by Chris LeGrow
Bud gave a low whistle. “Holy cow.”
“I can think of a few more colorful words,” Al said leafing through the last of the blueprints.
Ben unfolded the potential of the Ol’ Blues to the rest of The Bureau. “These old cops can do things the current officers can’t. They can conduct surveillance, obtain evidence, and walk right up to gang members, criminals, and not even be noticed.”
There were some questioning looks about the last statement. Ben read the questions on their faces and simply said, “Nobody notices the little old men in the parks or walking on the street. These Ol’ Blues, as we call them, simply collect evidence and send it to the Omaha Police anonymously via their tip line. The officers just follow up on the information and then—what do they call it? Oh yes, cuff ’em and stuff ’em.”
The Bureau members looked wide-eyed at each other. One by one, their faces went from shock to agreement. Some even nodded their heads.
“Platts,” Ben said addressing the two real estate magnates in the group. “Can you get the state to sell us the property?”
Pam exhaled a long breath. “Wow—”
“Mom and Dad will be back from Palm Springs in a couple weeks,” Bonnie said. “I’m sure they’ll be glad to help. If anyone can convince the state, they should be happy to get rid of the old facility, it’s Mom.”
“That woman could get Eskimos to invest in ice,” Tyler said.
“Good,” Ben said.
“I love this idea, Ben,” Pam said.
Nods of agreement started coming from every member around the table.
“This will take a lot of financial and political capital,” Steve said. “Is everyone willing to do what it takes to see this through? Something of this magnitude will take everything each one of us has: workers, money, connections. You all willing to give it?”
Before anyone could answer, Steve DeGoff held up his hand for attention and said, “Last week I was parking my car by the farmers’ market downtown, and I had forgotten to bring quarters for the parking meter.”
Bud laughed and said, “All your money and you didn’t have any quarters.” This drew snickers from The Bureau members.
“I know, I know, it’s what happened next that has caused me to be in complete support of this endeavor. I was patting myself down trying to find some coins I could put in the meter. I must have really looked pathetic. Then a gentle tap on my right elbow got my attention. I turned and there was this humble Sudanese woman with a kind smile. She obviously couldn’t speak English, but she reached into a beaten-up purse, which had an old rope for straps, and pulled out three quarters. She looked at me, then made a gesture with the quarters in her hand to my parking meter. I was humbled that a woman of such meager means took the time to help someone like me. I could tell she was very poor; however, she was willing to share what she had with me. I tried to tell her no, but she persisted, and then when I wouldn’t take the money, she put the coins in the meter for me, looked at me with a lovely smile, and walked away.
“Her sweet face burned into my memory. I haven’t seen her since, until this morning when I opened the paper.”
Steve held up the newspaper he carried into the meeting, and on the front page was a photo of that same Sudanese woman who had showed him such kindness. Under the photo in bold print was the headline: Blunt Force Homicide Victim: No Suspects Arrested.
Murmurs all around. “The article said she was found this morning. That makes a total of five identical murders over the last two months. Police have no suspects at this time.” Steve looked at Ben with a tear in his eye and with a determined sound to his voice and said, “Ben, I’m completely behind this project.”
“Service is the rent you pay for living in a free country. Isn’t that the saying?” Frieda asked. “This is our rent.”
A long pause passed while each person considered the conversation.
Bud and Frieda exchanged a pointed glance as did the Platt sisters and the Long brothers.
“You got me—” Pamela began.
“Us too,” Bud said with a nod at Frieda.
“Us,” Bonnie said. “All of us. We’ll start working on the governor’s backing.”
“I’ll take the county commissioners,” Steve offered.
“Like there’s a downside for any politician,” Dan said. “Nothing will be required of them and they’ll get full PR in the media. What’s not to like?”
“I’m sure they can’t wait to get their pictures taken at the ribbon cutting,” Pamela said.
“Politics aside, Ben,” DeGoff said, “what do you need from me?”
“Access to the same micro-electronic technology you give the military,” Ben said. “All of it constructed, delivered, and set up on the down low. No one—and I mean no one—can know about the real purpose of this place.”
Steve gave a low whistle. “You got it.”
“What I visualized is the same type of system to locate, track, and destroy targets—only we won’t be using drones,” Ben said.
“Bud and Frieda,” he said, turning to the couple. “Can you guys get the building codes, especially for the covert renovations? If your company is willing to insure the facility, the building regulators will be happy to oblige everything else.”
The Williamses exchanged a pointed glance to each other, nodded, and spoke together. “Will do.”
“This is great,” DeGoff said. “A win-win proposition all the way around. At the least we’ve got a fantastic retirement home. At the best, we have a milestone in local law enforcement.”
“How soon can we get started?” Bud asked.
“How’s today sound?” Ben shrugged out of his navy suit coat and rolled up his sleeves.
“Apparently,” Steve said, “you’ve thought of everything. Does that include a name?”
“You bet.” A smile tickled the corners of Ben’s mouth. “The Ol’ Blues.”
Frieda, Bud, and Ben, the senior member and driving force behind The Bureau, stepped out of their cars and into the summer sunshine in front of the old veterans’ home in northwest Omaha. “I cannot believe,” Frieda said, “how easily we were able to sneak those specialized renovations into the reconstruction of this place.”
