Tales From The Hood - Chapter 6 – 5th & Lemon
By Ron De Laby
Riverside, California, the largest city in the Inland Empire Metropolitan area of Southern California. A city with a unique history, named for its location beside the Santa Ana River, but that’s another story. The birthplace of the California citrus industry and home of the Mission Inn hotel, the largest Mission revival site in the United States
Founded in the early 1870’s by John W. North, a staunch temperance-minded abolitionist from Tennessee, he eventually saw to the removal of the four saloons in the city. He was, no doubt, a very unpopular figure among some of the city’s inhabitants at the time.
By 1882, there were more than half a million citrus trees in California, almost half of which were in Riverside. The development of refrigerated railroad cars and innovative irrigation systems established Riverside as the wealthiest city per capita by 1895.
The original downtown and north end of the city flourished with Victorian estates and beautiful homes.
The layout was orderly and sensible. East/West streets were numbered from First to Fourteenth and north/south streets were given the names of various citrus; Orange, Lemon, Lime, etc. Riverside drew its population from all over the United States and Europe until the city burgeoned with a multitude of contributions that enhanced its natural development to a degree never foreseen by its early founder.
Of course, not being content to remain the jewel of the southern state, over the next hundred years Riverside grew exponentially until it was beset with problems not known to the early pioneers, particularly since political correctness and liberal courts were completely unheard of at that time. Hanging being the popular means of controlling the environment, problems were few and limited in scope.
As the city struggled with its downward slide, likewise did many of the homes. They fell into minimal repair, and in many cases were subdivided into two and three story apartment buildings housing any number of questionable or marginally sane people.
No one knows if the warm southern California climate or the smog in the air, or a potential overdose of vitamin C, due to the millions of readily available oranges, contributed to the yearly influx of crazy people, but influx they did. Riverside’s finest spent a goodly amount of time managing, incarcerating, or simply eliminating the most outrageous of the lot. It was here in the beautiful old downtown section of the city that the blue defenders met Batty Ben Berkeley.
Batty Ben lived in an Tri-Plex near the corner of 5th and Lemon Streets in old downtown. The Tri-Plex was a former residence that was cleverly divided into three living areas by virtue of the invention of sheetrock and studs. Ben got the top bedroom and living area, and his two co-dwellers got the bottom two apartments.
The fact that he resided right across the alley from the unemployment office was either overlooked by Ben or he never grasped the actual significance of the structure. In any event Ben was known among the locals as the Deacon of dumpster divers. He was removed from total homelessness only by virtue of the small stipend he received monthly for rent and incidentals, courtesy of the forever liberal city council, a political body who’s only reason for living was to spend taxpayers’ money as quickly and inventively as humanly possible.
Ben wasn’t crazy in the sense that he was a danger to himself and others, at least as far as anyone knew. After all, his Tri-Plexmates were still in one piece, even though they dedicated a lot of time in avoiding him whenever possible.
The two co-tenants were actually students at the nearby University of California, Riverside campus, a college known for its agricultural research in support of the surrounding citrus industry. Both were exchange students from China, Mei-Hua Ling and Bai Cho. Mei-Hua was 19, fluent in English and lived in the bottom floor right side apartment. Bai was 20, fluent enough to get by, and learning more each day. She lived in the bottom floor left side apartment and both met each morning to make their way to the bus stop on the corner and then on to the short ride to campus. Both were worldly enough to know “strange” when they saw it and made the appropriate arrangements to avoid Ben as often as possible.
The first time they saw Ben was on the way to class. He managed to run in to them at the bottom of the stairs, stopped as though awestruck, leered at them and bowed nearly to the floor in an exaggerated flourish in what he believed to be good manners. Hurrying past, Mei-Hua giggled and whispered, “Ge yi shi ta shuiguo quan”. Which actually meant, “This one is a fruit loop”, although it more literally translated to, “This one is a circle of fruit.” Bai stared at her for a moment and scurried to catch up while trying to translate the actual idiom. English was indeed a strange language.
Of course Batty Ben acted strangely enough to make one cross the street to avoid him, but his looks gave him away first. He was around six feet tall and maybe weighed in at 160 pounds due to his restricted diet of dumpster delights. But it wasn’t the stature as much as the area residing above his shoulders. In addition to sporting a tangled, black mass of beard and unkempt mustache, inhabited by who knew what, he also maintained a shoulder length mop of mane that appeared to not have been combed since it began to grow. Aside from outward appearances his eyes told the story of his soul. They revealed a troubled and disoriented man; a tortured being forced to live through a hell of hallucinations which were the product of his damaged brain; a man pursued by demons; a man who had never seen better times. In short, he was just really batty.
No one knew how Ben came into possession of the item that set the city on its head that warm summer Friday evening. The item in question was a .30-30 Winchester, Model 1894 saddle ring carbine, a classic old west cowboy rifle. A beautiful collector’s item to normal people, but it was a frightful appendage in the hands of a walking whack attack.
Likewise, no one knows what set old Ben off either. Theories ran from a vitamin deficiency to a failure to collect the Reader’s Digest millions he had absolutely been promised, neither of which lasted long on the stage of credibility. More than likely a rejection by the sisters ornamental was the final straw. The jilted psycho idea was developed sometime later during the after action investigation. It was a plausible concept, and since there seemed to be no one offering a better viewpoint, it was adopted as gospel.
Following the thread of spurned amore, investigators interviewed friends, neighbors and lovers and developed that conclusion.
Mei-Hua, at 19, studying in a foreign land, and away from the probing eyes of parents and chaperones, quickly realized that America was truly a great country in the freedom and opportunity it offered horny young Chinese tarts. Her introduction to the wide, wide world of sex took less time than that needed to break open a fortune cookie. For Mei-Hua the campus was a veritable smorgasbord of sexually repressed young men who were more than happy to introduce their Firecracker Beef to her Rice Noodle Salad.
She had taken to wearing fewer and shorter garments as the weather warmed, until nearly all that was left was a wink and a smile. She had developed a particular wiggling gait that caused several male students to become introduced to the university infirmary due to neglectful and inattentive contact with various metal poles and overhanging objects.
Yes, life was more than good to Mei-Hua.
So therefore, at least three or four nights a week, sometimes, five or even six for that matter, enthusiastic and greatly creative sounds could be heard loudly emanating from Mei-Hua’s apartment. In fact, much of the building reverberated with such vocally high-pitched paroxysms that adjacent neighbors were forced to turn up the television volume so they could better learn about the latest Sham Wow offers.
Unbeknown to anyone was the fact that she was being lusted after on a daily basis by our own Batty Ben Berkeley. Try as he might to catch her eye in the hallway or on the street, she studiously avoided him. He rescued bouquets from the dumpsters of the best restaurants and left them at her doorway to no avail. He brought her late night snacks and was rejected. It got to a point where she refused to come to the door or even acknowledge his presence. One evening he tried to corner her at the front door and she screamed at him in Chinese, essentially telling him he smelled bad and looked worse and to leave her alone or she would summon the ghosts of Youxia to disembowel him. To make matters worse, Batty Ben would lay awake night after night listening to the Mei-Hua overture until the words were burned into his brain.
AHHH!!! Wo Jie Guangming!!! Cao Wo! JIADA!!! YUEKUAI!!! Which loosely translated seemed to say something to the effect of, “Ohh my great freaking Buddha of the consummating persons, wet. Intercourse me, harder. Faster. Or at least, words to that effect.
In any event the carryings on were simply not acceptable in Ben’s world and something had to be done, which is how R.P.D. came to be involved.
It seems that one fine afternoon following her last class, Mei-Hua, having contemplated the possibility of a three ingredient stir-fry, enlisted the aid of a couple of new young archers after checking to see that their quivers contained enough arrows. On the bus ride home she managed to make their respective arrows quiver enough by alternating tonsil tag with each of them, and exposing her melon morsels of the moon gods, so that neither one was able to get off the bus at her stop unassisted. Alternately pushing, tugging and half dragging both of them to her apartment she was anticipating an afternoon and evening of tongue swapping, sweat soaked, bed destroying debauchery.
Batty Ben had been watching from his second story window. He knew her schedule down to the minute and when she deviated from the schedule, as she sometimes did, he would pace his room, moaning in anguish and pound the walls with clenched fists. Today was a mixed bag. He watched her get off the bus followed by her latest pint-sized paramours. She seemed to prefer Ornamentals to regular people, a trait that he knew he would have to work on with her. But first things first, the cheating chinks had to go.
The first anyone knew of the impending trouble was when a neighbor, Mrs. Selma Feinberg, called in the alarm. Selma was watering her Petunias and happened to be looking in the direction of the apartment across the street when several things happened simultaneously. First, there was much shouting and complaining in what sounded like several different languages. This confusion was immediately followed by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Then, several people scurried from the front porch and scattered in different directions, waving their arms in the air and shouting gibberish. Shortly thereafter she saw Batty Ben appear on the front step and fire several shots into the air from a rifle. Now Selma wasn’t born yesterday, and if you asked her she would tell you, “Young man. I wasn’t born yesterday…” So she did what all good citizens are programmed to do, call 9-1-1.
The computer at the Riverside police dispatch console logged the call in at 1524 hours, or nearly 3:30pm. The call was answered almost immediately.
“Riverside police. What is your emergency?”
“Hello? Said Selma. “Can you hear me?
“Yes, ma’am. This is the police department. Do you have an emergency?”
“Well, I don’t know, young lady. I was watering my Petunias and, Ohh dear. I left the water running. I’ll be right back.”
Staring at the phone in disbelief, the dispatcher heard the sound of the receiver clunking on a table and the fading sounds of someone shuffling away complaining to herself about old age and forgetfulness. Now she was in a quandary. As it stood, she had three choices. One: She could hang up and wait for a recall, but if there really WAS a problem she could lose the caller. TWO: She could send a unit anyway, but she didn’t know what kind of a situation she might be sending them into. THREE: She could wait. She decided she had better wait and spent what seemed like the next half hour before the caller returned.
“Are you still there, honey?” Selma asked.
“Yes ma’am. What is the problem there?” The dispatcher was clearly pissed at being made to waste this much time.
“Well, honey. Some fool is running around shooting at people.”
The statement hit her like a cattle prod.
“Shooting? Where, where are you? What’s your address? Who’s shooting? What are they shooting with?”
The dispatcher was so flustered the words came out in a torrent.
“Slow down, Honey. Let me think. Now what was the question?”
The dispatcher was ready to slam her head on the console.
“What’s your address?” She annunciated very slowly.
“Well, why didn’t you say so? It’s 5125 Lemon Street in Riverside. That’s right down the street from….
The words drifted off as the dispatcher over rode the phone line and hit the alert tone for an emergency broadcast.
BEEP, BEEP, BEEP…2-ROBERT-15 and all units the vicinity. Shots fired 5th and Lemon. Stand by for further. 2-Robert-15 your call is code-3.”
2-Robert-15 was the radio designator for the supplemental downtown radio car. The 2 represented the day shift, or watch 2. The Robert for Radio Car and the 15 for the smaller beat area within the downtown perimeter of beat 10.
Robert 15 happened to be a two-man unit this week due to a trainee rotation. The trainee was a 6 week recruit fresh out of the academy by the name of Jamie Barton. He was 21 years old and looked 15. His partner or senior officer was a designated FTO, field training officer, by the name of Frank Solis. He was a 10 year veteran who spoke fluent Spanish. His assignment in the downtown area came about primarily due to the heavy influx of non-English speaking Hispanics who were moving in at a rapid pace.
Solis was textbook handsome with a large black, Pancho Villa, mustache and slightly graying temples. He was instructing his new charge on the fine art of drinking Tequila when the call came in. The recruit was momentarily stunned by the intensity of the dispatcher’s voice and when he tried to grab the mike from its cradle he lost his grip. The microphone squirted out of his hand, ricocheted off the windshield and onto the floor under Solis’ feet causing him to nearly drive into a parked car trying to retrieve it.
Finally gaining control of the microphone he mashed the red talk button and responded.
“Robert 15, copy enroute.” He tried to respond as calmly as possible. Senior training officers weren’t cool if they betrayed any emotion.
He slapped the Unitrol control lever on the radio console all the way over to the right, activating both lights and siren. Spinning the steering wheel all the way to the left he jammed the gas pedal and made a screeching u-turn toward 5th and Lemon.
In the meantime the dispatcher was attempting to pry information out of Selma and began feeding it to responding units piecemeal as she was able to acquire it.
“Units responding and 2-Robert-15. The suspect is a white male, 6 foot, with a black beard and shoulder length black hair, break…Continuing, the suspect is wearing a light colored button-down shirt and dark blue jean type pants. He has a white headband around his head, break…Continuing, the suspect is armed with an unknown type rifle. There are additional calls coming in at this time. Sam-35, copy?”
“Sam-35, 10-4, enroute from 14th and Market”, the north end field supervisor responded.
As Robert 15 arrived at the scene and skidded to the curb, Solis and Barton saw Selma calmly standing outside with her garden hose in her hand watering her Petunias. Solis ran to her and attempted to clarify what had happened.
“Ma’am, did you call about the shots being fired?”
“I did.” Replied Selma.
“Well, where is the person who was doing the shooting? Don’t you think you should be inside? It could be dangerous out here.”
“He went back inside the house.”
Selma offhandedly pointed her garden hose in the direction of the gray two-story directly across the street.
“Can you tell me what he looked like?” Solis was becoming frustrated with the dental excavation.
“I already told that girl who answered the phone. Ask her. I need to get my Petunias watered. Look at them. They’re wilting.”
By the time Solis could get back to his unit three other black and whites screeched to a stop on both sides of the street. Solis found his Sergeant and made directly for his unit.
“What’s up?” Sergeant Jim Tulley was the responding north end supervisor and was anxiously swiveling his head like a barn owl while asking the question.
“Hell, I don’t know, Sarge. That goofy old lady said the shooter went back inside that house.” He pointed toward Batty Ben’s apartment. “She won’t give up anything else.”
“Radio said we had additional calls on this. I’m going to have a couple of the guys check with other informants and let’s see what they come up with. In the meantime why don’t the two of you stay low and keep an eye on this place”.
“Got it, Sarge.” Solis whistled to his partner to get his attention and motioned him back to their unit to explain their next move.
From the second story window Batty Ben watched the policemen move around on the street below. He attached no particular significance to the event. In fact he never even connected his running off the two panicked paramours with the arrival of the cops. After all, He was protecting Mei-Hua and it seemed like the thing to do at the time.
Within a few minutes the story began to emerge and a tactical operation was falling into place. At least three other neighbors had confirmed the shooting incident and described the fleeing victims as well as Batty Ben. The only thing to do at this point was to contain the scene and try to get the suspect out of the residence and neutralize the danger.
It was time to call in the cavalry.
“Sam-35.” Tulley started the process rolling by coordinating with the radio personnel.
“Sam-35, Go ahead.” Replied the dispatcher.
“Sam-35, we’re going tactical on Channel 4. Advise the Watch Commander and Community Hospital. Notify Mercy to roll an ambulance into the vicinity and stand by. I’ll need three more units to set up a perimeter between 4th and Orange and the 5th and Lemon area. The command post will be at Raincross Square.”
“Sam-35, copy Raincross. Watch Commander has been advised and will be enroute your location”.
Unfortunately for Sam-35, Batty Ben had seen enough cops for the day and was tiring of the game. Leaning out the second story window he rested the rifle on the sill and wetting his thumb like he had seen done in a cowboy movie, he wiped it across the front sight of the carbine. He didn’t know whether this was a cowboy ritual or whether it had some other significance, but it seemed to be the thing to do at the time.
Taking careful aim he deftly placed a solitary round through the windshield of Sam-35’s unit. This, of course, unnerved the occupant and caused a somewhat undignified exit from the unit to a hidey place behind another nearby black and white.
“JEEESUS H. KEE RIST!” shouted Tulley. “Get DOWN”! He gestured wildly to the other uniforms who seemed to be frozen in time, staring up at the open window with collective mouths agape.
“SAM-35…11-99, 5TH AND LEMON. SHOTS FIRED!”
“ALL UNITS, OFFICER NEEDS HELP, 5TH AND LEMON. 5TH AND LEMON. SHOTS FIRED.”
“Sam-35, have the units block off all adjacent intersections we’re pulling out of the immediate area. Have other units meet me at Raincross.”
Raincross Square was a large city owned building used for conventions and various social gatherings. It’s proximity to the current shooting scene was to the police advantage. In addition, the large underground parking lot was ideal for staging as many pieces of equipment as may be needed.
Batty Ben’s apartment was covered from all angles in the event he decided to leave of his own accord. In the meantime the planning on just how to get him out could take place in relative security right across the street.
“Lincoln 15, 10-8 enroute to Raincross.” Lincoln 15 was Lieutenant D.J. Morris, a 28 year veteran officer, who by virtue of his rank would become the tactical commander.
“Lincoln 15, copy. 1605 hours.” Responded the dispatcher. Time stamping each transmission during the operation would be critical to establish a timeline and event sequence reconstruction after the fact.
“Charlie 5 and Charlie 7 enroute to Raincross.” Now the Patrol and Detective Captains were going to respond to the scene for moral support. Protocol dictated that the ranking officer at any event scene would take command, but they were more likely interested in the entertainment value of the operation than for any practical purpose.
“Adam 10, 10-8 and enroute to the Raincross.”
“Charlie 6 and 7, and Adam 10, 10-8, 10-4, 1610 Hours.” The dispatcher dutifully recorded each response advisal. Now the Chief of Police had decided he wanted to get in on the action as well. The ante kept going up.
Within the next 30 minutes every ranking officer up to and including the chief were assembled at the Raincross parking garage. All had made the obligatory pass by Sam 35’s unit and uttered thoughtful comments about the impressive hole in the windshield.
While the brass were meeting and conferring, the apartment was surrounded by every available uniform in the city. Tulley was reduced to trying to reason with Batty Ben through a megaphone as no phone link was available to his apartment. The negotiations were not going well as Ben answered each demand to give himself up with a shot out the window.
After about an hour of this exercise in futility one of the perimeter officers appeared with a disheveled woman in tow.
“Sarge.” He called out to Tulley. “Hey. This lady claims to be the guy’s wife. Maybe she can help.”
Tulley put the bullhorn down and took the woman aside thinking there might now be a way out of this nightmare. She was a thin, pale looking woman; maybe 35 yet looked much older. Her hair was uncombed and streaked with gray. Her dress was a cotton print and looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month or two.
“I’m Sergeant Tulley.” He introduced himself to the woman. “Is this person in the house your husband?”
“Yes he’s my husband and he, he, he needs to take his medication because he, he, he thinks people are trying to hurt him if he doesn’t take it and please don’t hurt him because it isn’t his fault, you know, he, he, he needs his medication and he, he, he can’t help himself…”
The woman had a wild-eyed look and talked non-stop as fast as she could get the words out, waving her arms in sync with each, “he, he, he…”. Tulley realized she was as batty as Batty Ben and silently tagged her as, Batty Betty.
Leaning around the corner once again with the bullhorn Tulley called out to Ben.
“BEN! It’s the police again (somehow that comment seemed unnecessary. Who ELSE would it be at this stage of the game?). Ben. Your wife is here and wants us to get your medication to you. Come on down and let’s take care of things for you.”
Ben’s thoughtful response was another volley of rounds fired as fast as he could lever them out.
Obviously Ben didn’t care much for his wife’s concern for his welfare and Tulley had her removed safely from the scene.
At about this time Sam-27, Rob Bradley, had arrived at the department to make preparations for the watch 4, 7pm to 3am, roll call. He was hailed into the Watch Commander’s office by the only ranking officer not at the scene, Lieutenant Donelson.
“Grab every tear gas canister and box of ammunition you can load into your unit and take them to 5th and Lemon”, he instructed. “We have a barricaded sniper and it’s getting nasty out there.
Having done the same thing recently himself, Bradley was well versed in what could go wrong. He and Donelson started grabbing as much as they could carry and began to load the sole remaining Sergeant’s unit.
“How long has this been going on?” Asked Bradley.
“Since about 1530.” Replied Donelson. “He’s taken out Tulley’s unit and has been throwing rounds at the on scene people. They’ve tossed a lot of gas, but he isn’t moving. Looks like they’re going to need more. Probably gonna be a long night.”
“Got it.” Replied Bradley. He started the unit and raced away to the scene not more than a half dozen blocks away.
In the meantime SWAT had taken a position on all sides of the building and had effectively supplemented the uniforms. A sniper and spotter had been placed on the roof of the Unemployment office and had an unrestricted view of the entire rear of Batty Ben’s apartment.
