Tainted Robes

by Joe Nobody

  Miss Ice Queen appeared just then, rushing down the hall at a hurried pace. Her expression made it clear that something was wrong.

  As she flung open the suspect’s door, the uniformed officer snapped to attention, now able to discern the alarms screeching inside. Seconds later, he heard the nurse’s voice over the intercom. “Code Blue, 264. Code Blue, 264.”

  He didn’t have to look at the placard next to the door. Room 264 was the cop killer’s, the shooter he was assigned to protect.

  More personnel rushed toward his position, one of the male attendants steering a large cart laden with equipment.

  Into 264 they rushed, followed a few moments later by an older man who he knew was McCann’s doctor.

  The officer’s orders were clear – he wasn’t to interfere with any medical procedure. Despite desperately wanting to know what was happening with the accused cop-killer, he remained at his post in the hall.

  Over the next 40 minutes, a variety of hospital personnel hustled in and out of McCann’s room. The cop got an earful of snippets and pieces, bits of conversations that contained medical terms like anaphylactic shock and coronary failure.

  Medical staff that the officer had never seen before then appeared, causing a huge corridor bottleneck. His orders required him to check IDs and verify everyone who entered room 264. The man in a suit and tie was the hospital administrator. Another whitecoat oversaw the facility’s pharmacy. A third was the graveyard shift’s charge nurse.

  It was exactly 44 minutes when the doctor exited, a small voice recorder in the palm of his hand. “Patient Silas McCann pronounced dead at 9:42 a.m., cause anaphylaxis.”

  Shaking his head in disbelief, the cop stepped into the doctor’s path. “Did you just say he was dead, Doc?”

  “Yes, Officer, his heart stopped. We couldn’t revive him.”

  “He died of natural causes?”

  The physician immediately grasped the policeman’s concern, already several steps ahead. “No, the cause of death was an allergic reaction to penicillin.”

  “Excuse me? My superiors are going to need a full explanation of what happened here,” the officer explained. “You mean he was allergic to penicillin all this time and just now had a reaction to the drug? I don’t understand.”

  The doctor reached for the policeman’s arm, gently pulling him aside. Then in a hushed tone, he continued, “We’re not sure what happened here. Somehow, last night, Mr. McCann’s prescription was altered. As of right now, no one is accepting responsibility, but we’ll figure it out quickly. Not only was he prescribed a penicillin derivative, but his medical records were also changed to remove any notation about his allergy.”

  “Someone murdered him?” the cop barked, now worried about his own career. He had lost a suspect in custody, and no doubt the revelation would enrage those who believed in Silas’ innocence. But to have that man assassinated on his watch? That little tidbit was not going to look good in his jacket.

  Shaking his head, the physician tried to soothe the man beside him. “No, I don’t believe there’s any evidence of foul play. Let’s not jump to conclusions. I think we’ve had some sort of electronic records error… or perhaps a series of charting mistakes. Regardless, I suggest you call your superiors. I think this development needs to be handled discreetly, if you get my meaning.”

  While he only had three years on the force, the officer knew instantly that McCann’s death was trouble. Reaching for his cell phone, he quickly browsed his contacts and found the shift commander’s personal cell. This development was obviously something that shouldn’t be broadcast over the radio.

  Chapter 12

  “You can’t block the streets!” Detective Royce rumbled at the protestors, his voice already hoarse from the previous day’s shouting at demonstrators.

  “We have the right to free assembly,” countered one of the older cowboys. “You should be ashamed of yourself, denying freeborn Americans their rights.”

  “You can’t obstruct traffic,” Royce expounded, waving the smaller group of men and women out of the way so the city hall employees could access the parking garage.

  After the entry was clear, Royce glanced at his watch. It was only 8 a.m., and he was tired already. Yesterday, one of the beat cops had estimated the crowd supporting Silas McCann at over 3,000. Someone else mentioned that at least 30% of them were armed. I would take odds that number is low, the officer mused.

