Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues

by Chris LeGrow

  “Are you sure about this, ma’am?” the student behind her asked timidly.

  “Sure? Oh yeah, I’m sure.” She huffed and scuttled around a corner. “I saw that Smitty bold as polished brass. On television no less. I’ve always known something funny was going on around here. I can feel it in my gut,” Betsy said. “Got ’em dead to rights now.”

  In his room, Smitty closed his eyes and willed his galloping heart to slow to a calmer beat. Luckily he’d prepared for this type of scenario and had worn his indignity robe under his street clothes; moments earlier he’d stuffed his outer garments in the bottom of his closet.

  From the hall, sounds of a small commotion made its presence known. With every passing second the sounds grew nearer and louder…and headed straight for his room. Breathe, he told himself, just breathe. In…out…in…out. The clamor outside drew closer and Smitty hopped up, a brilliant idea blossoming in his head.

  His door thudded open. “Smitty!” Boss Nurse Betsy exclaimed, her eyebrows hiking higher on her forehead. “What the—”

  Smitty, holding the colostomy bag he’d just detached, jumped like he’d been shocked. “Oh—” he whirled around in phony surprise and flung the bag in question toward the door.

  Nurse Betsy’s arms flew out to her side as though she could protect her students from the inevitable. “Noooo!” The plea hit the air just as the bag landed directly in front of her, the contents splattering onto her legs and several of the students in her wake.

  Nurse Betsy squeezed her eyes closed, her hands still splayed out at her side; the students shrieked and groaned.

  “What’d you do that for?” Smitty asked. “I was just—” In his doorway, the contents of his colostomy bag dripped down Boss Nurse’s legs. Her eyes still closed, it looked a lot like she was praying for strength not to kill him.

  “Nurse Betsy thought you were on television,” one of the student nurses said with more than a touch of sarcasm. “She actually thought you’d sneaked out of the facility.”

  “Sneak out?” he asked as innocently as he could muster. “Why? Better yet, how?”

  Nurse Betsy glared at him and shook her head. “Get a mop,” she directed. “Get this place cleaned and disinfected ASAP.”

  Moving as one, the students turned to leave. They showed their displeasure in long audible sighs, muttered remarks, and grimaces but they did as instructed.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” Boss Nurse said, piercing Smitty with a withering stare, “but when I find out…”

  She stalked out of Smitty’s room, her threat resounding in his ears. Smitty sank into a chair and covered his face with his hand. He never wanted a repeat of this afternoon’s race home. Boss Nurse was the last person they needed meddling in their affairs. It had been a close call— way, way, way too close. One good thing had come out of it though, Smitty thought. He’d finally found a use for that stupid crap bag.

  JAKE, THE CHIEF, AND MONICA HOVERED AROUND THE radio channel, monitoring the melee in North Omaha.

  “Holy smokes,” the Chief said, “it sounds like the gang unit nabbed a mob of that Clubba’s thugs. We got a count yet, Jake?”

  Shaking his head, Jake looked up from his notepad. “Nothing complete, Chief, but by my count, we got about twenty bangers. What a hornet’s nest that place is. From what I’ve gathered, Sergeant Scott’s group thought there’d be maybe five or ten of them hanging around the housing units. Once they flushed them out, there was almost a couple dozen.”

  “Outstanding,” the Chief said and leaned back in his chair with a wide smile. “Absolutely fantastic. We’ll need a press release as soon as we get all the facts sorted out. The media’s already there, but they’re wrapping things up now that the gang unit and the uniformed cruisers are leaving.”

  Jake nodded and stood up. “I’ll let Sergeant Scott brief me once I get over there. Should have an initial statement put together in about an hour. A more complete release can come out after everybody’s booked. They’ll be busy with that for a while.”

  “Good. Get on it, Jake. I’ll wait for your call,” the Chief said, redirecting his attention to the action on the radio.

  Jake stopped back at his office to review the news video from the scene. “That was one crazy ambush,” he said, jotting more notes on his yellow pad. Toward the end of the coverage Jake glanced up. As the camera panned the area, Jake did a double take.

