Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  Today, as the clock is nearing noon, the police station hums lightly with all the usual–boosters in search of their sunrise fix and daytime prostitutes coming in. Going out are the line of last night’s highly inebriated problems that will soon return. Michelle studies them, looking for the ones she’s busted before while her computer grinds away, crunching the new data entered concerning a cold case file assigned to her: one of those all-too-common cases where everyone knows who did it but failed to find enough evidence to prove it in a courtroom. She could care less anyways—it is only a theft, albeit a large one; still, not the kind of case she became a detective to solve. Then annoyingly her desktop phone rings. “Detective Robertson,” she answers. Right away she can tell the 911 operator is rattled. Stating in a lightning-fast pitch that someone has just killed his wife on a live radio broadcast. Michelle drops her nail polish and springs into action, listening intently to the nervous operator, who recounts that KDEX 103.7 FM’s The Sarah Michaels Show has traced the call, and reports the local number to her. Quickly, while holding a pen in a handful of wet finger nails, she writes down the number then types it into the computer. Immediately her P.C. comes up with a name: Joshua Siconolfi. The police station now becomes still, leaving only the sounds of the keyboard clicking away as she punches the name into the department’s data-base. The name seems somehow familiar; she’s heard it before but cannot place it. And after a few moments, the screen unfolds his lengthy history.

  Joshua P. Siconolfi Height: 6’ 1”

  Weight: 185 lbs.

  Age: 27

  Date of birth: 05/07/1985

  Eye color: Hazel

  Last known address: 2018 Crestwood Ln., Seattle, WA 92443

  Marital status: Married; Kimberly Siconolfi

  Then his picture pops up. It’s a six-month-old mug shot of a bronzed and very fit GQ type. “Oh, you are a handsome boy,” she says softly. But who are you? she wonders. Then the page begins to fill.

  Convicted Felon—Violent Criminal—Gun Restricted

  05/20/2012: First Degree Arson, St. Luke’s Parish: dismissed due to lack of evidence

  06/16/2011: Disorderly Conduct: thirty days in jail

  04/02/2006: Violation of No-Contact Order, Sherry Hill: charges dropped

  06/22/2005: Third Degree Vehicular Assault, Sherry Hill: plea bargain, one year

  11/12/2003: Domestic Violence, Sherry Hill: trial/not guilty

  04/04/2003: DUI: deferred program, completed

  01/27/2003: Domestic Violence, Sherry Hill: dismissed

  09/15/2002: DUI: dropped to reckless driving/probation

  08/29/2001: DUI: dismissed

  Now Michelle remembers Joshua, and it doesn’t have anything to do with three DUI’s, rather everything to do with Sherry Hill. Suddenly the picture of the good looking man on the screen morphs into a monster. A cold chill enters her and runs its course through her veins; her palms dampen. She whips in her chair to check anything or anyone creeping from behind. Then leaving the 911 operator on hold, she dials her partner. She holds the phone away as not to smear her sweating make-up and speaks loudly into the handset. “Brad, listen…Joshua Siconolfi…do you remember him?”

  “Of course I do,” he replies, with a hint of exhilaration in his voice.

  “Well, someone just called a radio show from his residence, and the situation seems to be that he’s killed his wife.”

  Cools, driving down a busy street, can tell her voice is shaking but doesn’t comment. “Give me an address.”

  She relays the information.

  “I’m on my way!” he yells. Then, using his years of experience, he skillfully cranks the wheel and taps the brake pedal, spinning the cruiser one hundred eighty degrees, in heavy traffic. His cell phone slides across the seat, dropping to the floor mat. And soon he is speeding, shouting to the windshield, “I always said this creep would kill somebody someday!” I should have set him up years ago.

