Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues

by Chris LeGrow

  SENILE SQUAD: ADVENTURES OF THE OLD BLUES

  ©2016 Christopher C. LeGrow. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. This is a work of fiction. Any real-life similarities to characters’ names or likenesses, scenes, or plot lines is purely coincidental.

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  CL1557 Publishing, LLC

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  Omaha, NE 68137

  ISBN: 978-0-9977036-1-0

  ISBN: 978-0-9977036-2-7 (Mobi)

  ISBN: 978-0-9977036-3-4 (EPUB)

  Library of Congress Cataloging Number: 2016944368

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data on file with the publisher.

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  Printed in the USA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To my friend Pam, who upon hearing my idea about this novel

  looked at me and simply said, “Start writing.”

  Of course, to my wife Kara, my family, and my friends, who

  read and helped so much with the early drafts.

  My sincere apologies to all my childhood English teachers who,

  out of disbelief, are now striking their heads in their caskets.

  “I HEAR YOU LIKE TO TALK ABOUT ME.” A TOWERING Sudanese man holding a wooden bat in his hands spoke loudly, as he paced back and forth in front of the kneeling, terrified woman. Her mouth had been gagged and her hands bound behind her back with silver duct tape. To the people of Omaha, she was another nameless Sudanese immigrant, who never seemed to walk far from the public housing she had been given as a residence.

  Even now, at the time of her impending death, she was on display in the small field across from that same depleted public housing building. The apartments were filled to capacity with Sudanese immigrants. Each apartment had windows facing that small field, ideal for this “education” to be visible to the other residents. There, she knelt in front of four Sudanese “soldiers,” each anxiously waiting for an order given by the tall, pacing man. The residents could all be seen staring out of those windows, viewing the scene in horror. Not one of them spoke English, but all of them clearly understood the warning that they were being given. Don’t talk about the man with the bat—the mistake this young, nameless woman had made, being overheard while talking to other immigrants.

  The man with the bat looked to the east, “Good,” he said to himself. The sun was just starting to rise, and everyone peering from behind the curtains would get a good view of the message to be delivered. The woman’s eyes were wide and pleading, silently begging for mercy, just as he liked it. The bat was resting on his right shoulder, his back to the people watching. He slowly glanced to the building, noticing the horrified people stepping away from the windows, hiding like cowards in the shadows. The man slowly turned back to the helpless woman and gave her a satisfied grin. The setting was just as he had planned.

  “Since you talk too much, that is where I’ll start.” He spoke, in Sudanese, loud enough for the immigrants to hear. Then he reached up with his left hand and, holding the bat like a baseball player swinging at a pitch, smashed the woman’s mouth. There was a short, muffled cry of pain, and blood splattered onto the extra-long white T-shirts always worn by his soldiers. The woman’s head snapped back and her body dropped to the ground.

  The executioner smiled as he slowly circled the convulsing body until he stopped by the woman’s head. The sound of the wooden bat striking a human skull echoed into every immigrant’s ear. His soldiers all stepped back. Three deadly blows completed the task, and he knew the warning was complete.

  The man and his blood-splattered soldiers looked up to the building. “You talk, you die!” was chanted in Sudanese, as they slowly left the bloodied warning alone in the field.

  Officer Bill Taylor finally finished his field training. At the Police Acadamy Taylor had finished near the top of his class, and he felt ready for whatever the streets would dish out. He could not have been more wrong. The gangbangers in his patrol district knew more about the law than he did. They even knew the names of the other officers, the days and times they worked this precinct. Taylor was no exception. That is why someone chose to commit a murder when the new cop was on patrol.

  Officer Taylor took his usual route by some public housing on Fourth Street. Taylor looked at the Sudanese who were standing on the sidewalk and said to himself, “They always seem afraid of me, just look away when I wave to them.” It didn’t take Officer Taylor long to notice that this time was undoubtedly different. As he drove by, he noticed that many of the immigrants just stared wide-eyed at him, then looked across the street to a small, litter-filled field. Taylor unintentionally followed their gaze and immediately spotted what they were staring at. On the ground was a contorted woman’s body covered in blood.

  Taylor ran to the body and upon seeing the demolished remains of the woman’s head, he vomited. He felt dizzy and dropped to one knee, giving himself a few minutes before calling in the Homicide Unit.

  The radio buzz for the Homicide Unit in an area of town known for gang activity caught the attention of officers in the gang unit. Gang Detectives Zach Reeves and Steve Turley showed up at the scene and immediately overheard the homicide detectives speaking to a rookie cop named Taylor.

  “You puked next to the body!” The homicide investigator grilled Officer Taylor. “That could have ruined evidence. I know it was your first homicide, but next time puke somewhere you won’t mess up the scene. Did anything else happen that may have screwed up my scene?”

  Taylor knew not to lie, but was hesitant to say what else had happened. Sensing the new officer’s reluctance to talk, the detective put his hand on Taylor’s shoulder to assure him. “Officer Taylor, I need to know what else happened here.”