The sniper was Sammy Abbott, an 8 year veteran officer, but relatively new to the SWAT team. He had dreamed of this opportunity ever since he graduated from the academy. Being accepted to SWAT was a lifelong desire for him. It meant he would actually have the opportunity to kill a bad guy and he knew if he got the chance he wouldn’t hesitate. As he lay on the roof of the building, scanning the rear windows through his scoped rifle, he wondered if he could get away with carving a notch into the stock, kinda like they did in the old west. He’d have to think about that.
In order to shoot the bad guy he had to be given clearance. His spotter would relay the information to the ground commander and if they had a target, and IF the ground commander decided it was worth the chance they would give him the go ahead to shoot. However, out of an abundance of caution a “Go” word had to be employed that was so unique it couldn’t have been mistaken for anything else. Following a near disaster a couple of years ago when the ground commander uttered the comment, “Ohh shoot”, which was mistakenly interpreted as, “Ohh, SHOOT”, it was decided to build in a safety feature.
The “Go” word was decided to be, “Pink Elephant”
So Sammy lay proned out on the roof of the unemployment office, legs spread wide for balance and his SWAT baseball cap turned backward looking all cool. Eyes glued to his scope, he scanned back and forth, murmuring quietly, “C’mon, baby. Show yourself, just once. Let Sammy show you how it’s done in the big city.” His spotter rolled his eyes wondering if maybe a transfer to traffic might not be a better career choice.
While the entire command staff of RPD was arguing about the best means to remove Batty Ben from the building, Tulley had managed to get several officers to evacuate the surrounding buildings likely to come within Batty Ben’s line of fire.
By now the entire block was an armed camp with only a few units left to patrol the remainder of the city. All non essential calls were being held until the tactical operation was over.
While the senior commanders haggled over the best means to breach the building Ben decided he was tired of waiting and made the next move.
He broke out the upstairs rear bedroom window just like in the movies and fired a couple of random shots down the alleyway. This of course put everyone into a panic and caused Sammy to squeeze off an involuntary round.
“PINK ELEPHANT!” He shouted into his headset. “GIMME A PINK ELEPHANT!! DO I HAVE A PINK ELEPHANT?”
Several voices tried to respond at the same time causing a blurred buzz on the radio frequency. Finally someone broke through and denied the shot. “NEGATIVE. NEGATIVE ON THE PINK ELEPHANT AT THIS TIME. Let’s get some tear gas in there.”
Of course giving permission to a tightly wound bunch of tactical people to shoot ANYTHING was tantamount to their winning the lottery. Almost immediately the front windows of the apartment could be heard shattering as several tear gas rounds were fired into the interior of the apartment.
Not getting any immediate results the second volley followed shortly thereafter. Soon white smoke was billowing from the broken windows and a familiar red glow could be seen emanating from the interior. Since tear gas canisters produce impressive flame and heat it’s predictable that out of 6 dozen or so fired into the apartment at least one of them would be likely to come into contact with some flammable object, which is exactly what happened in this case.
Sam 27 quickly pulled to the curb near the unemployment office and grabbed a couple of uniforms to help distribute the supplies. He could see billows of smoke coming from the front of the residence. Riverside Fire was in attendance from the standpoint that they were happy to observe from several hundred yards off through heavy lenses. The point being that as long as there was someone inside shooting it would be better if he were shooting at the police rather than the firemen. They reasoned that since it was a policeman’s job to be shot at anyway, why complicate the issue? Never mind the fact that the salary differential between the two departments was nil, and it wasn’t like the cops were getting paid exorbitant amounts of combat pay to be blue targets.
Working his way around the corner to the alley behind the surrounded apartment Bradley approached one of the SWAT officers intently watching the rear door.
“Waddaya think? Is he gonna come out? He asked.
“If he is he’d better hurry up.” The officer was Paul Elliott, a six year veteran officer who had been with the SWAT unit for just over a year.
“The house isn’t going to take much more before it’s totally engulfed.” He said. “If he stays much longer he’s gonna be a crispy critter.”
“Save us considerable grief.” Noted Bradley.
Bradley and Elliott were partially concealed behind the corner of an adjacent house and were not more than a few yards from the back porch of Batty Ben’s apartment. Smoke was now billowing through the rear door and broken windows, and the rest of the house was totally involved. Just when it appeared that time had run out, out ran Batty Ben, rifle in hand, coughing, shouting and complaining to whoever would listen.
Everyone guarding the rear exit was so surprised at Ben’s sudden appearance they were unable to immediately react. Everyone except Sammy, of course, who began to shriek, “PINK ELEPHANT! I NEED A PINK ELEPHANT!! GIVE ME A PINK ELEPHANT!!!”
Bradley and Elliott looked briefly at each other and immediately made a mad dash for Batty Ben while he was still trying to clear the smoke from his ruined eyes. Elliott whacked the saddle carbine out of Ben’s hands with the butt of his mini-14 while Bradley tackled him to the ground. In less than 10 seconds it was over.
Before anyone could react Batty Ben was handcuffed and being dragged down the alley to a waiting unit while an ever present Press photographer let off a series of strobe flashes from his camera that effectively destroyed the night vision of everyone within range.
Ben was whisked away to Riverside General Hospital where he was placed on a 72 hour psychiatric evaluation hold. It seems Ben was no stranger to the staff at General, having been there on several previous occasions.
As always seems to be the case, all of the command staff returned to the station each congratulating himself on his individually inspired leadership that allowed this dangerous situation to be resolved in such short order.
Sam-35 got a new windshield but nothing else. Bradley and Elliot never even got honorable mention in their next evaluation and the only memento of the entire event was the 8 X 19 glossy, black and white photograph taken by the press photographer.
The city paid about $150,000.00 for the demolished apartment building and contents.
Mei-Hua Ling and Bai Cho were forced to temporarily relocate to the student living quarters on campus where unrealistically strict and watchful chaperones saw to it that Mei-Hua’s rice noodle salad remained unstirred during her short lived tenancy.
Shortly following the disappointing climax of the incident, Sammy requested transfer back to patrol where he felt he might have a better shot at a notch in a place where he didn’t have to ask for permission to take out some miscreant.
Riverside went back to normal, at least for the time being. However, those sworn to protect and serve knew it would be just a matter of time before some other Cecil B. DeMille production would come to visit and
Friday, March 5, 2010
Tales From The Hood - Shelly Lynn
Tales From The Hood - Chapter 5 – Shelly Lynn
By Ron De Laby
Summer evenings in Southern California are known for their warm pleasantness. While the days can be brutal, once the sun goes down, the nights can be delicious. Teased by the Santa Ana winds, summer evenings are something to look forward to as evidenced by the numerous barbecues and pool parties that abound throughout the many cities.
Of course, the further one lived from the beach, the hotter the day and evening. Riverside was an example of this premise and was known to have only two seasons, hot and not as hot. Uniquely situated one hour west of Palm Springs, one hour south of Los Angeles, one hour east of the ocean, and one hour north of San Diego, Riverside was not unlike a hub. Of course it wasn't all good. As the Los Angeles smog drifted east in its daily march toward the desert, it managed to linger long enough in Riverside to completely obscure the view of the San Bernardino Mountains, also one hour to the north. Depending on the time of year, the smog could be choking. Adding to the problems was the fact that since Riverside was halfway to Los Angeles from San Diego, or for that matter, Tijuana, drug trafficking was rampant. It seemed like no matter where you wanted to go, you’d wind up passing through River City.
Caught in the middle of this hub were the officers of the Riverside Police Department. 300 strong they patrolled a city of over 98 square miles and protected a population of nearly 325,000 souls. Home to five middle schools, five high schools and four colleges, it wasn’t all tranquility base. An average of 30 homicides a year and a violent crime rate of 6.9 per 1,000 people kept everyone hopping.
While the black population, for many long years a serious problem with the P.D., accounting for the largest number of officer fatalities, had dropped in recent years to around 7%, the Hispanic population also a thorn in their side had risen to an astounding 44%.
Pool and barbeque partiers weren’t the only people who enjoyed the warm summer evenings. Like rats leaving their lairs, thieves and assassins of all colors and stripes ventured forth to prey upon the unwary. Accompanying the thieves and assassins were the occasional mental cases, known in police parlance as 5150’s, after the Welfare and Institutions code section specially set aside for said nut jobs.
It was on just such a warm and pleasant evening that a resident psychopath decided that he was tired of living and figured the easiest way out of his tiresome life was suicide by cop. Having come up with and discarded a half a dozen scenarios on how to entice the local uniforms into shooting him, he settled on initiating his own contact by employing a Sears and Roebuck, tubular fed, .22 caliber semi-automatic rifle into shooting at the overhead passing police helicopter.
What he failed to take into consideration was that overhead passing police helicopters are somewhat difficult to hit from any position on the ground. Getting no response from his miniature anti-aircraft gun, he chose the next course of action, which was to call the police emergency line and inform them of what he had just accomplished.
Police dispatchers are notoriously ill-tempered when informed by a citizen that he just attempted to shoot one of their charges. Taking such pronouncements personally, they are inclined to sick the dogs of war on said citizen, which is exactly what happened in this particular case.
However, being ever alert to the fact that the local newspaper monitored all radio traffic in their ongoing effort to get reporters and huge amounts of camera equipment to the scene of some emergency and thereby foul up the police response as much as humanly possible, dispatchers were careful to assign potential tactical operations by phone to the nearest field supervisor and let him make the decisions.
Sergeant Robert Bradley, an 18 year veteran, and a 10-year supervisor, was making his way southbound along Magnolia Avenue and preparing to clear for Code 7, or dinner to the uninitiated, when the dispatcher decided that he needed to get in on the excitement just presented to her.
“1 Sam 27”, she broadcast his call sign.
"Sam 27, Mag and Arlington." He replied, giving his location.
“Sam 27, 10-21 radio.” She said in a sweet singsong voice, giving him the 10 code designation for using a telephone.
"Crap!" Muttered Bradley. There was a 50-50 chance that 10-21 radio was not good news, and since he was just preparing to clear for lunch, it was a guaranteed hundred percent chance of being bad news.
He had just reached the 18 year benchmark a couple of months ago and since he couldn’t retire until 20 years were in he was in a virtual no man’s land. On top of that, the system was rigged in such a way that even with 20 years you had to be at least 50 years old to qualify. Since he came on the department at 21 and 2 months, he would still have another 9 years to tread water before they would release him.
My stomach will give out way before that. He thought.
He eased his black and white into the two-way left turn lane and made his way into the parking lot of Billie’s Sandwich Shoppe at Magnolia and Nelson. The spelling of shop always made him chuckle; as though the extra “p” and “e” made for better sandwiches.
Exiting the sergeant’s unit he made his way into the back door of the sandwich shoppe and signaled one of the waitresses that he wanted to use a telephone in the office. She waved at him, smiled and nodded, returning to wiping the counter.
Using his hand-held radio he called in a telephone number of the sandwich shop.
"Sam 27."
The dispatcher's response was immediate, "Sam 27 go-ahead".
"Sam 27, 3-9515".
As part of their initial training dispatchers learned that it was not necessary to hear the entire prefix to know approximately where in the city the phone was located. The number three at the beginning of the phone number sequence identified that particular phone as being in the north end of town, close enough from where her bad guy had called to know that Bradley was going to be her tactical supervisor.
"Sarge, it's Florence", she said when the connection was made. "I just had a 5150 call and tell me that he was shooting at Air-1. The callback number came from the Shelly Lynn Apartments, number 10. Don’t know if it’s legit or not, but, well, you’re it".
"Perfect", said Bradley. "Just what I need. All right, have the watch four units ‘87 with me at the front lot of RCC, routine". He emphasized the “Routine”.
RCC, or Riverside City College, was adjacent to the Shelly Lynn apartments and would make a good staging area. It also looked to Bradley like he wasn't going to eat this evening. His rumbling stomach reminded him that it had been a long time since food had passed that way and it wasn’t going to stand idle for much longer without creating some serious discomfort.
"Also, notify the watch commander that we have a pending tactical, and have the watch three supervisor meet with us at RCC. Ohh, and notify community Hospital ER to stand by for pending potential victims. With my luck someone’s going to wind up there sooner or later"
"We'll work off of Channel 4, and I'll let you know when we're ready to move."
"Got it, Sarge. Will do." Replied the dispatcher.
Working this watch was a two-way street, Bradley mused. On one hand the action was almost always guaranteed and the tight camaraderie of the shift was something money couldn’t buy. On the other hand it was a great party shift. One of the nice things about working 7:00pm until 3:00am in the summertime was the after hour’s parties, or “Choir Practices”, a term made famous by Joseph Wambaugh, a prolific writer of L.A.P.D. fame.
After getting off at 3:00 in the morning there wasn’t much else to do and it was a guarantee that NO one was going to be able to go home and go to sleep. Therefore, a few cases of beer were usually enough to wind down the tightest wound trooper. Also it was a great training lesson for new dispatchers who seemed to be drawn to the soirees like moths to a flame.
Bradley smiled as he recalled one such night of drunken debauchery a few years ago and the initiation of the then new dispatcher with whom he had just spoken, Florence Franklin. Florence soon thereafter, and forevermore was to be known as “Fellatio Flo”, or “EFF squared”.
It seems that Florence became enamored with the idea of working within the law enforcement circle while taking some police science courses at RCC. In short order she wound up being hired as a dispatcher, or fresh meat, as they were known to the inner circles.
She was a chunky little redhead with enough freckles to play connect the dots. Her main saving grace was her two biggest assets; breasts large enough that she had a perpetual lean to aft in order to keep from falling on her face. The fact that she was just tall enough to rest them comfortably on the dispatch console invited a constant stream of uniforms to volunteer to spend a tour of duty as complaint officers.
Of course it didn’t take long to get invited to a late night party at the river bottom, a particularly secluded and safe place to practice the fine art of train pulling. After a few boilermakers, made all the more potent each time by the resident bartender, Andy Johnson, Florence was feeling no pain, but was soon feeling the feeling she was getting from the attentive crew of blue suits, some of whom were down to T-shirts and shorts.
When Flo disappeared into the bushes with one of the young lions the line began to form on the left. The sounds of moaning, groaning and thrashing were too much for the semi-inebriated lot impatiently waiting and the line fell apart with every man for himself. Soon Florence was on her hands and knees and the valiant defenders of the public trust were doing their best to hermetically seal her from both ends.
Florence suddenly discovered her natural born talent. Having been a breast fed baby long beyond that time normally set aside for weaning, she reverted back to her childhood and fell naturally into the art of suckling. By the end of the evening she had hoovered the entire pack and everyone was lazily lying about with dreamy looks on their semi-awake faces. Florence burped contentedly from time to time and decided she had found a home.
Bradley could hear the call go out over his hand-held radio as he left the sandwich shop and walked across the asphalt parking lot to his unit.
"All watch four units 10-87, with Sam 27 at the front lot of RCC, routine."
Such a call, if monitored by the press weenies, could mean anything from a training session to a gab fest. Bradley was known to frequently conduct such large scale training exercises so it wasn’t all that unusual. It was a stalling tactic at best because if it hit the fan, everyone this side of Disneyland would know about it.
One by one the units acknowledged the assignment and began moving towards the meeting point from their respective beats. Within a few minutes, Bradley had acquired all five of his watch four units. Assembling them around the trunk lid of his unit he gave them the story.
"Radio just advised me that they received a call from a 5150 who claimed to have been shooting at Baker One. They traced him back to apartment 10 of the Shelly Lynn apartments." He said, as he gestured towards the apartments. “We need to find out what’s going on, but I don’t want to just send one guy in there to ask.”
"Let's set it up this way. Since it’s a ground floor unit it’ll make our job a little easier. Andy and Tim cover the rear windows. Bob and Manny take the front door with me. Mark, stay loose on the outside and be ready to go in either direction. We'll knock on the front door and attempt to make contact and see what the story is. Obviously we ratchet the situation up if the resident does anything squirrelly. We need to get inside as quickly as possible in case he really DOES have a weapon and neutralize him and the situation ASAP."
Everyone nodded in agreement and started moving into their designated positions.
Andy Johnson and Tim Willett had six and eight year’s experience, respectively, and had usually worked as radio car partners. Mark Dickerson was a ten year vet, and Bob Reeder and Manny Salbato had 8 and 9 years. No one on the watch four team had less than five years on the street. Since watch four was a cover shift between watch three and watch one, the swing and graveyard shift, it had become an unwritten rule that to even qualify to work the shift required a minimum of five years. Because of the hours, and days off, 7 p.m. to 3 a.m., with Sunday and Monday off, the watch four folks could expect to be in the thick of anything that occurred in the city and was known as the combat shift.
Unfortunately due to vacations and special assignments everyone was working single man cars tonight and that spread them out far too thin for Bradley’s comfort level. He would typically field 8 two man cars and felt they were too light even at that ratio.
Johnson and Willett had moved into position under the downstairs bedroom, sliding glass window. Bradley moved his black and white closer to the building and had no sooner stepped out onto the street when Johnson and Willet began to gesture frantically and call out to him, “Get down, GET DOWN!”
Not immediately understanding what they were trying to say, Bradley took another step in their direction and saw the sparks fly off the cement sidewalk at about the same time he heard the splanging whine of a ricocheting round. He was momentarily fascinated by the bright orange-yellow sparkle of the ricochet and stared in wonderment at why the sidewalk should suddenly change color in such a fashion.
“He’s shooting!” they called out to him. “Get back, He’s shooting”
Instantly returning to the situation at hand he sank quickly out of sight and duck-walked around the rear of his unit using the car for cover. Opening the trunk he began to drag out some return firepower. Sergeant’s units carried tear gas masks, baseball grenades and a couple of shotguns outfitted to fire the grenades. Grabbing one he slid it into the elongated cup attached to the muzzle of the shotgun making certain the “spoon” was inside the cup. He pulled the cotter pin thereby allowing the spoon to spring free and the firing pin to engage the primer as soon as the grenade cleared the cup.
He zig zagged quickly in a crouched run to a palm tree adjacent to the window. He could see the glass slider was open but the screen was still in place. The suspect had fired through the screen from a position in the darkened bedroom. He took aim at the window and fired the grenade. In theory the grenade would blast into the bedroom, ignite and fill the room with choking tear gas and smoke. Enough to drive anyone out into the waiting arms of the uniforms posted near the front door.
Of course everything works in theory and seldom in reality. By now Mark Dickerson had joined Johnson and Willet. All three were pasted solidly against a low brick wall below the window and were reasonably out of the line of fire from within, but were not able to move without exposing themselves. When the baseball grenade struck the window screen it bounced off and landed right in the middle of the three uniforms and began to merrily spin and spew a cloud of gas that completely enveloped everyone.
As is typical of budget conscious police departments, the tactical equipment had not been replaced since the war of 1812 and was so old and weak it was a miracle the grenade even cleared the cup in which it resided. While the chief, deputy chief and all division captains were rewarded with brand new, top of the line, take home cars every year, the line doggies had to make do with what was issued. Since there was a limited amount of tear gas grenades available, no one was able to practice with them to tell whether they worked or not. It wasn’t until the moment of truth did they learn the truth and by then it was truthfully, too late.
Gasping, choking and swearing the three officers scrambled back out of the widening cloud of gas in a dash to safety and clean air. Bradley stared in stunned amazement and realized that they were now going to have to try another approach.
As the gas dissipated a little the three officers took up positions with cover, but still in close proximity to the window. Johnson crept up quietly and in one movement rammed his hand through the screen and ripped it off the window leaving a good sized opening to feed in more gas.
Bradley tossed a baseball grenade to Dickerson who was posted behind the palm tree near the curb. He, in turn lobbed it to Willet, who was concealed behind a large bush, and who then tossed it to Johnson. Johnson pulled the pin and slammed it into the open window like a Lakers’ forward. Two seconds later he caught a second and shortly thereafter a third. Each of the baseball grenades having being handed off to him as though it were an egg toss contest. All three were slam dunked into the open window with no response from within.
By now the billowing white noxious cloud of tear gas was pouring out of the building as though the entire structure was on fire. Bradley had considered the possibility of overkill on the gas and then decided, “Screw it. The guy’s got a gun and he’s using it.”
It was now time to up the ante on this caper. Grabbing his hand held radio from his gun belt he mashed the talk key and very deliberately put out the call that would cause the sky to open and policemen to rain down in large numbers.
“SAM-27 SHOTS FIRED, OFFICER NEEDS HELP”
The call was immediately relayed by the dispatcher on all frequencies.
