The Last Banana Split

The Last Banana Split

D. A. Ratliff

My grandmother’s voice echoed as I raced on foot, chasing a car thief along a residential sidewalk. Gram told me to be thankful for something each day. In her honor, I gave thanks that this was a cool February morning in New Orleans and not a hot, humid July morning and kept running.

The radio pinned to my shirt cackled, and my partner’s voice boomed. “Marks, turning the corner. I got eyes on you.”

I heard an engine rev, and a flash of white sped past me. My partner, Sergeant Chis Fairbanks, found an opening between ancient oaks and abruptly turned the SUV to the right onto the sidewalk. The perp tried to stop, but his momentum carried him into the fender, and he bounced backward as I reached him. I rolled the guy over, twisted one arm behind his back, got one cuff on him, and then got the other arm handcuffed before Chris got out of the car. Two other squad cars arrived to render assistance.

“Get off me, Po. I ain’t done nothing.” He bucked, and I pushed him back down.

“You ran. I’m arresting you for leaving the scene of the accident.” I proceeded to recite his Miranda Rights as he continued to squirm.

“You were running like the wind.” Chris grinned as he pulled the perp to his feet, placed him against the fender, and patted him down. “Got a cut on his forehead. Get a bus down here.”

I radioed EMTs to our location. They checked him over, bandaged the cut, and released him into our custody. Chris placed him in the cage, and we returned to the scene.

The accident occurred at an intersection of St. Charles and a residential street in the Garden District. Our prisoner, now identified as Edward Thorn, or Eddie T., hotwired a car parked at a bed and breakfast in the District and had turned onto St. Charles when he sideswiped a city bus as passengers were getting off at the trolly stop. Several people were injured, two severely.

We remained long enough for witnesses to identify Eddie T. as the driver of the stolen car that stuck the bus and fled the scene. Then, we headed toward District Seven station.

During the drive, our ‘guest’ ranted about police brutality, spewing one curse word after another. We pulled into the sallyport, waited for the garage door to close, and then extracted him from the car, kicking and screaming. I was never happier than when the intake officers took him off our hands.

After writing our reports, we walked to the car, passing the roll-call room where the shift held my promotion party that morning. Chris caught my slight hesitation as we passed.

“Second thoughts, Valerie?”

“No, I’ve wanted to be a detective since I joined the force. You should do this, too.”

“I will, but gotta get Mimi through her last year of college. Then, with two incomes, we can afford daycare, and she can work, and I can apply for a promotion.”

“You know that I waited until Ben was out of residency before I made the move, so I understand. One more year, and then we can be partners again.”

The morning flew by as we handled numerous calls. A rear-end collision, a shoplifter at a convenience store, a missing delivery package, and a report of shots fired brought several squads to a residence only to discover a guy working on his car that kept backfiring on him. We answered a call about a fight at a local tavern and transported one of the participants to the station for booking on a drunk and disorderly. There was never a dull day on the streets of New Orleans.

Back on patrol, passing an ice cream shop, it hit me. I have a tradition to honor today. I had to have a banana split. I laughed aloud, and Chris gave me a “what’s so funny “look.

“I almost forgot! It’s the last day of my job on the beat. I have to have a….” He said it with me, “… a banana split.”

“Val, that tradition is one I wish my family had.”

“Not good if you want to keep your weight down. But now and then, not so bad.”

“We’ll go to Chubby Boy’s for lunch. Best ice cream in town.”

“That’s sounds….” I was interrupted by dispatch.

“Unit 217, 10-16 549 Baimbridge St. Neighbors report loud screaming from inside the house.”

I responded. “Dispatch, Unit 217, 10-4, 549 Baimbridge St. Screaming from inside house. En route.”

Chris flipped on the blues and sirens, and we arrived at the scene within four minutes. I gave the arrival-on-scene code, and we exited the car. A neighbor rushed off their front porch to meet us.

“He beats her all the time. They have a new baby, and I hear him yelling that she spends too much time with her. I heard the baby crying, but she stopped about ten minutes ago.”

Chris clicked his mic. “Unit 217, Dispatch. Requesting backup my location.”

Dispatch responded, and with guns drawn, we approached the front of the house. We were about ten feet from the front door when we heard glass shatter. We ducked behind a tree as shots rang out.

I tapped my mic. “Unit 217, 10-32 Shots fired.”

Chris yelled out. “Police, drop your weapon. Come out, hands up.”

The response was more shots from inside the house. We took cover as more officers arrived, along with a supervisor. With an active shooter and at least two suspected hostages, the supervisor called for the SWAT unit.