“Shh,” her husband said and elbowed her playfully. “Covert means we don’t talk about it outside the conference room.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said with a bright smile.
They approached the front door slowly to allow a CNN reporter to finish her taping.
“CNN?” Bud asked.
Ben smiled and slipped his sunglasses on. “Good media attention is always a plus.”
“…this facility, though not completed yet, will be outfitted with the latest technology and innovations,” the CNN reporter said. “Medical staff will meet the needs of the occupants and provide the officers with the best care available. The increased space will be available for the medical schools, nursing, social work, and psychological programs. Here—” she pointed at the south wing, “are the separate wings for each program including one for the Nebraska Health and Human Services office. You name it; they’ve thought of it,” she said into the camera with a bright smile.
“Those offices required extensive electrical retrofitting, and don’t even get me started on the steam, air conditioning vents, and all the other conduits,” Bud said quietly.
Ben led the group around the reporter and her photographer.
“We were lucky this place was built with a Cold War mentality and its nearness to what was then the Strategic Air Command’s nuclear command post south of Omaha,” he continued, referencing the old days before new tech warfare.
“Those walls are so thick, they’d stop an atomic bomb. Justifying all the changes was easy. Those old things gave us the opening we needed for any extra work,” Frieda said. “The state didn’t question a thing.”
“The state and city inspectors seemed impressed with what they called ‘above and beyond code’ improvements,” Ben said. “Remember
when the EPA gave Omaha an unfunded mandate for sewer and wastewater separation?”
“Yeah,” Bud said. “Hundreds of miles of sewer pipes had to be fixed.”
“Well,” Ben said, “Dan’s spearheading the specially designed sewer network—not one but four that have an amazing resemblance to tunnels, so wide a couple of golf carts could easily drive the length of each. When the improvement to the city system finally reaches us out here, the plumbing will be ready to immediately link up to the city.”
“And, of course, the city planners and inspectors were ecstatic,” Bud drawled.
Ben smiled at the memory. “Absolutely. No charge to the taxpayers,” he murmured to his companions. “Always the magic words.”
Downstairs, far below the public face of the project was the main supply room. Solid steel doors declared: Restricted—No Admittance. Washing machines lined one wall; janitorial and indoor maintenance supplies sat in adjacent cabinets.
“’Bout time you three got down here.”
Delighted that he’d managed to induce the Sarge to head up the operation, Ben smiled and strode over to shake his hand. With a nod of approval at the tall, white-haired man, Ben turned to introduce him to his associates.
“Sarge,” he said, “our compatriots in this venture: Bud and Frieda Williams. Bud and Frieda, Sarge.”
The Sarge, tall and imposing in retirement, grasped each person’s hand in turn to shake it. Ben remembered his introduction and the firm grip of a man who still worked out and kept in shape.
The Sarge pulled his well-chewed but still unlit cigar from his mouth, his brows knitting. “You mean the insurance gods?”
Ben, Bud, and Frieda laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said.
“No wonder this place is so James Bond,” the Sarge said. His frown disappeared and a smile lit his lined face. “This plan is genius. It’s gonna be great!”
“So who have you chosen to run this particular area?” Ben asked. “The Sarge says the supply room is the key to everything: secrecy, uniformity, and general success.”
The Sarge scratched behind his ear and cocked his head. “Paps and Jerry are my pick. They were responsible for the supply room at headquarters and ran the weapons room for riot teams when we were on the job.”
“That’s fine for paperclips and smoke grenades,” Bud said, “but this is going to be much bigger. It’ll be the heart of your command center.”
“Yes,” Frieda added. “What we have in mind isn’t only equipment, but research and development of surveillance, intelligence, light weaponry, and an entire staff of dedicated research and development personnel to tap into the local corporations for funding.”
“We want the best and brightest lab technicians in the surveillance industry,” Bud said. “There’s an entire network of bomb shelters and tunnels under this facility, and it’ll have the latest equipment, labs, testing ranges, and—”
“A supply room maybe?” Sarge asked. Stuffing the stogy back between his lips, he strode to a desk and lowered himself in what looked to be a custom-made recliner.
He pointed a long index finger at a startled Ben who knew from the first moment that this grizzled veteran of the streets was needed for his power and command. Even so, Ben wasn’t used to being pointed at and ordered around.
“Look,” the Sarge said. “Paps and Jerry ran that program tighter than anyone I worked with in twenty-five years. You have no idea what it takes to keep an updated inventory of every piece of equipment from paperclips to smoke grenades. Paps and Jerry do.”
Ben stared at the tough, blunt ex-cop and reminded himself why he’d courted the Sarge for exactly this job. Sarge was the linchpin. Ben knew nothing about police work, surveillance, or catching the bad guys. Sarge could bring their plans to fruition. The Bureau could put all the bells and whistles they wanted into this structure, but without the right people, it would end up a money pit. Ben let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and pressed his lips together. “They sound like the perfect duo,” he said.
The Sarge smiled and pointed at Ben once more. “Good. Now unclench your butt cheeks; you’re crushing your checkbook,” he said around the wad in his mouth.
