One Department

by Thomas A. Young

  Something like war.

  Chapter 10

  Shots Fired

  May, 2010

  Zachary Simmons loved patrol It’s what he was made for. The stalk, the capture, the hunt. He was a hunter.

  He seldom knew what he’d be hunting next, but something always came along. Burglars, drunk drivers, dope dealers, what have you. Forest Hill wasn’t exactly a crime-ridden zone but it had its fair share of wrongdoers, and it was his job to root them out. His job, his authority, his power. The uniform he wore said so, the gun on his hip backed it up. What a life.

  When Zack was on duty, he ruled his domain, and God help anyone who didn’t respect his authority. He was on a mission to hunt down the guilty, and the unfortunate fact of the matter was that pretty much everyone was guilty of something. It was just a matter of finding out what, and at that he was rapidly becoming an artist. Anyone who interfered with that mission would be quickly face down on the ground and wearing handcuffs. Or worse.

  As he shifted in his seat, the butt of his pistol nudged his ribcage, just reminding him it was there. It wasn’t your average duty gun. Most cops carried the Glock, in either .40 or .45acp, but Zack felt it necessary to keep something more substantial than average on hand. So he had put down the same amount Randy had paid for his M1A plus the scope, and bought himself a .45 Winchester Magnum. The pistol was a 1911 type made by LAR Grizzly. The cartridge it fired was similar to the regular .45acp only it was longer and heavier duty, and it boosted the power of the .45 auto to that of a .44 magnum. It was like Dirty Harry’s gun, but without the need to guess whether you’d fired five or six. Zack knew the day would come when his weapon would be needed, and this gun would insure he did the job right.

  Nestled against his ribs, it felt like the gun was reminding him of how neglected it felt. In the four years that Zachary had been on duty, it had never so much as been drawn. It saddened him to think about that. The favorite lunch table topic at the station was the tales of shootings past. The stories of cops who had really faced the moment, seen the elephant, drawn down and shot it out. Some stories were of the ones who had come out on top. Others were of cops who hadn’t, and had passed on a lesson to those who would follow, usually in the vein of being faster on the trigger. How he longed to be part of that lore! Jack Hayward was part of it, having been the man who shot Arnold McCaslin, and within the department that made him singularly special.

  It was true, there was the occasional bad shoot, (“bad” being defined as having not covered your bases well enough, as Troy Meade had neglected to do), but on balance they took out a lot more riffraff than not. And was it not right that they should have that power over life and death? Were they not the guardians of civilization? He had taken an oath to serve and protect. And while most folks on the civilian side didn’t see it this way, people were best served and best protected when everyone was kept in line. He took that job seriously.

  Cruising along, he came to a Y in the road where traffic merged. As traffic merged onto the road in front of him, his train of thought was interrupted when he saw it, two cars ahead. The white company truck with the canopy. It was the man who had made a career of making monkeys out of his department, none other than Randolph Gustin.

  Jackpot.

  * * *

  Randy’s radio was playing the oldies station as he saw the cruiser merge in behind him. He wasn’t worried. There hadn’t been any harassment going on for quite a while, and he hadn’t done anything lately to incur their wrath again. Not that he wasn’t still planning to, just that he hadn’t done so lately, and things had settled into more or less an uneasy truce.

  The car between him and the cruiser pulled into the left turn lane, leaving nothing between them. As Randy was checking his speed, he drifted over the center line just a little, and the flashing lights came on. Christ, this is all I need.

  There wasn’t a good spot to pull over immediately, so he took the next available right turn, which happened to be the entrance to the cemetery. The place was large and wooded, and there wasn’t a whole lot in the way of lighting. As he slowed down, he unbuckled his fanny pack holster, and threw it behind the seat of the truck. He didn’t want it to be construable as a threat, but he also didn’t want to hand it over unnecessarily.

