by Gavin Reese
He looked north on Center Avenue and confirmed the blue 1970’s Chevrolet pickup remained parked there, with no movement around it. Gazing left from the truck, he saw the wrecked, light blue Chevrolet Cavalier was, well, still wrecked and not going anywhere. With that much front-end damage, they must’ve run into a tank. Just beyond and northwest of the wreckage, a silver Toyota Corolla sat parked in a driveway on the west side of Center Avenue almost directly across from Franklin’s target residence. Alex slowly scanned the house and front yard south of the Toyota until he focused on three Harley Davidson motorcycles in that driveway. Just south of the motorcycles, a faded red Toyota Celica faced south on the west side of Center Avenue. Alex noted that, still, there was no one moving around the Celica or the Harleys, and he continued scanning south. He saw the black, lifted late-90s model Chevy stepside truck remained in the driveway almost due west of him. And, he thought, there’s no one moving around that truck or yard, either. Having run registration checks on all the vehicles near him when he first took up surveillance, Alex already knew one of the Harleys belonged to a known Hell’s Angels associate. Well, he thought, more of a hangaround. Intel on the guy basically said he was a nobody who liked to spend time with somebodies. Probably made him feel like a badass to have dangerous friends.
Confident that he'd been in place long enough that an overly attentive neighbor wouldn’t confront him or call the cops to report his car as suspicious, Alex scanned the rest of the street and visually searched for folks who didn’t want to be seen. As if on cue, Alex watched a cyclist ride eastbound onto Center Avenue several blocks north, and immediately knew he’d turned off 15th Street. He saw the rider appeared to be an adult male, at least by size, but rode a medium-framed BMX bike without any reflectors or forward-facing headlamp, both of which were required by the State of Arizona.
“Of course he’s got a backpack,” Alex muttered to the sedan’s interior, “BOB doesn’t go anywhere without his backpack. Where would he keep the burglary tools?” He fished his Nextel phone from his left shirt pocket and pressed its push-to-talk button, grateful to have something to do and an excuse to speak with another human being.
chirp chirp
“Hey, Landon, what’s up?” Officer Johnson’s response came only a few seconds after Landon released the PTT button.
“You anywhere near downtown?”
“You know it, just standing by to stand by and see what happens with your thing.” Johnson sounded characteristically bored, as though cop work had lost its excitement.
“Word’s out, huh?”
“It’s hard to keep that much money outta the local news.”
Alex smiled at the slang, which Johnson had coined as an inside joke to refer to the rumor mill that ran a 24/7 operation in DCPD. “Just local though?” Alex felt certain a similar “local news agency” existed within every police department in America. Call it the campfire, the sewing circle, the word on the street, it’s all the same. Bullshit, gossip, and fearful speculation, he thought.
“Yeah, no one outside the agency knows, but word around the campfire is the other NEU dicks counted cash for more than two hours. You need somethin’ out there?”
“Yeah, I got BOB riding down Center Avenue, and I just wanted a marked car somewhere nearby in case I need you to chase him outta here.”
“BOB, huh? I hate that guy.”
“I know, right? What an asshole.”
“Any idea who it is?”
“No, he’s not close enough yet, but it looks like he’s wearing the uniform.”
“Undersized BMX bike, dark clothes, backpack, hoodie, no reflectors, no bike light?” Johnson asked the question, but his tone relayed his awareness of the criminal mind.
“Yep, one and the same.”
“Hmm, it’s almost as if he doesn’t want to be seen.”
“Yeah. He’s slow-rolling south on Center from 15th now. I’ll keep an eye on him and let you know if I need you to step in.”
“Copy. I’ll hang back four or five blocks southwest of Center, maybe the fire house on 20th.”
“Thanks, Big Johnson.”
“That’s what she said.”