  “Brad…Brad, are you there?” Her worried voice bounces around the floorboard amid sounds of her partner’s car being pushed to its limits and his screaming in the background. “Brad…Brad!” she shrieks, now concerned as to what he might do. Giving up, she calls in other responding officers over the radio. Moving pictures flood her mind of him recklessly steering through busy downtown streets, yelling for shoppers to clear the way. She says a quick prayer and finds a moment of relief to hear other units are on the way. Then noticing the 911 operator line still flashing, she picks it up for more information, only to hear the previously recorded Sarah Michaels Horror Show.

  On the other side of the city, the late-morning traffic travels along at 55 mph, bearing unhappy faces that curse the assholes they follow. Most of them almost spill their coffees—startled by a cop-car speeding by at nearly 95 mph. Joshua has eluded his grip before, but today opens a new page. Today he’ll receive the justice he deserves.

  Taking a hard right, his phone slides back within a reachable distance. He picks it up and snaps it shut just as it rings again.

  Michelle’s voice shakes over the air like an early-morning bed wetter discovered by an abusive father. “Brad…oh…Brad, you need to listen to this!” She plays the recording.

  At first, even he is held frozen in disbelief. “That’s fucking it!” he shouts. He’s heard all he needs to hear, stood by more than he should have, and he knows what must be done. Today someone who’s had it coming for a long time is going to get what they deserve; today Brad Cools is going to kill an evil. His reasoning is simple: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a life for a wife!

  And wanting to know what his chances are of pulling off a successful, well-executed accident, he asks, “Michelle, are there any other officers on the scene?”

  “Brad, don’t!”

  He slides the cruiser sideways around a tight left turn. “Tell me now. Are there other officers on the scene?”

  She replies in haste, “Fine then…how far away are you?”

  “I’m about ten minutes away.”

  She leans close to her desk, covering the phone to speak privately to him. “Be careful, Brad. Don’t do anything you don’t have to, okay?”

  “I won’t,” he replies, not assuring her. “Now tell me, are there any other officers?”

  A short, uncertain silence follows. Michelle lets out a frustrated sigh. Then she hears some news from dispatch. “Well, it sounds like there are a few closer than you,” she says, sensing relief.

  Not getting the answer he wanted, he snaps his cell phone shut, cutting her off. Then he switches his radio over to dispatch and, in a calm voice, says, “This is Detective Cools. I need to have immediate contact with all officers en route to the Siconolfi residence.”

  “Give me a second,” dispatch replies. There’s a pause. “Okay, Detective Cools, I have you connected to the lead officer closest to the scene.”

  “Who am I speaking to?” Cools asks forcefully.

  “Officer Renker. And I’m four blocks from the Siconolfi residence, on Applewood Street, waiting for backup.”

  “Don’t move! I need you to hold back. The suspect is armed and dangerous, and is not to know you are there until I arrive. Do you understand?”

  “Affirmative. And I know this neighborhood well. I can set up in the alley to protect against any escape from the rear.”

  “Okay,” Cools agrees, “but take another car with you, and remember, he’s to be considered extremely dangerous; be fully prepared to take him out if you have to!”

  His cruiser angles the corner onto Applewood, where he finds two other squad cars waiting and another coming in from the opposite direction. Attempting to keep a low profile, it’s his first turn without squealing tires in the past seven minutes. He switches off the overhead lights and exits the car expediently. The other men do the same, and without any words, and as if trained for this specific scenario, they assemble into a football huddle in the middle of the street. The officer to his left is a short man; to his right, a young pale rook
ie—probably on his first call—and in front of him, a bony redhead donning a frightened smile. It’s a motley crew, but the only thing Cools cares about is that they all seem eager to be involved.

  Curtains from curious onlookers are pulled aside as homeowners watch their every move. Cools shoots them long, serious stares until they retreat deep within their homes. Then after a few short and sweet introductions, he uses his hand-held radio to call Officer Renker in the alley. “Officer Renker, are you in position?”

  “That’s affirmative; we have the rear sealed.”

  “Okay, I need you to remain silent and wait for further commands.”

  “Detective, what’s the plan?” asks the rookie.