  “What the—” He shook his head and pressed the back button. Jake stared at the television screen with a frown. “That’s Smitty getting into that van.” Jake reviewed the scene three more times to make sure he’d seen it correctly. It was definitely Smitty. Jake plopped down into his seat and stared out the window at the cloudless sky.

  What the devil was Smitty doing in the middle of a police action? His mind whirred and brought him back to the oh-so-familiar female voice who’d translated the anonymous DVD sent to the gang unit. “Of course!” Jake said to himself. “The voice belonged to Brittany. Who better to translate the surveillance video than a former missionary to the Sudanese people.” It was perfect, but it still didn’t explain Smitty… or the other Blues in the van.

  “Oh, man,” he said and propped his elbows on his desk. Brittany translating, Smitty at the scene, and the other Blues accompanying Smitty. There’s only one explanation.

  “The geezers have gone rogue.”

  In all, twenty-three Sudanese soldiers had been captured and charged with a list of offenses ranging from felony witness tampering, felony assault on an officer, and flight to avoid arrest, to obstruction of justice—and that was just for starters. The task of positively identifying each one, determining the juveniles and the adults in the group, and processing the resulting paperwork would tie up the officers for the next few hours.

  Eighteen suspects went to the hospital for exposure to pepper spray. Each still howled in pain, mucus still dripping from their noses and down their faces too.

  The officers in charge watched in mild amusement. Fair payback for dragging them through the wildest mass apprehensions of their careers. Not much sympathy for the mouthy, whimpering, mucus-dripping bangers could be mustered from anyone in blue.

  A few of Clubba’s boys were clearly slow learners and made the big mistake of assaulting the nurses trying to help them; even more charges were added to their already looming prison time.

  Street cops have a special place in their hearts for the emergency room staff. Many a cop had been bandaged up after a fight by an already exhausted nurse who gave them a smile and a good-natured scolding for getting hurt. Tonight was no exception.

  Kerry Cunningham’s nurse gave the oddly-shaped, swelled goose egg over his right eyebrow a confused frown. “I could swear this thing looks just like one of my metal serving spoons—even has the same drainage holes.”

  Cunningham stayed quiet, but his partner Tye couldn’t resist. “One of those punks must have really got the drop on him,” he said barely suppressing a chuckle. “I mean, to be able to thump his melon like that—must have been the biggest dude in the group!”

  Each time the nurse touched the lump, the wincing officer shot his partner a dirty look. Tye broke out in renewed laughter.

  Having had enough, Kerry gave his partner the finger. An older ER nurse slapped his hand away. “None of that,” she spat.

  “Sorry,” Kerry said and dropped his hand.

  Tye snickered. “Got checked by two old ladies in one night!”

  Kerry shot him another dirty look. “I’ll get you later,” he said.

  The officers appreciated what the nurses did for them. Among cops, anyone who hit nurses was going down and down hard. The floor of the ER isn’t soft dirt. Many a thug ended up leaving his front teeth on the floor of ERs after punching a nurse.

  It wasn’t until well into the morning hours of Friday that all the interviews were completed, charges for each of the identified bangers were decided upon, and the booking had begun.

  The gang unit had its hands fu
ll. Officer Steven Turley sat back and looked around the holding area in the gang unit offices. There were many other officers working to get all the necessary charges to the proper suspect. All the officers were combing through records, fingerprinting for positive identification, and then booking the subjects once they were identified. Officer Turley loved police work, but the paperwork required to identify, charge, and book for charges was a nightmare.

  “Oh well,” Turley said as he tossed his hands into the air, “this is why the city pays us the big bucks.”

  Clubba had gathered all of his cell belongings and had gone through the bureaucratic release routine that every inmate has to endure to leave the state penitentiary. Clubba knew that the police would not take long to connect him to the Sudanese soldiers who had surrounded the apartments where Shanese was staying. Clubba had arranged for a ride back to Omaha, and one of his remaining Sudanese soldiers was waiting for him in the parking lot.