Damn, Alex thought, his bored, deadpan tone makes that even funnier. He dropped the Nextel back into his shirt pocket, thankful for the diversion from watching nothing happen at the suspect’s residence. Alex eyed the BOB, a local acronym to describe a “Burglar On Bike,” and saw his behavior was exactly what he expected from a man in his nefarious profession. The unidentified rider slowly proceeded south on Center Avenue, sporadically ducking between cars, stopping at the back of several as though checking to see if their trunk was locked, and moving on to the next potential target. Kinda like a bee, Alex thought, but completely useless to society. Maybe more like a wasp. Useless asshole with an indiscriminate stinger. The rider stopped and checked both doors on the blue Chevy truck parked north of the target’s house before continuing south on Center. Waste of time to have patrol pick up now for Attempted Vehicle Burglary, the DA’ll never see that case all the way through to trial.
As BOB rode near the intersection with 17th Street, he entered the downcast glow of the streetlight there, stopped, and stood up with the BMX bike balanced between his legs. The white male rider looked up and down the street, as though confirming he was alone, and then suddenly pulled his hoodie down and furiously scratched his hairline for a full ten seconds. He again looked over the surrounding area without any concealment and Alex realized he recognized the man. “I’ll be Goddamned,” Alex breathed as his eyes widened and he struggled to reconcile what he saw before him. “What the fuck?”
Alex chirped Johnson back and impatiently waited the eight seconds required for the officer to answer.
“Whaddyagot?”
“Hey, you’re not gonna believe this. It’s Steven Murray riding the bike.”
“No shit? Are you one-hundred-percent?”
“As sure as I am there’s a God in Heaven.” Alex watched the rider place his hood back over his head, despite the warm temperature, and resume slowly pedaling south, presumably in search of anything pawnable.
“So…seventy-five?”
“Call it eighty, but I got a full benji on it.” He saw the male stop again at the back of the faded red Toyota Celica parked northwest of Alex and the Neon. As Alex assumed he had done before, he watched the rider reach down with his left hand and attempt to pull the trunk open. After a few unsuccessful tugs, he pushed the bike forward, sat on its seat and pedaled in a counter-clockwise circle that brought him back toward the adjacent driveway and the three Harley Davidson motorcycles parked there.
“I’ll take that bet, Landon. Get ready to pay up, Murray’s got at least another five years in Florence.”
“Can you clear him for warrants, anyway?”
“Yeah, I’ll run him on the MDT now.”
“Thanks. Just remember to get me a crisp, new $100-bill from the bank when you make good on this. None of those fucked-up ATM twenties.”
“Fuck off, you’re going delirious in that hotbox.”
“We’ll see. Let you know where he goes.” Alex watched Murray stand near the end of the driveway, as though contemplating whether he dared to steal anything from the motorcyclists’ property.
“Standing by to take your money, Detective.”
Several seconds passed while Alex contemplated ribbing Johnson about Murray’s behavior. He pressed the PTT and spoke. “Do I have to give you a refund if it turns out he’s still got the prison lice?”
“Fuck me, Landon, what did I ever do to you?”
“You’re a good friend, brother. Stay close.”
“Stay frosty.”
Alex let Johnson have the last word. Damn, Steven Murray, that fuckin’ asshole got out somehow. How many dicks did he have to suck to get that much good behavior credit? He watched Murray look up and down the street again before mounting his bike and continuing south. Fuck me, he’s headed
right to the Neon. Alex felt like kicking himself for not predicting this sooner. Murray checked every car on the street, why wouldn’t he check this one? With his right hand, Alex quietly drew his back-up firearm, a Glock 19, from its holster inside his front waistband, slid his right index finger over the chamber indicator to ensure a round was present in the pipe, and used his left hand to ensure his Nextel volume was silenced.
