by Brad Cooper
Finally, the whump-whump-whump of the helicopter was heard seconds before it came into view. Hovering high at first, the pilot slowly began his descent against the wind before gently setting the aircraft down in the vacated lot behind the Spring Creek Police Department building. Sparks was confident that all of their previous planning would meld with whatever future planning would take place to form a flawlessly designed course of action, one that would line the pockets and stuff the wallets of everyone involved. That is, provided everyone could keep the details close to the vest. Outside involvement was tantamount to outside interference and the result would be disastrous. The avoidance of just that was a top priority.
Sparks remained stone-faced, as did the three officers at his side, while waiting for the passengers to exit the helicopter one by one. He didn’t consider himself a prejudiced man. He was just particularly mindful of those produced by unfamiliar cultures. It was extra attention, a safety precaution, not racial profiling. If questioned, he could always explain it away as a byproduct of 9/11.
In truth, his attention, at the moment, was not focused on those in the aircraft but on the officers around him. Frank Amick had already been briefed on all the details but Carl Lilly was learning everything on the fly. Ron Aliff was a different story altogether. As a member of the West Virginia State Police, he brought a wealth of both good traits and bad potential to the situation.
Acting as a watchdog of sorts, Aliff’s primary function was to make certain that the State Troopers closest to the action were always in the dark and to be an early warning in case they were given a heads-up. Lilly was brought in only as a matter of courtesy. Before retiring, his father had served in the department for twenty-five years. It was his retirement that opened the position that was ultimately filled by his son. If not for that maudlin fact, Sparks would have kept him in the dark, which was his preference regardless. Another participant meant a smaller piece of the pie for everyone.
After eight minutes that felt like an eternity to the chief of police, the door opened on the chopper and its passengers made their way out and into view. A large Japanese man was the first to exit. He wore black sunglasses despite the time of day, likely more for psychological effect than the optical benefits. He was six foot four and at least two hundred and fifty pounds, Sparks estimated, if not more. His head was shaved but he sported a black mustache that extended beyond the corners of his mouth and downward to corners of his chin. He remained motionless, upright, and silent as his fellow passenger readied himself to step out. Dressed in a solid black running suit, comfort appeared to be the primary objective of the outfit until the matte black .45 caliber sidearm on his right hip came into view. This man was present for one purpose: to provide security.
A man of considerable size, his training was unmistakable. There was no wasted energy, no unnecessary movement. Everything was executed with precision and efficiency. His eyes continually scanned the area around him as his head slowly turned side to side. His top priority was his boss, the man he was assigned to protect. Any slip was considered failure and failure was not tolerated in any form or to any degree. Efficiency was vital and success a byproduct of it.
The second man out of the helicopter was not imposing in the least, the polar opposite of the man who preceded him. He was the essence of what many Americans picture when the Japanese are mentioned. The man stood barely five feet tall and was dressed in a solid black suit with a white dress shirt. His dark black hair was closely cropped and his eyes came to a squint through his thin wire rimmed eyeglasses. The most visible quality was his demeanor, the nonverbal communication that was all too clear. Strong yet silent, the small Asian man possessed an intimidating presence. He whispered silent orders into the ear of his bodyguard, who immediately walked to the opposite side of the aircraft.
The boss, as it were, was Yoshiro Sato. At the still relatively young age of forty-three, Sato was already an accomplished executive, evidenced by the personal helicopter in which he had arrived moments earlier. For tax purposes, the jet was only used for official business. However, suspicion lingered regarding his day-to-day financial practices. Modest if not disappointing numbers in the early 1990s became staggeringly successful numbers toward the end of the decade and into the 21st century. This served as a red flag flying over the head of an immigrant who visited his homeland once a month, if not more, but rarely as a business expense.
Sato Electronics Inc. had once been a small company specializing in the production of semi-conductors used in an array of products across the world but Sato’s net worth had nearly quadrupled in less than five years. Yoshiro Soto, who was viewed by his peers as a mid-level entrepreneur with semi-limited resources, purchased more than three million dollars worth of stock in his own company just days before a buyout from a larger multinational corporation was finalized, a move universally recognized as the turning point in his company’s sudden boom.
Sparks was bursting with nervous tension. The Tochigis were expected to arrive before their guests did but were now twenty minutes late. Their absence would certainly arouse the suspicion of the newly flown in guests. As the police chief’s mind processed that thought, the Tochigis’ automobile rolled slowly past the building and to the edge of the small open field where the remainder of the party awaited their arrival.
As sunset began its transition to darkness, Hotaka and Kazuko Tochigi stepped out of their aging Honda Accord and walked toward the group assembled around the helicopter. With a nod of acknowledgement to each of the four uniformed officers, and a bow for their countrymen, the Tochigis were ready to begin. Sato reached into the chopper and retrieved a large black briefcase, basic but sturdy, with an industrial padlock keeping the contents secure. The only key, and the knowledge of the numeric combination, resided in the possession of the bodyguard standing five feet away. It couldn’t possibly be more secure.