  As Randy came to a stop on the right side of the road, he turned his radio down, and also started his micro cassette recorder that was mounted beside the door jamb. The cruiser stopped behind him, and put its spotlight on his mirror. Randy pushed his mirror out so he wouldn’t be blinded, and also so the light would maybe reflect back in the cop’s face. It was a guaranteed ticket when that happened, but he couldn’t help himself. The cop got out and walked to his window. “Evening, Mister Gustin,” he began.

  “Evening officer,” Randy replied. He didn’t quite remember the cop’s name, but he recognized him as one of the recent recruits from a few years ago. “Can I ask why you pulled me over?”

  “You weaved over the line in front of me, but then I think you already knew that. Have you had anything to drink tonight?”

  “Nope.”

  “I saw you hide something behind your seat. What was that?”

  “I could refuse to answer that, but I’ll be generous. It was my weapon.” Randy pointed into his lap. “You’ll note that it’s not on my belt.”

  Officer Simmons keyed the microphone to his radio. “Subject has a weapon in the vehicle, request backup.” Oh great, here we go, Randy thought. “Mister Gustin, are you recording this stop?”

  “You know it.”

  “That’s perfectly fine,” Simmons replied. Like anyone’s going to hear it. “But for officer safety reasons, I’m going to ask you to reach behind the seat and hand the gun holster out to me.”

  Randy began to hear the first faint sound of an alarm bell. “Did you just ask me to reach into a dark place where you know there’s a weapon?”

  “I did.”

  “Well, for everyone’s safety, it’s staying put and I’m not reaching anywhere.” In his mirror, Randy saw a second cruiser pull in behind the first one. Nobody got out though, it just sat there. “If you like, I’ll be happy to get out of the truck.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Simmons replied, “just pass the weapon out. Now, please.”

  He’s keeping the threat alive, Randy thought. The alarm bell rang a little louder, as Randy kept his hands firmly on the steering wheel, wishing he had his digital camera recording video instead of just getting audio. “Not happening. The weapon is out of my reach, it’s no threat to anyone where it currently sits, and I’m not reaching anywhere.”

  Simmons leaned closer to the window and lowered his voice to a level that wouldn’t be picked up by the dash cam in the second car. “Well, that’s just fine then. You just refused a lawful order to surrender a weapon, and that’s all I really needed.” Randy kept his hands on the wheel, but he felt his first stirring of fear as Simmons stood up straight and grabbed the butt of his gun. “Do NOT reach down there,” he shouted.

  “What the hell –“

  “I said get your hands back in view!”

  “My hands are on the steering wheel!”

  Simmons drew his oversized gun and put it at low ready, with a two-hand grip. “LAST WARNING!”

  It finally struck Randy that this was really happening, and he was about to become the next Niles Meservey. He didn’t have a chance either; he had ignored all the preparations for this scenario that they had worked out. His gun was out of reach and there was no backup weapon handy. Even if one was handy, the cop’s weapon was in his hand already. He was utterly fucked. Randy turned to face the cop, and saw the weapon raised and pointed straight between his eyes from two feet away.

  “THIS IS YOUR LAST WARNING!” Simmons screamed, and pulled the trigger.

  Randy caught a glimpse of his trigger finger moving and ducked. The sound was more deafening than any gunshot he’d ever heard, the bullet parted the hair on the back of his head without hitting hi
m, and crashed out though the passenger door without even slowing down. At that moment, part of him thought that if he stuck his hands out the window where a dash cam could see, the cop couldn’t shoot again. But another part remembered the cop words of wisdom he so often heard repeated: If the first shot is justified, so is the last one. No matter what he did, Simmons was going to keep shooting until the “threat” was eliminated, that being him.

  Unfortunately for Simmons, the monstrous .45 was a little too big for his own good. In the second it took him to recover from the recoil, Randy grabbed his coffee mug and flung it out the window. The coffee was nearly cold but Simmons didn’t know that. He put his arm up in front of his face, and then Randy shoved the door open, where it hit Simmons and knocked him backward. The cop tried to line up his weapon again but Randy lunged out of the truck and plowed into him, tackling him to the ground. As he jumped out, his arm hit the radio volume and turned it up. Randy was momentarily surprised to hear I’m Yours playing. The irony of that song playing at this moment was sickening.