  The dedicated early morning risers were determined their message would be heard, the gathering’s size rapidly swelling. “I worked my ass off to get promoted to homicide,” Royce complained to another detective who had also been reassigned to crowd control. “I thought I was done being a flatfoot.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” the grumbling coworker replied. “When you work for the man, you do what the man wants. I just pray these folks don’t get violent. Somebody back at HQ said their number was supposed to double today.”

  “We’ve got a full-blown revolt about ready to boil over,” Royce added, scanning another group of protesters traipsing in his direction while waving to their comrades.

  Royce scanned their signs’ demands, most pressing the city’s prosecutor to resign, others soliciting justice for a good man. “Set Silas Free!” the most common message read.

  The detective found himself torn over the morality of the event.

  A decorated officer was dead, stripped from his family. Left behind were children who would be raised without a dad, a grieving widow, and a department that was already exhausted by the recent civil unrest. Royce felt the same dilemma as every other cop when a brother fell in the line of duty. In his mind, he knew he was sworn to uphold justice, yet his heart grieved as if someone had murdered his best friend.

  On the other hand, he fully understood the protestors’ beef. The leaked police files made it clear that Silas McCann hadn’t been out to kill a cop that fateful day. Additionally, a professional trouble-maker had been working both sides of the protest crowd, firecrackers he dumped in a nearby trashcan being the climax of his dirty deeds and the catalyst for the skirmish. Deep down inside, Royce knew that there was no way the old rancher or his son could have heard the police’s warning over the din.

  For the hundredth time, he replayed the scene in his mind. The two men, fresh off a visit to a local, western-style haberdashery, had rounded the corner to hear what they and everyone else believed were gunshots. They had done what reasonable men would do, drawn their weapons and rushed for cover.

  The videos revealed immense chaos in the street. Activists scampered, screamed, and shouted in all directions as the firecrackers continued to pop and bang. Innocent bystanders sought shelter from flying lead. Police scrambled to control the situation and protect the public. Adrenaline pumped at an all-time high.

  The dead officer had also done his job. He had witnessed two men with drawn weapons. The sound of the gunfire was exactly in line with the suspects. Thinking they were shooting citizens in the street, he had shouted a hasty warning and opened fire. He wasn’t as good, or as lucky, as the two ranchers.

  From that point, the outcome had been inevitable. Hearing the gunfire, both real and bogus, policemen had converged on the sound from all directions. There, bleeding out in the street, lay one of their own. A witness had said the dying officer had pointed toward the McCann men before he passed. The life-ending shootout had lasted less than 10 seconds after that gesture.

  Shaking his head, Royce mumbled, “It was all bad timing, the wrong place at the wrong time… a horrible set of colliding circumstances.” Yet, the El Paso PD demanded justice. There was no question Silas McCann had pulled the trigger. One of their brothers had paid the ultimate price, and the DA’s job depended on a loyal, motivated police force.

  Pushing his thoughts aside, Royce headed toward his assigned position, a parking lot just east of city hall. The mayor had set aside the spot for the rally, hoping to appease troubled citizens on both s
ides of the equation. The organizers had agreed to try to corral their people within the two-block plot of empty space. The location was strategic – close enough to be heard in the government offices without impeding traffic or emergency services.

  Problem was, if predictions were accurate, that two blocks wasn’t going to contain them all today.

  News spreading like wildfire throughout law enforcement’s ranks compounded the situation even further. The widow of the officer shot by McCann and his son had received death threats. She hadn’t even buried her husband yet. On the other side of this ruckus, a protective detail had to be stationed outside the rancher’s hospital room. Royce realized tempers were running high on both sides.

  As he rounded the corner, the homicide detective noticed thousands of people already milling about, and it wasn’t even 9 a.m. Someone had erected a series of tents and camping pergolas to provide shade. A row of food trucks was serving breakfast to long lines of gun-toting men and women. “An army travels on its stomach,” Royce chuckled. “The 4th Infantry Division should forget about mess halls and MREs… and hire food trucks to follow them on campaign.”

