Whorl

by James Tarr

  Officer Richard Ferguson made a face and took John’s paperwork while giving him the eye. The vehicle occupant looked like an ex-cop, and wasn’t nervous at all. A white guy, in this neighborhood, who looked like a cop? That, combined with all the licenses he’d just passed over told Ferguson he was exactly who he said he was. “You should still call in, Mr. Phault,” he told him, relaxing somewhat. “P.I.” he told his partner, Paul Gutierrez, over the roof of the car. Gutierrez nodded, but kept his eyes on John through the car window.

  John didn’t say anything, but they both knew that calling in to D.P.D. dispatch was a waste of everyone’s time, as normally the cops were far too busy to roll out on a “suspicious vehicle” or “suspicious man in a vehicle” call, unless it was right next to a playground. Or the residence of a cop…..

  “What kind of case you working?” Ferguson asked him.

  “Simple insurance case,” John told him.

  “Which house you watching?”

  John glanced down the street, then back at the officer. “Sorry, can’t tell you. Several blocks down.” The answer didn’t surprise the cop, but it still didn’t make him happy. “Am I parked in front of somebody’s house?” John asked him.

  “Narcotics,” Ferguson told him. “You armed?”

  “Wouldn’t have handed you the CPL if I wasn’t,” John told him. His hands were still on the wheel at 10 and 2.

  Ferguson nodded. “I’ll be right back,” he told the P.I., and headed back to the car with his paperwork. John watched the cop walk away. His partner, a thick guy who was maybe Hispanic, trailed after him, walking backward.

  Undercover narcotics officers had eyes in the backs of their heads, but it was simple dumb luck that he’d parked near one’s house. Although this was the third time he’d been out on this case, so either the officer wasn’t that observant, or he’d never been home before.

  John wasn’t worried about the cops burning him for this surveillance—he was too far away from the claimant’s house for him to see anything, unless he walked down to the sidewalk and looked down this way with a pair of his own binos.

  Ferguson was back two minutes later, after having run his plate and his DL. “You come back here again, you need to call into dispatch,” he told John. He handed him his paperwork, and John proceeded to put it away. “Tell them that you’re calling in because of this, that you’re parked near a narcotics officer’s house. Maybe they’ll actually make a note.”

  “Got it,” John told him. “Also, I don’t know where your guy’s house is, but I’ve got a partner out here in a green Cherokee. He’s down on Cobb, off to the left.” He gave them his license plate. “He’s tucked into the back right now.”

  Ferguson looked down the street, squinting. “What, is he right around the corner? Can’t see shit when the city doesn’t mow the grass.”

  “Yeah. Oh, and straight down the street, on the left side on the third block down, there’s a black SUV or minivan. I think there’s someone in it doing surveillance too.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I saw it roll in just after we did, and never saw anybody get out. Maybe I missed them. I did a drive-by and ran the plate, wondering if it was the competition. If someone’s in there they’re tucked into the back as well.” He handed Ferguson the piece of paper with the plate registration info on it.

  Ferguson looked at the info. “Rochester Hills?” Talk about a whiter-than-white suburb.

  “Yeah, they’re not from the neighborhood. Like I said, I don’t know if he’s a P.I., or a fed, or one of your guys, but I’m pretty sure he’s doing surveillance, and that there’s somebody still in the vehicle. We could be watching the same guy, it’s happened before with adjusters who forget who they’ve assigned to what, but since you’ve got an undercover living out here…..”

  “But he’s not with you.”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, we’ll check it out. Thanks.”

  Marsh had a sniper’s patience, and he’d done enough surveillance to know what was required, but that didn’t mean he liked it. After about an hour he started to doubt himself, wondering if the target really was in the back of the Cherokee. Maybe he’d bailed out and was in some bushes nearby, closer to whatever house they were watching. Five minutes after that he caught a glimpse of brief movement behind the tint.

  “Got you,” he whispered to himself.