“All units, 11-99. 11-99. Shots fired at Shelly Lynn Apartments Magnolia and Terracina. 3 Robert 21 and Sam 32 copy?”
Units were talking over each other trying to respond and sirens could be heard approaching from all over the city.
“Sam-27, Sam-32, channel 4”
“Sam-32 on 4. Whatcha got?”
“Bill, we have a barricaded sniper in apartment 10, ground floor, facing Terracina. Set up a perimeter at the intersection on Magnolia and divert traffic away from the area.”
“Copy that, Bob. Do you need any more help at the scene?”
“Affirmative. Get me 3 or 4 more people up here. We’re going to have to evac the building.”
“Copy that. I’ll be there in about 2.”
Bradley glanced at his watch and realized in horror that it was now 15 minutes to 10 o’clock. RCC’s classes ended at 10:00pm and the parking lot, not 200 feet away, would soon be teeming with several hundred students, right in the line of fire.
Keying the mike switch again he began organizing the immediate scene.
“Sam-27. Have Mercy respond and take a position near the area. Also have RFD respond as well.”
“Sam-27, copy Mercy and RFD enroute.”
Mercy ambulance would definitely be needed if this moron got off a lucky shot, or if we have to take him out feet first. Thought Bradley. He didn’t even want to consider the possibility that one of his own people might need them.
Riverside Fire Department might be needed if the tear gas started a fire. He remembered all too well the fiasco at 5th and Lemon a few months prior, but then, that’s another story.
Three detectives from Vice and Narcotics scrambled up to Bradley and offered to help.
“We can start knocking on doors, Sarge, and help get some of these people evacuated from the building.’
Bradley decided he was going to need all the help he could get until the perimeter was secure. Looking up he could see the tear gas smoke billowing from the apartment. How long could anyone stay in there under those conditions? The gas was permeating everything and Bradley’s eyes burned even at some distance from the window.
“Okay, but take these.” he said, as he handed each of the detectives a gas mask. They each grabbed a mask and scrambled off to start trying to evacuate innocent tenants in case the place turned into the OK Corral.
Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. Even the best intentions can go sideways on such days as he soon learned. The detectives fanned out and put on the masks. They began knocking on doors to get the tenants out of the apartments, but soon realized what the tenants saw when they opened the door to frantic knocking wasn’t the image they intended to project.
The first tenant, Miriam Gilderstein, was an 87 year old widow. She had been sound asleep and was confused and disoriented when awakened by banging and muffled shouting. When she opened the door she saw a large bug eyed Martian with an olive drab face and wild kinky hair sticking out in all directions. This particular alien was obviously trying to pass himself off as a human since he was wearing faded Levis and an orange Hawaiian shirt, but he wasn’t fooling her. She screamed and slammed the door on him. He continued to pound away and she backed into the kitchen and armed herself with a broom.
Since Vice and Narcotics detectives have little luck in mingling with the doper crowd by wearing Brooks Brothers suits, they typically dress and groom like those they try to arrest. In other words the more they look like scumbags the better luck they have. What escaped everyone’s thought process was that putting the green rubber, WWII gas masks on over shoulder length hair and full beards did not command instant trust and believability from the elderly residents of the complex. In other words the evacuation was a complete failure.
In the meantime a large crowd of RCC students was forming in the parking lot a few hundred feet away. Attracted by the pretty flashing lights and all the sirens everyone thought this was infinitely more interesting than what they had just endured in class for the past three hours.
With the evacuation now a fiasco, Bradley needed some uniforms to repair the credibility and convince the tenants of a need for speed. He also had the entire RCC faculty and student body to contend with and the cavalry hadn’t yet arrived in sufficient numbers to be of any real value.
Two figures in civilian clothes were approaching from the street side and Bradley recognized them as the Detective and Patrol Captains, Croft and Mendez, respectively. As they approached and greeted him it was obvious they had been attending their own group meeting with shooters, Tequila shooters.
“Sergeant Bradley, wass goin’ on”? Slurred Mendez, the Tequila vapors wafting from him and across the parking lot to eventually merge with the CN gas and form pretty little miniature cumulonimbus clouds.
“Barricaded sniper, Captain. As ranking officer on scene will you be assuming command of this operation?”
“No, my boy. You’re doing just fine. Carry on.”
Both men continued their stroll back to their car, congratulating themselves on their ability to inspire the troops by their command presence.
Fat chance THAT had of working, thought Bradley.
Units continued to scream into the perimeter and were being directed by two watch 3 supervisors to various locations. There still weren’t enough bodies to contain the RCC onlookers, but there wasn’t time to deal with it. If the shooter decided to start taking potshots at the crowd the whole scenario could collapse into a major disaster just made for the Riverside Press headlines in the morning edition.
FORMER POLICE SERGEANT CAUSES THE DEATHS OF COUNTLESS INNOCENT STUDENTS!! FILM AT ELEVEN!!! Screamed the headlines in Bradley’s head.
Nope. Something had to be done, and NOW.
Getting the attention of his own troops, Bradley raised his right hand and pointed his index finger into the air in a circling motion signaling them to fall in on him.
“We can’t wait any longer.” Bradley explained to his men. Everyone grab a gas mask and let’s go in. Andy, kick the door and everyone file in one behind the other and hug the least obstructed wall. We’ll have to clear the place one room at a time. We can’t risk his using the people out there as his personal shooting gallery.”
Everyone nodded in agreement and began to file past the open trunk for the masks.
Once assembled in front of the apartment, Bradley gave the signal and Johnson rushed the door from about five feet. Catching the door just under the doorknob perfectly flat footed, the door splintered and gave way, embedding the door knob into the wall. The team filed forward on the double with each one holding the shoulder of the man in front of him. Once inside the visibility was absolute zero. Bradley entered last and upon taking his first breath began to choke and gag. He realized his gas mask; likely rejected by the South Kafiristan army, was holier than his ex-wife’s colander. His eyes bulged and he turned and ran from the apartment. Reaching the trunk of his unit he quickly strapped another mask to his head and returned to the apartment, now more deadly than the San Quentin gas chamber. Four steps and two breaths inside and he immediately reversed course.
As he staggered from the apartment the tear gas training class at the Riverside Sheriff’s academy last year flashed through his mind.
“Gentlemen”, the instructor began as he paced in front of the 40 students. “What we are going to experience today is unlike anything you’ve ever seen or felt before in your life.”
The students were from various agencies as far away as Palm Springs and Indio. They were all dressed in jeans and T-shirts and were told they would be experiencing the two main gasses used in law enforcement field situations.
“As you know, you are required to experience, first hand, the effects of these gasses before you are allowed to use them on the citizens of your respective communities. There are two basic chemical munitions commonly in use in our business, CN gas, or 2-chloroacetophenone, commonly found in your Mace canisters and the munitions you use in standoffs.
The main uses for 2-chloroacetophenone, are in tear gas and in chemical Mace. It is a potent eye, throat, and skin irritant. Acute (short-term) inhalation exposure of humans causes burning of the eyes with lacrimation, some degree of blurred vision, possible corneal damage, irritation and burning of the nose, throat, and skin, and burning in the chest with dyspnea. Acute dermal exposure is irritating and can result in first, second, and third degree chemical burns in humans. This exposure must be mitigated with clear water to prevent injury to your detainee.
Eyes glazed and heads were in danger of bouncing off the wooden desk tops.
The other is CS gas, or 2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile. There is a reason it’s called C.S., as you will soon learn. We will ignite a canister of C.S. gas out there on the firing range and you will run, at a slow trot, through the gas cloud for one pass. I strongly recommend you hold on to the person in front of you as the gas can be very disabling.”
No one believed him. Plans were made to get through the gas by holding one’s breath or closing one’s eyes. After all, how bad could it be?
40 men lined up in single file and the canister was ignited. Once the gas began to billow the instructor blew his whistle and the line began to trot forward. Within seconds the line broke and people were running blindly in all directions, falling down, choking, and gasping and searching for the water hose at the end of the run. No one made it through unscathed and 40 believers were baptized that fateful day.
Ahh, yes. He remembered it well.
By this time, his quavering, empty stomach decided to make good it’s promise to get even for the uncalled for starvation it had recently experienced. Leaning over the trunk of his unit Bradley retched up a half cup of bile onto the parking lot. After the third contribution the RCC crowd caught on and a loud cheer went up to celebrate his offering to the gods of disaster.
Bradley weakly regained his composure and started to return to the apartment when he saw his officers returning with someone. Their charge was an elderly black male subject who was handcuffed and loudly complaining about the treatment he was receiving.
“He was in the back bedroom on the left, Sarge.” Explained Willet. “The door was closed and the gas didn’t get into the bedroom until we forced the door and took him down. We didn’t find a gun and it’s too smoky in there now to see anything so we don’t know if anyone else is in there or not.”
By now the gas had begun to permeate the other apartments and people were rushing out onto the sidewalk only to be escorted away by uniformed officers. Two additional ambulances were needed to treat those affected. A by product was the shifting wind, which blew some of the gas cloud in the direction of the loudly cheering student body gathered in the parking lot. At first contact they scattered and ran in the opposite direction, dropping books, backpacks and paper. It was the highlight of the evening.
“Not so funny now, is it?” Chuckled Bradley, his stomach unable to decide whether or not a fourth round of vomiting was in order.
“Andy, get me a fire captain willya? We need some fans to clear this building as fast as we can.”
Bradley pointed toward the big red truck with the flashing lights occupying the corner of the parking lot.
“Got it, Sarge.’ He took off in a trot toward the gathered firemen.
A few minutes later he returned with a middle aged fireman with fire captain’s rank on the collar of his white short sleeved, uniform shirt.
“Jim Davis” he stated. “Battalion One.”
“Bradley. Good to meecha. Do you guys have some big fans to help suck out some of this stuff so we can clear the building?”
“Sure. We can set that up for you right away as long as the building’s secure.”
“We have one in custody” said Bradley. “I don’t know if there’s anyone else but I’ll have a couple of my guys provide cover for you while you set the fans up.”
Typical, he thought. We do all the dangerous stuff and EVERYONE loves Mr. Fireman. Go figure.
Under the watchful guard of the P.D. officers, the firemen strategically placed several large exhaust fans in the front door and windows of the apartments and began clearing the gas from the unit.
The process was fairly well completed by the time a half-hour had elapsed and plans were being made to reenter the unit.
Bradley huddled together with his men forming a circle under the overhead mercury vapor street lamp.
“OK, same plan. Single file, clear each room as we go and watch for the closets, beds or anywhere this idiot might pop out from. Questions? Concerns? Now’s the hour.”
Everyone glanced at each other and shrugged. It was as good an idea as any. They had to go in sooner or later so it might as well be now.
As before, Johnson took the point and they moved forward checking behind furniture and systematically clearing each room as they went. They were as quiet as possible, communicating only by hand signals as they secured each room.
Finally they stood by the closed door of the second bedroom. Since it was the one from which they originally took fire it was going to be a hot entry.
Johnson slowly turned the doorknob and gently pushed the door open an inch or so. Then with a sudden shove he slammed the door against the wall and entered to the left, gun pointed in a sweeping arc around the room. Dickerson was immediately behind him and went right utilizing the same moves.
It wasn’t until they reached the small single bed against the back wall did they see a figure crumpled on the floor between the bed and the wall.
Raising his hand in a clenched fist, Johnson signaled everyone entering the room behind him to instantly freeze.
Dickerson and Johnson each approached the subject and began to shout commands.
“Let me see your hands! Show me your hands or I’ll kill you where you lay!”
Nothing.
Johnson saw the muzzle of the weapon under the subject’s body and signaled to Dickerson what he had. They both jumped the prone suspect and Dickerson grabbed the rifle and wrestled it out from under the body while Johnson twisted the subject’s arms behind his back and cuffed him. There was no resistance.
As the lights came on Johnson was the first to notice the blood. He carefully rolled the suspect over on his back and relaxed his grip with a slump of his shoulders.
There was dried blood in a trail down the suspect’s mouth and a quarter sized portion of the top of his skull was clearly missing. He had placed the rifle in his mouth at some point during the standoff and pulled the trigger. The round exited the top of his head, killing him instantly. Splatter marks on the ceiling confirmed what they were seeing on the body.
Bradley moved in and squatted down on his haunches next to the dead sniper who had caused all the ruckus.
“Dumb ass son-of-a-bitch. Why didn’t you save me all this grief and shoot yourself first?”
He raised the hand held radio to his mouth and keyed the mike.
“Sam 27, Code 4. Notify the coroner’s office. Suspect is DOA.”
The dispatcher’s voice echoed off the walls as the announcement droned in the distance.
“KQR-573 to all units on all frequencies. Tactical alert is stand down. Repeat, Code 4. Unassigned units return to beat. 3 Robert 23 stand by for assignment. See the woman…”
The voice drifted off into obscurity as Bradley turned to his men standing over the body of the dead sniper.
“Good work, everybody. You guys were perfect. Let’s pack it up and get back to the station and get these reports written. If we can wrap this up in time I’ll buy and we need to have a debriefing session at the usual location.”
“Hey, Sarge.” Willet called out. “Can we invite Flo?”
“Sure, Tim. You bet. We need to invite Flo.” Bradley replied. ‘After all, she’s part of the team isn’t she?”.
By Ron De Laby
Summer evenings in Southern California are known for their warm pleasantness. While the days can be brutal, once the sun goes down, the nights can be delicious. Teased by the Santa Ana winds, summer evenings are something to look forward to as evidenced by the numerous barbecues and pool parties that abound throughout the many cities.
Of course, the further one lived from the beach, the hotter the day and evening. Riverside was an example of this premise and was known to have only two seasons, hot and not as hot. Uniquely situated one hour west of Palm Springs, one hour south of Los Angeles, one hour east of the ocean, and one hour north of San Diego, Riverside was not unlike a hub. Of course it wasn't all good. As the Los Angeles smog drifted east in its daily march toward the desert, it managed to linger long enough in Riverside to completely obscure the view of the San Bernardino Mountains, also one hour to the north. Depending on the time of year, the smog could be choking. Adding to the problems was the fact that since Riverside was halfway to Los Angeles from San Diego, or for that matter, Tijuana, drug trafficking was rampant. It seemed like no matter where you wanted to go, you’d wind up passing through River City.
Caught in the middle of this hub were the officers of the Riverside Police Department. 300 strong they patrolled a city of over 98 square miles and protected a population of nearly 325,000 souls. Home to five middle schools, five high schools and four colleges, it wasn’t all tranquility base. An average of 30 homicides a year and a violent crime rate of 6.9 per 1,000 people kept everyone hopping.
While the black population, for many long years a serious problem with the P.D., accounting for the largest number of officer fatalities, had dropped in recent years to around 7%, the Hispanic population also a thorn in their side had risen to an astounding 44%.
Pool and barbeque partiers weren’t the only people who enjoyed the warm summer evenings. Like rats leaving their lairs, thieves and assassins of all colors and stripes ventured forth to prey upon the unwary. Accompanying the thieves and assassins were the occasional mental cases, known in police parlance as 5150’s, after the Welfare and Institutions code section specially set aside for said nut jobs.
It was on just such a warm and pleasant evening that a resident psychopath decided that he was tired of living and figured the easiest way out of his tiresome life was suicide by cop. Having come up with and discarded a half a dozen scenarios on how to entice the local uniforms into shooting him, he settled on initiating his own contact by employing a Sears and Roebuck, tubular fed, .22 caliber semi-automatic rifle into shooting at the overhead passing police helicopter.
What he failed to take into consideration was that overhead passing police helicopters are somewhat difficult to hit from any position on the ground. Getting no response from his miniature anti-aircraft gun, he chose the next course of action, which was to call the police emergency line and inform them of what he had just accomplished.
Police dispatchers are notoriously ill-tempered when informed by a citizen that he just attempted to shoot one of their charges. Taking such pronouncements personally, they are inclined to sick the dogs of war on said citizen, which is exactly what happened in this particular case.
However, being ever alert to the fact that the local newspaper monitored all radio traffic in their ongoing effort to get reporters and huge amounts of camera equipment to the scene of some emergency and thereby foul up the police response as much as humanly possible, dispatchers were careful to assign potential tactical operations by phone to the nearest field supervisor and let him make the decisions.
Sergeant Robert Bradley, an 18 year veteran, and a 10-year supervisor, was making his way southbound along Magnolia Avenue and preparing to clear for Code 7, or dinner to the uninitiated, when the dispatcher decided that he needed to get in on the excitement just presented to her.
“1 Sam 27”, she broadcast his call sign.
"Sam 27, Mag and Arlington." He replied, giving his location.
“Sam 27, 10-21 radio.” She said in a sweet singsong voice, giving him the 10 code designation for using a telephone.
"Crap!" Muttered Bradley. There was a 50-50 chance that 10-21 radio was not good news, and since he was just preparing to clear for lunch, it was a guaranteed hundred percent chance of being bad news.
He had just reached the 18 year benchmark a couple of months ago and since he couldn’t retire until 20 years were in he was in a virtual no man’s land. On top of that, the system was rigged in such a way that even with 20 years you had to be at least 50 years old to qualify. Since he came on the department at 21 and 2 months, he would still have another 9 years to tread water before they would release him.
My stomach will give out way before that. He thought.
He eased his black and white into the two-way left turn lane and made his way into the parking lot of Billie’s Sandwich Shoppe at Magnolia and Nelson. The spelling of shop always made him chuckle; as though the extra “p” and “e” made for better sandwiches.
Exiting the sergeant’s unit he made his way into the back door of the sandwich shoppe and signaled one of the waitresses that he wanted to use a telephone in the office. She waved at him, smiled and nodded, returning to wiping the counter.
Using his hand-held radio he called in a telephone number of the sandwich shop.
"Sam 27."
The dispatcher's response was immediate, "Sam 27 go-ahead".
"Sam 27, 3-9515".
As part of their initial training dispatchers learned that it was not necessary to hear the entire prefix to know approximately where in the city the phone was located. The number three at the beginning of the phone number sequence identified that particular phone as being in the north end of town, close enough from where her bad guy had called to know that Bradley was going to be her tactical supervisor.
"Sarge, it's Florence", she said when the connection was made. "I just had a 5150 call and tell me that he was shooting at Air-1. The callback number came from the Shelly Lynn Apartments, number 10. Don’t know if it’s legit or not, but, well, you’re it".
"Perfect", said Bradley. "Just what I need. All right, have the watch four units ‘87 with me at the front lot of RCC, routine". He emphasized the “Routine”.
RCC, or Riverside City College, was adjacent to the Shelly Lynn apartments and would make a good staging area. It also looked to Bradley like he wasn't going to eat this evening. His rumbling stomach reminded him that it had been a long time since food had passed that way and it wasn’t going to stand idle for much longer without creating some serious discomfort.
"Also, notify the watch commander that we have a pending tactical, and have the watch three supervisor meet with us at RCC. Ohh, and notify community Hospital ER to stand by for pending potential victims. With my luck someone’s going to wind up there sooner or later"
"We'll work off of Channel 4, and I'll let you know when we're ready to move."
"Got it, Sarge. Will do." Replied the dispatcher.
Working this watch was a two-way street, Bradley mused. On one hand the action was almost always guaranteed and the tight camaraderie of the shift was something money couldn’t buy. On the other hand it was a great party shift. One of the nice things about working 7:00pm until 3:00am in the summertime was the after hour’s parties, or “Choir Practices”, a term made famous by Joseph Wambaugh, a prolific writer of L.A.P.D. fame.
After getting off at 3:00 in the morning there wasn’t much else to do and it was a guarantee that NO one was going to be able to go home and go to sleep. Therefore, a few cases of beer were usually enough to wind down the tightest wound trooper. Also it was a great training lesson for new dispatchers who seemed to be drawn to the soirees like moths to a flame.
Bradley smiled as he recalled one such night of drunken debauchery a few years ago and the initiation of the then new dispatcher with whom he had just spoken, Florence Franklin. Florence soon thereafter, and forevermore was to be known as “Fellatio Flo”, or “EFF squared”.
It seems that Florence became enamored with the idea of working within the law enforcement circle while taking some police science courses at RCC. In short order she wound up being hired as a dispatcher, or fresh meat, as they were known to the inner circles.
She was a chunky little redhead with enough freckles to play connect the dots. Her main saving grace was her two biggest assets; breasts large enough that she had a perpetual lean to aft in order to keep from falling on her face. The fact that she was just tall enough to rest them comfortably on the dispatch console invited a constant stream of uniforms to volunteer to spend a tour of duty as complaint officers.