  “Okay, here’s the seriousness of the situation. The suspect is Joshua Siconolfi. I put him away once for almost beating his girlfriend to death; he spent eight months, although he deserved twenty years. And now it seems he’s not only murdered his new wife, but this creep did it on a live radio show. We are dealing with a real sick and twisted individual that at this point has nothing to lose except spend the rest of his life behind bars. So we’re not taking any chances— do not hesitate to take him out! Does everyone understand?”

  The officers, now realizing the full scope of the situation, look to each other, mustering courage as his words sink in. Cools makes one final attempt to weed out anyone not 100 percent sure. “Is there anyone who for any reason isn’t ready to go?” Silently they all shake their heads no. He then systematically looks each of them in the eye until he is satisfied all will do their job. “Okay, you,” he says, pointing to the short officer. “You flank my right.” Then he gestures to the rookie and the redheaded officer, ordering them to flank the left, while lifting his radio to his mouth. “Officer Renker, we’re going in; are you ready?”

  “Affirmative.”

  Cools begins walking backward to his cruiser, saying, “Okay, let’s go; safeties off and follow my lead.” A moment later, in his vehicle, he lights a much-needed cigarette. He takes in thick, full drags while waiting until everyone is lined up. He envisions what he might find or, rather, more what he hopes to find. In his mind’s eye, he sees a bloodied, dead girl tied to a chair and Joshua going for his gun. A flood of endorphins ignites his brain as he envisions his response, unleashing all his skill and fury with the quickness of a rattlesnake, which will equate to two bullets in Joshua’s chest and one to the head. Joshua will then slump to his death against the wall, taking a good look at his executioner as he dies, and he will know that Detective Cools was the wrong guy to piss the fuck off.

  Cools is then pulled back to reality by a flash of a thumbs-up from the officer in the patrol car now positioned beside him. Cools tosses his cigarette out the window, then takes a deep, fresh breath before leading the charge up Crestwood Lane. He doesn’t even see the road—only his gun firing—until they reach the driveway. They enter promptly at 2018. The other patrol cars, flanking his sides, tear into the lawn, lights flashing. One of them running over a row of Japanese maples bordering the perimeter of the yard. Then they all come to an abrupt stop and exit their cruisers, assuming tactical positions. Cools crouches behind his door, gun in his right hand and cell phone in the other. He dials the number and pushes send.

  At the fourth ring, Joshua answers smoothly, “Hello?”

  Cools’s first impression is that he sounds drunk as well as seemingly unaware of being ambushed. It gives him poise, and in a low, commanding voice, he states, “This is Detective Cools from the Seattle Police Department. You are surrounded. You need to come out the front of the house holding your hands in the air; if you attempt to go out the back, you will be shot! And if you do not come out immediately, we are coming, in full force! Do you understand?”

  He pauses a second for Joshua’s response but only hears breathing and then—click.

  Oh, you’re fucking dead! “Okay, is everyone ready?” Cools calls over the radio. Everyone confirms, and he wastes no time. “Follow me!” He starts for the door with his Ruger 40 Auto leading the way and his makeshift team of street cops moving in on all sides. The rookie and the redheaded officer to his left have AR-15s and are gradually creeping across the lawn. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and one of these guys will also shoot him. Swiftly and cautiously and low to the ground, he sprints toward the large, heavy wooden door while surveying the structure. It’s a large, single-story home with wrought-iron security bars over the outside windows—the kind only the wealthy and crack dealers have installed. His head sways back and forth, collecting information—curtains and shades drawn tight, no sign of a dog—and then he sees movement. “Halt!” he yells, holding his left arm high. Everyone crouches into combat positions as the front door slowly opens.

  Cools and the other officers would never have expected what happens next. Joshua just casually walks out the door onto the colored concrete walkway, wearing leather sandals, long baggy khaki shorts, and a designer button-up shirt, untucked. He looks freshly tanned and at ease, extending both hands in the air, one of which appears to be clutching a cocktail. His eyes squint against the sun peeking through the cloud cover, and he begins to say something. “What’s the big fucking idea—”

  “Drop the drink and turn around,” Cools demands, as he steadily advances closer. Make a sudden movement—anything!

