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.”