“You’ll have to excuse Mrs. Jones a bit, she’s not known for being friendly around these parts. We all call her The Wicked Witch of the East,” giggles Ms. Watson as she keys up the surveillance tape.
“Let me hit the right spot on the machine, and we should get a picture in about five seconds—would you like to sit down?” asks Ms. Watson.
“No, no, I’m fine, thank you,” replies Sal as the video starts playing. After a minute of the vacant lobby, Sal sets eyes on the lone hijacker go through the front door. “There’s no way this guy is my crook,” says Sal right off the bat.
“Yes, he’s too short, too fat, and that’s a crummy looking beard. My guys are tall, a bit slim, and incredibly neat . . . this guy is a local criminal,” says Sal out loud. Detective Salvatore scrutinizes the crook as he walks up to one counter then moves to the next one to his right.
“Yea, that’s what our local detectives said. They only left here about thirty minutes ago,” says Ms. Watson.
“Right there, there—can you pause the tape?” asks Sal.
With her right hand, she clicks the remote mouse and the image stops in time.
“Yea, right there,” says Sal as he’s pointing to the counter top on the video monitor. There—he placed his hand on the counter top; did the Detectives or anyone else check for fingerprints?” asks Sal.
“Oh, yes sir, Leroy, I mean Officer Leroy Tippet checked around the teller’s counter where he passed the note and left the damn fake hand grenade. I heard him say that some of the prints were good,” replies Ms. Watson.
“Good, good . . . we should be able to get a match within an hour or two . . . ok, if you don’t mind, you can run the video on,” requests Sal.
Detective Sal watches the video image roll across the TV monitor and is one hundred percent sure this was not his bank robbers. Thanking Ms. Watson for her help, Sal walks up to the front counter and examines the counter top where the bad guy touched the granite surface. In an effort to get a better view he asks the uniformed Officer if he has a small flashlight with him. Officer Smith pulls out a small two-cell pen light and hands it over, as Sal tries to engage Officer Sammy Smith in conversation.
“Officer, take a peek here and let me know what you think . . . pointing to where the beam of light hit the surface. He continues, “Don’t those look like a set of fingerprints to you?” asks Sal. Trying to be very diplomatic, he has used his years of detective experience and persuasion to enlist the local officer’s help.
“Yes, sir, they damn sure do,” offers Officer Smith.
“Did your people dust for fingerprints,” asks Sal.
“Oh, yes, sir, but this part of the counter sure appears clean to me,” is his reply.
“I agree, yes, I think you’re correct. Officer, we all watched the surveillance video in back, and I saw the son of a bitch touch the counter right here. Come here, officer, let me show you what I spotted and let me get your opinion,” says the ever diplomatic Sal.
Following Sal, the now fully engaged Officer is excited—as some big hot shot city detective is asking for his opinion. With the help of Ms. Watson, Sal and Officer Smith quickly view the video a couple of times.
“Well, what do you think?” asks Sal.
“You’re damn sure right, our SOB placed his hand right there on the counter . . . let me call our lab boys back here, and we can nap the son of a bitch by sundown,” says Officer Smith.
“Great, I agree and thanks for looking the surveillance tape over with me. You’re a big help and can even testify in court that you verified the location of the fingerprints when they are recovered,” says Sal.
A short walk out into the parking lot, Sal observes as Officer Smith pulls out his two-way radio from his belt’s holster. He’s talking into the walkie-talkie; it appears that Officer Smith is notifying his dispatcher to send the crime lab crew back by the bank. In short order, he saunters back inside and moves toward Detective Sal. “I contacted our dispatcher, and she’ll get the Crime Scene Unit guys back here in about twenty minutes or so.”
“Good, it sounds real good . . . and thank you again Officer. By the way, did the FBI show up today?” asks Sal.
“No sir, they don’t usually make our little crime scenes, unless someone gets shot. The Feds have our detectives package up all our info, photos, fingerprints . . . you know, and we put the package in the regular mail . . . we’re pretty low on the priority list with the Feds out here in southern Mississippi,” offers Officer Smith.