  “Well Te’quan, I hope we don’t see you again.” The guard said. Clubba barely acknowledged the remark with a “humph” and walked away.

  The gang unit conference room was packed with exhausted, red-eyed officers who could barely stay awake. They had gone all night without sleeping to get all the suspects processed. The sun had risen two hours prior to the meeting.

  Sergeant Scott gave a short statement and told the officers what a great job they had done. Jake Mitchell was in the room and added, “The Chief was very impressed with the job you guys did last night and will talk to you after you’ve had some shut-eye.”

  Sergeant Scott announced, “Twenty-three witness tampering charges, and a host of other charges pending. Good work.”

  He scratched his head as he added, “I just don’t understand how only two of you used up all of your pepper spray, and we had eighteen exposure victims. Don’t worry about it now, it’s what, oh-nine-thirty hours and we can pick this up later.”

  Turley, who was fighting the urge to lay his head on his desk and just go to sleep, suddenly got a jolt from remembering what an old man said to him while they were arresting some of the bangers. Turley raised his hand and said, “Don’t know what this means, but I caught two of the thugs who were hurt. They said something that didn’t make sense about an old man and exploding crutches. There was an old man there, and he said to tell you that one of the thugs was the cousin of Clubba.”

  Suddenly Sergeant Scott’s bloodshot eyes got wide, and he looked at Jake, “Clubba! What time is he supposed to be released?”

  Jake realized that with all that had happened, they had forgotten about the head of the snake. “All I know is he is scheduled to be released today.”

  The sergeant yelled, “Get me the number to the state pen. We’ve got to nab him before he’s released!”

  CLUBBA GOT INTO THE CAR AND TOLD HIS SOLDIER named Mok, a seventeen-year-old who had been a soldier for Clubba since he was thirteen, “Drive. Get me back to Omaha, but don’t take the interstate. That will be monitored, and I’m sure they’ll be able to connect me to the soldiers last night. Take the longest route by the country roads, we’ll take our time.” Then he looked at Mok and asked, “Is there anyone else we can pick up once we get to Omaha? I want at least two of my soldiers with me.”

  Mok told Clubba, “Yes, my cousin Ka.” Another soldier. “He didn’t get arrested last night, we can pick him up when we get to town.”

  Clubba looked over at Mok and could not believe that so many of his soldiers got arrested. It was good to know some escaped the police. Clubba looked back toward the road and simply responded, “Good, call him and tell him to be ready.”

  Clubba sat back and smiled, looked forward and said, “I have a little appointment to keep at precisely seven o’clock tonight.”

  Sergeant Scott returned from his call with the penitentiary. Jake saw the news wasn’t good. “Thirty minutes,” he sergeant yelled. “Missed him by thirty minutes. He left in a tan sedan.”

  Scott pointed at an officer directly in front of him “You. Call the state troopers. Give them the information we have and tell ’em to be on the lookout for this vehicle. They’ll be pissed that all we got is a brown sedan occupied by two Sudanese men but do it anyway.”

  He pointed to a second officer. “And you, write an affidavit and get it over to the county attorney’s office. I want a warrant for Clubba.” The sergeant then pointed to three remaining officers. “You, you, and you—find out where Shanese and her sister are hiding. That’s where he’s headed. I know they’re on the run, but find out where her relatives live and track her down, otherwise she’s dead.”

  The officers jolted out of their previous exhaustion with a renewed burst of adrenaline and bolted for phones, exits, and their unmarked cars. The race was on to save Shanese and her sister.

  Throughout the day, the state police, the Omaha Police, and the fugitive task force in Douglas and surrounding counties scouted for Clubba. It was like he’d evaporated with no trace. What should have been an hour commute for him stretched to hours.

  Clubba and Mok meandered through gravel roads and two-lane highways through the picturesque back roads so plentiful in Nebraska and miles away from the interstate. Five hours later he spotted the familiar green and white sign that announced his destination. They picked up Ka who carried a large gym bag. Mok’s call and cryptic message about Clubba needing help in a special matter was received. Justice would be dispensed in Clubba’s own special way.