  Despite the levity, the detective was worried. While most of the protesters had been law-abiding, well-mannered citizens, there was always going to be some percentage of troublemakers. Three thousand people were the equivalent of a small town, and even peaceful, rural communities claimed their fair share of hotblooded felons.

  No sooner than the thought had flashed through his mind, Royce heard loud, passionate voices. A quick assessment identified those involved in what was quickly becoming a shouting match.

  Breaking into a slight jog, the detective darted toward the trouble. As he drew near, he spotted four or five uniforms facing off against seven or eight protestors. Something was wrong.

  An officer with corporal stripes, carrying a motorcycle helmet pointed at one of the demonstrators, “I am giving you a lawful order – take off those sunglasses.”

  “I am walking… outside… in the bright sunshine… with my shades on! You got no right to order me to do shit!” the activist replied, his tone dripping with venom.

  “Let’s see some ID, pal,” the cop countered, stepping toward the marcher. “You look like a man we’ve been hunting for a while.”

  By the time Royce covered the remaining sidewalk, another 10 people had gathered on both sides.

  The man being questioned was wearing a floppy, bush hat and dark, wrap-around sunglasses. While it probably wasn’t an attempt to disguise his identity, it did obscure the features of his face.

  “What’s going on, Corporal?” Royce asked as he arrived next to the agitated policeman.

  “I think this man resembles a suspect we’ve had an open warrant on for several weeks, sir,” the motorcycle cop replied after briefly examining the badge hanging from Royce’s neck.

  “What is the suspect’s name?”

  “James Robert Rose,” the cop responded instantly, still casting a wary eye at the nearby civilians.

  Royce turned and faced Mr. Sunglasses. “What is your name, sir?”

  “I don’t have to tell you shit!” the guy barked. “This is harassment. This is bullying. Your egos are writing checks that your badges can’t cash!”

  Holding his palms up in a gesture of calm, Royce stepped close to the fellow and in a much lower tone, responded, “Look, friend, let’s just remain cool and collected here. Nobody wants any bullshit… not us, and not you good folks. Now, it’s our job to restrain wanted criminals who walk freely on the street. These officers are just trying to keep everyone safe.”

  For a second, Royce thought he had successfully reasoned with him. The man blinked several times, obviously trying to make up his mind how to handle the detective’s non-aggressive approach.

  “I know you technically don’t have to, but just as a favor to me, could you please just tell us your name? This is going to be a tough day for everybody – let’s not start it off the wrong way,” Royce added.

  Before the “suspect” could respond, the motorcycle cop cut in, “Give us your ID, sir, or I’m going to arrest you for interfering with an investigation.”

  Royce wanted to backhand the officer beside him, instead throwing the agitated, aggressive cop a harsh look that clearly said, “Would you please shut the fuck up!”

  It was too late. “Arrest me? Did you just threaten to arrest me while I’m doing nothing more than exercising my inalienable rights? Why, you’re nothing more than a Nazi. The El Paso police should be wearing brown shirts, not blue uniforms.”

  The local officers surged forward, the verbal insult taking the already edgy cops to a dark place.

  Royce jumped in front, spreading his arms wide trying to contain his brothers before they made a terrible mistake.

  “Stand down! Stand down!” Royce screamed at his subordinates. Every cell phone within 50 yards was out and recording, more and more protestors moving closer to see what was going down.

  It worked, the line of cops holding in place, following orders.

  Taking the young corporal aside, Royce demanded, “What the hell are you doing, son? Are you trying to start a riot?”

  His voice dripping with anger, the motorcycle officer spat, “Those assholes have been taunting us for two days. I know that guy is Rose. I just know it… and even if he’s not, he and his buddies have been thumbing their noses at us since this bullshit started. It’s time to teach them a little respect.”