  Taylor stuttered, “Well, when I was trying to secure the scene, there was this old guy in the crowd. I didn’t pay much attention to him, until I looked over and he was next to the body, looking at and around her. Like he was looking for evidence. I yelled at him to get away from the scene, and, umm—”

  Taylor struggled to continue, which earned him another stern look from the detective who said, “And what?”

  “He told me to tape off a bigger perimeter. Then he said to canvass the area before the hoods arrive and dummy up the witnesses. I didn’t know what he meant by hoods, but I did realize I needed to expand the perimeter. I finished taping off the scene and tried to find him to ask what he had seen, but he was gone.”

  The detective looked up and said, “Yes, you did need a big area sectioned off to protect the scene from getting contaminated by onlookers. I’d like to know what that guy was doing though.”

  Gang Detective Turley told Reeves, “Hoods,” he scratched his chin, “that’s what they used to call gang members in the old days, and dummy up, that means to silence people.” Both Turley and Reeves looked at each other and, as if on cue, scanned the crowd, and sure enough, they recognized gangbangers from two different gangs standing conspicuously around the rapidly growing crowd.

  “Those are 3rd Street,” Turley said, as he recognized about five young black male gangbangers standing about fifteen yards just east of the crowd of onlookers.

  Reeves pointed at another group of six white guy
s and said, “Hatfields, over there, those are Hatfields. Those two gangs are beefin’ right now.” Both Reeves and Turley were ready to respond to an immediate outbreak of violence, but instead, and to their shock, members of both gangs started yelling, “Snitches get stitches! Snitches get stitches!”

  Turley said, “Look, they seem to be working together to protect the guy that did this. I’ve never seen this before, and it doesn’t make sense. These guys hate each other. We’ve got to make sure gang intel knows about this.”

  Ben Mitchell, CEO and COO of Mitel Communications, sat in a wooden chair in the community room of Everville, a retirement home. The awful smell of mothballs filled the air. To his right, at the opposite side of the room were two women who apparently had difficulty hearing, shouting a pointless conversation about flowers. He found himself uncomfortable with the more elderly senior citizens just sitting in wheelchairs staring past him.

  “They’re just waiting to die,” Ben said to himself.

  Ben sat awkwardly at a small, round card table and looked about the multipurpose room. Straightening his tie, he reflected how he didn’t ever like waiting, but this place seemed torturous. Ben eventually became aware of a man standing in a doorway, observing him as if sizing him up. Once identified, the imposing silver-haired, retired police officer entered the room and gave a questioning look at Ben.

  After a brief introduction, Ben motioned at the chair across from him for the old cop to sit down. “I have a proposition.”

  Suspecting something more private than a chat about the weather, the old man said, “Then let’s go to my apartment.”

  Ben explained the purpose of his visit and how he had selected this particular retired cop because of his reputation during his years of service for getting the tough jobs done.

  The old cop listened to the proposition, sat back in his chair with eyes wide and not believing what he just heard. “You,” George Martinez, the cop, said around a well-chewed, unlit cigar, “are out of your freaking mind!”

  He stared at Ben Mitchell, the leader of a very low-key group of extremely successful entrepreneurs. Ben bit the inside of his cheek in an effort not to smile at the reaction. The concept he’d proposed was huge in scope and innovative in police work—maybe even ingenious. Never one to take no for a first—or tenth—answer, Ben tried again. At forty-seven, Time magazine had declared him the youngest multibillionaire in the United States, and he hadn’t built his business by pussyfooting around or listening to naysayers. “No, sir. I’m not.”

  “Where—how?” the older man sputtered, his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows furrowing together. He lifted a weary gaze to meet Ben’s. “Why?”

  Ben folded his hands on the small table in the older man’s postage-stamp–sized apartment. “Well, Mr.—”

  “Sarge. Just call me Sarge. That’s what I was for so long even my family calls me that—the Sarge.”

  “Okay…Sarge, let me explain. I have friends in the Omaha Police Department—in command.”

  The Sarge’s eyebrows inched higher. “Well, la-ti-freak’en-da.”

  Unable to help himself, Ben chuckled at the gruff veteran of thirty years in law enforcement. “I only tell you that to explain my connection with police work. I’m concerned about the growing street crime in the city—”

  “Aren’t we all?” the Sarge growled.

  “I overheard a conversation a couple years ago that showed me how much your experience and years on the job could help the current situation. I’ve never been able to shake that memory,” Ben told the Sarge. “Now I’m in a place where I can do something about it.”

  “How?” The Sarge’s voice almost cracked.

  “I represent a group with more than sufficient means to finance this entire operation.”

  The Sarge grabbed the stogy between his middle finger and thumb, pointing it at Ben. “I know who you are, Mitchell. Billionaire only begins to describe you. And you’re telling me that there’s a bunch more just like you who want to finance this craziness?”

  Ben gave the older man his most confident smile; he knew victory when he heard it. Ben folded his hands on the shiny laminate surface in front of him and leaned forward to make sure the Sarge heard every word. “That and more! But I need a linchpin to make both operations run smoothly and silently.”

  “Both?”

  “Overt and covert,” Ben said. “You pick the men you want for each.”