Of course it didn’t take long to get invited to a late night party at the river bottom, a particularly secluded and safe place to practice the fine art of train pulling. After a few boilermakers, made all the more potent each time by the resident bartender, Andy Johnson, Florence was feeling no pain, but was soon feeling the feeling she was getting from the attentive crew of blue suits, some of whom were down to T-shirts and shorts.
When Flo disappeared into the bushes with one of the young lions the line began to form on the left. The sounds of moaning, groaning and thrashing were too much for the semi-inebriated lot impatiently waiting and the line fell apart with every man for himself. Soon Florence was on her hands and knees and the valiant defenders of the public trust were doing their best to hermetically seal her from both ends.
Florence suddenly discovered her natural born talent. Having been a breast fed baby long beyond that time normally set aside for weaning, she reverted back to her childhood and fell naturally into the art of suckling. By the end of the evening she had hoovered the entire pack and everyone was lazily lying about with dreamy looks on their semi-awake faces. Florence burped contentedly from time to time and decided she had found a home.
Bradley could hear the call go out over his hand-held radio as he left the sandwich shop and walked across the asphalt parking lot to his unit.
"All watch four units 10-87, with Sam 27 at the front lot of RCC, routine."
Such a call, if monitored by the press weenies, could mean anything from a training session to a gab fest. Bradley was known to frequently conduct such large scale training exercises so it wasn’t all that unusual. It was a stalling tactic at best because if it hit the fan, everyone this side of Disneyland would know about it.
One by one the units acknowledged the assignment and began moving towards the meeting point from their respective beats. Within a few minutes, Bradley had acquired all five of his watch four units. Assembling them around the trunk lid of his unit he gave them the story.
"Radio just advised me that they received a call from a 5150 who claimed to have been shooting at Baker One. They traced him back to apartment 10 of the Shelly Lynn apartments." He said, as he gestured towards the apartments. “We need to find out what’s going on, but I don’t want to just send one guy in there to ask.”
"Let's set it up this way. Since it’s a ground floor unit it’ll make our job a little easier. Andy and Tim cover the rear windows. Bob and Manny take the front door with me. Mark, stay loose on the outside and be ready to go in either direction. We'll knock on the front door and attempt to make contact and see what the story is. Obviously we ratchet the situation up if the resident does anything squirrelly. We need to get inside as quickly as possible in case he really DOES have a weapon and neutralize him and the situation ASAP."
Everyone nodded in agreement and started moving into their designated positions.
Andy Johnson and Tim Willett had six and eight year’s experience, respectively, and had usually worked as radio car partners. Mark Dickerson was a ten year vet, and Bob Reeder and Manny Salbato had 8 and 9 years. No one on the watch four team had less than five years on the street. Since watch four was a cover shift between watch three and watch one, the swing and graveyard shift, it had become an unwritten rule that to even qualify to work the shift required a minimum of five years. Because of the hours, and days off, 7 p.m. to 3 a.m., with Sunday and Monday off, the watch four folks could expect to be in the thick of anything that occurred in the city and was known as the combat shift.
Unfortunately due to vacations and special assignments everyone was working single man cars tonight and that spread them out far too thin for Bradley’s comfort level. He would typically field 8 two man cars and felt they were too light even at that ratio.
Johnson and Willett had moved into position under the downstairs bedroom, sliding glass window. Bradley moved his black and white closer to the building and had no sooner stepped out onto the street when Johnson and Willet began to gesture frantically and call out to him, “Get down, GET DOWN!”
Not immediately understanding what they were trying to say, Bradley took another step in their direction and saw the sparks fly off the cement sidewalk at about the same time he heard the splanging whine of a ricocheting round. He was momentarily fascinated by the bright orange-yellow sparkle of the ricochet and stared in wonderment at why the sidewalk should suddenly change color in such a fashion.
“He’s shooting!” they called out to him. “Get back, He’s shooting”
Instantly returning to the situation at hand he sank quickly out of sight and duck-walked around the rear of his unit using the car for cover. Opening the trunk he began to drag out some return firepower. Sergeant’s units carried tear gas masks, baseball grenades and a couple of shotguns outfitted to fire the grenades. Grabbing one he slid it into the elongated cup attached to the muzzle of the shotgun making certain the “spoon” was inside the cup. He pulled the cotter pin thereby allowing the spoon to spring free and the firing pin to engage the primer as soon as the grenade cleared the cup.
He zig zagged quickly in a crouched run to a palm tree adjacent to the window. He could see the glass slider was open but the screen was still in place. The suspect had fired through the screen from a position in the darkened bedroom. He took aim at the window and fired the grenade. In theory the grenade would blast into the bedroom, ignite and fill the room with choking tear gas and smoke. Enough to drive anyone out into the waiting arms of the uniforms posted near the front door.
Of course everything works in theory and seldom in reality. By now Mark Dickerson had joined Johnson and Willet. All three were pasted solidly against a low brick wall below the window and were reasonably out of the line of fire from within, but were not able to move without exposing themselves. When the baseball grenade struck the window screen it bounced off and landed right in the middle of the three uniforms and began to merrily spin and spew a cloud of gas that completely enveloped everyone.
As is typical of budget conscious police departments, the tactical equipment had not been replaced since the war of 1812 and was so old and weak it was a miracle the grenade even cleared the cup in which it resided. While the chief, deputy chief and all division captains were rewarded with brand new, top of the line, take home cars every year, the line doggies had to make do with what was issued. Since there was a limited amount of tear gas grenades available, no one was able to practice with them to tell whether they worked or not. It wasn’t until the moment of truth did they learn the truth and by then it was truthfully, too late.
Gasping, choking and swearing the three officers scrambled back out of the widening cloud of gas in a dash to safety and clean air. Bradley stared in stunned amazement and realized that they were now going to have to try another approach.
As the gas dissipated a little the three officers took up positions with cover, but still in close proximity to the window. Johnson crept up quietly and in one movement rammed his hand through the screen and ripped it off the window leaving a good sized opening to feed in more gas.
Bradley tossed a baseball grenade to Dickerson who was posted behind the palm tree near the curb. He, in turn lobbed it to Willet, who was concealed behind a large bush, and who then tossed it to Johnson. Johnson pulled the pin and slammed it into the open window like a Lakers’ forward. Two seconds later he caught a second and shortly thereafter a third. Each of the baseball grenades having being handed off to him as though it were an egg toss contest. All three were slam dunked into the open window with no response from within.
By now the billowing white noxious cloud of tear gas was pouring out of the building as though the entire structure was on fire. Bradley had considered the possibility of overkill on the gas and then decided, “Screw it. The guy’s got a gun and he’s using it.”
It was now time to up the ante on this caper. Grabbing his hand held radio from his gun belt he mashed the talk key and very deliberately put out the call that would cause the sky to open and policemen to rain down in large numbers.
“SAM-27 SHOTS FIRED, OFFICER NEEDS HELP”
The call was immediately relayed by the dispatcher on all frequencies.
“All units, 11-99. 11-99. Shots fired at Shelly Lynn Apartments Magnolia and Terracina. 3 Robert 21 and Sam 32 copy?”
Units were talking over each other trying to respond and sirens could be heard approaching from all over the city.
“Sam-27, Sam-32, channel 4”
“Sam-32 on 4. Whatcha got?”
“Bill, we have a barricaded sniper in apartment 10, ground floor, facing Terracina. Set up a perimeter at the intersection on Magnolia and divert traffic away from the area.”
“Copy that, Bob. Do you need any more help at the scene?”
“Affirmative. Get me 3 or 4 more people up here. We’re going to have to evac the building.”
“Copy that. I’ll be there in about 2.”
Bradley glanced at his watch and realized in horror that it was now 15 minutes to 10 o’clock. RCC’s classes ended at 10:00pm and the parking lot, not 200 feet away, would soon be teeming with several hundred students, right in the line of fire.
Keying the mike switch again he began organizing the immediate scene.
“Sam-27. Have Mercy respond and take a position near the area. Also have RFD respond as well.”
“Sam-27, copy Mercy and RFD enroute.”
Mercy ambulance would definitely be needed if this moron got off a lucky shot, or if we have to take him out feet first. Thought Bradley. He didn’t even want to consider the possibility that one of his own people might need them.
Riverside Fire Department might be needed if the tear gas started a fire. He remembered all too well the fiasco at 5th and Lemon a few months prior, but then, that’s another story.
Three detectives from Vice and Narcotics scrambled up to Bradley and offered to help.
“We can start knocking on doors, Sarge, and help get some of these people evacuated from the building.’
Bradley decided he was going to need all the help he could get until the perimeter was secure. Looking up he could see the tear gas smoke billowing from the apartment. How long could anyone stay in there under those conditions? The gas was permeating everything and Bradley’s eyes burned even at some distance from the window.
“Okay, but take these.” he said, as he handed each of the detectives a gas mask. They each grabbed a mask and scrambled off to start trying to evacuate innocent tenants in case the place turned into the OK Corral.
Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. Even the best intentions can go sideways on such days as he soon learned. The detectives fanned out and put on the masks. They began knocking on doors to get the tenants out of the apartments, but soon realized what the tenants saw when they opened the door to frantic knocking wasn’t the image they intended to project.
The first tenant, Miriam Gilderstein, was an 87 year old widow. She had been sound asleep and was confused and disoriented when awakened by banging and muffled shouting. When she opened the door she saw a large bug eyed Martian with an olive drab face and wild kinky hair sticking out in all directions. This particular alien was obviously trying to pass himself off as a human since he was wearing faded Levis and an orange Hawaiian shirt, but he wasn’t fooling her. She screamed and slammed the door on him. He continued to pound away and she backed into the kitchen and armed herself with a broom.
Since Vice and Narcotics detectives have little luck in mingling with the doper crowd by wearing Brooks Brothers suits, they typically dress and groom like those they try to arrest. In other words the more they look like scumbags the better luck they have. What escaped everyone’s thought process was that putting the green rubber, WWII gas masks on over shoulder length hair and full beards did not command instant trust and believability from the elderly residents of the complex. In other words the evacuation was a complete failure.
In the meantime a large crowd of RCC students was forming in the parking lot a few hundred feet away. Attracted by the pretty flashing lights and all the sirens everyone thought this was infinitely more interesting than what they had just endured in class for the past three hours.
With the evacuation now a fiasco, Bradley needed some uniforms to repair the credibility and convince the tenants of a need for speed. He also had the entire RCC faculty and student body to contend with and the cavalry hadn’t yet arrived in sufficient numbers to be of any real value.
Two figures in civilian clothes were approaching from the street side and Bradley recognized them as the Detective and Patrol Captains, Croft and Mendez, respectively. As they approached and greeted him it was obvious they had been attending their own group meeting with shooters, Tequila shooters.
“Sergeant Bradley, wass goin’ on”? Slurred Mendez, the Tequila vapors wafting from him and across the parking lot to eventually merge with the CN gas and form pretty little miniature cumulonimbus clouds.
“Barricaded sniper, Captain. As ranking officer on scene will you be assuming command of this operation?”
“No, my boy. You’re doing just fine. Carry on.”
Both men continued their stroll back to their car, congratulating themselves on their ability to inspire the troops by their command presence.
Fat chance THAT had of working, thought Bradley.
Units continued to scream into the perimeter and were being directed by two watch 3 supervisors to various locations. There still weren’t enough bodies to contain the RCC onlookers, but there wasn’t time to deal with it. If the shooter decided to start taking potshots at the crowd the whole scenario could collapse into a major disaster just made for the Riverside Press headlines in the morning edition.
FORMER POLICE SERGEANT CAUSES THE DEATHS OF COUNTLESS INNOCENT STUDENTS!! FILM AT ELEVEN!!! Screamed the headlines in Bradley’s head.
Nope. Something had to be done, and NOW.
Getting the attention of his own troops, Bradley raised his right hand and pointed his index finger into the air in a circling motion signaling them to fall in on him.
“We can’t wait any longer.” Bradley explained to his men. Everyone grab a gas mask and let’s go in. Andy, kick the door and everyone file in one behind the other and hug the least obstructed wall. We’ll have to clear the place one room at a time. We can’t risk his using the people out there as his personal shooting gallery.”
Everyone nodded in agreement and began to file past the open trunk for the masks.
Once assembled in front of the apartment, Bradley gave the signal and Johnson rushed the door from about five feet. Catching the door just under the doorknob perfectly flat footed, the door splintered and gave way, embedding the door knob into the wall. The team filed forward on the double with each one holding the shoulder of the man in front of him. Once inside the visibility was absolute zero. Bradley entered last and upon taking his first breath began to choke and gag. He realized his gas mask; likely rejected by the South Kafiristan army, was holier than his ex-wife’s colander. His eyes bulged and he turned and ran from the apartment. Reaching the trunk of his unit he quickly strapped another mask to his head and returned to the apartment, now more deadly than the San Quentin gas chamber. Four steps and two breaths inside and he immediately reversed course.
As he staggered from the apartment the tear gas training class at the Riverside Sheriff’s academy last year flashed through his mind.
“Gentlemen”, the instructor began as he paced in front of the 40 students. “What we are going to experience today is unlike anything you’ve ever seen or felt before in your life.”
The students were from various agencies as far away as Palm Springs and Indio. They were all dressed in jeans and T-shirts and were told they would be experiencing the two main gasses used in law enforcement field situations.
“As you know, you are required to experience, first hand, the effects of these gasses before you are allowed to use them on the citizens of your respective communities. There are two basic chemical munitions commonly in use in our business, CN gas, or 2-chloroacetophenone, commonly found in your Mace canisters and the munitions you use in standoffs.
The main uses for 2-chloroacetophenone, are in tear gas and in chemical Mace. It is a potent eye, throat, and skin irritant. Acute (short-term) inhalation exposure of humans causes burning of the eyes with lacrimation, some degree of blurred vision, possible corneal damage, irritation and burning of the nose, throat, and skin, and burning in the chest with dyspnea. Acute dermal exposure is irritating and can result in first, second, and third degree chemical burns in humans. This exposure must be mitigated with clear water to prevent injury to your detainee.
Eyes glazed and heads were in danger of bouncing off the wooden desk tops.
The other is CS gas, or 2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile. There is a reason it’s called C.S., as you will soon learn. We will ignite a canister of C.S. gas out there on the firing range and you will run, at a slow trot, through the gas cloud for one pass. I strongly recommend you hold on to the person in front of you as the gas can be very disabling.”
No one believed him. Plans were made to get through the gas by holding one’s breath or closing one’s eyes. After all, how bad could it be?
40 men lined up in single file and the canister was ignited. Once the gas began to billow the instructor blew his whistle and the line began to trot forward. Within seconds the line broke and people were running blindly in all directions, falling down, choking, and gasping and searching for the water hose at the end of the run. No one made it through unscathed and 40 believers were baptized that fateful day.
Ahh, yes. He remembered it well.
By this time, his quavering, empty stomach decided to make good it’s promise to get even for the uncalled for starvation it had recently experienced. Leaning over the trunk of his unit Bradley retched up a half cup of bile onto the parking lot. After the third contribution the RCC crowd caught on and a loud cheer went up to celebrate his offering to the gods of disaster.
Bradley weakly regained his composure and started to return to the apartment when he saw his officers returning with someone. Their charge was an elderly black male subject who was handcuffed and loudly complaining about the treatment he was receiving.
“He was in the back bedroom on the left, Sarge.” Explained Willet. “The door was closed and the gas didn’t get into the bedroom until we forced the door and took him down. We didn’t find a gun and it’s too smoky in there now to see anything so we don’t know if anyone else is in there or not.”
By now the gas had begun to permeate the other apartments and people were rushing out onto the sidewalk only to be escorted away by uniformed officers. Two additional ambulances were needed to treat those affected. A by product was the shifting wind, which blew some of the gas cloud in the direction of the loudly cheering student body gathered in the parking lot. At first contact they scattered and ran in the opposite direction, dropping books, backpacks and paper. It was the highlight of the evening.
“Not so funny now, is it?” Chuckled Bradley, his stomach unable to decide whether or not a fourth round of vomiting was in order.
“Andy, get me a fire captain willya? We need some fans to clear this building as fast as we can.”
Bradley pointed toward the big red truck with the flashing lights occupying the corner of the parking lot.
“Got it, Sarge.’ He took off in a trot toward the gathered firemen.
A few minutes later he returned with a middle aged fireman with fire captain’s rank on the collar of his white short sleeved, uniform shirt.
“Jim Davis” he stated. “Battalion One.”
“Bradley. Good to meecha. Do you guys have some big fans to help suck out some of this stuff so we can clear the building?”
“Sure. We can set that up for you right away as long as the building’s secure.”
“We have one in custody” said Bradley. “I don’t know if there’s anyone else but I’ll have a couple of my guys provide cover for you while you set the fans up.”
Typical, he thought. We do all the dangerous stuff and EVERYONE loves Mr. Fireman. Go figure.
Under the watchful guard of the P.D. officers, the firemen strategically placed several large exhaust fans in the front door and windows of the apartments and began clearing the gas from the unit.
The process was fairly well completed by the time a half-hour had elapsed and plans were being made to reenter the unit.
Bradley huddled together with his men forming a circle under the overhead mercury vapor street lamp.
“OK, same plan. Single file, clear each room as we go and watch for the closets, beds or anywhere this idiot might pop out from. Questions? Concerns? Now’s the hour.”
Everyone glanced at each other and shrugged. It was as good an idea as any. They had to go in sooner or later so it might as well be now.
As before, Johnson took the point and they moved forward checking behind furniture and systematically clearing each room as they went. They were as quiet as possible, communicating only by hand signals as they secured each room.
Finally they stood by the closed door of the second bedroom. Since it was the one from which they originally took fire it was going to be a hot entry.
Johnson slowly turned the doorknob and gently pushed the door open an inch or so. Then with a sudden shove he slammed the door against the wall and entered to the left, gun pointed in a sweeping arc around the room. Dickerson was immediately behind him and went right utilizing the same moves.
It wasn’t until they reached the small single bed against the back wall did they see a figure crumpled on the floor between the bed and the wall.
Raising his hand in a clenched fist, Johnson signaled everyone entering the room behind him to instantly freeze.
Dickerson and Johnson each approached the subject and began to shout commands.
“Let me see your hands! Show me your hands or I’ll kill you where you lay!”
Nothing.
Johnson saw the muzzle of the weapon under the subject’s body and signaled to Dickerson what he had. They both jumped the prone suspect and Dickerson grabbed the rifle and wrestled it out from under the body while Johnson twisted the subject’s arms behind his back and cuffed him. There was no resistance.
As the lights came on Johnson was the first to notice the blood. He carefully rolled the suspect over on his back and relaxed his grip with a slump of his shoulders.
There was dried blood in a trail down the suspect’s mouth and a quarter sized portion of the top of his skull was clearly missing. He had placed the rifle in his mouth at some point during the standoff and pulled the trigger. The round exited the top of his head, killing him instantly. Splatter marks on the ceiling confirmed what they were seeing on the body.
Bradley moved in and squatted down on his haunches next to the dead sniper who had caused all the ruckus.
“Dumb ass son-of-a-bitch. Why didn’t you save me all this grief and shoot yourself first?”
He raised the hand held radio to his mouth and keyed the mike.
“Sam 27, Code 4. Notify the coroner’s office. Suspect is DOA.”
The dispatcher’s voice echoed off the walls as the announcement droned in the distance.
“KQR-573 to all units on all frequencies. Tactical alert is stand down. Repeat, Code 4. Unassigned units return to beat. 3 Robert 23 stand by for assignment. See the woman…”
The voice drifted off into obscurity as Bradley turned to his men standing over the body of the dead sniper.
“Good work, everybody. You guys were perfect. Let’s pack it up and get back to the station and get these reports written. If we can wrap this up in time I’ll buy and we need to have a debriefing session at the usual location.”
“Hey, Sarge.” Willet called out. “Can we invite Flo?”
“Sure, Tim. You bet. We need to invite Flo.” Bradley replied. ‘After all, she’s part of the team isn’t she?”.
Tales From The Hood - Gabrielle
Tales From The Hood - Chapter 4 - Gabrielle
By Ron De Laby
Every man with an idea has at least two or three followers – Brooks Atkinson
While the situation in the north end was concluding, an entirely different situation was developing, this time involving numbers of off duty personnel. Mention the word party to policemen and there will never be a shortage of participants. It was a well-established fact that the boys from the P.D. were among the best party hounds in the state. The Sheriff’s department, not wanting to be left out of the limelight, had been rumored to attempt some river bottom soirees. The parties, which included the introduction of alcohol deprived dispatchers to strange and unusual practices, paled in comparison to the inventiveness of their city dwelling cousins. Of the more memorable P.D. bashes, the one involving the lovely Gabrielle would be passed down from generation to generation.