  He punched the cop on the ground beneath him twice, then knocked his weapon away. They both dove for the gun and Randy got it first. He stood up and moved back, holding the weapon on the cop who sat on the ground. Then he heard another voice over the sound of his radio.

  “Simmons!” It was the backup officer, Sergeant Sylvester Frawley. He was moving forward with his own weapon out. If a weapon is pointed at another cop, no choice, you must shoot. That was the policy of every department, and the moment Frawley had a clear shot he was going to fire. Randy looked back to Simmons, who was reaching toward the backup weapon in his ankle holster.

  There was no fleeing, and no surrendering. If one of them didn’t kill him, the other would. So Randy fired. The shot hit Simmons roughly center mass and knocked him flat. “SIMMONS!” Frawley screamed and fired two shots that narrowly missed. Randy swung the weapon up and fired one in return. His heart was pounding so hard he could barely stay conscious, let alone aim, and he missed. Frawley moved toward the cover of Simmons’s cruiser. He lined up for a shot at Randy, his aim dead on this time. Randy shot faster, but not straighter. The big round struck the engine compartment and sprayed lead shrapnel beneath the car, where it hit Frawley’s legs. The cop jumped from the pain, but the wounds were hardly crippling. He came down on his feet and aimed again. Randy fired one more time and finally connected. This round hit Frawley high on the sternum, plowed through him and severed his spinal column. He dropped like a bag of rocks.

  Things became quiet just in time for Randy to hear his and Elena’s song finish on the radio in the truck. It was a perfect metaphor for everything he had just lost, and he didn’t want to hear it anymore. Randy went to his truck and turned the radio off.

  Then he went to where Frawley lay on the ground, and quickly determined he wouldn’t be getting back up. A few twitches were all he had left in him, so Randy turned and walked back toward Simmons.

  The younger cop was desperately trying to suck air, and making a vain attempt to reach his ankle holster. He saw Randy standing over him and gave it up. “You tried to murder me,” Randy said. His head was still spinning so wildly he didn’t know what else to say.

  “You… brough it on…” Simmons choked out the reply.

  “Meaning what, I made you look bad once or twice and that gives you the right to do this?” Simmons turned his eyes away, and Randy took out his phone. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

  Simmons shook his head. “Too late,” he sputtered, saying what Randy had already determined. Then he looked back up. “I wasn’t the only one… wanted you,” he said. “So ‘oes this make me bad?” The answer to that question was on the tip of Randy’s tongue, but in a moment like this he didn’t have the heart to deliver it. If there was a God in heaven, Simmons would have his answer soon enough. Then as Randy watched, the young cop’s gasps grew shorter and faster. “I… ‘orry…” Simmons said. Then he exhaled, long and deep, and he didn’t inhale again.

  Randy dropped the magazine out of the pistol, cleared the chamber and set it down on top of its owner. Then he stood and looked around. There were a few spectators across the street from the cemetery entrance, but they didn’t look too alarmed. With all the flashing lights it was impossible to see what was going on, so they most likely assumed everything was under control. Randy was well aware that things were wildly out of control, but he had no idea what to do about it.

  Randy walked to Simmon’s cruiser and reached inside to grab the radio mike. He had no idea what to say or how to explain this, but he had to say something because there wasn’t much chance of keeping this a secret. “This is Randolph Gustin,” he began. “Two of you just tried to murder me and they’re dead.” About fifteen officers scattered around town, half the force, were on duty and they all heard him. Burt was one of them, sitting at his desk and listening on his scanner. Robin and Preston heard while sitting at their table at Forza. Jack Hayward was right smack in the middle of arresting a drunk driver when he heard.

  Burt was the first to grab his mike and reply. “Gustin, this is Chief Grandstone. Stay where you are.”