As first officers on the scene, we remained with the supervisor as other officers evacuated the neighboring houses and cordoned off the area. A negotiator arrived, but after an hour passed with mounting fear for the infant inside, SWAT decided to move in.

The command post pulled back as the SWAT team prepared to make entrance. I have total admiration for the men and women who become SWAT officers. I joined the police force right out of college. I studied criminology and forensics because I wanted to be a detective. Becoming a beat officer takes more training than civilians realize, and most of us learn how to be a good cop from our training officers. Detectives require even more training, but SWAT officers are the most skilled police of all. They aren’t all swagger and macho. They are brave and motivated to serve and protect.

With precision, SWAT fired smoke canisters through the living room window, and with one swift motion of the battering ram, they entered the residence. Within seconds, we heard the Code 4 broadcast indicating SWAT was now in control of the scene. EMT’s were allowed access and transported the mother and infant to the hospital. I rode with them while Chris followed in the squad car.

I hopped out of the ambulance in the bay and followed the gurney into the emergency department. The mother was barely conscious due to a head wound, but the doctors whisked the baby to the children’s ER as she was pale and lethargic, and while awake, she was far too quiet. As I waited for a report from the doctors and the arrival of a detective, I looked around for Ben, my husband, who was working a noon to midnight shift. I spotted him at a small alcove where doctors write orders.

“Ben.” He looked up, and as always, his green eyes made me weak in the knees.

“Hi, babe.” He leaned in for a kiss. “What brings you here?”

“Hostage situation—mom and baby injured. Just brought them in.”

“Tough.” He glanced at the intake screen.” Looks like Rob is on that patient, but I’ll keep an eye on her and let you know how she does.”

“Thanks, the baby, too. Just waiting for the detectives to get here.”

He smiled. “Day after tomorrow that will be you. Excited?”

“I am, but I will miss partnering with Chris.”

“I know you will, but I won’t miss you being in uniform.”

“Just need to get through today.”

Ben frowned. “Don’t say that. Don’t jinx it.”

“I won’t, I promise. I need to leave you to your paperwork and go wait for the detective.”

“When you leave, text me if I’m with a patient.”

I kissed him, muttered, “I will,” and joined Chris at the nurse’s station. While we waited, we began filling out the incident reports to get ahead of the paperwork. The detectives arrived, we filled them in, and they released us back to duty.

As we left the hospital, I texted Ben. Chris chuckled. “Your last day has been eventful. Hope things get a bit more routine from now on.”

“Routine? You mean more murder and mayhem in NOLA?”

He shook his head. “Too much of that already. Hungry?”

“Famished.”

“Let’s go to Chubby Boy’s. Best banana split in town.”

“Sounds perfect.”

We were two blocks from Chubby Boy’s when a late model blue sports car blew through a red light heading north on Melpomene, narrowly missing an oncoming vehicle. Chris flipped on the blues and sirens, and I called it in. He sped up as much as he safely could with all the cross streets so that I could get the license number. “Dispatch, Unit 217 requesting wants and warrants on Louisiana tag ….” As I rattled off the make and number, the vehicle clipped the rear of a panel truck just clearing the next intersection.

“Dispatch, Unit 217, Unit 27 Code 10-57, Melpomene and Prytania, hit and run, second vehicle struck utility pole. We are in pursuit. “

Dispatch radioed. “Unit 217, be advised vehicle registered to Martin Longines, 1230 Camp Street, reported stolen at 1007 hours by owner.”

We approached busy St. Charles Street, and I noted additional units heading toward us on MLK Blvd. The light turned red, and Chris muttered, “This isn’t good.” He backed off, hoping the vehicle we were pursuing would slow down. It didn’t.

The driver swerved to avoid one car traveling east on St. Charles but slammed into the front fender of a pickup truck, sending both spinning. The momentum rolled the sports car onto its passenger side, coming to rest across the intersection, precariously perched on the curb. Chris slid to a halt, blocking traffic, and we exited the cruiser to check on the driver.

When we reached the car, the driver was upright and trying to open the passenger door. Chris and I climbed onto the fenders and drew our weapons.

“Keep your hands up where I can see them.”

“Man, I ain’t got a weapon. Get me out of here.”

I nodded to Chris and pulled open the door. “Can you climb out?”

“Yeah, chick. I got legs.” The driver pulled himself up to sit on the door frame. Chris handcuffed him, and two officers lifted him onto the street. Before I jumped off the car, I glanced down Melpomene, where a sea of blue lights blocked three intersections. This dude left chaos in his wake.