Ok, let me know when your CSU folks gets here, and don’t let anyone get near those fresh prints on the counter,” says Sal as he walks toward the little coffee room in the rear of the bank. “Yes sir,” is Smith’s reply.
Exactly twenty-two minutes later, a white Chevy panel van pulls up to the front door. One the sides of the van has markings identifying it as the county-wide CSU van. Sal observes a short, slim Hispanic female Officer get out of the driver’s side and a tall, skinny black Officer exits the passenger side door. Gathering up their small print kits, the two stroll up to the front door with a glimpse of disgust on their faces. Officer Smith is ready to open the front door before they reach it. He turns and makes eye contact with Detective Sal, who has been waiting and watching all along.
“Ok, please tell me why we are back here at the fuckin’ bank,” barks the agitated female who is obviously in charge. “We dusted this place for prints and found some good ones, Officer Smith,” she said in a brazen dressing-down tone.
“Well, uh . . . we . . . Detective First Class Salvatore here and I watched the video tape again, and we found a perfect set of prints on the counter next to the teller’s station you processed . . . here, let me show you.”
“Please take a peek here, says Officer Smith as he shines his flashlight on the vacant counter top.”
“Hey, no one told me to check that spot. Detective Washington told me this is where the robbery took place, so Leroy and I dusted here where the guy was standing and got some damn serious prints. Hell I was down at the crime lab running them through the NCIC’s (National Crime Information Center) data base when the dispatcher told me to come back here . . . let me take a peek,” she says, as she elbows Officer Smith out of her way.
With her own small flashlight, Officer Martinez tilts the flashlight this way and that way, trying to get the light to reflect off of the latent evidence. Examining the counter space with a grimace and a grumble, she finally smiles and says, “Damn . . . you ain’t a kiddin’ buddy boy. This sucker left us a whole entire fuckin’ hand print. Hell, I got the five fingers and his entire palm . . . nobody can be that fuckin’ stupid to place his hand on the counter and expect not to get caught. Let me catch a glimpse of the surveillance tape for myself.”
“Oh, Ms. Watson, do you mind, can we run the surveillance tape one more time?” asks Sal.
“Yes, of course, come on back again,” she says and heads to the back office one more time.
With the small group, now grown to five, the room seems a bit cramped to Sal. “Officer Martinez, please move up here to get a better look; I’ve seen the tape already,” he says as he backs away into the hallway.
In less than five minutes, Officer Martinez is grinning from ear to ear. “Damn, who can be that fuckin’ stupid? This is going to be an easy case. Play this surveillance tape in court, first, followed by me getting on the stand and testifying how I lifted this fool’s entire palm print off of the counter . . . Ha! What an idiot, what an amateur.” Give me an hour at my desk and I’ll give you boys a name, address, and phone number for this fool,” says Officer Martinez as she’s laughing and walking back up front.
Like a real pro, she photographs, dusts, and lifts the latent fingerprints off the counter. Ten minutes later, the CSU crew is headed toward the front door. Turning to her left, she says, “Give me about an hour and I’ll call you. Hell, I
’ll call you guys first before our own Detectives, since they seem to have missed the best fuckin’ clue they had. I wonder if they even watched the surveillance tape . . . later guys,” she says with a smile as the door closes behind her.
Outstanding job, officer,” Sal says to Officer Smith. “What do you think, does this guy look like a local crook?” he continues.
“Uh, I don’t recognize him, but he must to be a local yokel,” is the answer.
“Uh, excuse me, I need to get some air,” says Sal as he walks out the front door. A quick call to Agent Bob’s cell phone might speed things up. Bob answers on the third ring. “Hello, what’s up?”
“You were right, this guy is some local hijacker, and I found a full set of prints on the counter we can match to the guy,” says Sal. He continues, “We should get a name in an hour or so. Hey, I thought you FBI guys made every bank robbery.”
“No, only in the big cities, young man . . . we don’t possess the manpower to cover all the small cities and towns. In Houston, Dallas, or Atlanta, we got tons of people, but not in the smaller ones. I gather no one from the Bureau has shown up yet,” responds Bob.