Gabrielle Schnauchz was a twenty-eight year old divorcee who had four basic requirements for the sustenance of life: Food; Oxygen; Sex and Alcohol, not necessarily in that order. She worked the 4-12 shift at Cindy’s Restaurant at University and Iowa. Because of the lifelong relationship between policemen and restaurants, it wasn’t long before Gabrielle discovered a catalyst for two of her requirements. There is an old saying about women loving men in uniform and it is widely believed Gabrielle authored that very thought.
Now, among the officers of 3rd watch there was also a widespread belief: you can’t get enough booze or enough pussy. In fact to support that belief, the word was quickly put out amongst the anointed that the early Roman Legions, predecessors of the modern police warrior, also subscribed to that concept. Proof of this was offered following the showing of an old movie of roman troops marching off to battle. Heading each cohort was a soldier carrying a sign that read “SPQR”. The sign was translated by the more learned on the department to mean, “The Roman Quest for Strange Pussy”
In the eternal SPQR there were those who had their private stock and for reasons known only to them, selfishly refused to share the booty with their brother officers. Since logic and reason failed to persuade, it was up to the remaining doggies to find their own bones.
The discovery of Gabrielle’s talents, and there were many, took less time than it took a spider to shrink-wrap a moth. Uniformed cops instinctively know where horny women abide. Since their motto is to “Protect and Service,” what choice did they really have? With that rationalization firmly established their duty was clear. Service and duty called.
The relationship between Gabrielle Schnauchz and the officers of 3rd watch started innocently enough. A smile. A nod. The suggestion of a drink after work and before you could say psychopathic nymphomania the word was out. Gabrielle soon became known as pubic squeeze number one.
A slightly built, attractive blond in her own right, her shy persona melted away after a few small helpings of Jim Beam, Kamchatka, Jose Cuervo or scope mouthwash. In fact, alcohol in almost any form would change the sweet demure waitress from Miss Jeckyl to Madame hide the sausage. Pulling the train was her unique specialty and it was rumored she had entertained as many as 8-10 happy campers in succession.
Gabrielle’s name was of undetermined Germanic origin and therefore virtually unpronounceable to the standard police tongue. Therefore Schnauchz quickly became snacks and ultimately, SnackCake. Her latest adventures thus became the topic of conversation wherever two fellow members of the law enforcement community met to exchange notes over warm conversation, good fellowship and lots of booze.
Now, there are two unwritten maxims in the police service: Maxim#1; the deadly mixture of free, loose women and virtually unlimited quantities of alcohol is a delicate combination. When properly vented, i.e. sex, it maintains a self-driven equilibrium. Maxim #2; when out of balance, i.e. lack of immediate sexual gratification, it becomes as deadly as a fertilizer and fuel oil bomb.
So it was destined to happen. The word went out among the thin blue line that there was to be a poker party on the upcoming Friday night. There would be the usual chips, dips, beer and cards; and oh yeah, SnackCake.
Throughout the department there was a subtle tectonic shift in personal plans. Activities were cancelled and wives were placed on notice that the upcoming poker game could well determine the fate of the free world.
Over the protests of wives whose husbands had heretofore shown as much interest in cards games as in helping to plan baby showers, the movement began.
“But you NEVER play poker.”
“Can’t I take up a simple hobby without your criticism? Good God woman, remember the fate of the free world rests on the outcome of this game.”
The forces of nature converged.
The house was a typical three bedroom, one and a half bath, California style ranch about 35 years old. It had been through several sets of children and pets as well as one or two newly marrieds and a retired couple. Its walls had beheld the very basics of civilized life and family stability.
It was presently owned by two of the department’s finest. Richard Tessler and Dominic Ferrante. Tessler was a six-year patrol officer recently transferred from Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. Ferrante was a five-year patrol officer who had only recently added his first hash mark to his crisp blue uniform shirt. Both considered themselves to be the answer to the question posed by western women, “Was there life without Ferrante and Tessler?”
Although they weren’t currently radio car partners, they blended like rum and coca cola, smooth and sweet. Each had a personality that complimented the other; Tessler’s straight man to Ferrante’s set up gigs. Both represented what the police department’s recruiters looked for in their best dreams. Good physical appearance, uniforms immaculately tailored, empathy and compassion for the less fortunate. They could have been poster children for the United States Marine Corps.
Their house likewise reflected their good taste, a combination of English Gentry and hunting lodge. Their social soirees were quiet, sedate affairs carefully planned to avoid attention from the neighbors. If said neighbors ever entertained concerns about two good looking, well groomed single men with immaculate tastes in home furnishings and automobiles, they never really voiced them and needn’t have worried.
One of Ferrante’s favorite tricks, B.R. (before Rugs) was to tape record the nocturnal vocalizations of his more ardent sex partners. During particularly bestial fornication these vocalizations were known to reach high “C”. Of course no self-respecting gentleman would keep such a treasure to himself so the recordings were shared with the entire third watch at roll call.
Since Ferrante had become the undisputed master of the pinhole camera, no room in the house was safe from the all seeing, eye. As a result videos were available at discreet showings and the favored few developed an awestruck appreciation for the Chief’s new secretary.
On the eve of the poker game, which was shortly to be inducted into the police department’s hall of fame, the neighbors were being individually and discreetly told of the upcoming event. The task was relegated to Ferrante as the one with the most talented tongue. A truism attested to by many women for various reasons. His Italian good looks and his glib personality slithered their way into the hearts of his fellow homeowners.
“Mrs. Renaldi. How are you this lovely day? My, but you’ve lost weight haven’t you? You are looking good. Don’t tell Frank I said so, now. We don’t want a jealous husband on our hands do we? Incidentally, we’re planning a small (emphasis demonstrated by the placement of index finger and thumb approximately 1/8 inch apart) party.”
Or, “Hey, John. How’s it going buddy? Sylvia was asking about you. You remember Sylvia? I had her over for the pool barbeque last week: 5’2”, blond, bigggg gazongas, flesh colored thong; yeah, that one. She thought you were a hunk, man. What can I say? Ohh, incidentally…”
And so it went, the king of schmooze, preparing a carpet of foam to lessen the impending impact of the upcoming 787 wide body event.
By 7:00 p.m. on Friday night cars were starting to fill in the curb spaces in front of the neighbors’ houses. In the party house the den, living room and kitchen were starting to fill up as individuals nursed beers and shared war stories or complaints about dispatchers and their general lack of concern for the safety of their police charges.
Jolly was on his fourth Budweiser as a follow up to the twelve-pack he had consumed before leaving home. His blood alcohol content was rapidly reaching a happy functioning level of .15%.
Ferrante had been regaling two younger officers with his interpretation of a recent decision concerning racial profiling. One of the officers was having a difficult time with judicial interpretations, as they always seemed to favor the wrong set of people.
“Look, Dom. It’s just crap. If two white dudes stick up some mom and pop store no one says shit, but if some poor oppressed minority does it we can’t even stop ‘em and check ‘em out? That’s total and complete bullshit.”
“They didn’t say you couldn’t stop them, John.” Ferrante replied. “They said you couldn’t sit by the side of the road and stop every black guy or Mexican that drives by. You can’t fish for bad guys.”
“Works for me,” said the second of the two.
“Nine times out of ten you come up with something. I’d say those were good enough odds to gamble on.”
“You’re missing the whole point,” responded Ferrante. “Here, hold on, I need a refill.”
Reaching into the refrigerator Ferrante looked out the kitchen window and saw Gabrielle’s little yellow ford escort pull up to the curb. Two 1st watch guys were moving a couple of orange pylons, which had been strategically placed for just that purpose. They waved her in as though parking an airliner. She got out of the car carrying a brown Stater Bros. grocery bag and kissed both of the men on the cheek. She smiled as she walked up the sidewalk toward the house. Ferrante noted that she was wearing a light cotton blouse and a pair of shorts. “Pretty face and nice legs,” he mused, appreciatively.
The doorbell rang and there was a small buzz of conversation as she came in. Friendly greetings and some cheers rang out.
“Hey Gabby.”
“Hiya sweetie. How’s it going?”
Gabrielle acknowledged each greeting with a smile or a peck on the cheek of the greeter. She also welcomed the occasional pat on her rear end with a giggle.
Tessler entered the kitchen with his arm around the girl. He was carrying her sack.
“Look whose here,” he said.
“Hey, baby,” Ferrante cooed.
“Kiss.” He pecked her on the lips.
“Whatcha drinkin?” He asked.
“Just a beer for me” She replied. “I have to go slow tonight.”
Ferrante gave her a horrified look.
“What? No. You’ve done it. You’ve joined the convent. Our Sisters of Perpetual Orgasms.”
She giggled. “No, silly. I just need to slow down. I’ve been a little wild.”
“Wild Thang,” Crooned Ferrante.
“You make my heart sing,” echoed Tessler.
“You make everything, groovy,” they harmonized.
Someone from the other room grabbed her hand and started pulling her into the living room.
“Maybe tomorrow, then.” She smiled at Ferrante and shrugged.
He laughed and thought, “Ohh Lord.”
A poker table was set up in the dining room and a game was going. Small groups of men gathered in the hall and kitchen. The crackle of ice cubes and the clink of glasses competed with the fizz of fresh cans of beer being opened. Gabrielle Schnauchz was the only woman in the house.
No one knows how such a message is communicated. Some believe it is a telepathic phenomenon, some have held there is a change in the astral plane. Regardless of the method of conveyance, the word did indeed go out. There was a party at Ferrante and Tessler’s’ and SnackCake was in attendance.
At first it was some of the morning watch guys on days off, then a couple of sheriff’s deputies dropped by. By nine-o’clock several off duty highway patrol officers were at the door.
As the conversational noise level rose, the stereo music inched up to compensate for the discrepancy. Beer runs were being made and each time the front door was opened an undulating blanket of sound crept out onto the quiet residential street. Seismographs were beginning to pick up the slightest beginnings of energy transfer.
Snackcake was well into her sixth drink and was showing signs of loosening up. She was on the glass coffee table demonstrating her version of Madonna on PCP. The living room was packed with an appreciative audience.
Helpful volunteers had seen to it that Gabrielle’s glass was never empty and her drinks were always fresh. Fresh by police standards was guaranteed to poison the normal human. Beer had given way to rare California Chablis bottled two weeks previous. The Chablis metastasized into rum and coke and finally, rum with coke coloring.
The average person can be expected to burn off approximately one ounce of alcohol per hour. An experienced drinker like Gabrielle was better able to compensate for the effects of alcohol poisoning based, in part, on the fact that her liver was approximately the size of a regulation NFL football.
Nevertheless, as each new drink was poured it became darker and stronger until they were averaging two and a half shots of alcohol to one eighth of an ounce of Coca-Cola. It was an awesome thing to behold.
A chorus of cheers could be heard to emanate from the living room with each bump and grind.
The quiet residential street had turned into a parking lot. By eleven o’clock there were no curbside spaces available. In fact, the neighbor’s driveways were occupied, having been confiscated for this police emergency. Cars were now stacked up in such a way that no one could get in or out. As long as the doors and windows of the party house stayed closed and the rest of the neighbors remained engrossed in their evening sit-coms, the lid remained on the pot. The pot, however, was beginning to show signs of coming to a boil.
A small cluster of partygoers had assembled outside under a streetlight. A newly purchased Walther PPK in stainless .380 caliber was being passed around. Several of the admirers had already tested the weight, grip and feel of the weapon. Appreciative comments had been exchanged.
“Nice grip,” said one.
“Conceals easy, huh?” questioned another.
“The trigger pull seems a little hard,” volunteered a third as he sighted in on the overhead mercury vapor streetlight.
KAPOW!
The hammer of the small semi-automatic had traversed to the end of its design length and upon reaching that point reversed course downward at warp speed. The firing pin struck the primer of a seated round setting off yet a second chain of events.
The pressure of impact caused a compression of gasses, which generated heat, which ignited the gunpowder in the brass casing. This in turn propelled the semi-jacketed hollow point bullet in a spiraling rush down the alternately raised lands and grooves of the short barrel. The bullet, now traveling at roughly eleven hundred feet per second came into contact with the glass covering of the mercury vapor light, shattering the glass and extinguishing the light. The sequence of events occurred much faster than you could say, “Ohh Shit!”
For the briefest of moments the small group stared in stunned, disbelieving silence. The ejected casing hit the asphalt of the street with a small ting and did a little circular dance before coming to rest. The acrid aroma of gunpowder wafted up, teasing individual olfactory nerves and cementing the harsh reality of the event.
Then everyone began talking at once.
“You dumb fuck.”
“Whaddya mean? Why didn’t you tell me it was loaded?”
“Guns are ALWAYS fucking loaded, you moron.”
“Gimme that fucking thing. God Damn. What an idiot.”
“Jesus. Let’s get back inside before someone comes out.”
“Shit. How was I supposed to know?”
As the group reentered the residence they unleashed yet another amorphous mass of sound which quickly dissipated into the cool night air.
A block away, and over a screaming commercial extolling the benefits of hemorrhoid suppositories, a husband turned to his wife and asked,
“Did you hear something?”
“No. What, dear?”
“I dunno. Sounded like an explosion or something.”
“No. I didn’t hear anything,” The wife replied. “Hmmm. OK, then.” Finalized the husband.
The beast was beginning to awaken.
Years from now anthropologists may study the cause and effect of alcohol and the police mentality. Policemen today instinctively know the phenomenon as a state of “invisibility.” Simply put, it is pretty much the understanding that alcohol is an integral part of being able to cope and function in a thankless job, fraught with peril. This combined with the knowledge that since “we are the cops,” there’s no reason to worry about a gathering getting out of hand. Hence, “You owe it to us and we’re really just invisible anyway.”
The shooters had retreated to the sanctuary of the party and had lost all interest in muzzle velocity.
In the meantime SnackCake had reached up inside her blouse to perform a magic trick for her admirers. In a display of manual dexterity known only to women, she was able to remove her bra and drag it out through her right sleeve. She twirled the prize over her head a few times before tossing it into the crowd like a bridal bouquet; all without missing a step to the music. The prize was set upon by a snarling pack of semi-inebriates, each bent upon retrieving it as a personal trophy.
Now that she had broken free from the bonds of bradom, SnackCake was writhing to the music and toying with the top button of her blouse. A chant was taken up. Slowly at first, then building to a crescendo.
“yes, yes, Yes, Yes, YES, YES, YES!”
The first button opened to a cheer from the growing crowd. Three more sheriffs’ deputies and another highway patrolman drifted in, swelling the ranks to thirty-five to forty people. Later estimates would range from seventy-five to one hundred, but civilians are well known to be prone to hysteria and make poor witnesses.
In short order the remaining buttons were undone and the blouse was dragged seductively back and forth. First off one shoulder then the other. In the process an occasional glimpse could be had of one or the other pinkish brown nipples supported nicely by estimated 34C cup breasts.
The average American male will tell you that three days without sex pushes the comfort-o-meter into the discomfort range. Policemen have senses much more finely tuned due to their extensive training and will be able to tell you the exact moment the lackanookie synapse occurs. First, there is a subtle buildup of pressure which immediately triggers and internal alarm which screams “WARNING, WARNING! White count approaching critical mass.” If the warning is ignored there can be serious side effects such as impaired vision, lack of concentration and extreme irritability culminating in such classic exchanges as,
“OK, Asshole. What color traffic light would it take for you to stop for us today?”
It is widely held that the 1964 Los Angeles riots were the result of just such circumstances. In any event the conditions required for maxim #2 were fast approaching.
The music was resonating a primal beat as SnackCake, now completely caught up in the moment, abandoned all efforts to keep the front of her blouse closed. The chanting grew in intensity.
“YES, YES, YES, YES, YES!”
As she threatened to take it off altogether the crowd began to clap in time with the chanting. With a whoop she pulled the blouse off and threw it overhead into the seething mass of testosterone where it was promptly digested. Now divested of all topside encumbrances, Snackcake began to dance in earnest. The glistening of sweat shone brightly on finely proportioned breasts. They began a dance of their own in time with the music. Gabrielle was happy, her breasts were happy and the law enforcement community was exceedingly happy.
Holding up a far corner of the living room wall was Harry Link. Harry was a ten-year veteran who neither drank nor smoked nor engaged in wild sex (or any sex for that matter). It was well known Harry’s wife who was 80-100 pounds overweight and 80-100 years old had sworn him off such disgusting behavior for his own good. Harry was 40ish and balding. He was slightly built and wore Clark Kent frames for his glasses rather than the killer cool Gargoyles worn by the young, with it crew. In fact, he went without sunglasses altogether. No one could understand how he could possible function as a policeman without sunglasses.
Harry had been kidnapped and taken to the party. He had originally asked for a ride home from one on the young lions and was preparing his thoughts for a scintillating night of crossword puzzles when he realized he wasn’t going home.
“Where are you going?” Harry asked.
“Just to see a friend for a couple of minutes,” replied the young lion.
Content with his own understanding of “a couple of minutes” Harry reverted to Aardvark, 8 across and Docile, 6 down.
Once they reached the party, Harry was told he “just HAD to stop in for two minutes.”
As Harry stepped inside and was recognized, cheers of welcome and camaraderie greeted him. No one could ever remember sighting Harry at any social gathering. A beer was thrust into his hand. Three beers later Harry was practically blind.
Freud contended the human psyche was made up of ego, superego and id. The id was the beast of basic raw emotion and impulsive childlike needs. It was kept in check by the ego and superego. Freud postulated on the dangers of an unchecked id left to run amuck. Freud would have loved Harry Link.
SnackCake was now working on the top button of her shorts. With breasts bouncing in time to the music and rear end rotating in a counter clockwise direction she was the dance floor equivalent of rubbing your stomach and patting your head. The button popped open and the zipper started its downward journey. The room went wild. Harry was transfixed.
The shorts came off and disappeared into the gaping maw of the beast. All that remained between heaven and earth was a thin layer of pink polyester. Harry moved off the wall. SnackCake turned her back to the crowded room, bent over and dropped the panty level by two inches. The crowd roared. She faced the room and thrust her pelvis forward and repeated the procedure. The crowd went wild. For Harry, time stood still.
The seismograph jumped.
Several years ago Gabrielle had taken to wearing thongs in lieu of your basic two-piece bathing suit. The response was better but it required much more attention to detail. During a particularly difficult shaving process one day she elected to throw caution to the winds. From that day forward she decided to go to what the French refer as ‘sans muff’.
SnackCake had now reached the point of intoxication that overrides the common sense safety switch each of us have imbedded in our brains. She had, in effect, become invisible. Throwing her panties into the air she sat down naked on the coffee table for the grand finale. Bracing her arms behind her she extended her legs at a 45-degree angle into the air and opened wide.
Harry had never before seen a deforested beaver and at that very moment he snapped, unleashing the id from hell. Rushing forward and falling to his knees he thrust his face deeply into Snack’s cake, sinking up to his ears. Gabrielle let out a squeal of pleased surprise; the crowd went nuts and began to chant,
“HAR-RY, HAR-RY, HAR-RY.”
Ferrante turned to Tessler and quipped,
“What a cunning Link he is.”
Harry had lost all sense of propriety. Throwing off his clothes he fell on Snackcake dragging her to the deep pile carpet where he began to fornicate like a demented hare. Since this was the cue everyone had been waiting for, a conga line formed around the living room. A voice from the line paraphrased,
“From each according to her ability, to each according to his needs. Damn fitting, if you ask me.”
Harry’s long awaited reintroduction to labia majora resulted in an eruption of epic proportion. Sated, drunk beyond living memory and naked, he crawled around the living room floor. He finally managed to pull a pair of white jockey shorts over his head and crawl out the back door. He promptly passed out under an oleander bush.
Much later, in another home, a wife would awaken and interrogate her husband as to why he was wearing a pair of red polka dot boxers when he didn’t own any.
Gabrielle would surpass her record of achievement in pleasing the multitudes. In fact it was suggested the Guinness Book of World Records might be contacted. This idea was quickly abandoned when someone pointed out that names might have to be mentioned. Ferrante and Tessler became local folk heroes and were privately awarded the silver goblet for best party of the century.
Rumors floated up to the Internal Affairs unit of certain departmental improprieties. An investigation was briefly considered then abandoned when it was determined the city could not afford to lose over one third of its law enforcement personnel. The whole affair was quietly shoved under the table in expectation that it would not reemerge in the form of citizen’s complaints.