We transported a prisoner to the station for the third time on this shift. This time, I felt the tiniest bit of nostalgia as I left. I knew I’d be back. While I would be working for the Central Investigative Division, I asked for assignment to District Six as I live in the area and cultivated numerous contacts during my time on patrol. I’ll report for duty to the same building, but I know the pulse of my day will change.

Chris started the cruiser. “I’m starving, and it’s three-forty-five—time for Chubby Boy’s and your banana split.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

We parked, and I radioed 10-7, out of service. The aroma of fried food hit us as we walked in, making my stomach growl. We sat in awkward silence at a small laminate table. We’d been partners since I finished my rookie rotation and were more than friends. We were family. I might even be closer to Chris than much of my blood family. A bond between partners is unbreakable when you trust each other has the other’s back.

I took a breath, and Chris did too, and we spoke simultaneously. We burst out laughing, but I fought back tears. “Chris, this is tough.”

“I know. But thankfully, you’ll still be working out of the sixth district—will just be my boss now.”

“I will never be your boss, not in that sense. I have to tell you, I’m a bit scared.”

“Feeling apprehensive before a major change in our lives is normal. You got this, Val. You’re going to be a great detective. Besides, you still have to keep the kids when Mimi and I go away for a weekend, and Ben is the crawfish king, so we expect those Louisiana crawfish boils often.”

“None of that will ever change, and we will keep Wills and Lyla whenever possible.”

“And Muggs.”

“That crazy dog? Yes, we’ll keep him too.”

Our food arrived, and as we were ravenous, we ate in silence for a moment. We always know we are on borrowed time when taking a break. Half my Philly steak sandwich was gone before I took a breath.

Chris grinned at me. “Keep eating. Not letting you eat in the cruiser since that milkshake incident.”

“You’re the one who went over that speed bump too fast.”

“Excuses. Better save some room for the banana split.” I nodded, my mouth full of beef and grilled onions. “Tell me, how did the banana split thing get started?”

I took a sip of tea and then answered. “When I was in kindergarten, we had a morning graduation ceremony, and when it was over, my parents took me and my brother for pizza, and we had banana splits. The following year, when first grade ended, they did the same. Dan was in second grade, so they took us out for pizza, and we asked for banana splits. From then on, it was a thing. One night, the night before Dan’s birthday, Dad suggested that since it was the last day Dan would be twelve, we should celebrate.”

Chris laughed. “Hence, the reason you served banana splits as dessert at your rehearsal dinner. Last day of being single.”

“Yes, it has become a New Year’s Eve tradition even when we are all not together, and well, any holiday, anniversary, birthday, or milestone—like changing jobs.”

“Shouldn’t you be having this banana split with Ben?”

“Maybe, but he’s working until midnight, so second best is you.”

“Thank you. Now, eat up so we can order splits.”

Two more bites and that plan changed—our radios activated.

“All units: 9-1-1 reports Code 222 Active shooter, Multiple victims down, Cresent City Studios 1542 Religious, cross street Market. Time out-16:27 hours.”

Chris and I stood and ran. This is why we always paid for our meals before we ate. As we pulled away from the curb, I radioed dispatch we were en route.

“Listen, you know the drill. We’ve trained for this. Keep focused on the shooter regardless of how many vics there are. Got extra ammo?” Chris’s voice was more serious than usual

“Yes.”

“When we get there, grab the rifles and flak jackets out of the trunk. We need to make sure our body cams are on.”

As we raced toward the scene, time slowed. I could hear the muffled thudding of my heart. My senses heightened as adrenaline pumped through me. I learned a long time ago to control the flight or fight sensation and use it to my advantage. As we turned west onto Religious Street, we could see another squad car heading east toward us. A crowd hovered around two women lying on the sidewalk across the street from the studio.

Chris stopped, and a man approached us as we exited the cruiser. Chris talked to him while I put on a full flak vest and grabbed the rifles. “He’s crazy. We’re filming a commercial, and he just came in and started shooting. Director fired him yesterday for ruining several takes. As we ran out, we realized he had shot people in the front office. Got two of the gals out that were hurt but alive.”

I handed Chris his rifle and vest and then asked the witness. “What kind of weapon does he have?”

“One of those automatic rifles.”

“Way in?”

“Front door, everything else is locked.” He pointed to a small, nondescript door.

“Where is he?”

“Studio C, back right corner.”

Officers from the second unit joined us, and as the first contact team, we made entry into the building. Chris’s words echoed as I stepped over a body. Focus.

We made our way along a corridor lined with doors—some marked dressing rooms. A sign demarking Studio C hung before double doors at the end of the hallway. As we neared, we heard a burst of bullets. Larry Jessup, one of the officers, opened the door. Chris took a quick look and motioned the perp was on the right. “He has an AR-15 on his back, holding another, has a handgun strapped on his hip.”

