Free Don't Call Me Hero by Eliza Lentzski Page A

anything in common with them. Julia and I went to the same school growing up, but we didn’t have the same circle of friends. We still don’t.”
    I had more questions about Julia Desjardin, but I couldn’t ask them without sounding suspicious.
    “Central to E-Two,” a voice across the police radio squawked.
    David picked up the in-car handset. “Go ahead, Central.”
    “E-Two, I’ve got a 10-16 at 182 North Spruce Street. Neighbors called in reporting yelling coming from inside the house.”
    “E-Two is en route, Central.”
    “E-Two,” the dispatcher responded, “I see you en route at 17:42.” 
    I shuffled through my brain to remember the police ten-codes for this particular town. Chief Hart had sent me the Embarrass Police Department manual a few weeks before I’d arrived. Each city had their own police ten-codes and it was important to know each department’s specific codes. What was “Officer down” to one department could be “I’m taking a lunch break” to another.
    “Domestic disturbance?”
    David whipped the car around in an empty parking lot. “Yup. That’ll probably be the majority of your calls on third shift. That and bartenders over-serving people.”
    “Or cutting them off,” I noted.
    It took only a few minutes to reach our destination. It was amazing to witness the size discrepancy between the Mayor’s mansion and the trailer home we pulled up to. Even in a small town like Embarrass you had your Haves and your Have Nots.
    David called in our arrival. “Central, E-Two and E-Three have arrived on scene.”
    The voice on the radio immediately responded. “E-Two and E-Three, I have you on scene at 17:46.”
    “Do you know who lives here?” I asked as I unbuckled my seatbelt and got out of the vehicle.
    “John and Tricia Wagner and their son, Dennis.”
    The trailer home was parked in a gravel lot. The surrounding grass was sparse and mostly weeds. Cigarette butts littered the front yard.  The three steps that led to the front door looked like they were under construction, so I hopped directly onto the front porch.
    David came up behind me. “Hear anything?”
    I shook my head. “Police,” I called out. I knocked on the front door.
    David reached for the doorknob and turned the handle. The door was unlocked.
    “What are you doing?” I hissed when he opened the front door.
    “Neighbors said they heard yelling,” he said with a shrug. “There’s my probable cause.”
    He stepped through the threshold, and I reluctantly followed.
    The front door opened into a carpeted living room. The room was small and cramped, and it smelled like stale cigarettes.
    I heard the screams coming from the back of the house. The exact words were muffled, but it sounded like a man yelling that someone was eating him. I took a step forward in the direction of the voice, but David put his arm in front of me.
    “It’s only your second day on the job.”
    I unfastened the leather strap that secured my gun in its holster. “Might as well start earning my keep then.”
    The yelling grew louder as we cautiously stalked down the narrow corridor. I gave a cursory glance into each room we passed—two bedrooms and the laundry room—to make sure they were empty.
    David and I stood on either side of a closed door from where the loud noises originated. The yelling had largely subsided and had been replaced by a rhythmic smacking sound.
    David and I made eye contact and he nodded once. I reached for the door handle, twisted hard, and pushed. The door swung free, unencumbered.
    “Christ,” David muttered under his breath.
    A man stood alone in the bathroom, stripped down to cotton boxers. I quickly discovered what was causing the smacking noise. His palms were pressed flat against the bathroom wall, and he was hitting his head against the white subway tile. His blood was splattered on the walls and floor. He’d torn the sink clear from the wall, and water sprayed all over the bathroom, combining with