  The Sarge immediately said, “Tiny Thomas, one of the best cops I ever knew.”

  Ben held up his hands, “You know the guys for this job, not me. I’ll leave all the recruiting to you.” Ben settled back in the hard-backed chair and outstretched his arms. “Or you can stay here and do whatever it is you do all day. Choice is yours. But I need an answer.”

  The Sarge stuck the cigar back in his mouth and thought a moment. He slapped his beefy hand on the table. “When do we start?”

  William “Tiny” Thomas resided in a studio apartment, one of many nondescript dwellings in downtown Omaha. No spectacular views of the skyline for him though. Retirement wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The meager pension he lived on didn’t go as far as he’d thought. College tuition for kids, alimony to ex-wives and his own medical expenses ate every bit the state didn’t take for taxes. Tiny shined a flashlight on the back of his television. “Now where does this dang coaxial thing go?” He twisted it repeatedly only to have it fall out yet again. “Ah nuts.” He’d probably have to Google the instructions, and he wasn’t up to another hassle at the moment.

  He turned the TV off and gazed out his small living room window overlooking Heartland of America Park. He gazed through the floor fan he’d placed in the window that leaned against the screen. It wasn’t much, but it kept fresh air circulating in the place. It also provided a more important tactical role. When the fan was on, he could observe the activities across the street through the rotating blades. Those in the park didn’t know he was monitoring them.

  With over thirty-five years on Omaha streets as a uniformed cop and as a plainclothes detective, old habits were hard to kick. In Tiny’s mind, he wasn’t simply watching folks in the park, he conducted surveillance.

  “There you are again,” Tiny mumbled to himself. A tall, dark Sudanese man stood in the middle of the park. He’d caught Tiny’s attention weeks earlier. He didn’t walk around and talk to people; they approached him. He’d listen and say a few words as though giving instructions. There was something suspicious about those he spoke with. They left in a way that told Tiny they were intent on carrying out information given. The area around the park housed many Sudanese refugees and immigrants. Not a problem in and of itself in Tiny’s book, but this guy was special. There was definitely more to him than met the eye. Tiny watched another interaction.

  “You’re definitely the man in charge,” Tiny said aloud.

  The drama across the street was about all that brought Tiny out of bed in the mornings. All those years as a cop gave him a constant sense of curiosity that never went away. Anytime he found something suspicious, he had to check it out. He hated that in the blink of an eye, he’d gotten old. His body betrayed him at every turn especially recently. There was, however, one advantage that came with advancing age. It gave him an edge he had never possessed before.

  Tiny turned away from the window and grabbed his gray sweater. Stuffing one arm and then another into the sleeves, he straightened the front and checked his reflection in the mirror. “Nobody ever sees a little old man.”

  Tiny locked his front door and set off across the street to check things out. He strolled leisurely around the young man and his companions. Sitting on a bench a few feet away, he stared at the pigeons waddling at his feet and tossed them breadcrumbs he kept in his pockets. He learned loads by simply being an old man in the park. “This tall Sudanese man is definitely the leader,” Tiny said to himself as he worked his way back to his apartment.

  Tiny returned home and hung up his cardigan. Catching a glimpse of hi
s mirrored image, he shook his head. “If I was back on the street, I’d ride that guy’s butt straight out of town.”

  Tiny knew trouble when he saw it. This guy had it written all over him. Every time he tried to express his concerns to a police officer, the officer listened politely for a few minutes then found an excuse to leave.

  Helplessness overwhelmed him. He despised the sensation of worthlessness that weighed on his shoulders daily. Old, tired, and sick, there wasn’t much use for him anymore. Tiny turned to the doppelganger in the mirror. “Why bother?”

  Pulling open the dresser drawer, he stared at his .38-caliber revolver. He could end it right now. He doubted anyone would even notice his absence. “Maybe I should…”

  A knock drew his attention. With a long look at his weapon, Tiny closed the drawer and strode to the door. He expected some neighborhood kid selling cupcakes for his school band, but when he opened the door, he froze. For the first time in many years, he was genuinely surprised. “Sarge?” Tiny said to the man he’d known when he was a cop and his life had meaning. The Sarge smiled, took his chewed cigar out of his mouth and said, “How’d you like a job?”

  The Sarge explained what was going to be a special retirement home for old police officers, and when he told Tiny that the officers were actually going to be fighting crime without anyone knowing about it, Tiny grinned, stood up and walked to the window of his apartment.

  Tiny pointed to a Sudanese man in the park that he had determined was some sort of kingpin and said, “I want to start with him.”

  TO PEOPLE ON ALL COASTS OF THE UNITED STATES, THE quiet city of Omaha, Nebraska, nestled up against the mighty Missouri River, is out in the middle of nowhere. But looks can be deceiving. The city popped up repeatedly in newspaper and television articles because it consistently ranked eighth among the fifty largest cities in the country for per-capita billionaires and Fortune 500 companies. San Francisco might be the leader in billionaires per million people and Atlanta led the way in Fortune 500 companies, but no city—including the major coastal giants—could claim a ranking as high as Omaha on both lists.