  Eighty yards was practically point blank compared to some of the shots he’d made when he was in uniform or contracting, and so he spent most of his time just watching the car with his naked eye, waiting for the target to climb back into the front seat. The variable power scope on the rifle was set at 6X, which was more than enough to see what he needed to see to get the job done. He didn’t have to worry so much about field of view on this one, and his target wouldn’t be moving and he’d be shooting through the gap between two houses, so he kept the magnification on the 3-9X scope right in the middle.

  He wasn’t in the business of guessing, so instead of just a blind shot through the tinted window he’d have to wait for the target to climb back into the front sight. No telling how long that might take. He’d be hitting the side window glass at a slight angle, but the target would be inches away from the glass, so there wouldn’t be much opportunity for the bullet, even if it was deflected slightly, to get far off course.

  The .30-06, while it used to be a military cartridge, was possibly the most common hunting rifle round in the U.S. today, and powerful enough to kill anything on the continent. At eighty yards it would lose only a fraction of its velocity, and he wouldn’t have to worry about drop or wind deflection at all. The Ballistic Tip round he had in the chamber was designed to expand in game animals and dump all of its kinetic energy into them, so they stopped quicker. One shot was all he’d have, but that’s all he’d need.

  Even without his eye to the glass, staring at one spot continuously was tough. He wiggled his head to keep his neck muscles loose—not a lot, even with the tint he didn’t want to move around too much inside the van—and reached down without looking to the bottle of Gatorade. He just took a sip—this wasn’t hot, not compared to Iraq or the ‘Stan—but continuous hydration had been drilled into him like a religion.

  As Marsh was putting down the bottle something caught his eye and he looked away from his target’s car. There was a cop car down the street he was sitting on, maybe three hundred yards away from his van. He hadn’t noticed it arrive, but as he watched he saw it pull away from the curb and head in his direction.

  How long had the squad car been sitting there? Were they just rolling through the neighborhood on a random patrol, or had he missed something happening down the street? Maybe one of the residents had called about his car, or his targets. Wouldn’t that be something? That would be a problem, though. If cops rousted his target, got him into the front seat, or even out of the SUV, there was no way he could take the shot.

  Marsh watched as the white squad car rolled past the side street and his target and straight for him. Thirty feet away the unit angled right for the front of his van, nose on, and stopped when there was six feet between their bumpers. By the time the two cops were walking toward him Marsh was back in the front seat, the earplugs he’d kept halfway in his ears for when the time came tucked into a pocket.

  He turned the key so he could roll down the window, then put his hands on the wheel. “Officers,” he addressed them. “Doing a surveillance.” Shit, he was blown, only thing to do now was get the hell out of there ASAP, dump the car, and assess his options. His heart was going a little faster, but outwardly he looked calm.

  “You and everybody else on the block, apparently,” the big black cop told him. “You got some ID?” The Hispanic cop walked around to the passenger side of the van and peered in at him, his hand on his Glock. The rifle was wrapped up in the blanket again and on the floor in back, although he hadn’t had time to unload it.

  “Yessir. It’s in my wallet, may I?” He gestured at his hip, and wh
en the cop nodded Marsh pulled out the prop wallet and dug through it for the driver’s license. He handed it to the officer, then put his hands back on the wheel.

  “Ohio?” The cop made a face. “You a P.I.?”

  Marsh nodded. “Working a domestic. Parental kidnapping, waiting to see if a car shows up at a relative’s address.” He nodded down the street vaguely.

  Ferguson studied the new guy. Late thirties or older, another white guy who looked like an ex-cop, and seemingly relaxed at being rolled up on. But there was just something about him….”You call in to dispatch?” he asked him.

  “No. I guess I should have.”

  “Do you have a Michigan P.I. license?” Ferguson asked the van driver. He checked the ID—Robert Williams.

  “No sir. I don’t need one if I’ve followed the person from Ohio into Michigan. Exigent circumstances, I believe it’s called.”

