The rotten bitch! Someone heard her!—someone’s out there! Not again!—just like the last time!
He had swung about and leapt off the bed, dragging “mommy” along with him as the female cop barged in, blood in her eye and a big nasty revolver throwing down on him.
“Freeze!” the cop commanded cooly. “Police! One twitch and you’re dead meat!”
He gave her a chance to see his gun buried in “mommy’s” tits and warned her with cold contempt as he peered through the slits of his ski mask, “Then so is she! What’s it going to be?”
“You can’t beat this one,” the cop said without batting an eye. “These woods are alive with cops.”
“So we’re all dead—you, me, her, the kids. Is that what you want?”
One of the kids, the girl, came into the act like a gift from God. She screamed at her mommy and flung herself past the horrified eyes of the cop. He scooped her up and tossed the woman aside to concentrate on the baby as a hotter ticket out of that joint. “Out!” he growled at the cop, “quick, don’t try me, I’d as soon die now as later, but not alone!”
He knew that she was weighing the options and he saw the decision
“You cannot take the child,” she said with firm conviction.
“I wouldn’t need the kid if you weren’t holding a gun on me. Let’s do this the smart way. Back away. Quick. I’ll leave the kid.”
“No other hostages.”
“Right. Do it quick, while there’s still time. Another cop comes through this door, we’re all dead meat.”
Well, thank God for small favors. An intelligent one. She was carefully backing away. But smart could be the understatement of the day. She obviously knew that other cops were nearby and moments away.
“Move, move, move! Give me an avenue!”
“You’ve got your avenue,” she assured him as she continued the cautious
withdrawal.
Smart sure, but also cool as ice. Her gun had not wavered nor her steely gaze. The kid was bawling, the mommy was bawling—maybe he should have been bawling, too.
He backed the cop into a neutral area and pushed the woman along in front of the child until he saw a clear path, then shoved both hostages into the cop’s line of fire as he bolted through the exit.
That was certainly as close an encounter as he would ever want. But he was clear, dammit, and that was victory enough for now.
As for the “female pride” of the San Remo Police Department, she would get her comeuppance one way or another, and maybe a lot sooner than she might think.
That could be absolutely righteous.
Chapter Twenty-two
Rebecca had heard the cries from the house while patrolling in her car. She had immediately radioed for help and gone to investigate the disturbance.
However, she had been sensitized and anticipating just such a development and knew that time was of the essence; she could not simply wait around for backup, especially given the possibility of weather-related delay. She had been spending a lot of time in the neighborhood for the past week, a circumstance which greatly enhanced her familiarity with the area. The visibility had not improved that much but she knew that there were only four basic house plans in the subdivision. She had studied the house designs and had a good idea of how best someone might break into the residence. She quickly moved to the back of the house and instantly found the point of entry.
And of course she had been totally accurate. The young policewoman was grateful for her two years of experience on patrol and the variety of police duties to which she had been exposed. Even so, she was amazed that she had walked into that situation with such a sense of confidence and composure. This, she knew, was what all the training was about. She had taken it by the numbers, without fear or confusion.
Even the hostage situation, which had been a novel experience for her except in the classroom, had seemed to be almost a routine event.
She wanted this guy in the worst way, but not enough to take wild chances with innocent lives. Too much had been said in the press and elsewhere about police shootings, hardly anything ever to the effect that a cop’s first mission, always, is to protect life, not to snuff it out.
In that sense, she felt that she had done her job properly. In another sense, however, she was almost inconsolable over her failure to apprehend the Sunrise Killer, with the man clearly in her sights and only steps away. She would have shot him without compunction or even regret, feeling that she had performed a noble service for the community.
But now she felt…well, cheated and even ineffectual. Maybe a better cop would have handled it differently.
That was where she was in her own heart and mind when the killer ran out of there and disappeared into the fog-laden mists.
Then suddenly the scene was alive with police officers, almost as though a motion picture director had commanded “action” and the cast of players went about their assigned roles in the drama. Rebecca herself was one of those “actors” and was no more than a pace or two behind the killer, close enough to have glimpsed his athletic scramble over the wall before she could fire her weapon. The wall was the absolute end of the visible zone in the murky atmosphere but she was poised for hot pursuit when her husband yelled at her from behind,
“Let them get it, Rebecca!”
She stood clear while Barton and Rodriguez vaulted the wall and dropped to the other side.
Rebecca cried, “Careful, dammit, it’s Martin and he’s armed!”
Sergeant Storme yelled, “He’s covered to the rear! Let’s close it up and keep it tight!”
The Sergeant had sent units to both streets in anticipation of such a need even before fully understanding the nature of the problem.
Within seconds after receiving the flash from Rebecca, all available units in the area had been alerted and dispatched for maximum containment.
Rebecca did not know it at the time but eight officers beside herself had responded and were at that moment establishing a “perimeter” which should effectively cordon off the neighborhood and insure the apprehension of the suspect.