I looked in and spotted movement in a sound booth across the room. A head popped up for an instant, then another, and more civilians could be hiding inside.

The gunman yelled toward the sound booth. “You bastard, show yourself. I only wanted to kill you, but everyone started running. So, you all die.”

Chris yelled. “Police. Drop your weapon!”

The response was a spray of bullets toward us. We had little cover. We ducked behind large equipment cases and cameras and fired in his direction. The gunman hid behind the lift of a boom mic and fired again. A grunt of pain rang out.

I keyed my mic. “Jessup?”

“Ian’s hit. He’s okay.”

Over the radio, the supervisor advised SWAT was four minutes out. Chris glanced at me. I nodded. No time. We had to take this perp out now.

Chris tried again. “I said, drop the weapon. You aren’t getting out of here.”

“Then we all die.” He stepped from behind the boom and aimed his weapon. Chris, Jessup, and I fired our rifles. The perp dropped to the floor on his side.

Jessup and I kept our rifles pointed at the gunman as Chris kicked the AR-15 away and removed the other rifle and handgun. He handcuffed him before rolling him on his back and then checked for a pulse. He looked up and shook his head.

Strangely, a calmness settled over me. The only thought I had was to wonder which of us fired the fatal bullet. Ballistics would answer that question.

SWAT rushed into the room, and the commander radioed a Code Four for that location and took control of the scene. He then ordered his unit to fan out and check the remainder of the building. Chris directed them to the sound booth, where they freed six people, three of them wounded, who had taken refuge there. EMTs arrived to check out Ian’s wound, which appeared worse than we thought, and treat the civilians.

Chris pulled Ian and me aside. “The incident commander will be here in a minute to begin officer shooting protocol. This was justified, so don’t worry. Answer all their questions truthfully and do as told.”

I glanced at Jessup. He was soon to celebrate two years on the job and was ashen. Chris squeezed his shoulder. “You did great.”

“But Ian, I didn’t protect Ian.”

“Any of us could have gotten hit. Ian’s injury is not your fault. You did everything by the book.”

Captain Grainger, the incident commander, and Sergeant Peterson, our shift commander, approached us accompanied by three officers.

Grainger spoke first. “Officers Fairbanks, Marks, and Jessup, as required by department policy, please relinquish your service weapons and body cameras to these officers. You are hereby relieved of field duty and placed on administrative duty. Do we have your permission to conduct blood alcohol and drug tests?”

We answered yes.

“These officers are assigned to escort you to the hospital for drug and alcohol testing. Your peer officer will join you at the hospital. You will then be returned to main headquarters for initial interviews with Criminal Incident Investigation Team members. Your union representative will meet you at headquarters.”

They took our weapons, and once SWAT had cleared the building, the captain asked us to walk him through the incident from the time we arrived. When we finished, the officers assigned to us led us to separate waiting squad cars and drove us to Tulane Medical Center, thankfully not Touro Hospital, where Ben was. Although I would give anything to see him, I didn’t want him to worry about me and be distracted from his patients.

I was in an exam room after getting vitals taken. I had blood work and a urine sample taken and was awaiting discharge before going to headquarters for the incident debriefing. They had not taken our phones, and I held mine, itching to talk to Ben and trying to talk myself out of calling him. He had texted earlier while we were at the studio to tell me that the mom from the morning case had a concussion but that the baby also hit her head, but no concussion. I should let him know about this. As I started to dial, the phone rang. I nearly fell off the bed. It was Ben.

“Hi, honey.”

“Val, are you okay? We got victims here from the shooting. Marcus Lang, one of the cops who came with the vics, told me you were on the first contact team. We received LeMieux here. Baby, tell me you are okay.”

“I’m fine. A bit shaky after the fact and very tired, but I’ll be okay. How is Ian? The wound in his arm looked serious.”

“Stable, bullet broke his humerus bone. He’s in surgery, but the orthopedic surgeon expects a full recovery. What is happening with you? Undergoing the shooting review?”

“Yes, just getting the drug and alcohol test and got checked over. All is good. I’m waiting to be released. Then, we go to headquarters for debriefing. I have no idea when I will be home.”

“Do you want me to come get you?”

“No, the peer officer they assign me will probably bring me home. I might be there when you get off duty.”

“Baby, I am so relieved you are okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Ben.”

My peer officer, Daniela Benoit, was an old friend from academy days. I was relieved to see her and felt comfortable with her watching over me for the next few days. She rode with me to headquarters, where we met with the union representative before I had an in-person interview.