  Joshua smiles and replies, “This is very expensive scotch.”

  Bang! Cools shoots a warning shot into the ground, blasting a hole the size of a tennis ball in the driveway, then aims his weapon back at Joshua’s upper left chest. The noise scares even the other officers. “I said put the drink down and turn around! Do it now!”

  “Whatever, top cop,” Joshua replies, before leisurely placing the drink on the walkway. The other officers scattered about the yard look in amazement at each other. The rookie seems relieved while the other two look disappointed. Cools’s feelings coincide with the latter.

  “Now interlock your hands behind your head and drop to your knees!” Cools commands, although in his mind he wills him: please do something; make a sudden move. His wish goes unanswered, as Joshua nonchalantly slumps to the ground. Frustrated, Cools runs up, pulls the suspect’s arms behind him, plunges a heavy knee onto his neck, and as roughly as he can, cuffs him tightly. He pats him down, finding nothing, and places him in a white, bamboo chair situated outside the doorway.

  The officers all wipe the sweat from their brows and relax a bit. But not Cools, he’s still running in the red. Wasting no time he instructs the rookie to watch over their suspect and directs the other two to assist him, ordering, “Okay, let’s do a search of the house.” Then he storms into Joshua’s well-kept home, or his music studio—he’s not sure. The living room is packed with amplifiers, and at the far wall rest three very polished guitars, all neatly in a row below framed pictures of swimsuit models. A leather sectional couch is placed around a flat-screen television and stacks of stereo equipment. And built into the wall is an enormous fish tank, home to many colorful fish. To Cools it doesn’t look like a married man’s home, more like a playboy’s bachelor pad. Moving through, he comes upon a film poster of Scarface and passes into a stainless steel kitchen where everything is remarkably clean and organized. Nothing is out of the ordinary: no dead woman, signs of a struggle, or evidence of a murder. So he makes his way down the hallway as the officers enter rooms at the other end of the house. He feels a bit childish; nevertheless, he wants to find her first. Then, as expected, he finds something: a locked door. Endorphins rush in his mind; he promptly kicks in the door. The wood frame splinters. And the officers come running at the commotion. They stop short, staring at Cools, who is carefully making his entry. His eyes widen. Inside are many computer screens monitoring the entire outside perimeter of the property. Cools turns to the others standing in the broken doorway. In their faces he finds more disappointment. “Anything?” he asks, with a hint of desperation.

  “The front area of the house is clear; we haven’t found anything, Detective… What’s all t
his?”

  “I’m not sure, looks like home surveillance.”

  “Wow, he’s better equipped than us.”

  “Keep looking!” Cools demands. But another search of the home yields the same results. On the various monitors he can see the patrol cars on the front lawns, the rookie standing over Joshua, and Officer Renker waiting in the back, clear as day. Irritated he blurts out for all to hear, “Time to get the info out of the perp—old school!” He then strides hastily out to the front entryway, fully prepared to beat a confession out of the suspect if he has to.

  There Joshua sits with legs sprawled out, looking quite comfortable. His head is rested back, and he looks like he could take a nap. Cools snatches him to his feet and marches him out to the front of his squad car. “Where’s your wife?” he demands.

  “Oh…Is that what you’re looking for?” Joshua replies, acting surprised.

  “Where is she? Tell me right now!”

  Joshua pauses, curiously observing the bulging blood vessel on Cools’s forehead. Then he calmly replies, “She’s at work. So would you please take your hands off me?”

  Cools pushes him, letting go of his grip, thinking how everything seems upside down. I’m the cop, yet I’m the one sweaty and agitated, while Joshua, the killer, is composed—almost too composed. He tries to get his head around it while continuing his questioning. “Where does she work?”