“Greetings, Hotaka. It is good to see you, my old friend” Sato said in English, his native accent still heavy. “You were correct. It is beautiful here.” He looked toward the horizon behind him where the darkening orange and purple sky came in contact with the tops of the mountains.
“Konnichiwa Yoshiro. Allow me to introduce you,” Hotaka Tochigi said, turning to the officers standing behind him. “This is Chief Sparks. He is the person in command of the entire police department here.”
“Uh, hello, Mister Sato,” Sparks said, the discomfort prominent in his baritone voice.
Kazuko Tochigi did not speak. Instead, she stood behind her husband, her hands folded at her waist, her eyes focused on the ground, and observed without participating. Her deference to the men was a matter of her cultural upbringing.
Hotaka pointed to each man as he addressed them. “This is Officer Frank Amick. This is Officer Carl Lilly and this is Ronald Aliff. He is not with the local department. He works with the State Police, which could be useful,” Hotaka said, finishing the introductions. The remaining officers remained silent, a simple nod to acknowledge the introduction. “Are we ready, Yoshiro?”
“We are,” Sato said matter-of-factly, never breaking eye contact.
The briefcase was opened and its contents were revealed. Four additional bags sat in the rear seat of the aircraft but their contents were essentially the same. The case was quite heavy and with good reason.
Inside the opened case was twenty packaged kilograms of pure heroin, with a metropolitan area street value higher than the combined yearly incomes of the men who were being hired to guarantee its safe travel.
Sparks softly whistled at the sight and also at the thought.
The thought that he’d allowed an element into his town that he’d sworn to protect it from.
The briefcase and the four additional black duffle bags sat in the crowded storage room at Tochigi’s Japanese Restaurant. Only the briefcase was open, its contents viewable, but all five had been checked at the delivery site to ensure that no damage had occurred during transport. The product variety was staggering and
something not normally associated with the Appalachian region of the United States. China White, a lethal mixture of heroin and another strong prescription narcotic, packed one bag, while the remaining three bags and the briefcase featured a variety of substances: cheaply and fraudulently reproduced or outright stolen prescription medications, common street drugs, and anything else that could possibly suit the needs and desires of a recreational user. The lion’s share of the initial shipment was marijuana, considered by many to be a gateway drug, a precursor to the use of other harder substances. That was the plan, after all. It was the simplest of plans. Bait the hook, reel in the catch. Start small, supposedly harmless, encourage experimentation, and watch the cash flow increase. It was the nature of young people, the Tochigis thought, and it was that nature that could be capitalized on. Hotaka and Kazuko Tochigi operated their business successfully, even admirably, in Spring Creek, and been welcomed and accepted as part of the community, but this was an opportunity that could not be passed up.
It was their son, their oldest child of three, Ken’ichi, who was known simply as Ken among his circle of friends, who they counted on to make the biggest impact. As a junior at Spring Creek High School, Ken spent nine months out of the year in the center of the core group of potential customers that would be targeted the most. It was the high school age group that was most likely to experiment, more so than any other faction. Senior citizens and baby boomers were not considered cash cows in this realm. Once puberty began, it seemed as if the desire to rebel and try new things grew exponentially every year until normally dying out by the mid-to-late twenties. Both the spike and the descent were sharp. There was no time to be wasted.
“There is much for us to do. This is an excellent opportunity for us all,” Hotaka said, addressing his family and taking time to initiate and hold eye contact with his wife and oldest son. He permitted a momentary smirk as he reflected on the potential and promised financial gain. Along with Ken, there were two more Tochigi children who would attend college in the future.
“How can I be expected to suddenly be seen as a supplier for these… things… without causing suspicion?” Ken asked in his casual Americanized English, which lacked the heavy accent of his parents. “I don’t do this. It isn’t me. I’m an honor student, not a drug dealer.”
“It must be done gradually but it is possible,” Hotaka replied.
Marijuana, cocaine, heroin, amphetamines, prescription drugs, LSD; A literal wealth of all of the major players was present, accounted for, and would soon be available. The market was small but would be growing fast, expanding into territories already considered and highlighted as part of the arduous process that ultimately selected Spring Creek, and the Tochigis, as the genesis. Ken’ichi, whose name meant “first son” in their native Japanese, now had a new skill to develop. In addition to his work week as a student, he would now be a salesman, a supplier, and a social fixture at the weekend parties that frequently occur, in spite of the willful ignorance of parents. As a newcomer to the established societal system, Ken would be approached with reasonable suspicion but eventually accepted as just another teenager looking to have a good time. That primary objective would jumpstart the construction of his customer base. Spring Creek was a previously untapped resource but times were changing faster than any current resident could know or understand.
CHAPTER
4
“That was it? We’re supposed to get all ready to lock ‘n load for that? Chief, come on,” Lilly said slack-jawed, confused.
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, that was it. Apparently you just don’t get it Carl and it’s probably best that you don’t. You won’t be saying much about it if you don’t know what the hell is going on,” Chief Sparks said, frustration toward his subordinate in his voice, his eyes elsewhere.
