"I think so, but why would he help me? I don't know if he was part of it, but...well...I don't know. I think Mr. Subedar was expecting something to happen."
Harriman looked at Wiley. "Why would you think he was expecting something?"
"Well, CK never works at the same time as me and Mr. Subedar told me that if anything went on I was to just hide behind the counter."
"Did you ask him what he meant?"
"Yeah, he told me that he was only talking 'just in case' and that I shouldn't worry.” She put her head down and wiped her eyes.
“A few minutes later CK got a call, went over and talked to Mr. Subedar. Then CK went to the back room and Mr. Subedar started doing something to the bottom of the display at the end of the magazine area, only, it was weird, he wasn't really doing anything, just sort of pretending to, that's when the white guy came in.”
Over the radio, Sergeant Harriman heard the pursuit call by Josh. He tried to radio the conflicting information about the second suspect to the units involved. The channel was full of excited chatter, transmissions blocking out others.
He managed to get out some info on the subject, black male, armed with a shotgun. He tried to add that the second subject may not have been part of the robbery and possibly tried to intervene and stop it. He asked dispatch to repeat this for the pursuing officers.
His request never made it over the air.
Always at the moment when the most critical information is available, is it impossible to get it to the people that need it.
Rescue arrived and began treating Divothead.
The radio call for shots fired at the church came moments later.
Chapter 17: St. Domenicks Church: 5:17PM
The suspect sprinted up the stairs and into the church. Josh radioed he was still chasing a suspect fitting the description. Entering the front door, he requested units set up a perimeter.
Churches are always shadowy, perhaps to enhance the mystery, or the fear, depending on the particular religious flavor. Saint Domenick's was no different, dark wood pews and altar, minimal lighting, dim candles illuminating the statutes.
Father Swanson, now the Pastor, heard the door open and saw JoJo run in and dive behind the altar. He recognized JoJo right away; one does not forget a face you see in your mind every night for 15 years. The nightmare of memories burned into his heart.
Father Jim partially closed the door. He watched JoJo crouch down and pull something from his sweatshirt. He could not quite make it out.
Oh my God, he thinks Father MacLoughlin is still here, or he's coming for me. Mary Mother of God why now, after all this time?
Another sound drew his attention to the front of the church. He watched Josh come in, low, fast, weapon drawn. Thank God, he thought, Josh must have seen him come in. He'll stop him.
Josh drew his Sig Sauer. The Sig has nice low light sights, fit well in his hand, and gave him the confidence needed should the opportunity arise.
At that moment, it did.
Movement.
Blue-hooded head behind the altar moving toward the Sacristy.
"Stop right there you motherfucker or I will blow that fucking hood off with your black head in it."
While the language was a tool to get the guy's immediate and complete attention, Josh thought of the irony of such words directed at an individual on an altar in a Catholic Church.
Josh long ago come to see the fallacy and contradictions of organized religion. However, 6 years of CCD and church every Sunday is a hard habit to break. He felt an ingrained discomfit with the words, spoken in anger, here on a platform many viewed as sacred.
It seems time slows down during a dramatic event; this is a misperception by the mind unaccustomed to such matters. The truth is the brain comes alive. It focuses its innate resources and power, creating a more in-depth and complete record of the activity.
The mind's ability to gather, evaluate, and record is exceptional and rarely fully used, except when facing what could be its sudden and immediate termination.
Nothing brings clarity like an unwelcome opportunity to die.
Twenty-five feet separated Josh from someone he believed shot two people.
Father Jim heard Josh yell, heard the words spoken in anger. Why would anyone use those words in a church? He began to open the door, hesitated. JoJo was looking at him. He knows I am here.
Josh moved closer, aiming his weapon.
Father Jim saw JoJo starting to move again. My God, he's pointing a gun.
Then he heard the voice, it sounded older, but held the same sadness from all those many years ago...
"I tried to get him to stop, I tried to get him to stop..."JoJo's eyes pleading with him, again.
Father Jim pulled back, deeper into the Sacristy.
Josh drew closer, focusing on the guy’s hands. Eyes betray emotion, falsehood, and fear. Hands will kill you. Looks cannot kill, trigger fingers do. The guy, looking from Josh to the Sacristy, perhaps measuring his chances of making it out of there without being shot. He was talking, but Josh could not make it out.
Was there someone else there? Josh wondered.
He looked at the guy's legs, one bent in the classic sniper crawl, knee angled away from the body, sliding him forward, and the other straight back with the foot trying to contribute to the motion. "Which part of don't move motherfucker aren't you getting, asshole?" Josh yelled again, "stop moving now or you are a dead man."
The guy slowed his movement.
Josh came closer.
Something was wrong, where were his hands, where the fuck were his hands?
Josh saw a flash of metal moving from under the guy's leg.
Look for the hands, the hands will hurt you. Look for the hands. He thought.
He saw the hand moving, holding something, lifting it toward him, the body twisting as it rose off the floor.
Josh heard the voice, clearer, pleading, almost sobbing.
"I tried to get him to stop; I tried to get him to stop."
The man was crying.
Father Jim closed the door.