First, I had to provide a written report. My nerves remained raw, and reliving the afternoon events brought back the adrenaline rush. I focused on the task and answered in as much detail as I could remember. When I finished, we waited in a conference room where food was available. Daniela insisted I eat something despite my not being hungry. Surprisingly, a turkey and cheese on rye and a cup of coffee helped settle my nerves.

Forty minutes later, an officer escorted us to the fourth-floor conference room, where the CIRT members were waiting to interview me. My union rep joined me while Daniela remained in the hallway. The members sat at one end of a conference table with me at the other end, the union rep beside me.

The chairman introduced himself. “Good evening, Officer Marks. I am Detective Captain John Clairmont of CID, and am sorry to meet you under such circumstances. I believe your union representative has explained the nature of this hearing to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you have any questions, please ask the committee.”

“Captain, could I ask the total number of victims involved in the incident.”

“Of course.” He picked up a piece of paper. “The latest report is seven deceased, six injured, including Officer LeMieux. Two of the injured are in critical condition and undergoing surgery. Our last report on Officer LeMieux is that he is in surgery but classified as stable.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Now, Sergeant, please state your name, rank, and home address for the record.”

I complied and spent the next hour recounting the incident and answering questions. Despite attempts to remain strong, my voice shook when talking about Ian’s injury. I had put the bodies we had come across out of my head, but the victims’ images evoked strong emotions.

When it was over, I spoke with the union rep for a few minutes before Daniela and I returned to the lobby. As we walked to her car, I heard my name called. It was Chris.

He came over to us and hugged me. “I was waiting for you to come out. How was it?”

“It was fine. They seemed very fair. How about you?”

“Same. As I told Jessup, it’s a justified shooting. It will be fine. However, you know that your start with CID won’t happen until CIRT issues their report.”

“Yeah, the union rep told me that. It’s okay. I think I need a few days to decompress.”

“Okay, I told Mimi I’d be home after I saw you. What a last day. And we never got your banana split.”

“It’s okay. We made it through, and we got the bad guys. All that matters.” I hugged my partner, knowing he would always be the partner I treasured, working together or not. We’d fix that when he got to CID.

Daniela dropped me at the house after I promised to call her in the morning. She insisted on driving me to the first psychologist appointment starting tomorrow. I unlocked the door and stepped into the quiet house. It was eleven-twenty, and Ben wouldn’t be home until at least one a.m. or later because he’d have to finish charting. The house was too quiet. We needed a dog. No, we were not here enough to take care of a dog. A cat, we could get a cat—no, two cats that could keep each other company.

Exhaustion crept over me, and I stumbled to the bathroom, stripped out of my uniform, and took the hottest shower I could stand. After drying off, I grabbed Ben’s terry cloth robe, which was oversized on me and headed to the kitchen for something to drink. I had just reached the kitchen when the front door opened, and Ben walked in. I ran to him.

The strength of his arms around me took the day’s pressures away, and I clung to him, not wanting to let go. He whispered, the emotion in his voice palpable. “Val, I was so scared when I heard what happened. So glad you are okay.”

“It was frightening, but we did our jobs. What we had to do.” I brushed a kiss on his lips, then pulled back. “What are you doing home so early?”

“Well, a little birdie called me and reminded me of something.” He reached down, opened a cooler sitting on the floor, and pulled out an oblong styrofoam container. “So, I called Mario, who was coming on at midnight, and asked if he would come in early and cover for me, and he did. I hurried to Chubby Boy’s before it closed and got this.”

Ben grinned as he opened the container to reveal a banana split. Scoops of vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate ice cream lay nestled between banana halves, covered with whipped cream, drizzled with strawberry and chocolate sauce, sprinkled with nuts, and topped with two maraschino cherries.

He glanced at the wall clock. “It’s not midnight yet, so we keep the tradition intact.”

“Chris called you.”

“He did, and I am glad.”

Right then, I realized I was the luckiest woman in the world. I had Ben, who I loved more than I thought possible, and Chris, a man I respected and admired and considered family.

“There are two spoons. Help me eat this.”

We cuddled up on the couch, each taking a bite. Between the “mms” about how delicious the ice cream was, I decided to tell him my decision.

“I want to get a cat tomorrow—no, two cats.”

Before taking another bite, Ben looked at me quizzically and then laughed. “Okay, tomorrow we get two cats.”

As we each grabbed a maraschino cherry, I decided things turned out well despite a difficult day. I have my guy. I have my best friend, my traditional banana split, not to mention the cats, and in a few days, I will receive my detective’s badge. Overall, it’s not shabby work for a novice detective.

Case closed.