Alex realized Murray’s attention had fixated on the Neon, which seemed his next target, and he momentarily felt as though Murray could see him and just didn’t care. With confrontation seemingly imminent, Alex felt his heart rate and blood pressure rise. In a single, right-handed grip, he raised the Glock up and closer to the closed, tinted window glass and leaned toward his right side as Murray drew near, pointing the barrel toward Murray’s center mass. Within only a few seconds, Murray reached the other side of the door, stepped up off the bike pedals, straddled the bike, and staggered forward while pushing the bike’s handlebars. He continued forward until Alex heard the front tire strike his door.
thud
Murray now stood immediately outside the driver’s door; he leaned forward and down toward the glass and cupped his hands on either side of his eyes to shield them from the street lights to attempt to see past the Neon’s tint. Alex watched him come closer until the outer edges of his palms contacted the glass; he then saw the compressed edges of Murray’s palms widen as he leaned against his hands to place his eyes as close to the glass as possible. Now that only two feet and a darkened window separated their faces, Alex did his best to slowly and slightly rotate his butt counter-clockwise in the driver seat by pushing on the front floorboard with his right foot, slightly bending his left leg, and softly placing his left knee against the front interior driver’s door. This allowed him to take a two-handed grip on the Glock while holding both wrists against his chest, and keep the weapon pointed directly at Murray’s sternum. Alex knew, at this range, he didn’t need to acquire his front sight; he could literally just point and accurately shoot to end any threat Murray presented. The convict now stood so close that, even in the low light, Alex could see a new vertical scar on his right cheek that looked like he’d recently been cut.
Oh, fuck, he thought as Murray’s right hand dove toward the exterior door handle, I forgot to make sure the damned door’s actually locked! Alex looked at the interior driver’s door lock, placed just above the inside handle near the far front of the door, but couldn’t clearly see its condition in the Neon’s low interior light. Quickly moving his gaze up to the lock’s pull-stem near his left elbow, he saw it was depressed into the door just as he heard Murray pull on the outside door handle.
thack
Somewhat relieved that Murray wouldn’t ruin the surveillance mission so easily, Alex watched as he dumped his bike on the ground and stepped up against the driver’s door. With the criminal's noticeably bulging crotch just the other side of the tinted window glass and at a nearly identical height as Alex's face, he kept his Glock trained on Murray’s chest despite the awkward position he’d been forced to maintain. That damned lock better hold up, or this may be the last crime Steven ever commits.
Apparently satisfied no one would witness his felonious efforts, Murray leaned forward, pressed his crotch hard against the glass, and reached beneath his genitalia with both hands to firmly grasp the exterior door handle. Alex heard and saw Murray quickly and vigorously try several more times to pull the door open.
THACK THACK THACK
Alex unconsciously held his breath and waited to see Murray’s next move. He watched the suspect back away from the driver’s door, and sauntered to the passenger door behind him. Alex had to rotate further in the driver’s seat to attempt to maintain a center-mass shot on his target. He quietly exhaled, pushed harder off his right leg, and pulled his left knee up and pressed it against the driver-side B-pillar. Breathing deeply and slowly through his mouth, Alex leaned back against the center console. How has he not noticed me moving around this much?! Alex canted the Glock counter-clockwise until his right hand was almost parallel to the ground and pushed the gun forward around the far side of the driver’s headrest to ensure, if it came to it, that he only shot Murray and not the Neon’s interior.
Murray leaned his left side against the back door, and Alex could no longer see his hands.
thack thack
Alex watched Murray step away from the Neon and move several feet out into the street. He pulled the backpack strap off his right shoulder and swung the pack around in front of his torso. Oh, fuck, shit’s about to get real. Alex watched him unzip a small exterior pouch and dig around in it for about five seconds before coming out with a large screwdriver. Yep, he’s about to force a fight.
Murray stepped back toward the driver’s door with the screwdriver clutched firmly in his right hand. He had nearly reached the door lock--
brrrrt brrrrt
Alex recognized the vibration of his Nextel, and immediately feared Murray had heard it, as well. He realized Murray had stopped and now held himself motionless next to the door. Looking directly up into the convict’s eyes, Alex saw incomprehension on his darkened face, but not emotions he would have expected if he knew he was about to break into an occupied cop car. A small eternity passed as Alex and Murray stared at one another through the equivalent of a one-way mirror.
brrrrt brrrrt
Murray shifted his gaze around the Neon, as though searching for a reasonable explanation for the sound. Goddammit! Go the fuck away!! Go on, Murray, Alex commanded, move along before I have to ruin your fuckin’ day.