The click of the latch echoed throughout the church, Jim's mind flashed back to an earlier evil.
The noise startled Josh.
Was it a misfire? Is he trying to fire the weapon, why the fuck won't he stop moving?
Josh looked through the sites and brought his aim to center mass.
There comes a time in every potentially fatal encounter, when the instinct to survive asserts itself. Potentiality replaced by inevitability. The decision made; all that remains is the mechanics of the process.
Josh aimed, took a breath, and squeezed. Thirteen pounds of trigger pull is all it takes for the first round, less for the next ones.
Josh fired three rounds, saw the impact, saw the involuntary jerk of the body, saw the pink spray from the round that hit the head, smelled the powder burn, and the blood.
Father Jim heard the yelling...and then shots.
"I tried to get him to stop.” JoJo's plaintive last words directed to Josh, before he stopped moving.
Father Jim opened the door a bit and looked out. He saw Josh leaning over JoJo, trying to stop the bleeding, and doing CPR. He could hear Josh yelling, “Don’t you die, don’t do that to me…”
Father Jim once again did what he did on that terrible night so long ago. He quietly walked back into the residence and waited for them to come find him, where he would deny knowing or seeing anything. For this, he knew there was no absolution.
Chris Hamlin came running in.
"Josh, Josh!" she yelled.
As she moved closer, she saw Josh leaning over the guy. What the hell was he doing? She thought.
She yelled, "Josh, what the fuck are you do..."
Then she heard him.
"Don't you die, don't you do that to me."
She realized he was doing CPR; trying to save the guy.
As she got closer, she saw the dark, blood pool under the hood, saw the shattered right side
of the head, saw the bubbles in the chest with each of the compressions.
"Josh, Josh, stop, stop," she touched his shoulder, "he's gone."
"Why the fuck did he do that, why did he make me shoot him?" Josh was yelling, "I told him to stop, I tried to get him to stop...."
Echoing JoJo’s last words.
"It’s okay, it’s okay. You had no choice, come on with me, let's go outside."
Several other officers arrived and started securing the scene.
A cell phone rang.
The officers looked at the body, at the cell phone in JoJo's hand.
They looked toward Josh and then turned away, trying to look busy.
Chris took Josh outside and sat on the front stairs. "Look at me," she said, "you did what you had to do, you had no choice, he shot two people, he would have shot you, it's okay, you'll be okay."
Sergeant Adam Stevenson, Internal Affairs, came over to Hamlin. "L T, can I talk to you for a moment?"
"It can wait until the shooting team gets here. I want to stay with Josh."
"No, L T, it can't wait.”
"Josh," she said gently, "I will be right back."
Josh continued to stare off into the sky, shaking his head.
When they moved a distance away, Stevenson asked, "Did you see a weapon in there?"
Chris was angry. "You fucking leech, you haven't been here thirty seconds and you want to fuck him over? He just killed someone for God's sake, show some compassion."
Stevenson glanced over at Josh.
"We have another guy in custody, but no weapon yet, and he has a major fucking fracture in his skull."
"Good," Chris said, "I'd open the prick up myself if he was here."
Stevenson continued, "There's more, the witness says he," motioning his head toward the church, "may have tried to stop the robbery."
Chris looked at Stevenson, confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Lieutenant," Stevenson said, "according to the witness, the guy in the church, the one Josh just shot, tried to stop the robbery; he clocked the guy we have in custody with the shotgun."
Chris could not quite get her mind around this. How could this be?
****
I always knew it would come to this.
No matter how I tried, I cannot break the hold, no escape.
I went halfway around the world only to die 100 yards from where I grew up.
Williams was only the instrument of my demise, not the cause.
Why don't they ask me, look into my heart, past the physical damage, look what I did?
I was wrong, I knew it was wrong, but I did a good thing. I have done many good things.
But not enough.
I do not hate him; I believe he thought he was right. Maybe, just maybe, he should have given me the benefit of the doubt.
Then we would both be better off.
Or would we?
****
Chapter 18: Revelations
Sergeant Harriman called for a female officer to transport the witness to the station for a statement.
Her name was Cheryan Pincince, age 17, the niece of Mustafa Subedar's girlfriend. He instructed the officer to contact the girl's parents and get them into the station as soon as possible. Whatever happened here was no ordinary robbery.
Bureau of Criminal Identification, known as BCI, arrived at the store. They were now dealing with two shooting scenes, three homicides, one officer involved shooting, and a related car accident. Sneaking out early was out.
Detective Frank Mooney and Detective Lieutenant Mark "Dad" Pereira held fifty years collectively processing crime scenes. Thirty-two of the years belonged to Pereira. He grew into the nickname "Dad" since he was old enough to be every officer's father, with the exception of Joe McDaniel.
Sergeant Harriman gave the detectives details; two dead, victims of an intense, life altering, experience with the business end of a shotgun. He did not recall seeing any expended shell casings, but one of the shooters was lying next to a semi-automatic handgun.
Harriman also told the detectives of the unusual account by the clerk, making them aware this was a strange one.
As they gathered their equipment, they could not help but notice a pasty-white looking Straphanger Jones leaning against the dumpster. Nor could they ignore him.