  “Where is she?” Mok asked.

  “And her videotaping sister?” Ka asked.

  “You fools, that’s exactly what the police expect us to do.” Clubba turned to Ka in the backseat. “I have to pay a visit to the man who was involved in my arrest.”

  Ka and Mok looked at each other and smiled in acknowledgment of what he meant. Ka reached into the gym bag. “Then,” he said. “You’ll need this?”

  Clubba smiled. “You read my mind.”

  In his hand Ka held a wooden bat.

  In the Sarge’s office the Somewhat Rapid Deployment Unit stood in anticipation. The Sarge made sure that an officer was placed at the entrance to the Ol’ Blue Precinct. No more surprises from Boss Nurse Betsy.

  The video cued up with surveillance of last night’s events playing out. The Sarge debriefed each officer on his role in the situation.

  Brittany arrived late; the reception officer waved her through and buzzed the Sarge to alert him to her arrival. Everybody had their backs to her, but the Sarge pointed out her father and she scooted in next to him.

  “This was amazing; we got lucky, boys,” the Sarge said. “We caught ’em as they were changing the guards. Seeing as it was the night before Clubba was sprung, they had what looked like the whole gang there. They wanted to make sure Shanese and her sister didn’t get away.”

  Pointing out the strategy of the gang unit, the Sarge smiled. “I like the way their sergeant thinks. He had an outer perimeter and, for good measure, he had unmarked cars and undercover officers in the middle of the complex. That made the difference in the whole operation.” The Sarge pointed at the still photo of the Sudanese soldiers.

  “That unit was outnumbered and had no way of knowing there were going to be that many hoods. Even with our help there would have been a lot more of ’em escaping. The undercovers jumped into it right as they started zigzagging through the buildings, which is what we figured they’d do.”

  “There were a few surprises though,” The Sarge plopped down and watched the film with a huge grin. Big Al pointed at the screen. “What’s that lady doing with that metal sp—?”

  Just as two undercovers ran around the corner, he had his answer.

  “Wooah,” every Blue said at once as the officer went face first into the grass. “That woman is Ol’ Blue material,” someone in the back called out. Everyone cheered in agreement, including Brittany.

  “This is one of my favorites.” The Sarge nodded at the screen where Kim and Paul stretched a hose across an escape route. All the Blues watc
hed, clapped, oohed, and ahhed as Sudanese soldiers ran through clouds of pepper spray. The hose was yanked from the hands of both of the Blues. At their dumbfounded looks, everybody howled.

  Brittany laughed and crossed her legs, just in case.

  “We did save one special clip for Brittany.” The Sarge froze the film and pointed to Abrahim. “Know this guy?”

  Brittany peered closer at the screen. “That’s Abrahim. I didn’t know he was—”

  Spotting the single Blue on crutches, her eyes widened. He pointed the bottom of each crutch at Abrahim and his pal. The recoil of the 12-gauge bean bags pummeled each in quick succession, and they dropped in a heap on ground completely debilitated.

  Brittany stood and stabbed an accusing finger at the screen. “I knew they were bazookas!”

  Every Blues in the room howled and slapped each other’s back.

  Smitty looked at her with a loving gaze. “She gets that from me,” he said to the Sarge.

  Brittany smiled and glanced at her father. She’d always known how much he loved her but now that she was one of the guys—a young Ol’ Blue—it raised her even higher in his eyes. She loved it.

  Her phone rang. Jake. She walked out of the room to take the call.

  “Now watch what Smitty did to Boss Nurse Betsy,” the Sarge said behind her.

  “Jake, I’m so glad you called.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause. “Brittany,” Jake said. “We need to talk. Can I come over?”

  Concerned, Brittany frowned. “Of course but I’m at the precinct.”

  “Yeah,” Jake interrupted her. “Ahh…that’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  Brittany checked her watch. “It’s five forty-five.”

  “I know. This can’t wait; I’ll be there in twenty minutes, okay?”

  “Sure,” Brittany said and paused. How odd. “I’ll be waiting for you.”