The sound of a baying, nearby hound moved Murray’s attention southeast of the Neon, toward 18th Street. The dog continued until someone, Alex presumed its owner, yelled an indiscernible command. Silence returned to the street, and apparently renewed Murray’s confidence that he had not been discovered. Murray looked directly west, to the lifted, black Chevy stepside truck parked in the driveway across Center Avenue from the Neon. He stepped back from the Neon, returned the screwdriver to his backpack, and then uprighted and mounted the likely-stolen BMX bike. The convict sat and slowly pedaled west toward the Chevy truck; Alex lowered his Glock, but remained in the awkward position. As Murray entered the far end of the driveway across from Alex, a motion-activated light turned on at the front of the carport, and Murray immediately turned south and scurried his bike off into the darkness.
brrrrt brrrrt
Alex again retrieved the Nextel, depressed the PTT button, and spoke quietly even though Murray was now two houses away. “Yeah?”
“Hey, it’s Johnson, you okay? Been trying to reach you.”
“Yeah, I’m good. You’re gonna have to grab Murray. He just tried to break into the Neon.”
“No shit?! Your Neon?”
“Yeah. Thought I might have to shoot him for a minute there. He’s got a new scar on his right cheek. Prison might’ve been rough for him, but he still looks like the exact same asshole.”
“Copy. What’s his direction of travel?”
“Rode south toward 18th, can’t see him now. If you can, try to stop him a few blocks away so it doesn’t spook our other suspect.”
“Gotcha. I’ll black out and roll that way. You good to give me a sup later?”
“Yeah, I’ll write it up in the next day or two.”
“On the way. Holler if he comes back.”
Alex allowed himself to relax, but only enough to realize the immediate threat was gone. He returned to a normal seating position, but remained vigilant in watching the Neon’s mirrors in case Murray came back to try entering the other passenger doors.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Alex groaned at the sound of his department-issued Nextel alarm tone, which only Sergeant Jones had the indecency to use. After clearing his dry throat, Alex pressed the PTT button to ring Jones back.
“Yessir?” Maybe there’s an end in sight, he thought.
“Not exactly like the movies, e
h, Junior?” Alex distinctly heard laughter in Sergeant Jones’ voice and felt assured the air conditioned detectives must be enjoying themselves at his expense. He decided against telling Jones about Murray’s attempted burglary. Johnson’s gonna handle that guy, I can tell Jones about it after I get off this surveillance. Returning his focus to the target house, Alex looked through the small gap between the sun shade and the A-pillar while he spoke with Jones.
“No, sir, not at all like the movies. I’m still waiting for the door-kickin’ part to happen.”
“Still got water out there?”
“Got water bottles, just no water.” Alex again spat into the tobacco-stained empty.
“At least you got something to piss in, though, that’s more important.”
Apparently, Alex thought, the Complaint Department is closed. “Yessir, Chris left that wide-mouthed jug in the backseat, worked out pretty well.”
“You bet, that’s why I like Gatorade bottles, you can push the whole sweaty head in. Lot harder to piss on yourself that way.”
“Seems legit, sir. Any word on the final money count?”
“Just over $750,000, so Chris is pretty happy about his little traffic stop.”
“Is the driver still playin’ ball?” Alex expected the long delay had been caused by either the driver having provided a lot of good information, or he had changed course, asked for an attorney, and refused to provide further help.
“Yeah, he confirmed Jesse Franklin as the guy he was supposed to meet at the house, and confessed that he drove fifteen-hundred pounds of weed to one of Franklin’s contacts in Atlanta. The contact paid him for the load, and then he used the same truck to drive the money back. Probably shoulda tried to wash the stink outta the back first. Chris said he could smell weed before he even walked up to the back bumper.”