By Ron De Laby
Every man with an idea has at least two or three followers – Brooks Atkinson
While the situation in the north end was concluding, an entirely different situation was developing, this time involving numbers of off duty personnel. Mention the word party to policemen and there will never be a shortage of participants. It was a well-established fact that the boys from the P.D. were among the best party hounds in the state. The Sheriff’s department, not wanting to be left out of the limelight, had been rumored to attempt some river bottom soirees. The parties, which included the introduction of alcohol deprived dispatchers to strange and unusual practices, paled in comparison to the inventiveness of their city dwelling cousins. Of the more memorable P.D. bashes, the one involving the lovely Gabrielle would be passed down from generation to generation.
Gabrielle Schnauchz was a twenty-eight year old divorcee who had four basic requirements for the sustenance of life: Food; Oxygen; Sex and Alcohol, not necessarily in that order. She worked the 4-12 shift at Cindy’s Restaurant at University and Iowa. Because of the lifelong relationship between policemen and restaurants, it wasn’t long before Gabrielle discovered a catalyst for two of her requirements. There is an old saying about women loving men in uniform and it is widely believed Gabrielle authored that very thought.
Now, among the officers of 3rd watch there was also a widespread belief: you can’t get enough booze or enough pussy. In fact to support that belief, the word was quickly put out amongst the anointed that the early Roman Legions, predecessors of the modern police warrior, also subscribed to that concept. Proof of this was offered following the showing of an old movie of roman troops marching off to battle. Heading each cohort was a soldier carrying a sign that read “SPQR”. The sign was translated by the more learned on the department to mean, “The Roman Quest for Strange Pussy”
In the eternal SPQR there were those who had their private stock and for reasons known only to them, selfishly refused to share the booty with their brother officers. Since logic and reason failed to persuade, it was up to the remaining doggies to find their own bones.
The discovery of Gabrielle’s talents, and there were many, took less time than it took a spider to shrink-wrap a moth. Uniformed cops instinctively know where horny women abide. Since their motto is to “Protect and Service,” what choice did they really have? With that rationalization firmly established their duty was clear. Service and duty called.
The relationship between Gabrielle Schnauchz and the officers of 3rd watch started innocently enough. A smile. A nod. The suggestion of a drink after work and before you could say psychopathic nymphomania the word was out. Gabrielle soon became known as pubic squeeze number one.
A slightly built, attractive blond in her own right, her shy persona melted away after a few small helpings of Jim Beam, Kamchatka, Jose Cuervo or scope mouthwash. In fact, alcohol in almost any form would change the sweet demure waitress from Miss Jeckyl to Madame hide the sausage. Pulling the train was her unique specialty and it was rumored she had entertained as many as 8-10 happy campers in succession.
Gabrielle’s name was of undetermined Germanic origin and therefore virtually unpronounceable to the standard police tongue. Therefore Schnauchz quickly became snacks and ultimately, SnackCake. Her latest adventures thus became the topic of conversation wherever two fellow members of the law enforcement community met to exchange notes over warm conversation, good fellowship and lots of booze.
Now, there are two unwritten maxims in the police service: Maxim#1; the deadly mixture of free, loose women and virtually unlimited quantities of alcohol is a delicate combination. When properly vented, i.e. sex, it maintains a self-driven equilibrium. Maxim #2; when out of balance, i.e. lack of immediate sexual gratification, it becomes as deadly as a fertilizer and fuel oil bomb.
So it was destined to happen. The word went out among the thin blue line that there was to be a poker party on the upcoming Friday night. There would be the usual chips, dips, beer and cards; and oh yeah, SnackCake.
Throughout the department there was a subtle tectonic shift in personal plans. Activities were cancelled and wives were placed on notice that the upcoming poker game could well determine the fate of the free world.
Over the protests of wives whose husbands had heretofore shown as much interest in cards games as in helping to plan baby showers, the movement began.
“But you NEVER play poker.”
“Can’t I take up a simple hobby without your criticism? Good God woman, remember the fate of the free world rests on the outcome of this game.”
The forces of nature converged.
The house was a typical three bedroom, one and a half bath, California style ranch about 35 years old. It had been through several sets of children and pets as well as one or two newly marrieds and a retired couple. Its walls had beheld the very basics of civilized life and family stability.
It was presently owned by two of the department’s finest. Richard Tessler and Dominic Ferrante. Tessler was a six-year patrol officer recently transferred from Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. Ferrante was a five-year patrol officer who had only recently added his first hash mark to his crisp blue uniform shirt. Both considered themselves to be the answer to the question posed by western women, “Was there life without Ferrante and Tessler?”
Although they weren’t currently radio car partners, they blended like rum and coca cola, smooth and sweet. Each had a personality that complimented the other; Tessler’s straight man to Ferrante’s set up gigs. Both represented what the police department’s recruiters looked for in their best dreams. Good physical appearance, uniforms immaculately tailored, empathy and compassion for the less fortunate. They could have been poster children for the United States Marine Corps.
Their house likewise reflected their good taste, a combination of English Gentry and hunting lodge. Their social soirees were quiet, sedate affairs carefully planned to avoid attention from the neighbors. If said neighbors ever entertained concerns about two good looking, well groomed single men with immaculate tastes in home furnishings and automobiles, they never really voiced them and needn’t have worried.
One of Ferrante’s favorite tricks, B.R. (before Rugs) was to tape record the nocturnal vocalizations of his more ardent sex partners. During particularly bestial fornication these vocalizations were known to reach high “C”. Of course no self-respecting gentleman would keep such a treasure to himself so the recordings were shared with the entire third watch at roll call.
Since Ferrante had become the undisputed master of the pinhole camera, no room in the house was safe from the all seeing, eye. As a result videos were available at discreet showings and the favored few developed an awestruck appreciation for the Chief’s new secretary.
On the eve of the poker game, which was shortly to be inducted into the police department’s hall of fame, the neighbors were being individually and discreetly told of the upcoming event. The task was relegated to Ferrante as the one with the most talented tongue. A truism attested to by many women for various reasons. His Italian good looks and his glib personality slithered their way into the hearts of his fellow homeowners.
“Mrs. Renaldi. How are you this lovely day? My, but you’ve lost weight haven’t you? You are looking good. Don’t tell Frank I said so, now. We don’t want a jealous husband on our hands do we? Incidentally, we’re planning a small (emphasis demonstrated by the placement of index finger and thumb approximately 1/8 inch apart) party.”
Or, “Hey, John. How’s it going buddy? Sylvia was asking about you. You remember Sylvia? I had her over for the pool barbeque last week: 5’2”, blond, bigggg gazongas, flesh colored thong; yeah, that one. She thought you were a hunk, man. What can I say? Ohh, incidentally…”
And so it went, the king of schmooze, preparing a carpet of foam to lessen the impending impact of the upcoming 787 wide body event.
By 7:00 p.m. on Friday night cars were starting to fill in the curb spaces in front of the neighbors’ houses. In the party house the den, living room and kitchen were starting to fill up as individuals nursed beers and shared war stories or complaints about dispatchers and their general lack of concern for the safety of their police charges.
Jolly was on his fourth Budweiser as a follow up to the twelve-pack he had consumed before leaving home. His blood alcohol content was rapidly reaching a happy functioning level of .15%.
Ferrante had been regaling two younger officers with his interpretation of a recent decision concerning racial profiling. One of the officers was having a difficult time with judicial interpretations, as they always seemed to favor the wrong set of people.
“Look, Dom. It’s just crap. If two white dudes stick up some mom and pop store no one says shit, but if some poor oppressed minority does it we can’t even stop ‘em and check ‘em out? That’s total and complete bullshit.”
“They didn’t say you couldn’t stop them, John.” Ferrante replied. “They said you couldn’t sit by the side of the road and stop every black guy or Mexican that drives by. You can’t fish for bad guys.”
“Works for me,” said the second of the two.
“Nine times out of ten you come up with something. I’d say those were good enough odds to gamble on.”
“You’re missing the whole point,” responded Ferrante. “Here, hold on, I need a refill.”
Reaching into the refrigerator Ferrante looked out the kitchen window and saw Gabrielle’s little yellow ford escort pull up to the curb. Two 1st watch guys were moving a couple of orange pylons, which had been strategically placed for just that purpose. They waved her in as though parking an airliner. She got out of the car carrying a brown Stater Bros. grocery bag and kissed both of the men on the cheek. She smiled as she walked up the sidewalk toward the house. Ferrante noted that she was wearing a light cotton blouse and a pair of shorts. “Pretty face and nice legs,” he mused, appreciatively.
The doorbell rang and there was a small buzz of conversation as she came in. Friendly greetings and some cheers rang out.
“Hey Gabby.”
“Hiya sweetie. How’s it going?”
Gabrielle acknowledged each greeting with a smile or a peck on the cheek of the greeter. She also welcomed the occasional pat on her rear end with a giggle.
Tessler entered the kitchen with his arm around the girl. He was carrying her sack.
“Look whose here,” he said.
“Hey, baby,” Ferrante cooed.
“Kiss.” He pecked her on the lips.
“Whatcha drinkin?” He asked.
“Just a beer for me” She replied. “I have to go slow tonight.”
Ferrante gave her a horrified look.
“What? No. You’ve done it. You’ve joined the convent. Our Sisters of Perpetual Orgasms.”
She giggled. “No, silly. I just need to slow down. I’ve been a little wild.”
“Wild Thang,” Crooned Ferrante.
“You make my heart sing,” echoed Tessler.
“You make everything, groovy,” they harmonized.
Someone from the other room grabbed her hand and started pulling her into the living room.
“Maybe tomorrow, then.” She smiled at Ferrante and shrugged.
He laughed and thought, “Ohh Lord.”
A poker table was set up in the dining room and a game was going. Small groups of men gathered in the hall and kitchen. The crackle of ice cubes and the clink of glasses competed with the fizz of fresh cans of beer being opened. Gabrielle Schnauchz was the only woman in the house.
No one knows how such a message is communicated. Some believe it is a telepathic phenomenon, some have held there is a change in the astral plane. Regardless of the method of conveyance, the word did indeed go out. There was a party at Ferrante and Tessler’s’ and SnackCake was in attendance.
At first it was some of the morning watch guys on days off, then a couple of sheriff’s deputies dropped by. By nine-o’clock several off duty highway patrol officers were at the door.
As the conversational noise level rose, the stereo music inched up to compensate for the discrepancy. Beer runs were being made and each time the front door was opened an undulating blanket of sound crept out onto the quiet residential street. Seismographs were beginning to pick up the slightest beginnings of energy transfer.
Snackcake was well into her sixth drink and was showing signs of loosening up. She was on the glass coffee table demonstrating her version of Madonna on PCP. The living room was packed with an appreciative audience.
Helpful volunteers had seen to it that Gabrielle’s glass was never empty and her drinks were always fresh. Fresh by police standards was guaranteed to poison the normal human. Beer had given way to rare California Chablis bottled two weeks previous. The Chablis metastasized into rum and coke and finally, rum with coke coloring.
The average person can be expected to burn off approximately one ounce of alcohol per hour. An experienced drinker like Gabrielle was better able to compensate for the effects of alcohol poisoning based, in part, on the fact that her liver was approximately the size of a regulation NFL football.
Nevertheless, as each new drink was poured it became darker and stronger until they were averaging two and a half shots of alcohol to one eighth of an ounce of Coca-Cola. It was an awesome thing to behold.
A chorus of cheers could be heard to emanate from the living room with each bump and grind.
The quiet residential street had turned into a parking lot. By eleven o’clock there were no curbside spaces available. In fact, the neighbor’s driveways were occupied, having been confiscated for this police emergency. Cars were now stacked up in such a way that no one could get in or out. As long as the doors and windows of the party house stayed closed and the rest of the neighbors remained engrossed in their evening sit-coms, the lid remained on the pot. The pot, however, was beginning to show signs of coming to a boil.
A small cluster of partygoers had assembled outside under a streetlight. A newly purchased Walther PPK in stainless .380 caliber was being passed around. Several of the admirers had already tested the weight, grip and feel of the weapon. Appreciative comments had been exchanged.
“Nice grip,” said one.
“Conceals easy, huh?” questioned another.
“The trigger pull seems a little hard,” volunteered a third as he sighted in on the overhead mercury vapor streetlight.
KAPOW!
The hammer of the small semi-automatic had traversed to the end of its design length and upon reaching that point reversed course downward at warp speed. The firing pin struck the primer of a seated round setting off yet a second chain of events.
The pressure of impact caused a compression of gasses, which generated heat, which ignited the gunpowder in the brass casing. This in turn propelled the semi-jacketed hollow point bullet in a spiraling rush down the alternately raised lands and grooves of the short barrel. The bullet, now traveling at roughly eleven hundred feet per second came into contact with the glass covering of the mercury vapor light, shattering the glass and extinguishing the light. The sequence of events occurred much faster than you could say, “Ohh Shit!”
For the briefest of moments the small group stared in stunned, disbelieving silence. The ejected casing hit the asphalt of the street with a small ting and did a little circular dance before coming to rest. The acrid aroma of gunpowder wafted up, teasing individual olfactory nerves and cementing the harsh reality of the event.
Then everyone began talking at once.
“You dumb fuck.”
“Whaddya mean? Why didn’t you tell me it was loaded?”
“Guns are ALWAYS fucking loaded, you moron.”
“Gimme that fucking thing. God Damn. What an idiot.”
“Jesus. Let’s get back inside before someone comes out.”
“Shit. How was I supposed to know?”
As the group reentered the residence they unleashed yet another amorphous mass of sound which quickly dissipated into the cool night air.
A block away, and over a screaming commercial extolling the benefits of hemorrhoid suppositories, a husband turned to his wife and asked,
“Did you hear something?”
“No. What, dear?”
“I dunno. Sounded like an explosion or something.”
“No. I didn’t hear anything,” The wife replied. “Hmmm. OK, then.” Finalized the husband.
The beast was beginning to awaken.
Years from now anthropologists may study the cause and effect of alcohol and the police mentality. Policemen today instinctively know the phenomenon as a state of “invisibility.” Simply put, it is pretty much the understanding that alcohol is an integral part of being able to cope and function in a thankless job, fraught with peril. This combined with the knowledge that since “we are the cops,” there’s no reason to worry about a gathering getting out of hand. Hence, “You owe it to us and we’re really just invisible anyway.”
The shooters had retreated to the sanctuary of the party and had lost all interest in muzzle velocity.
In the meantime SnackCake had reached up inside her blouse to perform a magic trick for her admirers. In a display of manual dexterity known only to women, she was able to remove her bra and drag it out through her right sleeve. She twirled the prize over her head a few times before tossing it into the crowd like a bridal bouquet; all without missing a step to the music. The prize was set upon by a snarling pack of semi-inebriates, each bent upon retrieving it as a personal trophy.
Now that she had broken free from the bonds of bradom, SnackCake was writhing to the music and toying with the top button of her blouse. A chant was taken up. Slowly at first, then building to a crescendo.
“yes, yes, Yes, Yes, YES, YES, YES!”
The first button opened to a cheer from the growing crowd. Three more sheriffs’ deputies and another highway patrolman drifted in, swelling the ranks to thirty-five to forty people. Later estimates would range from seventy-five to one hundred, but civilians are well known to be prone to hysteria and make poor witnesses.
In short order the remaining buttons were undone and the blouse was dragged seductively back and forth. First off one shoulder then the other. In the process an occasional glimpse could be had of one or the other pinkish brown nipples supported nicely by estimated 34C cup breasts.
The average American male will tell you that three days without sex pushes the comfort-o-meter into the discomfort range. Policemen have senses much more finely tuned due to their extensive training and will be able to tell you the exact moment the lackanookie synapse occurs. First, there is a subtle buildup of pressure which immediately triggers and internal alarm which screams “WARNING, WARNING! White count approaching critical mass.” If the warning is ignored there can be serious side effects such as impaired vision, lack of concentration and extreme irritability culminating in such classic exchanges as,
“OK, Asshole. What color traffic light would it take for you to stop for us today?”
It is widely held that the 1964 Los Angeles riots were the result of just such circumstances. In any event the conditions required for maxim #2 were fast approaching.
The music was resonating a primal beat as SnackCake, now completely caught up in the moment, abandoned all efforts to keep the front of her blouse closed. The chanting grew in intensity.
“YES, YES, YES, YES, YES!”
As she threatened to take it off altogether the crowd began to clap in time with the chanting. With a whoop she pulled the blouse off and threw it overhead into the seething mass of testosterone where it was promptly digested. Now divested of all topside encumbrances, Snackcake began to dance in earnest. The glistening of sweat shone brightly on finely proportioned breasts. They began a dance of their own in time with the music. Gabrielle was happy, her breasts were happy and the law enforcement community was exceedingly happy.
Holding up a far corner of the living room wall was Harry Link. Harry was a ten-year veteran who neither drank nor smoked nor engaged in wild sex (or any sex for that matter). It was well known Harry’s wife who was 80-100 pounds overweight and 80-100 years old had sworn him off such disgusting behavior for his own good. Harry was 40ish and balding. He was slightly built and wore Clark Kent frames for his glasses rather than the killer cool Gargoyles worn by the young, with it crew. In fact, he went without sunglasses altogether. No one could understand how he could possible function as a policeman without sunglasses.
Harry had been kidnapped and taken to the party. He had originally asked for a ride home from one on the young lions and was preparing his thoughts for a scintillating night of crossword puzzles when he realized he wasn’t going home.
“Where are you going?” Harry asked.
“Just to see a friend for a couple of minutes,” replied the young lion.
Content with his own understanding of “a couple of minutes” Harry reverted to Aardvark, 8 across and Docile, 6 down.
Once they reached the party, Harry was told he “just HAD to stop in for two minutes.”
As Harry stepped inside and was recognized, cheers of welcome and camaraderie greeted him. No one could ever remember sighting Harry at any social gathering. A beer was thrust into his hand. Three beers later Harry was practically blind.
Freud contended the human psyche was made up of ego, superego and id. The id was the beast of basic raw emotion and impulsive childlike needs. It was kept in check by the ego and superego. Freud postulated on the dangers of an unchecked id left to run amuck. Freud would have loved Harry Link.
SnackCake was now working on the top button of her shorts. With breasts bouncing in time to the music and rear end rotating in a counter clockwise direction she was the dance floor equivalent of rubbing your stomach and patting your head. The button popped open and the zipper started its downward journey. The room went wild. Harry was transfixed.
The shorts came off and disappeared into the gaping maw of the beast. All that remained between heaven and earth was a thin layer of pink polyester. Harry moved off the wall. SnackCake turned her back to the crowded room, bent over and dropped the panty level by two inches. The crowd roared. She faced the room and thrust her pelvis forward and repeated the procedure. The crowd went wild. For Harry, time stood still.
The seismograph jumped.
Several years ago Gabrielle had taken to wearing thongs in lieu of your basic two-piece bathing suit. The response was better but it required much more attention to detail. During a particularly difficult shaving process one day she elected to throw caution to the winds. From that day forward she decided to go to what the French refer as ‘sans muff’.
SnackCake had now reached the point of intoxication that overrides the common sense safety switch each of us have imbedded in our brains. She had, in effect, become invisible. Throwing her panties into the air she sat down naked on the coffee table for the grand finale. Bracing her arms behind her she extended her legs at a 45-degree angle into the air and opened wide.
Harry had never before seen a deforested beaver and at that very moment he snapped, unleashing the id from hell. Rushing forward and falling to his knees he thrust his face deeply into Snack’s cake, sinking up to his ears. Gabrielle let out a squeal of pleased surprise; the crowd went nuts and began to chant,
“HAR-RY, HAR-RY, HAR-RY.”
Ferrante turned to Tessler and quipped,
“What a cunning Link he is.”
Harry had lost all sense of propriety. Throwing off his clothes he fell on Snackcake dragging her to the deep pile carpet where he began to fornicate like a demented hare. Since this was the cue everyone had been waiting for, a conga line formed around the living room. A voice from the line paraphrased,
“From each according to her ability, to each according to his needs. Damn fitting, if you ask me.”
Harry’s long awaited reintroduction to labia majora resulted in an eruption of epic proportion. Sated, drunk beyond living memory and naked, he crawled around the living room floor. He finally managed to pull a pair of white jockey shorts over his head and crawl out the back door. He promptly passed out under an oleander bush.
Much later, in another home, a wife would awaken and interrogate her husband as to why he was wearing a pair of red polka dot boxers when he didn’t own any.
Gabrielle would surpass her record of achievement in pleasing the multitudes. In fact it was suggested the Guinness Book of World Records might be contacted. This idea was quickly abandoned when someone pointed out that names might have to be mentioned. Ferrante and Tessler became local folk heroes and were privately awarded the silver goblet for best party of the century.