“Nope, not a Fed in sight . . . how about the video, how in the world did you get to the video so fast,” asks Sal.
“Oh, that’s easy, anytime a bank gets hit anywhere in the US, they’re required to upload the video surveillance tape to a special site, a web site set up and managed by the Bureau. This was set up to help us catch hijackers who take off on a rash of rapid fire bank robberies. Any senior agent can pull up the video three to five minutes after the crime goes down,” says Bob. “As soon as I spotted the ugly guy walk in the front door, I knew he wasn’t your boy,” adds Bob.
“Ok, cool and thanks, we got a magnificent set of prints off the counter and with a little luck, this guy owns a criminal record somewhere. I feel certain we should get a match in an hour or so . . . I don’t know how fast this local PD works,” says Sal.
“Hell, I’m surprised no one from the D.C. Task Force has called or shown up yet. Hell, they could come into town and muscle in on your crime scene. If you want, get the local PD to contact me directly, and I can wash the prints here through my computer and tell you in sixty seconds who your hijacker is,” says Bob.
“Not a bad idea, let me see what I can do . . . thanks again, I’ll call you later bye,” Sal answers.
Walking back into the Bank, Sal motions for Officer Smith to join him off to one side. “Yes sir, what you got?” asks the Rookie Officer.
“Well, Officer, I’m sort of wondering how long it will take for Officer Martinez to run those prints,” asks Sal.
“No telling, Sir, hell, I’m just a Rookie, but I’ve heard from the other guys on the street she’s good,” is the response. “Why?”
“Well, uh, I’ve got a buddy, an FBI Agent back home in Houston, who’s working with me on these cases and he can get us an ID in less than a minute,” says Sal. “If this guy owns any kind of print record, he’ll be in their special data base. Hell, we didn’t even have that at HPD. I mean, if this guy is a regular crook . . . yeah, everyone is going to have him in their data base, but if not it’ll take hours or days while we go through all the normal channels.”
“Wow, I’ve never dreamed of such high-tech stuff . . . that’s cool,” marvels Officer Smith.
“Yeah, one of the real good reasons to get a buddy who works for the Feds . . . I mean, if this puke has ever been finger printed anywhere . . . for any job in the world, the prints will turn up. I mean if he really is a bus driver or say he was in the Army, 50 years ago . . . he’ll pop up, and we’ll get a hit in a second or two,” adds Sal, trying to sell his idea. “Uh, do you think . . . would it be a good idea to contact Officer Martinez or do you think she would get mad at me . . . uhh, us,” asks Sal as he’s trying to lead this rookie officer in the direction he wants him to go.
Taking the bait, Officer Smith says, “Hell, I think she might go for that. I know she wants to make Detective real bad and if she had some inside connections with the FBI and you . . . she might like this. Let me call her cell phone. Give me a minute, Ok?” Walking outside, Sal watches as the rookie makes the call. In less than sixty seconds, the officer is waving for Sal to come outside.
“Yes sir,” says Sal. “Here, tell her what you told me . . . she is definitely interested,” says the Rookie Cop as he hands over his I-Phone.
“Officer, this is Detective Salvatore. I didn’t go into the details of who I am earlier, but I was a Senior Detective First Class back in Houston, and alls I did was chase Armed Robbery suspects for a living. In Houston we have a few . . . let me say, secret sources. One of my best friends back in Houston is with the FBI—I can get you an ID in less than a minute . . . if that will help you solve this case,” says Sal. “I think you might make Detective if you can close out this case in less than 24 hours . . . it would damn sure make an impression on me.”
“Ok, I’ll bite; tell me how do I pull this off, who do I call,” she asks.
“Stay right where you are, and I’ll get Special Agent Bob Irby to call you in less than thirty seconds . . . ok, standby,” says Sal.
With a push of a few buttons on his cell phone, Sal arranges for Bob to tell Officer Martinez how to transmit the prints directly to his office.
Four minutes, thirty-eight seconds later, Sal answers his ringing cell phone. “Tell me.”