The major fear now was that the suspect would break into another home and perhaps seize new hostages. Sergeant Storme was quick to realize the ramifications; even while the entire unit was responding to the present situation, he was calling all available manpower into the target area. They would need all the help they could get. Not only did every yard in the area have to be checked but also every home had to be canvassed to assure that the occupants were safe—and that the killer had not found sanctuary there.
It would be an ideal situation for a helicopter patrol once the fog had lifted sufficiently to make that feasible. Meanwhile, they would have to rely on maximum utilization of surface patrols and house to house searches.
If only the damn weather would break!
Meanwhile, Rebecca was busy with the newest victims. Except for a minor contusion from a blow to her face, the woman was apparently uninjured and both children were unharmed. It was no time for routine reports or other official details; she simply wanted to reassure them and try to make them comfortable.
The mother’s name was Nan Webster. She was twenty-five. Victoria was three and a half; little Walter was barely nine months old. Nan’s husband had not yet arrived at his workplace and could not be contacted immediately. She was a plucky young mother and seemed to be handling the situation with grace. “My kid’s are okay,” she told
Rebecca soberly, “so I just thank God that you were here. I don’t know what I would have done….”
“You did great,” Rebecca assured her.
Both of the babies were in their mother’s arms and she would not let go. Later Rebecca would urge Mrs. Webster to seek psychological counseling for both herself and the little girl, fully aware that such experiences can have long term traumatic effects. For now, she advised the victim—almost to the point of insistence—to “take a vacation for a few days” in some safe haven far removed from San Remo, as
soon as her husband returned home.
By this time, the sun had broken through the atmospheric pall and the eeriness of the early morning had given way to a characteristically bright and pleasant spring day. A Sheriff’s helicopter was overhead and conducting sweeps of the neighborhood for tactical support while ground elements searched by foot and automobile. A tight perimeter had been maintained to contain the fugitive and prevent escape, the primary fear being that he had already slipped through the net while the heavy fog was still present.
Sergeant Storme then was understandably “fit to be tied” when the local newsman, Charlie Andrews, camera poised and a press badge pinned to the lapel of his sports jacket, wandered nonchalantly into the police command post in front of the Webster residence.
“Tell these guys I’m okay, Pete,” the reporter demanded, as a pair of uniformed officers from another agency accosted him.
Storme gave him a withering look as he told the detaining officers, “I know the guy. It’s okay. But only long enough to turn him around and escort him out of the area.”
Andrews did not appear to be contented with that. “Suppose I just surrender my camera and promise to stay out of your way?”
The Sergeant told him, “No dice. There is a killer loose out here, Charlie. It’s for your own safety. Don’t give us a hard time about this.”
The newsman appeared to be angling for a look into the Webster home. “Did I see Rebecca a minute ago?”
“Maybe. It buys you nothing.” Storme shot the officers a stern glance as he reiterated, “Get him out of here.” He added softly, “Treat him right.”
The two patrolmen placed the still protesting Andrews in their vehicle for escort to his own car, parked somewhere nearby.
Rebecca strode out from the house and watched the newsman’s departure. “Poor Charlie,” she said sympathetically.
“Poor Charlie, my ass,” her husband snapped. “All that guy does is get in our way—and he would be the first to sue if he got injured out here. But if you’d like to babysit him, Rebecca….”
“No thanks, I just….”
Apparently the Sergeant had lost interest in the question of Charlie Andrews as he told her, “We have the entire neighborhood buttoned up, now. The chopper’s up and patrolling and we have a whole foot-platoon conducting house to house searches. How’s the family doing?”
“Okay, considering. They got very lucky, and Mrs. Webster knows it.”
“They are not the only ones who got lucky, Rebecca. So did you. Do you know that?”
“I don’t call it luck, Peter. Did you get lucky in that store shooting last week?—or did you just do your job in the only way possible? You got your man in that one. I didn’t get mine. It’s tearing me up.” She blinked back angry tears. “Is there such a thing as a non-shooting review?”
He replied gruffly, “Different situation. Are you trying to beat up on yourself over this?”
“How would you have handled this, Peter?”
“Probably the same way you did. I just wonder if I would have been as cool as you—or as brave as you.”
“So why do I feel so rotten?”
“You saved three innocent lives this morning, Rebecca.”
She replied, “Yeah, I know that and I’m thankful for that—but somehow it’s just not enough. I stood there and watched a maniac walk out the door clean.”
“He’s not clean yet, kid. But the Websters are. Remember that. Remember, too, that all of you could have ended up dead.” He looked up as a helicopter circled slowly overhead. “We are going to get this guy.”
Rebecca told him, “Sure we are. But if another innocent dies in the meantime….”
Her husband replied with a grim smile, “Cut it out. We are not in the God business—we’re cops and we take it as it goes down. You took it with your best shot. No one can ask more than that.”
She said winsomely, “I can.”
He stroked her face as he softly said, “We missed our breakfast date.”
“Make it up to me?”