Rumors floated up to the Internal Affairs unit of certain departmental improprieties. An investigation was briefly considered then abandoned when it was determined the city could not afford to lose over one third of its law enforcement personnel. The whole affair was quietly shoved under the table in expectation that it would not reemerge in the form of citizen’s complaints.
Tales From The Hood - Mitchell
Tales From The Hood - Chapter 3 - Mitchell
By Ron De Laby
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once - Shakespeare
While Malorie and Jon contemplated each other over steaks and wine, the inhabitants of the city continued to invent new and ever more challenging situations for the Patrol Division officers. A short distance away and slightly south of the happy diners a new incident was about to unfold.
“Sam Fifty-five, Sam five-five.”
The radio transmission broke through his train of thought. Francis “Frank” Mitchell had been a policeman for sixteen years and a uniformed patrol sergeant for six. In this time he had attained the ability to filter out the constant stream of police radio traffic. Like most veteran officers he listened for two or three “triggers”: a breathless voice of an officer signifying a need for assistance; an alert tone signaling a hot call; and his call sign.
“Sam,” or sergeant 5-5 was third in seniority in the patrol division and was pretty much able to run the shift according to his comfort level.
“Sam 5-5, Magnolia and Terracina,” he responded, giving his location.
“Sam 5-5, channel 4,” the dispatcher instructed.
Reaching down to the radio console he switched to the talk-around frequency. The tactic of requesting a field supervisor to go to a talk-around channel did two things. It took him off the main frequency and immediately away from the prying ears of the general public. It also alerted him that the upcoming radio traffic was either out of the ordinary or was of such little consequence as to not warrant tying up the main frequency.
“Sam 5-5 on four,” he announced.
“Robert Eleven to Sam 5-5. See us at 14th and Brockton.”
The voice belonged to Daniel Linton; a three-year officer working a downtown beat. His voice betrayed no emotion and the request was routine enough. Ever alert for the possibility of problems on his shift, Mitchell was constantly analyzing everything, which came his way. It was one of the basic rules for survival in this game.
“Sam Fifty-Five, 10-4,” he responded.
The communication trick was to say as little as possible, revealing nothing to the outside world. Mentally translating the call he rapidly came to the conclusion this was not going to be good news. The “us” in the request meant that at least two units were about to embark on some problem and such problems had a way of escalating into tactical operations. Francis Mitchell hated tactical operations with a passion. In such situations, it would never fail that someone either got hurt or something got broken and contrary to the laws of nature, shit did indeed roll uphill.
He leaned forward around the steering wheel, craning his neck to see if he could find the moon. A full moon, weird though it may seem, would only worsen the situation, whatever it might be. Unable to locate any warning of such impending disaster he contented himself to drive to the requested meeting.
Accelerating from the traffic light he was pulling into an abandoned gas station at the designated location. As he entered the driveway he noted the presence of two police black and white units and a large red fire truck. The two uniformed officers were talking to a fire captain, Mitchell’s equivalent rank in the fire department.
He pulled up to the group and exited his vehicle. One of the officers approached him from the large pumper truck.
“What’s up, Danny?” he asked, trying to be as pleasant as possible.
“Hey, Sarge,” responded the officer.
“That gentleman over there with the bathrobe on is Mr. Harvey,” he said pointing to a civilian standing with the small group of emergency service personnel. “He lives in an apartment in that building over there.” He spun about forty-five degrees to the left and pointed to an old house across the street.
“Mr. Harvey and his, ahh, friend, Mr. Willis, seem to have had a domestic disagreement earlier tonight. This was about a half hour ago,” said Linton, consulting his watch. “They were watching television and Mr. Willis started in on him about one thing or another and it degenerated into a regular old family beef. Mr. Harvey tried to get him to calm down but he just got worse, so Mr. Harvey left and called us.”
“So?” Mitchell knew the punch line had to be shortly forthcoming. This was far too easy and he wasn’t lucky enough to be able to walk away from a call like this without it developing into a disaster of biblical proportions.
“Well, It seems Mr. Willis is still in the apartment over there and is somewhat suicidal.”
He pointed to a three-story, ancient wood frame structure across the street. The house was a typical turn of the century residence gone to seed. It was one of many such homes which had been converted into any number of cramped, dingy apartments for low or no income residents. Given a few more weeks, some drunk would probably burn it down with a forgotten cigarette dropped on a flea-infested sofa.
“Yeah?” responded Mitchell, his anxiety level cautiously dropping somewhat. Suicidal homosexuals were not high on the list of tactical emergencies this evening.
“Well,” continued Linton, “It gets a little dicey from here. It seems Mr. Willis’ means of departing this life is by way of a stick of dynamite.”
The red tactical warning light in Mitchell’s brain began to flash again. He looked around again for a full-orbed moon to confirm his fears. Still nothing. He turned his attention back to the officer.
“Yeah?” he responded, ever so calmly.
“Well, it seems he also has a blasting cap and has stripped the insulation on the end of the wires down to the copper,” Linton continued.
“He has been sitting on the floor next to an electrical outlet, very despondent and quietly getting very drunk. Now, he figures that if he jams the blasting cap into the stick and shoves the wires into the outlet, it will blow up and kill him. I figure he’s right. What do you think?” He stood there with his head tilted and his left eyebrow raised a half-inch as though to add emphasis to the question.
“Yep, that would probably work,” Mitchell replied.
Mitchell had visions of the review board demanding to know why he wasn’t able to anticipate and prevent this disaster from occurring. “I knew it. I just knew it.” He thought. He reached into the right front pocket of his uniform trousers and extracted a half eaten roll of Maalox anti-acid tablets. He bit off a couple from the roll, spitting the tiny bit of foil wrapping on the asphalt parking lot. He chewed and swallowed the paste as quickly as possible, noting with pleasure the immediate cooling of the fire in his belly.
“God bless Mr. Maa and Mr. Lox,” he thought. If it weren’t for the wonders of pharmaceutical science, he would have been a candidate for a stomach operation or retirement several years ago. As it was, he was just able to keep the pain under control with a rather large amount of anti-acid tablets.
“Where is he?” he asked, struggling to maintain a “don’t give a shit” expression on his face.
It was always best if the patrol officers felt their Sergeant was on top of the situation and wasn’t worried about the outcome. In truth, Mitchell worried about everything and everyone. He knew exactly how many years, months, days, and hours he had left before he could retire from this insanity. If his stomach held out he would open a nursery and tend to roses for the rest of his life. If it didn’t, well there was always a medical retirement. He often wondered just how bad it had to get before he qualified. He had always meant to ask someone but was afraid the word would get out that he was thinking about it and he would be in some other kind of trouble. “Well, the best we can get from Mr. Harvey,” the patrol officer droned on. “is that Mr. Willis is against the north wall in one of the ground floor apartments. We have a map over here.” He pointed in the direction of the units.
They began to walk toward one of the patrol cars where the remaining participants to the unfolding drama gathered around a crude drawing of the apartment’s interior. Mitchell glanced at the apartment again. Bone dry and flimsy from age, it would present a problem if there were an explosion. There might be as many as five or six different apartments in the house. Now he understood the reason for the fire truck. His mind flashed between instant visions of the apartment flying apart like so many Popsicle sticks and a review board seated at a long bench. In his vision the members of the review board always wore black hoods and burning torches suspended from the walls lighted the room.
“God, I hate this shit,” he thought.
“Okay,” he replied, forcing a smile.
“What about evacuating the remaining tenants?” asked Mitchell.
“We probably don’t have a whole lot of time to play with,” said Linton. “He’s been nipping at a fifth of Jack Daniels for most of the day now, and Mr. Harvey thinks he’s pretty much in the bag. He’s liable to go over the edge any time.”
“Wonderful,” he thought. “Just fucking wonderful. This moron is going to blow himself into puree and doesn’t give a shit about anyone else.”
“Okay,” said Mitchell. “Stand by for a minute,” he told the others.
Walking over to a pay phone at the corner of the gas station lot he began to formulate a plan in his mind. He stared morosely at the number attached to the phone for a long while, finally speaking into his hand held radio.
“Sam 5-5.”
“Sam Fifty-Five.” The dispatcher responded.
“Sam 5-5, Ten-Twenty-One 68-3-9575.”
He gave her the number of the pay phone, keeping his voice deliberately neutral.
The local newspaper had a scanner going all the time. He hoped the little bespeckled titmouse monitoring the police radio traffic was missing the significance of this unfolding drama. What he absolutely didn’t need was press reporters and photographers climbing all over the potential crime scene and getting in everyone’s way. Those idiots were the first to scream their rights were violated if they were kept safely out of harm’s way, but the first to complain the cops weren’t doing enough to protect them when they finally did get hurt.
He recalled a horrible plane crash into a residence a few years back. He had just sat down to dinner when the alert tone went off on his hand held radio. The crash was two blocks away. He remembered tearing out of the house and rolling up on the scene of a small plane embedded nose first into a carport. The passengers were momentarily still alive in the rear of the aircraft, which was fully engulfed in flames. A press photographer, in his ghoulish need to obtain the best photograph ever of barbequed passengers, managed to knock over a large light fixture and interfere with the fire department’s attempt to douse the AV-GAS fire. One of the firemen took after him in foot pursuit with a small hand ax, intent on burying it in his head. The press ghoul only escaped because the weight of the fireman’s equipment slowed him down. The deputy chief had arrived at the scene and when Frank explained the problem to him he replied, “If he comes back, book him.” God he loved that kind of attitude.
“3-9-5-7-5, Ten-Four.” The dispatcher confirmed the telephone number.
The phone rang once and he answered.
“Mitchell.”
“Hey Frank, Larry.” The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Larry Fletcher, the communication’s supervisor.
“Look, we’ve got a pending tactical situation here,” said Mitchell.
He kept his demeanor totally professional. The beep on the phone line every five seconds reminding him the line and all conversations were being taped. Since the conversation would likely be subpoenaed, whatever he said would be replayed for a jury somewhere down the road. It simply wouldn’t do to make disparaging remarks about the sexual proclivities of the players. Everyone on the department was painfully aware of the effects of a random comment. A few years ago a hapless patrolman had been trapped on the witness stand and had a taped conversation played back. He was then made to explain to the jury exactly what he meant by the defendant’s “Humongo tits.”
He continued: “Get a 10-21 from Robert Twenty and Robert Thirty and have them meet us at 14th and Brockton. You might want to notify Community E.R. to stand by in case this situation deteriorates and have Mercy roll a unit to my location, but advise them I want no lights and siren. NO code. I don’t need to draw a crowd.” “Gotcha,” replied Fletcher. We’ll keep the operation on channel four for you. Is there anyone else you want us to notify?”
“Not yet,” said Mitchell. “Just transfer me to the watch commander so I can get that over with.” Fletcher snorted. “Good luck.”
The watch commander was Lieutenant Gene Gordon, a senile old toad who, while insisting on micromanaging his field sergeants in excruciating detail, always managed to keep himself out of the loop if anything went sideways. It was a common joke that during pending tactical operations he spent more time in the station bathroom then he did at the watch commander’s desk, thereby being better able to invoke plausible deniability. He would never volunteer to manage any such field problem, a fact greatly appreciated by all of the sergeants who had the sad misfortune to work under his supervision.
“Watch commander, Lieutenant Gordon,” said the voice in the telephone earpiece.
“You know it’s me, you freaking moron,” thought Mitchell. “Fletcher told you I was on the line. You’re doing this for the benefit of the recording, you bleeding asshole.”
“Lieutenant, it’s Mitchell,” he kept his voice deliberately calm. No small feat, considering the circumstances. “I just wanted to give you a heads up on a situation we have out here at Brockton and 14th. It may develop into a tactical operation and I wanted you to know in case you wanted to take charge.”
“Take that, you chickenshit,” thought Mitchell. “Two can play at this game. Now try and tell everyone you didn’t know what was going on.” The taped line gave a resounding beep.
There was a long silence on the line. Mitchell could hear the gears turning in Gordon’s head as he tried desperately to rectify the damaging statement.
“Well, ahh, yes Sergeant Mitchell.” He said Mitchell’s name with more emphasis than was necessary.
“I, ahh, that is to say, I’ll be available if you need me, of course. However, I don’t want you to go off on one of your overreactions on this probable minor incident. Do you hear me? I don’t want you to do your cowboy thing here.”
“Cowboy thing?” Mitchell gritted his teeth to within a quarter ounce of cracking the enamel.
“Yes sir, I understand perfectly, Lieutenant but I’m certain the men will feel much better with you in charge.”
“Well now, Sergeant Mitchell,” again the emphasis. “How will you ever develop your potential if I have to come hold your hand every time something happens in the field? You just make certain you keep me posted on this and be sure not to get in over your head.”
“Yes sir, Lieutenant. I’ll be sure to do that.” He hung up the phone very deliberately so as to avoid damaging the receiver. Reaching into his pocket he retrieved yet another Maalox and crunched it to paste. He then ate a second one for good measure.
Mitchell had done everything he could think of to try and mitigate future civil repercussions in the event innocent people were injured or killed.
Turning back to the group of emergency personnel he began to formulate a plan of action.
“Mr. Harvey,” he said as he approached the spurned lover. “Let’s take a look at that diagram again.”
The two additionally requested black and whites pulled into the parking lot. The officers joined the growing crowd and Mitchell filled them in on the operation.
“Okay, listen up. We don’t have a lot of time here. In fact, I don’t think we have enough time to do anything but try and neutralize this situation.” He motioned toward two of the officers.
“John. Dan. I want you to come with me. Hank and Pete, I want traffic rerouted away from this block. Cordon off the area; no traffic gets through, period. Okay?” The officers nodded their understanding.
“Captain…” He looked at the fire captain’s nametag, “Henkins. You know best where to deploy your people. If we have an explosion it’ll be a one-time thing unless we have a fire or if he’s close to a gas main. If you want to bring in another rig, you might want to do so now. But if you bring in more equipment, please be sure to tell them to come in quietly. No lights, no sirens. As for us, I don’t see where we have a choice at this point and I’m afraid we’re out of time. I’m taking my people and we’re going in.”
“I can set up our command post across the street and cover the house from there,” replied the fire captain. “If we bring in additional units I’d like to place them there and there.” He pointed to two additional locations on the adjoining streets.
“I don’t have a problem with that,” replied Mitchell. I just need a clear lane to get my people in and out and to be certain we have room for the ambulance if it’s needed.”
The fire captain nodded in agreement and turned away, speaking into his own hand held radio, eternally grateful he had chosen the fire profession. Everyone loved firemen, even if the building burned down
Frank motioned for the two officers to accompany him and the three uniforms crossed the street to the rear of the apartment building. Once near the back door, Mitchell assessed the situation once again.
“Okay,” he said as the two officers gathered next to him and studied the hand drawn diagram by flashlight.
“Here’s what we do. Fire team set up. Flashlights when we go in. He should be against the back wall, here.” He pointed to the map.
“John, you’re in first. Break right and look for the light switch on the wall. Dan, you follow and break left, same drill. I’ll come in straight across the room. As soon as we isolate him, watch his hands. If he moves to stick those wires in the wall socket shoot him. Do you understand? John? Understand?” The two officers nodded their acknowledgement.
“Dear God. What did I just commit us to?” Thought Mitchell.
“All right, we go in as quietly and as quickly as possible. No noise,” Mitchell whispered as they moved up to the landing. The three wooden steps led up to a battered screened in porch. The screen itself was full of holes and was peeling in sections like the curled page of a damp magazine. The weary old door was held shut by a rusted spring, which complained loudly upon being forced to perform. It emitted an eerie screech that silenced even the ever-present crickets.
Suddenly the sounds of multiple sirens cut through the still night. The fire units were responding with full emergency equipment including the huge foghorns to clear traffic at the intersections.
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Mitchell. The fire units had either not gotten the word or were handling things on their own. It was time to move.
“Go, Go, Go,” he urged.
On his signal they rushed the door. The beams of flashlights shone like beacons in the darkened room, searching for their suspect. A flashlight beam identified a dark bundle on the floor. The wall switch was located and the room was suddenly bathed in light. A body lay face down on the floor. There was no sign of the explosive device.
“Keep him covered,” said Mitchell. The two officers moved into position, firearms extended in a combat stance, ready to fire at the slightest provocation.
“Okay, turn him over slowly. Watch his hands.”
“He’s probably passed out,” offered one of the policemen.
As the body rolled over the whole lower torso was covered in blood. Bits of flesh and clothing were scattered about. The smell of burnt explosive was in the air, noticeable for the first time.
“Where’s the device?” Shouted Mitchell. “Find the damned dynamite.”
“Sarge, look.” Said Linton. He pointed to two pieces of copper wire lying nearby; the insulation was stripped on one end and burned and melted on the other.
“Did he set it off already?” Asked the other patrolman. “When did he do that? I didn’t hear anything.”
“Damn! The sonofabitch blew himself up before we got here!” Said Linton. “No, no. Wait. Here it is. Here’s the dynamite, under a leg. It’s intact. What’s with that?”
Mitchell took a closer look at the damage.
“I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed. “here, check it out. He pulled the blasting cap from the dynamite as he leaned forward and by the time he made contact with the outlet the cap was resting practically in his lap. BLAM! No balls.”
“Sam Fifty –Five,” Mitchell spoke into his radio.
“Sam 5-5,” the dispatcher was quick to respond. She had obviously been briefed about the potential seriousness of the investigation and was eager to help.
“Sam 5-5, code 4. Roll Mercy in here.”
“Sam Fifty-Five, 10-4, mercy is standing by your location. Will advise.”
The dispatcher turned to her counterpart at the radio console and smiled broadly each sharing a high five.
A few moments later the additional siren of Mercy could be heard. At least this one was welcomed. The ambulance personnel entered through the rickety screen door and hurriedly set up near the body.
“What happened?” a paramedic asked Mitchell.
Mitchell briefly explained what he knew. The attendants cut away the torn and charred clothing and made a cursory examination of the body.
“He’s alive,” said a paramedic. “But he’s lost a lot of blood.”
“We’re transporting,” said the other. “Let’s get him on the gurney and out of here.”
Mitchell and his officers helped clear a path for the ambulance personnel to wheel the torn and battered Mr. Willis out the door and into the waiting ambulance. Curious neighbors were starting to gather. The two uniformed officers went about gathering names and piecing together statements. A short time later, Linton as the handling officer met with Mitchell at Community E.R. Mitchell was already consulting with an emergency room physician.
As Linton approached the discussion Mitchell turned to him.
“Got anything?” he asked.
“Well Sarge, one of the neighbors reported hearing a muffled explosion earlier in the evening. The time would coincide with Mr. Harvey’s calling dispatch. So it looks like he did the deed even before we got the call.”
“Why didn’t the neighbor call it in?” Mitchell inquired.
“I asked him that, Sarge. He was pretty drunk anyway and said that he was used to a lot of banging and crashing from that apartment. Seems like Mr. Harvey and Mr. Willis used to fight a lot.”
Mitchell turned back to the doctor. “Well, that’s what we have so far,” he said.
A second physician, draped in green scrubs, came around the corner and approached the group. Harvey could be seen through the half windows of the E.R. doors, pacing back and forth, waiting to hear the condition of his life partner. He was wringing his hands and moaning softly to himself. “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”
“It looks like he’ll live,” said the O.R. doctor.
“We have an avulsed right thigh and he’s lost his testicles and penis to the explosion. He has a perforated bowel but we were able to repair that much. We had to remove a length of intestine. There isn’t anything we can do about the rest. He’s going to have to sit down when he uses the bathroom from now on, I’m afraid.”
“Thanks Doc,” said Mitchell.
The Doctor went through the swinging doors and took Mr. Harvey aside. He began to explain the results of the operation to him. Harvey let out a plaintive wail, which resounded throughout the E.R.
“What the hell started all of this in the first place?” inquired Mitchell.
“Well, Sarge,” replied Linton. “As best I can make out, Mr. Harvey was always complaining about Mr. Willis. There was a disagreement as to the respective roles in this, ahh, relationship. It seems that both of them wanted to be the, ahh, guy. Harvey insisted Willis take a more submissive role, because as he said…” Linton flipped through the pages of his notebook.
“Ohh, here it is. He wanted Mr. Willis to be more submissive because, as he said, ‘I’m the one with the balls in this relationship.’”
“Well.” Quipped Mitchell. “It looks like he got his wish. I’d better call old guts and glory and fill him in on what’s happening.”
Mitchell dialed the watch commander’s line from the nurse’s station. After three rings a dispatcher answered the line.
“Watch Commander’s Office,” she said.