Bud exchanged a disbelieving look with Ben and Frieda. “The Sarge knows his stuff,” Ben said in a low voice. “That’s why I chose him—begged him—to head up our operation.”
“Guess he never heard that discretion is the better form of valor,” Bud said.
“Or the one about flies and honey,” Frieda said.
“Listen and learn,” Ben said. “I know nothing about this stuff, do you?”
The threesome took seats across from the Sarge. “Go ahead, Sarge,” Ben said. “Enlighten us.”
A smile split Sarge’s face. “Right. How are those butt cheeks?”
Ben couldn’t help it; he laughed out loud. The Sarge might be a gruff old bird, but he was also honest and forthright to the point of bluntness. Exactly what they needed for success.
Bud and Frieda each fought back smiles, and the tension disappeared.
“Okay,” the Sarge said, leaning forward. “These guys had to not only keep an up-to-date inventory, they organized and ran the entire police supply room. It was huge and they were unbelievable. They knew the expiration dates of all types of equipment—when it had to be replaced and where to get it. They regulated which personnel could go into their supply room and who could walk more than two feet inside. They went eight to ten hours in a windowless room forty hours a week, and they were as sharp at the end of shift as they were at the beginning.”
The Sarge tapped his fingers on his desk and leaned closer to Ben. “You have any idea how hard it is to find one guy like that, let alone two? And it didn’t matter your rank; you didn’t have proper authorization, you didn’t get in. Sergeant, lieutenant, captain…even the chief himself…they didn’t care—believe me on this. Guys like that are always the backbone of any police facility with any type of equipment or weapon. Everything needs to be secure, and with what we’re gonna have behind these walls.” He thrust a wide thumb over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t trust to anyone except Paps and Jerry. Whatever we have— security, organization, and the sheer know-how to keep this operation functioning smoothly—needs to be in their very capable hands.”
“Wait a minute,” Bud said. “Are you asking us to relinquish full control to you? You can’t be serious. This will be hundreds of millions of dollars worth in—”
Ben exchanged a glance with him and shrugged. “We’ll give you a year of control,” he told the Sarge. “If we like the results, we’ll turn everything over to you; if we don’t like the results…” Ben let the threat hang in the air a long moment. “Then we’ve built an excellent retirement center and everything else goes away. Deal?”
The Sarge gnawed on the still-to-be-lit smoke. After a long moment, he gave them a curt nod. “Deal.”
Relieved, Ben settled into the leather chair. If the Sarge and his men knew what they were talking about—and it looked like they did— they’d achieve the outcome they wanted for the city.
Ben stood to leave; Bud and Frieda followed suit. “One year,” he said. “Got an address on those two?”
The Sarge scratched the names and addresses for Paps and Jerry and handed it to Bud. “Give ’em the same sales pitch you gave me.”
Ben smiled and gave the older man a quick salute. “Will do.”
A month later, there were Ol’ Blues manning the renovated Ol’ Blue Precinct. It was still in the initial phases of development. Ben Mitchell had persuaded Paps and Jerry to come out and tour the special retirement home for police officers. Paps and Jerry walked into the former vets’ home and exchanged a puzzled look with each other and their escort, Ben Mitchell. “You sure this is the right place, young man?” Paps asked.
“Yes sir,” Ben said. “Just walk inside. I think you’ll like what you see.”
Paps and Jerry did so. There was a large reception area with a beautiful white-tiled fl
oor. There was a dark wooden information desk with a young lady talking on the telephone. From the reception area there were four different brass double-door exits that obviously went to different branches of the facility. Above each was a plaque that had writing.
Ben sensing that the men were trying to figure out the exact layout of the building pointed to the door on the left. “That corridor leads to the medical and educational wing,” Ben said with a nod in that direction. “The large one in the middle leads to the precinct and the other two on the right…well, that one—” he indicated the closest to them, “goes to the state offices, and that one goes to the supply area.”
“Supply area?” they asked in unison.
“Yep,” Ben said with a smile. “Let’s get you settled in.”
Paps and Jerry were briefly shown around the wings and then taken down the hallway that said The Precinct.
“Strange name for a retirement wing, don’cha think?” Paps said in a stage whisper to Jerry out of the corner of his mouth.
“Can’t wait to see the rooms,” Jerry muttered back. “They probably have steel bars.”
The two friends chuckled. Approaching two large wooden doors, Ben hopped two steps in front of them, glanced over his shoulder, and pulled the door open with a wide smile. Sounds they hadn’t heard in years greeted them. A soft click-click-click tapped through the air. In a nod to safety, once the doors completely opened, they stayed open until physically pulled close or someone inside the precinct pushed a button to do so.
Paps and Jerry froze and stared in open-mouthed amazement. “That almost sounds like—”
“Typewriters!” Jerry interrupted.
Ben stepped back and gestured with his arm for the friends to enter. “Please, gentlemen, after you.”
Paps and Jerry walked through the doors. Retro typewriters, old electric fans, and men involved in indiscernible conversations enveloped the room. Two steps inside Paps and Jerry stopped and stared from one side to the other and back again.