“First chance, but I can’t promise when that might be.”
“First things first.”
“Story of my life—yours, too, I guess.”
“Well, we’re cops, aren’t we?”
He replied ruefully, “For better or for worse. I’m ready for some better. How about you?”
Rebecca was ready for that, yes. More than anything right now she needed to be held and comforted by the man she loved but their badges were holding them hostage and she knew that there could be no joy or respite as long as a diabolical killer continued to stalk the women and children of this city.
It had become obvious by nine o’clock that morning that the killer had somehow slipped through the police net and that the entire city was itself hostage to the killer in its midst.
The heart, mind and soul of Detective Rebecca Storme knew that she, too, was still captive to the Sunrise Killer as well as to the badge she wore—and she wondered if she would ever be free again.
Chapter Twenty-three
By early afternoon on Tuesday, the city of San Remo was coming unglued. Fully one third of the public school enrollment was in an absentee status, many small businesses were closed, and the gun stores had been overwhelmed by eager customers frantic to arm themselves, despite the required waiting period before their guns could be delivered. Even so, gun ownership was common throughout the area and the sale of ammunition was brisk.
Chief Walsh’s greatest concern was that over-reaction by fearful citizens would develop an almost vigilante attitude which could be as dangerous to public safety as the criminal himself. He had dispatched several of his senior officers to attend neighborhood meetings of alarmed groups who were gathering at schools and churches throughout the city—not only to reassure the citizens but also to “keep a lid” on the situation.
Due to continued and unrelenting sensational coverage by news organizations—justifiable, perhaps, under the circumstances—the entire region was in a state of alarm teetering on open panic. Meanwhile, the Chief himself was trying to reassure a group of business and political leaders gathered at City Hall that every effort was being made to apprehend the killer and to preserve the public safety.
Walsh frankly discussed the presence and close support of the FBI and local agencies who were working tirelessly toward that goal. One of the councilmen made particular reference to the fact that “Sergeant Storme,” who was heading the San Remo investigation, “has already embarrassed the city and possibly set us up for a large wrongful death suit over the shooting of that kid last week. Now he is in the spotlight again, and frankly I’m not too pleased with that.”
The Chief quietly but forcefully responded, “Sergeant Storme is in the ‘spotlight’ because I feel that he is the best man to head this investigation.”
The City Manager, Rafael Gutierrez, snapped impatiently, “My God, that had absolutely nothing to do with this present crisis! Let’s not mix pot holes with earthquakes! If the Chief wants him for this job, that’s plenty good enough for me.”
All of the other participants echoed the CM’s sentiments, and that was the end of that small revolt. Not everyone, however, was so quick to support the overall response to the police effort vis-a-vis the handling of the Sunrise case. There were genuine concerns that the police investigation was neither swift enough or good enough. After all, a heinous killer had been running amuck for a week and everyone was understandably intolerant of the situation.
And Charlie Andrews was not making things any easier for anyone. The reporter had been leveling a steady barrage of criticism at the police and fueling the fires of public indignation. But there was nothing to be done about that; no one seemed even sure that it would be proper to complain about the excesses of a free press. Who, after all, would be willing to challenge the meaning of “excess” in issues of Constitutional Rights? However, Chief Walsh could see nothing wrong in using these community meetings to rebut the often exaggerated stat
ements in the press. The journalist was savvy enough to understand his own limits and always was careful to frame his “poison” in language which protected him from any direct challenge of his statements. “It is alleged that….” and “…an unnamed source….” goes a long way toward suggesting an event without actually claiming that it is true. Very little of Charlie Andrews’ attacks on the police establishment were justified, but how does one impart that understanding to an unsophisticated audience? The old saw, “Well, it must be true, I read it in the paper,” illustrates that sort of unsophistication.
Walsh had no bones to pick with anyone except the killer and his only interest was to nail the guy and stop the killing. Others could debate the ins and outs of the situation all they wanted once the crisis was over. This chief of police had no hidden agendas or political expediencies; he was a cop, and his town was under siege. That was the entire agenda. Nevertheless, the Chief was strongly aware of the mounting tensions in the area and was resolved to do everything in his power to relieve those tensions. He had announced a four o’clock press conference, with an emphasis on plain facts and full disclosure of the efforts being taken to protect the city. Not many, however, would be content with mere reassurances. San Remo was in a mood for action.
Much to her dismay, Detective Rebecca Storme found herself a strong object of attention—and even scrutiny—as the press conference got underway. Chief Walsh had insisted on setting it up in the council chambers at City Hall to allow every interested citizen full access. The sensational nature of the case had attracted not only local news people from both print and broadcast media but others from throughout the country and even several international participants. The overflow crowd of journalists and ordinary citizens was excitedly charged with the drama of the moment and often vociferous in their comments and observations. It was no wonder that Rebecca felt a bit intimidated by the crowd. The events of the early morning had already been given wide exposure throughout the world and, of course, much of this interest was centered on Detective Storme herself.
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