“Let me get this straight then. We get all ready to bring out the cavalry for these slant-eyes to fly something in here and all they unload is a briefcase and four ratty gym bags?” Lilly held up the five fingers he’d been using to count. “Are you serious? This is stupid. There’s somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ us.”
“Carl, stop it!” Sparks barked. “A few more weeks and you won’t have the time or the need to be asking so many idiotic questions. Just do as you’re told. The details will come soon enough. The Tochigis didn’t exactly have to let us in on this, you know. Just relax, do what you’re told, and start thinking about a nice little fishing boat or a new crossbow or something. All that could be in your future.”
Lilly scratched his scalp through his short red hair and said, “Chief, I still don’t get how all this can…”
“I’m not goin’ to say it again. Drop it, Carl. You’re up next for patrol, if we can even call it that anymore. Get on out there, have a look around, and do your job,” Sparks said, motioning Officer Lilly away from the desk and out the door, leaving a moment to consider the irony of his command.
Before Lilly was out the door, the can of snuff in his pocket was retrieved and opened, along with an empty soda bottle to be used for the byproduct of its usage. The deputy pushed the door to the exit open with more force than intended and the frame crashed into the brick wall. Lilly’s contempt kept him from noticing.
As the plans at hand were cemented, Sparks was becoming progressively more nervous. As they fell deeper into illegal activity, more things could go wrong with increasingly grave consequences. The level of instability multiplied each time Sato paid a visit and the likelihood of getting out was growing smaller. Darrell Sparks had lived his entire life barely getting by, never knowing comfort, much less wealth. Now it was his turn to get ahead, to take a breath and find the ever elusive solace in life that was so greatly craved but unrealized. If the operation reached its full potential he could retire sooner rather than later and enjoy a life of hunting and fishing in a carefree world. The likely consequences for the consumers of what they were allowing and encouraging into the town they were sworn to protect and defend was a topic best avoided. It was another unnecessary complication. The suppliers and the buyers were to blame for those problems, he told himself, and he and his men played neither of those roles. They were the muscle, after a fashion. They served as muscle with a watchful eye or a blind eye, depending on the subject being viewed. The chief and his men were being paid, and exquisitely well, to ensure the smooth and safe delivery of a product. No more and no less. Plausible deniability only made a difference if questions were asked. Everything was contingent on every man doing his job, whatever that may be, and nothing else.
Sparks brushed a dot of a condiment from his mustache, left his office, and walked outside to the front of the building. The tension had mounted enough for the day and he needed a smoke. He knew it was unhealthy but that didn’t matter much at the moment. The relaxing feeling of a long drag of his cigarette was the only goal for the next few minutes. Sparks no sooner had the cigarette out and ready to light it when Ray Kessler, the newest member of the force and still a relatively young man at thirty-one, approached him.
“Chief, can we talk for a minute?” Kessler asked uneasily.
“Sure, what is it, Ray?” Sparks answered without looking at him. “And call me, Darrell. I’ve told you that a hundred times.”
“I meant inside. I don’t know if the other fellas need to…”
The chief exhaled a breath full of smoke with a sigh and said, “Kid, I’ve waited all day for my smoke break, alright? There ain’t nobody else out here, and I’m not near done, so just talk.”
Kessler kept his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he spoke. “Well, Chief, I, uh, was driving home a couple of nights ago about 8:30 or so and saw a chopter or something out back behind the station and some of the guys back there with it talking to people. I ain’t heard about something like that and I sure ain’t heard about a helicopter flying in here. I thought maybe something was up.”
“Ray, you’re right. Maybe we should go inside, huh?” Sparks said, finishing his
cigarette prematurely, exhaling the remaining smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Come on.”
Ray Kessler questioned his own sanity, and drew the concern of his family, when he answered the classified advertisement offering a single entry-level position with the Spring Creek Police Department. Small but stout, with the puffed cheeks and thick neck of a much larger man, he formerly styled his thick black hair with a part on the left side and two-inch sideburns that were considered thirty years out of style, but Kessler’s style was all his own. He had the right to do and say as he pleased.
His background was as unique as his appearance, by the estimation of the kids around him. Certainly he was the only kid in school, no matter his grade level, with one set of German immigrant grandparents and one set of full-blooded Cherokee great-grandparents, the latter of which he never met, and the slow Southern drawl that was standard in his hometown in North Carolina. If he never heard the word firewater, or another joke about drunken brawling, it would be too soon. Their jokes were not only insulting but painfully unoriginal.
He escaped high school by the skin of his teeth, an unused and fundamentally worthless two-year degree in General Studies from Monroeville Community College followed. The degree was a piece of paper to the man who had little use for education in general, much less so-called higher education, and had put himself through the motions only to appease the parents who had constructed the game plan for his life without considering his input. Had they known that his choice of college was based solely on following who he thought to be the girl of his dreams, but later discovered to be a nightmare, communication would likely have ceased until graduation.