“Linda? This is Frank. Where’s the lieutenant? I need to fill him in on what’s happening.”
“Hi Sarge,” she responded. “He can’t come to the phone right now, he’s in the men’s room.”
By Ron De Laby
Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once - Shakespeare
While Malorie and Jon contemplated each other over steaks and wine, the inhabitants of the city continued to invent new and ever more challenging situations for the Patrol Division officers. A short distance away and slightly south of the happy diners a new incident was about to unfold.
“Sam Fifty-five, Sam five-five.”
The radio transmission broke through his train of thought. Francis “Frank” Mitchell had been a policeman for sixteen years and a uniformed patrol sergeant for six. In this time he had attained the ability to filter out the constant stream of police radio traffic. Like most veteran officers he listened for two or three “triggers”: a breathless voice of an officer signifying a need for assistance; an alert tone signaling a hot call; and his call sign.
“Sam,” or sergeant 5-5 was third in seniority in the patrol division and was pretty much able to run the shift according to his comfort level.
“Sam 5-5, Magnolia and Terracina,” he responded, giving his location.
“Sam 5-5, channel 4,” the dispatcher instructed.
Reaching down to the radio console he switched to the talk-around frequency. The tactic of requesting a field supervisor to go to a talk-around channel did two things. It took him off the main frequency and immediately away from the prying ears of the general public. It also alerted him that the upcoming radio traffic was either out of the ordinary or was of such little consequence as to not warrant tying up the main frequency.
“Sam 5-5 on four,” he announced.
“Robert Eleven to Sam 5-5. See us at 14th and Brockton.”
The voice belonged to Daniel Linton; a three-year officer working a downtown beat. His voice betrayed no emotion and the request was routine enough. Ever alert for the possibility of problems on his shift, Mitchell was constantly analyzing everything, which came his way. It was one of the basic rules for survival in this game.
“Sam Fifty-Five, 10-4,” he responded.
The communication trick was to say as little as possible, revealing nothing to the outside world. Mentally translating the call he rapidly came to the conclusion this was not going to be good news. The “us” in the request meant that at least two units were about to embark on some problem and such problems had a way of escalating into tactical operations. Francis Mitchell hated tactical operations with a passion. In such situations, it would never fail that someone either got hurt or something got broken and contrary to the laws of nature, shit did indeed roll uphill.
He leaned forward around the steering wheel, craning his neck to see if he could find the moon. A full moon, weird though it may seem, would only worsen the situation, whatever it might be. Unable to locate any warning of such impending disaster he contented himself to drive to the requested meeting.
Accelerating from the traffic light he was pulling into an abandoned gas station at the designated location. As he entered the driveway he noted the presence of two police black and white units and a large red fire truck. The two uniformed officers were talking to a fire captain, Mitchell’s equivalent rank in the fire department.
He pulled up to the group and exited his vehicle. One of the officers approached him from the large pumper truck.
“What’s up, Danny?” he asked, trying to be as pleasant as possible.
“Hey, Sarge,” responded the officer.
“That gentleman over there with the bathrobe on is Mr. Harvey,” he said pointing to a civilian standing with the small group of emergency service personnel. “He lives in an apartment in that building over there.” He spun about forty-five degrees to the left and pointed to an old house across the street.
“Mr. Harvey and his, ahh, friend, Mr. Willis, seem to have had a domestic disagreement earlier tonight. This was about a half hour ago,” said Linton, consulting his watch. “They were watching television and Mr. Willis started in on him about one thing or another and it degenerated into a regular old family beef. Mr. Harvey tried to get him to calm down but he just got worse, so Mr. Harvey left and called us.”
“So?” Mitchell knew the punch line had to be shortly forthcoming. This was far too easy and he wasn’t lucky enough to be able to walk away from a call like this without it developing into a disaster of biblical proportions.
“Well, It seems Mr. Willis is still in the apartment over there and is somewhat suicidal.”
He pointed to a three-story, ancient wood frame structure across the street. The house was a typical turn of the century residence gone to seed. It was one of many such homes which had been converted into any number of cramped, dingy apartments for low or no income residents. Given a few more weeks, some drunk would probably burn it down with a forgotten cigarette dropped on a flea-infested sofa.
“Yeah?” responded Mitchell, his anxiety level cautiously dropping somewhat. Suicidal homosexuals were not high on the list of tactical emergencies this evening.
“Well,” continued Linton, “It gets a little dicey from here. It seems Mr. Willis’ means of departing this life is by way of a stick of dynamite.”
The red tactical warning light in Mitchell’s brain began to flash again. He looked around again for a full-orbed moon to confirm his fears. Still nothing. He turned his attention back to the officer.
“Yeah?” he responded, ever so calmly.
“Well, it seems he also has a blasting cap and has stripped the insulation on the end of the wires down to the copper,” Linton continued.
“He has been sitting on the floor next to an electrical outlet, very despondent and quietly getting very drunk. Now, he figures that if he jams the blasting cap into the stick and shoves the wires into the outlet, it will blow up and kill him. I figure he’s right. What do you think?” He stood there with his head tilted and his left eyebrow raised a half-inch as though to add emphasis to the question.
“Yep, that would probably work,” Mitchell replied.
Mitchell had visions of the review board demanding to know why he wasn’t able to anticipate and prevent this disaster from occurring. “I knew it. I just knew it.” He thought. He reached into the right front pocket of his uniform trousers and extracted a half eaten roll of Maalox anti-acid tablets. He bit off a couple from the roll, spitting the tiny bit of foil wrapping on the asphalt parking lot. He chewed and swallowed the paste as quickly as possible, noting with pleasure the immediate cooling of the fire in his belly.
“God bless Mr. Maa and Mr. Lox,” he thought. If it weren’t for the wonders of pharmaceutical science, he would have been a candidate for a stomach operation or retirement several years ago. As it was, he was just able to keep the pain under control with a rather large amount of anti-acid tablets.
“Where is he?” he asked, struggling to maintain a “don’t give a shit” expression on his face.
It was always best if the patrol officers felt their Sergeant was on top of the situation and wasn’t worried about the outcome. In truth, Mitchell worried about everything and everyone. He knew exactly how many years, months, days, and hours he had left before he could retire from this insanity. If his stomach held out he would open a nursery and tend to roses for the rest of his life. If it didn’t, well there was always a medical retirement. He often wondered just how bad it had to get before he qualified. He had always meant to ask someone but was afraid the word would get out that he was thinking about it and he would be in some other kind of trouble. “Well, the best we can get from Mr. Harvey,” the patrol officer droned on. “is that Mr. Willis is against the north wall in one of the ground floor apartments. We have a map over here.” He pointed in the direction of the units.
They began to walk toward one of the patrol cars where the remaining participants to the unfolding drama gathered around a crude drawing of the apartment’s interior. Mitchell glanced at the apartment again. Bone dry and flimsy from age, it would present a problem if there were an explosion. There might be as many as five or six different apartments in the house. Now he understood the reason for the fire truck. His mind flashed between instant visions of the apartment flying apart like so many Popsicle sticks and a review board seated at a long bench. In his vision the members of the review board always wore black hoods and burning torches suspended from the walls lighted the room.
“God, I hate this shit,” he thought.
“Okay,” he replied, forcing a smile.
“What about evacuating the remaining tenants?” asked Mitchell.
“We probably don’t have a whole lot of time to play with,” said Linton. “He’s been nipping at a fifth of Jack Daniels for most of the day now, and Mr. Harvey thinks he’s pretty much in the bag. He’s liable to go over the edge any time.”
“Wonderful,” he thought. “Just fucking wonderful. This moron is going to blow himself into puree and doesn’t give a shit about anyone else.”
“Okay,” said Mitchell. “Stand by for a minute,” he told the others.
Walking over to a pay phone at the corner of the gas station lot he began to formulate a plan in his mind. He stared morosely at the number attached to the phone for a long while, finally speaking into his hand held radio.
“Sam 5-5.”
“Sam Fifty-Five.” The dispatcher responded.
“Sam 5-5, Ten-Twenty-One 68-3-9575.”
He gave her the number of the pay phone, keeping his voice deliberately neutral.
The local newspaper had a scanner going all the time. He hoped the little bespeckled titmouse monitoring the police radio traffic was missing the significance of this unfolding drama. What he absolutely didn’t need was press reporters and photographers climbing all over the potential crime scene and getting in everyone’s way. Those idiots were the first to scream their rights were violated if they were kept safely out of harm’s way, but the first to complain the cops weren’t doing enough to protect them when they finally did get hurt.
He recalled a horrible plane crash into a residence a few years back. He had just sat down to dinner when the alert tone went off on his hand held radio. The crash was two blocks away. He remembered tearing out of the house and rolling up on the scene of a small plane embedded nose first into a carport. The passengers were momentarily still alive in the rear of the aircraft, which was fully engulfed in flames. A press photographer, in his ghoulish need to obtain the best photograph ever of barbequed passengers, managed to knock over a large light fixture and interfere with the fire department’s attempt to douse the AV-GAS fire. One of the firemen took after him in foot pursuit with a small hand ax, intent on burying it in his head. The press ghoul only escaped because the weight of the fireman’s equipment slowed him down. The deputy chief had arrived at the scene and when Frank explained the problem to him he replied, “If he comes back, book him.” God he loved that kind of attitude.
“3-9-5-7-5, Ten-Four.” The dispatcher confirmed the telephone number.
The phone rang once and he answered.
“Mitchell.”
“Hey Frank, Larry.” The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Larry Fletcher, the communication’s supervisor.
“Look, we’ve got a pending tactical situation here,” said Mitchell.
He kept his demeanor totally professional. The beep on the phone line every five seconds reminding him the line and all conversations were being taped. Since the conversation would likely be subpoenaed, whatever he said would be replayed for a jury somewhere down the road. It simply wouldn’t do to make disparaging remarks about the sexual proclivities of the players. Everyone on the department was painfully aware of the effects of a random comment. A few years ago a hapless patrolman had been trapped on the witness stand and had a taped conversation played back. He was then made to explain to the jury exactly what he meant by the defendant’s “Humongo tits.”
He continued: “Get a 10-21 from Robert Twenty and Robert Thirty and have them meet us at 14th and Brockton. You might want to notify Community E.R. to stand by in case this situation deteriorates and have Mercy roll a unit to my location, but advise them I want no lights and siren. NO code. I don’t need to draw a crowd.” “Gotcha,” replied Fletcher. We’ll keep the operation on channel four for you. Is there anyone else you want us to notify?”
“Not yet,” said Mitchell. “Just transfer me to the watch commander so I can get that over with.” Fletcher snorted. “Good luck.”
The watch commander was Lieutenant Gene Gordon, a senile old toad who, while insisting on micromanaging his field sergeants in excruciating detail, always managed to keep himself out of the loop if anything went sideways. It was a common joke that during pending tactical operations he spent more time in the station bathroom then he did at the watch commander’s desk, thereby being better able to invoke plausible deniability. He would never volunteer to manage any such field problem, a fact greatly appreciated by all of the sergeants who had the sad misfortune to work under his supervision.
“Watch commander, Lieutenant Gordon,” said the voice in the telephone earpiece.
“You know it’s me, you freaking moron,” thought Mitchell. “Fletcher told you I was on the line. You’re doing this for the benefit of the recording, you bleeding asshole.”
“Lieutenant, it’s Mitchell,” he kept his voice deliberately calm. No small feat, considering the circumstances. “I just wanted to give you a heads up on a situation we have out here at Brockton and 14th. It may develop into a tactical operation and I wanted you to know in case you wanted to take charge.”
“Take that, you chickenshit,” thought Mitchell. “Two can play at this game. Now try and tell everyone you didn’t know what was going on.” The taped line gave a resounding beep.
There was a long silence on the line. Mitchell could hear the gears turning in Gordon’s head as he tried desperately to rectify the damaging statement.
“Well, ahh, yes Sergeant Mitchell.” He said Mitchell’s name with more emphasis than was necessary.
“I, ahh, that is to say, I’ll be available if you need me, of course. However, I don’t want you to go off on one of your overreactions on this probable minor incident. Do you hear me? I don’t want you to do your cowboy thing here.”
“Cowboy thing?” Mitchell gritted his teeth to within a quarter ounce of cracking the enamel.
“Yes sir, I understand perfectly, Lieutenant but I’m certain the men will feel much better with you in charge.”
“Well now, Sergeant Mitchell,” again the emphasis. “How will you ever develop your potential if I have to come hold your hand every time something happens in the field? You just make certain you keep me posted on this and be sure not to get in over your head.”
“Yes sir, Lieutenant. I’ll be sure to do that.” He hung up the phone very deliberately so as to avoid damaging the receiver. Reaching into his pocket he retrieved yet another Maalox and crunched it to paste. He then ate a second one for good measure.
Mitchell had done everything he could think of to try and mitigate future civil repercussions in the event innocent people were injured or killed.
Turning back to the group of emergency personnel he began to formulate a plan of action.
“Mr. Harvey,” he said as he approached the spurned lover. “Let’s take a look at that diagram again.”
The two additionally requested black and whites pulled into the parking lot. The officers joined the growing crowd and Mitchell filled them in on the operation.
“Okay, listen up. We don’t have a lot of time here. In fact, I don’t think we have enough time to do anything but try and neutralize this situation.” He motioned toward two of the officers.
“John. Dan. I want you to come with me. Hank and Pete, I want traffic rerouted away from this block. Cordon off the area; no traffic gets through, period. Okay?” The officers nodded their understanding.
“Captain…” He looked at the fire captain’s nametag, “Henkins. You know best where to deploy your people. If we have an explosion it’ll be a one-time thing unless we have a fire or if he’s close to a gas main. If you want to bring in another rig, you might want to do so now. But if you bring in more equipment, please be sure to tell them to come in quietly. No lights, no sirens. As for us, I don’t see where we have a choice at this point and I’m afraid we’re out of time. I’m taking my people and we’re going in.”
“I can set up our command post across the street and cover the house from there,” replied the fire captain. “If we bring in additional units I’d like to place them there and there.” He pointed to two additional locations on the adjoining streets.
“I don’t have a problem with that,” replied Mitchell. I just need a clear lane to get my people in and out and to be certain we have room for the ambulance if it’s needed.”
The fire captain nodded in agreement and turned away, speaking into his own hand held radio, eternally grateful he had chosen the fire profession. Everyone loved firemen, even if the building burned down
Frank motioned for the two officers to accompany him and the three uniforms crossed the street to the rear of the apartment building. Once near the back door, Mitchell assessed the situation once again.
“Okay,” he said as the two officers gathered next to him and studied the hand drawn diagram by flashlight.
“Here’s what we do. Fire team set up. Flashlights when we go in. He should be against the back wall, here.” He pointed to the map.
“John, you’re in first. Break right and look for the light switch on the wall. Dan, you follow and break left, same drill. I’ll come in straight across the room. As soon as we isolate him, watch his hands. If he moves to stick those wires in the wall socket shoot him. Do you understand? John? Understand?” The two officers nodded their acknowledgement.
“Dear God. What did I just commit us to?” Thought Mitchell.
“All right, we go in as quietly and as quickly as possible. No noise,” Mitchell whispered as they moved up to the landing. The three wooden steps led up to a battered screened in porch. The screen itself was full of holes and was peeling in sections like the curled page of a damp magazine. The weary old door was held shut by a rusted spring, which complained loudly upon being forced to perform. It emitted an eerie screech that silenced even the ever-present crickets.
Suddenly the sounds of multiple sirens cut through the still night. The fire units were responding with full emergency equipment including the huge foghorns to clear traffic at the intersections.
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Mitchell. The fire units had either not gotten the word or were handling things on their own. It was time to move.
“Go, Go, Go,” he urged.
On his signal they rushed the door. The beams of flashlights shone like beacons in the darkened room, searching for their suspect. A flashlight beam identified a dark bundle on the floor. The wall switch was located and the room was suddenly bathed in light. A body lay face down on the floor. There was no sign of the explosive device.
“Keep him covered,” said Mitchell. The two officers moved into position, firearms extended in a combat stance, ready to fire at the slightest provocation.
“Okay, turn him over slowly. Watch his hands.”
“He’s probably passed out,” offered one of the policemen.
As the body rolled over the whole lower torso was covered in blood. Bits of flesh and clothing were scattered about. The smell of burnt explosive was in the air, noticeable for the first time.
“Where’s the device?” Shouted Mitchell. “Find the damned dynamite.”
“Sarge, look.” Said Linton. He pointed to two pieces of copper wire lying nearby; the insulation was stripped on one end and burned and melted on the other.
“Did he set it off already?” Asked the other patrolman. “When did he do that? I didn’t hear anything.”
“Damn! The sonofabitch blew himself up before we got here!” Said Linton. “No, no. Wait. Here it is. Here’s the dynamite, under a leg. It’s intact. What’s with that?”
Mitchell took a closer look at the damage.
“I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed. “here, check it out. He pulled the blasting cap from the dynamite as he leaned forward and by the time he made contact with the outlet the cap was resting practically in his lap. BLAM! No balls.”
“Sam Fifty –Five,” Mitchell spoke into his radio.
“Sam 5-5,” the dispatcher was quick to respond. She had obviously been briefed about the potential seriousness of the investigation and was eager to help.
“Sam 5-5, code 4. Roll Mercy in here.”
“Sam Fifty-Five, 10-4, mercy is standing by your location. Will advise.”
The dispatcher turned to her counterpart at the radio console and smiled broadly each sharing a high five.
A few moments later the additional siren of Mercy could be heard. At least this one was welcomed. The ambulance personnel entered through the rickety screen door and hurriedly set up near the body.
“What happened?” a paramedic asked Mitchell.
Mitchell briefly explained what he knew. The attendants cut away the torn and charred clothing and made a cursory examination of the body.
“He’s alive,” said a paramedic. “But he’s lost a lot of blood.”
“We’re transporting,” said the other. “Let’s get him on the gurney and out of here.”
Mitchell and his officers helped clear a path for the ambulance personnel to wheel the torn and battered Mr. Willis out the door and into the waiting ambulance. Curious neighbors were starting to gather. The two uniformed officers went about gathering names and piecing together statements. A short time later, Linton as the handling officer met with Mitchell at Community E.R. Mitchell was already consulting with an emergency room physician.
As Linton approached the discussion Mitchell turned to him.
“Got anything?” he asked.
“Well Sarge, one of the neighbors reported hearing a muffled explosion earlier in the evening. The time would coincide with Mr. Harvey’s calling dispatch. So it looks like he did the deed even before we got the call.”
“Why didn’t the neighbor call it in?” Mitchell inquired.
“I asked him that, Sarge. He was pretty drunk anyway and said that he was used to a lot of banging and crashing from that apartment. Seems like Mr. Harvey and Mr. Willis used to fight a lot.”
Mitchell turned back to the doctor. “Well, that’s what we have so far,” he said.
A second physician, draped in green scrubs, came around the corner and approached the group. Harvey could be seen through the half windows of the E.R. doors, pacing back and forth, waiting to hear the condition of his life partner. He was wringing his hands and moaning softly to himself. “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”
“It looks like he’ll live,” said the O.R. doctor.
“We have an avulsed right thigh and he’s lost his testicles and penis to the explosion. He has a perforated bowel but we were able to repair that much. We had to remove a length of intestine. There isn’t anything we can do about the rest. He’s going to have to sit down when he uses the bathroom from now on, I’m afraid.”
“Thanks Doc,” said Mitchell.
The Doctor went through the swinging doors and took Mr. Harvey aside. He began to explain the results of the operation to him. Harvey let out a plaintive wail, which resounded throughout the E.R.
“What the hell started all of this in the first place?” inquired Mitchell.
“Well, Sarge,” replied Linton. “As best I can make out, Mr. Harvey was always complaining about Mr. Willis. There was a disagreement as to the respective roles in this, ahh, relationship. It seems that both of them wanted to be the, ahh, guy. Harvey insisted Willis take a more submissive role, because as he said…” Linton flipped through the pages of his notebook.
“Ohh, here it is. He wanted Mr. Willis to be more submissive because, as he said, ‘I’m the one with the balls in this relationship.’”
“Well.” Quipped Mitchell. “It looks like he got his wish. I’d better call old guts and glory and fill him in on what’s happening.”
Mitchell dialed the watch commander’s line from the nurse’s station. After three rings a dispatcher answered the line.
“Watch Commander’s Office,” she said.
“Linda? This is Frank. Where’s the lieutenant? I need to fill him in on what’s happening.”
“Hi Sarge,” she responded. “He can’t come to the phone right now, he’s in the men’s room.”
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