"Hey, Straphanger, they tell me you added some color to my crime scene in there, what the fuck is wrong with you man?" Det. Mooney loved to torture cops with weak stomachs.
"Fu...ahh...fu....ah, shit, fuck you, Mooney." Jones again convulsed with dry heaves.
"Jesus Christ, Strap, get a grip, it happens to a lot of guys, right LT?" Smiling at Lieutenant Pereira.
"Oh, yeah, sure,” shaking his head. “I would not give my breakfast back to no body. Get it? No Body." Pereira laughed. "Hey Strap, I think I see a piece of bacon on your shoe." Causing a new wave of dry heaves.
Mooney walked over to the still distressed officer. "I think you need a new nickname there, Strap. How about Yak Man?" laughing as he starting photographing the outside area.
The detectives began documenting the scene, chuckling at the various sounds emanating from outside.
Pereira stuck his head out the door, "When you're done doing the worm dance over there, make yourself useful. Check around the perimeter and the dumpster, maybe we'll get lucky and the asshole will have dropped his driver's license."
Lieutenant Perreira smiled and shook his head, what is the world coming to when a cop cannot appreciate a good shotgun blast to the skull?
Pereira began video imaging the scene inside the store. Near the front counter, he could see blood on the floor. Next to this area was a small blue dust mask, torn strap, blood spatter on the strap and inside of the mask.
Moving into the main area, Pereira saw a male victim, dark skin tone, perhaps of Middle Eastern descent, lying partially on his left side, right arm at a forty-five degree angle to the body with the hand resting on a blue steel, small frame, semi-automatic handgun.
The hammer on the weapon was cocked, the magazine was in place, and there was a single shell casing lying just behind the victim. Pereira guessed it was a nine millimeter, but that could wait.
The top of the victim's skull was missing from a point just above the eyebrows to the point just prior to curve in the back of the skull. Fragments of the skull, brain, skin, and blood were sprayed against the inside wall of the store.
Moving toward the back of the store, Pereira found the second victim. This was a young, white, male, perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two years-old. He was lying face down, the left arm curled underneath the body, the right arm extended with the hand clutching a four-inch locking blade knife. The body surrounded by a pool of blood in various stages of coagulation. The body appeared intact with the exception of an approximately baseball sized exit wound just below the shoulder blade. The wound was asymmetrical, with various tissues, rib fragments, and viscera evident.
There was assorted tissue and blood spatter on the floor, display counters, and wall behind the victim. Pereira shot the last of the initial video and motioned for Mooney to start collecting the evidence.
While the BCI detectives worked inside, Straphanger Jones sufficiently recovered, or run out of undigested food, to make himself useful. As he walked around the front of the store, he saw the blue dust mask lying next to the dumpster. His initial reaction was to ignore it, but then it occurred to him it seemed an odd place for such an item.
Opening the cover of the dumpster, he peered inside. As he looked over the edge, Lt. Pereira came out of the store to get some additional equipment. Jones looked into the dumpster, saw a barrel of a shotgun pointed up in his general direction, and screamed. He dove to the ground, directly into the various piles of vomit he so fortuitously placed there.
Pereira, intrigued by this, walked over to capture the still screaming Jones on video.
"He's in there, he's in there." Jones was yelling. "He pointed the shotgun at me." Swimming
vigorously toward Taunton Avenue.
Pereira lifted the cover on the dumpster, saw a shotgun absent a critical component for being considered imminently dangerous, namely a person with a trigger finger. He continued to video Jones while trying to think of the most appropriate soundtrack to select for what was sure to be a sensation at the next cop party.
Chapter 19: All the Right Things
The next few hours were a blur to Josh.
He kept playing it over in his mind.
I saw the gun. I heard the misfire.
The guy kept moving, wouldn't listen to me.
How could this be?
I thought it was a gun. The guy pointed it at me, didn't he?
There was no gun. Josh knew that now. Knew it was a cell phone.
Josh began to have doubts.
Did he screw up? Did he kill an innocent person? What the fuck is going on?
Chris Hamlin came in with Josh's wife, Keira. She embraced her husband and looked him over. "Josh" she said softly "it's alright, you're okay, and that’s all that matters."
"What the hell does that mean," Josh exploded "that's all that matters, you think I fucked up? You think I shot one of your innocent victims of police brutality?"
Chris was confused. What the hell was happening with these two?
Keira Walsh Williams was thirty-four years old with a Boston College Law JD and successful practice as a Criminal Defense lawyer. She did volunteer work for the Innocence Project.
You could not find two more diametrically opposed people then Josh and Keira, but they were together three years. They seemed happy. She avoided cases involving her husband's department and it seemed to work.
Yet Josh was angry, borderline crazy, glaring, fists clenched.
Chris walked between them. "Keira, give me a minute with him it's been a tough morning."
Keira turned, looked back, "Fuck you,” and walked out.
"That would be a fucking change wouldn't it, you fucking bitch."
Chris reached out and slapped Josh. No idea where it came from except she knew she hated that word.
Josh looked her, shocked "What the fuck, Cheeks...."
Collision Course (A Josh Williams Novel) Page 6