Chisolm said. The only way to get through a police career is to become a thinking man. He motioned toward Saylor. You know. You’re one, too.

    I suppose I am, Saylor agreed.

    It’s how we survive, Chisolm said. And it’s why you’re the only person I can feel good about turning that badge in to.

    A lump rose in Saylor’s throat. He wrapped his hand around the badge. He wanted to tell Chisolm that it had been an honor serving with him for almost a quarter of a century. He wanted to say that he thought it was downright amazing that a guy Chisolm’s age still worked patrol, chasing down bad guys a third his age and rolling in the alleys with them. He wanted to say that Thomas Chisolm was the bravest man he knew.

    But he didn’t trust his voice.

    Instead, he transferred the badge to his left hand. He rose from his seat and extended his right hand. The two men clasped hands.

    You’ll be missed, Tom, he said huskily.

    Chisolm’s eyes glinted mischievously. Ah, they’ll forget about me by graveyard roll call.

    Not likely.

    Chisolm shrugged. It doesn’t matter. Someone will carry on. Someone always does.

    I suppose they do, Saylor said. But you’ll still be missed.

    Chisolm’s smile faded slightly. He released Saylor’s hand and snapped a fluid salute, holding it rigid and true at his brow. And though it had been well over twenty-five years since Robert Saylor had served as an officer in the Marine Corps, muscle memory took over. He snapped his own salute to his brow, then lowered it sharply.

    Thanks, Tom.

    Chisolm brought his hand down. The crooked grin returned. It’s been fun, Cap.

    He turned and left Saylor’s office. The patrol captain watched him go.

    And just like that, Thomas Chisolm wasn’t a cop anymore.

    2

    Mekong Delta, Vietnam

    3 November 1969

    1844 hours

    Staff Sergeant Thomas Chisolm raised the canteen to his lips. He sipped the lukewarm water while squatting down and listening to Captain Mack Greene run the mission for the team.

    Why the uniforms, Captain? Bobby Ramirez asked.

    Chisolm stopped. He sent a stream of water from his lips, striking Ramirez directly in the ear.

    Ramirez swatted at the water stream. Fuckin’ A, Chiz. Knock it off.

    Chisolm swallowed the remainder of the water. Stop asking stupid questions, then.

    It’s not a stupid question.

    You’re right. It’s a moronic question.

    Captain Greene watched the exchange wordlessly.

    Ramirez glanced around the assembled squad, then at the officer. He seemed to consider asking for help but apparently decided against it. He returned his attention to Chisolm. How is it moronic? he challenged.

    Chisolm screwed the cap back on his canteen. He flashed his trademark grin at Ramirez. He sometimes forgot about the thick red scar that ran along his jaw from the temple to the corner of his mouth. But when he smiled, he could feel the scar tissue pulling at those facial muscles. Curiously, the sensation only made him grin wider.

    "C’mon, Bobby. Captain say, we do. When has there ever not been a good reason?"

    Ramirez shrugged. Didn’t say anything about whether the reason is good or not. I just wonder why, that’s all.

    Greene broke his silence. Save the question of ‘why’ for the philosophers, sergeant. We do this mission in uniform, not in blue jeans and field jackets.

    Yes, sir, Ramirez answered. Fuck the philosophers. I got it, sir.

    The other squad members laughed. Greene pressed his lips together, suppressing a grin of his own.

    Chisolm leapt at the bait. "Actually, some philosophers fucked each other. Socrates, Plato –"

    That’ll be enough, Greene grunted around his barely masked smile. This is a battlefield, not a goddamn college campus.

    The chuckling tapered off into an attentive silence. Chisolm watched as the captain scanned the faces of his assembled men. The Special Forces squad was a tight-knit group, one Chisolm was proud to be part of. They were effective. They were brothers.

    This will be a direct action, Greene said.

    Chisolm sensed the men grow more serious around him. The term direct action was a military euphemism for an assassination.

    The target is in Phien Bu, a small hamlet about three clicks from the DMZ. His name is Colonel Tran Ng. The captain handed Chisolm a black and white photo. Chisolm studied it and passed it to Ramirez.

    MI believes he is poised to rise up to the rank of general soon, Greene continued. Our mission is to make that a posthumous promotion.

    Ralph Erickson, the medic, groaned. This is an MI mission?

    Greene gave a terse nod. You have a problem with that, Specialist?

    Only that Military Intelligence could fuck up a wet dream, sir.

    The men in the squad laughed while nodding in agreement.

    Greene did not laugh. That’s entirely true. But it’s our job to prove that the sheets are stained.

    More laughter from the assembled group.

    Do we know why this guy is targeted for direct action, sir? Ramirez asked.

    What’d I tell you about ‘why,’ Sergeant?

    Ramirez shrugged sheepishly.

    Greene allowed himself a small grin at Ramirez’s expense. Then he continued. "MI is apparently worried about this Colonel Ng making general because he has his shit somewhat together. If he makes general, then that is more together shit all over the Mekong Delta. That is beaucoup bad for us and the rest of our boys in uniform. Does that satisfy the inquisitive philosopher in you, Sergeant Socrates?"

    Ramirez nodded amidst more chuckling from his squad mates.

    Good, Greene said. Now, MI tried to hit him once a few days ago with an artillery strike, but the word is that he survived. They now believe Ng is holed up in Phien Bu, recovering from some injuries from that arty blast. Our mission is to infiltrate the hamlet, locate Ng and take him out.

    Am I primary, sir? Shawn Jackson, the sniper, asked.

    Greene shook his head. Ng is inside a hooch. He’s hardly come out at all since arriving in the hamlet. MI doesn’t want to take any chances, so this will be an up close and personal job. Staff Sergeant Chisolm and Sergeant Ramirez will be our primary operators. You will be in support on the hillside about four hundred meters away.

    Jackson nodded his understanding.

    Shit, Jackson, that’s like point blank range for you, Ramirez joked.

    Groovy, Jackson said.

    Point blank is how I’d like this to happen, Greene said. If you can catch him sleeping and dispatch him with blade work, that is preferable. Intelligence reports are that he has one platoon with him in the hamlet, so we’re looking at about forty soldiers with their AKs if things get loud.

    "That would most definitely not

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