  Randy knew instinctively that staying put wasn’t an option. His recording was his only shred of proof of what had happened, and that would be made to disappear in a heartbeat if he stayed. Though when he thought about it for a second, what was on that tape wasn’t nearly enough to guarantee he’d be cleared, at least not with a hostile prosecutor and jury thrown into the mix. If he took this to court he’d be rolling the dice big time. Burt’s voice came over the radio again. “Surrender peacefully, and whatever happened, you’ll get a fair trial. Are you listening?” Fair trial? Who did he think he was trying to bullshit? The same prosecutor who would be letting Ian Birk off the hook in the near future would pull out the stops to nail Randy to the cross.

  You could either do the blaze-of-glory thing and go out makin’ a statement they’ll never forget, or live out your life as their favorite zoo animal wishin’ you’d done it when you had the chance. Vincent’s words rang loudly in his ears. That was exactly the choice he was looking at right now. It began to sink in that the two cops on the ground were not the only ones whose lives were already over. “Are you there, Gustin?” Burt’s voice announced again. “Signal your surrender.” In the distance, he heard sirens. They were still a few minutes away, but it was time to do what he was going to do.

  Randy keyed the mike again. “It’s not going to happen that way,” he began. “This was not a case of two bad-apple cops, this was an act of war. Since all of you are going to back the ones who committed it, like you do every time this happens, then this was an act of war committed by your entire department. So now hear this: I DECLARE WAR.” Those words held frightful meaning, yet it felt good to finally get them out. “This war is between me and you, the Forest Hill City Police Department, and it will end either when I’m dead, or your entire one department has been eliminated as a threat to the citizens of this town.”

  Randy dropped the mike and walked over to where Frawley lay. He kneeled down and took all his Glock magazines. Randy had no taste for taking a dead man’s weapon, but he had to be real. Extra mags would come in handy. Then he went to his truck, fished out the fanny pack holster from behind the seat and strapped it on, even as he marveled at how completely and irreversibly his life had just changed. All he wanted in the world at that moment was his life back, but it was gone. The only thing he had left to live for was his new mission, and if he didn’t get cracking he wouldn’t get to keep that either.

  The sirens were getting closer. It sounded like two to the south, and one to the north. He’d take the one first.

  * * *

  To the south of the cemetery, Preston Mintz was the driver of the second car speeding to the scene. Robin Frisk sat on the passenger side. In front of them, Phillip Pevey drove the lead car. All of them were keenly aware of how their own lives had just changed. For the first time ever, they were under a real attack.

&nbs
p; Ron Kesling was driving the only other patrol car in the area, and he was further north. His voice came over their radio. “Possible contact,” he announced. “White pickup with canopy, driving normally…”

  “Fall in behind and wait for backup,” Burt ordered him from the station house over the radio.

  Robin picked up the mike in her car. “Two cars en route now,” she said.

  “I read you,” Kesling replied. “Passing him now -” The sound of shattering glass blew through the speakers. “Shit!” was his only other word, then came the sound of a metallic clank, squealing tires and a collision.

  Preston jammed his gas pedal almost to the floor.

  * * *

  Ron Kesling was about to pass the white truck in the opposite direction and had just slowed to make his u-turn, when he saw the Glock aimed out the window of the truck in the driver’s left hand, and the flashes from the muzzle. The guy had clearly practiced driving and shooting at the same time, because he was good at it. One round hit his windshield, one hit his driver side window, and one came through the door and lodged in his ribcage. His car careened into opposing traffic and hit a van head-on.

  Both vehicles hit their brakes before impact, so it wasn’t too catastrophic. His airbag popped out of the steering column and knocked him half unconscious, but he snapped back quickly. He made a quick assessment of his wound and determined he wasn’t going to die. Then he realized the bullet inside him was the least of his worries as the white pickup backed up right next to his passenger side. The Glock was now in the driver’s right hand and aimed much more steadily.

  Officer Kesling ducked down, as another burst of bullets came through the passenger door. Most of them struck low, but then one of them hit his right tibia and partly shattered it. He screamed, not being able to help it even though he knew his screams would only alert his attacker that his aim was on. But upon hearing the scream, the driver of the white pickup floored it and sped off. Kesling thought that an angel must have saved him, but it wouldn’t be long before he knew better.