  Again, the detective tried to be a calming influence. “And do what? Watch downtown burn like Chicago and Atlanta?”

  “They won’t do nothing,” the cop said, waving a dismissive arm through the air. “These pansies ain’t got the balls for any of that. All they want to do is parade around, holding up their rifles to the cameras, and acting like they’re badasses. Me and the guys… we aren’t buying any of it.”

  “You’re wrong, young man,” Royce scolded, his tone becoming fatherly. “Those are mostly West Texas ranchers and cattlemen in that crowd. They are hardy folk, and they don’t give a rat’s ass about your ego or the respect we think our badges automatically deserve. Remember the Peeler Principles you were taught in the Academy.”

  “But... sir… I’m sure that is Rose. We can’t just let him walk free!”

  “Yes, we can,” Royce said. “If the choice is between letting him go or instigating a massive wave of violence, then you damn well let him go. Can’t you understand that?”

  It was clear the corporal didn’t get it, his eyes now burning hot with anger as they bore into Royce’s face. It’s become personal, the detective realized. These officers were the ultimate authority on the street. They’re not going to give that up.

  It was then that a hush fell over the throng, Royce’s head on a swivel trying to figure out why the volume had suddenly dropped. “The calm before the storm?” he whispered.

  It occurred to the detective that most of the demonstrators were staring at their phones, small groups clustered to secure a glimpse of the tiny screen. It also was obvious that whatever they were watching was unpleasant.

  Before the detective could reach for his own device, another angry shout erupted from behind. “They killed him! Silas is dead! These sons of a bitches murdered Silas!”

  A uniformed officer appeared at Royce’s side, his expression clearly agitated. “The suspect is dead, sir,” the patrolman reported. “It just came over the radio and is being reported by the local news. He died in the hospital. No cause of death issued yet.”

  “I thought he was to be released tomorrow?” the detective asked.

  The patrolman merely shrugged. “I heard the same thing. This development can’t help.”

  Royce could feel the rage building in the surrounding crowd as the story spread, an orchestra of harsh voices building toward a crescendo.

  Royce heard two women, their shrill pitch near hysteria. The detective turned to see them pointing accusing fingers at
an El Paso officer, their faces red with fury. A second later, the cop was using his nightstick to push them away. One of the ladies fell.

  On both sides, the combination of distrust, fear, and rage boiled over.

  Seeing the woman tumble and the offensive nightstick, a nearby man raised his rifle butt and slammed it into the cop’s head. Two more officers, alerted by the fast movement, were already charging in to help.

  One of them threw a shoulder into the rifle bearer, the two tumbling like a bowling ball and striking three protestor-pins. It was on.

  Royce was moving, but found the way blocked by a swirling, screaming mass of police, activists, and media. Everyone was shouting and at the same moment, either running or fighting. A blizzard of bottles and rocks now rained down on the cops, some of whom were trying to help their own while others pursued those flinging the missiles.

  Before the detective could manage another three steps, someone pointed a rifle at the responding squad of officers. In turn, two of them pulled their service weapons.

  Gunshots erupted, two here, three over there, another volley directly in front of Royce as he dove for the parking lot’s bruising pavement.

  A man dashed by, chased by two uniformed police. Ten yards from where the prone detective laid, a cop tried to drag a wounded comrade away from the gunfire.

  More shots rang out, this time from behind Royce. Twisting his neck, his spotted the hot-headed, motorcycle officer pointing his smoking handgun at a body on the pavement. A burst of semi-automatic fire followed, two cowboys with AR15s making the corporal’s body dance and jig as the rounds tore into him.

  One of the shooters went down quickly, several of the corporal’s backers returning fire. They also hit two teenage girls scurrying away to escape the bedlam.

  More lead tore into the forming line of police, some impacting harmlessly off the ballistic shields forming a bullet-proof barrier for the cops. That was when Royce spotted a bottle gleaming in the sun as it tumbled in slow motion end over end through the clear, morning sky.