  Ferguson frowned. “I thought you were waiting to see if a car showed up.” A work comp case in this neighborhood was par for the course, but a parental kidnapping was a little something different.

  The guy blinked. “Yes. Today. But I’ve followed him to this house before from Ohio. Sylvania, actually, that’s right outside Toledo.”

  “I know where it is,” Ferguson said absently, thinking. Fuck it, this guy wasn’t a local. He wasn’t even a Michigan resident, and now his story is getting a little squirrelly. “Sir, please step out of the car,” he told him, reaching for the door handle.

  The man’s face froze for just a fraction of a second, then he said, “Sure, not a problem.”

  Marsh could see the second officer in his peripheral vision, he was outside the front passenger door, and moving around the front of the vehicle as his partner opened the driver’s door. Backing up his partner. Marsh slid off the seat, smiling and relaxed, as the big cop opened the door. In one smooth motion Marsh drew his Springfield from concealment and doubletapped the big cop in the face, and as he started to go down in slow motion spun to acquire his partner. The other cop was frozen in place, his brain still processing information that didn’t compute. Marsh brought the Springfield up in a good two-handed hold, pressed it out, and as soon as his hands reached their proper index he started shooting, just knowing his sights would be in the right place. The first round hit the cop in the base of the throat, and while he pulled one just off to the right, two more bullets hit the cop in his big round face.

  “Shit!” John jerked upright in his seat, spilling his pop. He’d only been peripherally paying attention to the cops down the street as they talked to whoever was in the van, and the sound of gunfire had startled him. Down the street, he could see what looked like someone lying in the middle of the street.

  He grabbed his binoculars and threw them to his eyes. Both cops were down, and the guy had just gotten back into his car and started driving away.

  “What the hell was that?” Dave’s voice echoed from the walkie-talkie. “Is that shooting?”

  “You’ve got cops down at your ten o’clock,” John yelled into the Motorola, starting his SUV. In the distance he saw the van pulling away from the scene, heading toward him, and then it turned onto a sidestreet, maybe Cobb, heading away from Dave’s car. Then it was gone. John threw the Expedition into Drive and roared away from the curb. “See what you can do for them. I’m chasing after the guy that did the shooting. You see a van go by you?”

  “Yeah, it turned in front of me, heading away, then made a left at the first street. What the fuck is going on?”

  John didn’t have time to talk and threw the radio down. He hooked a right, tires squealing, and roared to the next intersection. Nosing out, he saw the van way down there to his left. Instead of turning and chasing it, he sped through the intersection to the next stop sign, then hooked a left. Praying no toddlers wandered into street, he got the Expedition up to eighty before hitting the brakes.

  “Shit shit shit!” Warren Avenue was right in front of him, three lanes in each direction, and as John was three houses from the corner he saw the van pass in front of him. “There you are.” He’d followed plenty of people before, but never anyone who’d just dumped two cops.

  John grabbed his phone. 9-1-1 was answered on the third ring. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the female officer said in his ear.

  He knew mobile 911 was operated by the Michigan State Police. “Connect me to Detroit emergency,” he told her breathlessly as he turned onto Warren. The van was up there, in the middle lane, and John floored the Expedition for a few seconds until he realized the van was doing the speed limit. He tapped the brakes and stayed in the right lane, waiting on the line.

  “Nine one one, what’s your emergency,” he heard the flat voice in his ear. She sounded so burned out it wasn’t even a question.

  “You have two officers down, shot,” he told the dispatcher. “On Northfield Street, near Cobb. They were just shot. Um, fuck, what was…Ferguson, one of them was named Ferguson.”

  There was the very briefest of pauses, then she was back on the line, no longer uninterested in the conversation. “You say we have two police officers shot?”

  “Yes ma’am, on Northfield near Cobb. East Cobb. I’m a P.I. and was in the area and saw it, and one of my employees is doing first aid on the officers right now.”

