From a Whisper to a Scream

ONE OCTOBER 1988 Thomas Morningstar was on traffic duty that month. He didn't mind the eight-to-four shift, but unlike most of the cops he worked with, he preferred a night foot patrol. Being stuck in a car for most of the day just made him antsy. When you walked a beat, you still felt as though you had some connection to the world around you. The stars kept you company, distanced only by the haze of lights that the city cast up into the darkness. The wind knew where to find you. The blue-and-white patrol car, with the gold badge of the Newford Police Department on its doors, was too confining. The squawk of the radio, trapped between metal and glass, was a constant irritation. Looking out at the street through a windshield was too much like observing the world through the glass screen of a television set. But he could be patient. This was his last day on traffic. Two days off, and he'd be back to hoofing it once more: evening shift, walking a one-armed post along Grasso Street. But before that he had to go up to the reserve to see his father. Big Dan Morningstar was the elected chief of the Kickaha Reserve. He considered Thomas, his eldest son, to be his only failure. "You want to be a cop, why don't you join the Tribal Police?" he demanded at least once on every visit Thomas made. "But no. You want to pretend to be a white man. You want to marry a white girl. You're ashamed of your people and that brings me shame. Why can't you be more like your brother?" John was unemployed and still lived with their parents, but that was never brought up, because his politics were correct. Still, he, at least, understood Thomas's position. Thomas wasn't ashamed of his herita≥ he just didn't want to live on the reserve. That was the reason he had entered law enforcement, but not simply to escape. He truly believed that the only hope for his people to find a prosperous future was for them to meet white society on its own terms, to have a say in the making and keeping of its laws, while still maintaining links with their own traditions. And was it his fault that the woman who stole his heart was white? Why should it make any difference what color Angie's skin was so long as they loved each other? He would sit on the porch of his parents' house with those thoughts in mind, but he no longer voiced them. He would keep his face stoic as he listened to his father, and he wouldn't argue. He'd long since given up trying to change his father's mind. His mother had never expressed her feelings on the subject, but she didn't need to. Thomas could always sense her unspoken approval. It was to see her and John that he tried to come by at least a couple of times a month. Angie never drove up with him. He thought of Angie now as he headed north on Williamson, where it cut through the Tombs, and was only half paying attention to the driver in the vehicle ahead of him. The radio squawked, and the dispatch receiver informed all units of a possible domestic over in the Rosses. Thomas was close enough to catch the squeal and reached for the microphone, but another unit beat him to it. Just as well. He hated catching a domestic. You never knew what you were going to walk intoa normal argument that had escalated a little too loudly and caused the neighbors some concern, or some wacko standing there in the hallway, waiting for you with a sawed-off shotgun. As Thomas straightened in his seat, some sixth sense made him pay closer attention to the occupant of the car in front of his own. The man kept glancing back at him in his rearview mirror, then quickly shifting his gaze to the road ahead. He seemed jumpy, more high-strung than was normal, even taking into consideration thde Lint, Charles is the author of 'From a Whisper to a Scream' with ISBN 9780765304346 and ISBN 0765304341.