“I’ve got it. He’s an East coast thug from Georgia and did some Federal time for narcotics. I don’t how or why he took up bank robbing, but I sent all the info to your secure email address and in two minutes Officer Martinez will get her email. The idiot used his own credit card yesterday to check into a Motel off route 475. My friend, right at the hotel is where I would start looking . . . you owe me,” says Bob.
“Roger dodger, talk to you later,” answers Sal as he hangs up. Turning to Officer Smith, he grins and holds out his right hand to shake. “Thanks for all your help Officer, we got a hit, and the guy is probably holed up in a local hotel by the airport. Officer Martinez should make Detective if she moves fast enough to nab the guy before he leaves,” says Sal as he walks toward his rental car.
Putting on his seat belt, Sal realizes that thus far, he has not yet heard from Vince. Being totally wrapped up in the case, he has forgotten all about old Vince. “Crap, I’d better give him a call,” says Sal softly. Dialing the number, Sal is a bit surprised when he only gets Vince’s voice mail.
“Vince, I’m here, where are you? Hey, only kidding, I’ve got an ID on the bad guy, and it’s not our boys. I’m gonna’ head back to the airport and wait to meet you, maybe grab a bite of lunch . . . call me.” With the shifter now in drive, Sal slowly drives out of the parking lot and heads back toward the airport.
A mile or so down the road, Sal turns into the Chili’s Restaurant parking lot, settles into a parking space and pulls up the email info on his I-Phone. Tired, he closes his eyes for a moment. His head is still hurting a bit, and now he knows full well he should have taken something for the pain. Glancing at his worn, 40 year old Rolex, he tries to figure out where Vince is. If the ride took about three and a half hours to fly from Las Vegas to here, then logic indicates the trip should have taken less time to fly from Chicago to Mississippi. Still trying to decide if he should wait a bit more for Vince to show up, Sal’s headache makes the decision for him. The pounding in his head makes this the time to grab a light lunch and take some Advil.
On the menu, Sal tries to find something good to eat as the cell phone finally rings . . . it’s Vince. “Hey, where are you,” asks Sal. “We just landed here at the airport, and I got your voice mail . . . tell me that you’re wrong,” pleads Vince.
“No, the guy’s not even close to my boys . . . I mean our boys,” answers Sal.
“Damn . . . damn. I was sure hoping this might be our one big break when I got th
e call this morning,” says Vince.
Appeasing now, Sal adds, “Yeah, me too, but I already gave the crook’s name and location to the local PD,” and looking at his watch, Sal adds, “. . . and they probably got him in custody about now. Said crook was staying in a motel, a Holiday Inn Express right by the airport.”
“By chance, did you check it out . . . are you there?” asks Vince.
“No, I didn’t want to get in their way, but I’m only a about a mile or two from there. I can be there in ten minutes if you want to meet me there.”
Yeah, yeah, that’ll work; catch you in ten, goodbye,” says Vince as he hangs up his cell phone.
Trying to flag down his waitress, waving his left hand, Sal catches her attention. “Ah, Ma’am, can I get my sandwich to go please? I gotta’ go back to work,” as Sal pulls out his credit card to pay the check.
Hoping old Vince would be delayed a smidgen, Sal drives back toward the airport as he tries to eat his sandwich. He seems to recall how he passed the Holiday Inn earlier today leaving a few hours ago. He hopes he’s right in his thinking. He pushes on and ahead off on the left side of route 475, he distinguishes flashing police lights. The lights are in the hotel parking lot he is aiming for. A tap on the brakes a bit, and Sal turns down a side street and enters into the hotel’s parking lot away from the action.
As he rounds the corner, he catches a glimpse of Vince and Officer Martinez in some sort of a heated debate. Arms are waving and fingers are being pointed here and about. Sal grins as he strolls up to the crime scene. Waiting to be recognized by Officer Martinez, Sal stands in silence as he catches a bit of their conversation. From what Sal can discern, things are not good for Vince; he keeps trying to impress Martinez, and she’s too busy to have another insurance investigator getting in her way.
Finally, she realizes Sal is standing nearby and walks away from Vince while he babbles in mid-sentence. “Detective Sal, do you know this guy?” she asks with a sheepish grin.
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