  “How bad are their injuries?” He could hear all sorts of frantic activity behind her.

  “I don’t know ma’am, I left the scene, but I heard multiple gunshots.”

  “You left the scene?” She couldn’t decide whether to be shocked or angry.

  “A white male did the shooting and left the scene in a dark minivan, Chrysler I think, and I’m currently behind him. I’m following him westbound on Warren Avenue. Just passed Epworth, and coming up on something else…Livernois.”

  “Do you have the license plate on his vehicle?”

  “Yes.” He gave it to her. “I can’t tell if it’s black or dark blue, but I ran the plate earlier today when I saw it roll up into the neighborhood, it registers to Rochester Hills. I haven’t been close to him yet, so I don’t think he’s spotted me back here.”

  “Hold on the line, I’m going to get officers en route.”

  “Roger that.”

  John kept the phone to his ear, and a constant distance from the van. There were a few other cars on the road, but not as much as he would have liked to give him cover. Shit. Okay, where would this guy be going?

  If I’d just shot two cops I’d get out of the area as fast as possible, without drawing attention to myself, he thought. Where’s the next freeway? Well, if he’d turned on Livernois he could jump on I-94 to the south or the Lodge to the north, but he was still heading west. What was up there? John thought. Well, if the guy didn’t turn off, the Southfield Freeway was three or four miles up.

  The dispatcher was back on. “Sir, did you get a description of the suspect?”

  “White guy, medium build, but I was too far away to see anything else.”

  “Are you still behind him?”

  “Yes. I’m in a black Ford Expedition.” He gave her his plate. “And I’m armed,” he told her. Better they know ahead of time. “We’re approaching a big field on the right, looks like a water plant past it. Seeing a sign up ahead…for Wyoming. Still heading west.”

  “Sir, stay on the line. I’ve got officers en route to your location as well as the Northfield location.”

  “My employee’s name is Dave, a white kid. He’s got first aid training. I’m pretty sure he’s armed. I’d really appreciate it if your responding officers didn’t shoot him. He’d probably appreciate it too.”

  “Yes sir. How fast are you travelling?”

  John checked his speedometer. “Right about the posted. He’s rolling in the left lane now, I’m in the right about six car lengths back.”

  “I’m going to keep you on the line as I coordinate the officers. Please call out your location, or if he makes a turn.”

  “Yes ma’am.” He heard all sorts
of cut-ins and outs on the line, and electronic beeps. He knew the call was being recorded, and was trying to sound as professional as possible, considering this was all going to end up in court one way or the other. What a clusterfuck.

  “Did you see what kind of gun he had?”

  “No. I was about two blocks away, and only looked over there with binoculars after I heard the shooting. Pistol, I think.”

  “How many rounds did he fire?”

  “Four, five? Six? Both officers were down and if they were moving it wasn’t a lot. Coming up on Schaefer now, still westbound, how far away are your units?” It seemed like they were taking forever, but he knew the adrenaline was skewing his perception. He’d only been behind the van for about three miles. Shit, wait a minute—this wasn’t Detroit anymore, this was Dearborn. Fuck it, let their dispatch worry about that.

  “We’re working on it sir, I’m trying to get several there at once, and they’re coming from different directions.”

  “Right.” The more cop cars that showed up at the same time, the better chance they had of boxing the van in and preventing a car chase.

  “Are you still travelling the speed limit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure you’re still behind the correct vehicle? You said you were pretty far back.”

  John gave the Ford a little extra gas and squinted. “Yeah, right van.”

  “Sir, just make sure you keep your distance, we don’t need you getting shot too.”

  “No offense ma’am, but I’ve seen some combat and can take care of myself.” Speaking of that, he had an AR-15 in a case in the back seat, in case of emergencies. He didn’t want to have to pull the rifle out and chamber a round while driving, so hopefully this guy would just surrender without any drama. He had body armor back there too, but it was a little too late to put that on now.