by Diane Kelly
Through the radio, I heard my fellow officer Andre call in a “ten one-hundred,” code for a bladder in distress, meaning he’d be out of pocket for a few minutes. “On second thought,” he came back, “make that a ten two-hundred.”
“Ewww,” Selena radioed in reply. “Too much information.”
Andre and his identical twin brother, Dante, worked the day shift with me. Both were relative rookies, having been on the force only three years, but what they lacked in experience they made up for in sheer bulk. They were enormous African-American men with shaved heads and skin the color of coffee with cream. They stood six-foot-three and weighed in at two-sixty apiece. Needless to say, nobody gave them any crap.
I was approaching Easy Eddie’s Used Tires, the business marking the outer perimeter of the town’s commercial district, when Selena’s frantic voice shrieked through the radio. I tweaked the volume button on my phone, Pat Benatar’s voice now a mere whisper as she begged her man to treat her right.
“Marnie! The computer’s back up. I ran Fulton’s license. An arrest warrant’s been issued for him in Illinois.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Homicide!”
Whoa. And to think I’d flirted with the guy.
My phone began to play Poison’s “Every Rose has its Thorn”, one of my all-time favorite love songs but far too mellow for the moment. I slid the device from my belt, held it up so I could read the screen, and quickly scrolled through the songs until I found a more appropriate choice for pursuing a murderer—Blue Oyster Cult’s classic “Don’t Fear the Reaper”. That’s the ticket.
I returned the phone to my belt and braked fast, leaving a trail of rubber on the asphalt and skidding into a one-eighty, my long braid whipping around to smack me in the face. I cranked my wrist back on the accelerator until it hurt, the front tire of my bike leaving the ground momentarily before gravity took hold and brought it back to earth. The pavement was a gray blur under me as I switched on my lights and siren and sped after Fulton. I’m only supposed to be writing traffic tickets, dammit, not chasing down killers!
Selena’s voice came through the radio again, calling Dante and Andre for backup. Only Dante responded, Andre having yet to finish his business in the Tasty Freeze men’s room.
I took the short cut that ran behind the library and nursing home. There’d be fewer signal lights, less cross traffic to get in my way and slow me down. I turned down a side street and barreled past the Grab-N-Go. The Ninja was parked at the convenience store’s single pump, the rider filling it with gas, his head turning as I sped past. I didn’t have time to get a good look at him, noting only that he had dark hair. He, on the other hand, would have a full view of my backside as I drove by. I hoped the navy-blue police-issue trousers didn’t make my butt look big. Oh, who am I kidding? I only hoped they didn’t make my butt look any bigger than it actually was.
As I sped past the buildings and turned onto the highway, I tried to determine how far ahead Fulton would be, concocting an elaborate word problem in my head: If a murderer with a sexy smile heads northeast for four minutes at sixty-nine miles per hour while a desperately lonely motorcycle cop with thick thighs pursues the creep at one-hundred and sixteen miles per hour, when will the officer overtake the killer?
Let’s see. Sixty-nine times four is . . . hell, who knows? I always stunk at math.
My heart raced as fast as my bike. I passed a highway mile marker and hollered my location into the mic, my voice barely audible over the wail of my siren. “Dante! Where you at?”
“Turning from Main onto the highway.”
Dante was three miles, and at least two minutes, behind me. In a situation like this, two minutes could be critical. Deadly critical.
Seconds later I rounded a bend and spotted the sedan a half mile ahead. I gained on Fulton for several seconds, then the distance between us stabilized as Fulton noticed me in pursuit and floored the gas pedal.
“We’ve got a runner!” I shouted into the mic. “Call the county!”
Another mile and this guy would leave the city limits of Jacksburg. Though an officer in hot pursuit could continue a chase into another jurisdiction, this situation clearly called for backup. Ruger County Sheriff Donald Dooley would be thrilled to have us chase a wanted murderer into his hands. An easy catch, an easy way to increase his department’s arrest statistics.
The rental car topped out. My bike was faster and more maneuverable and in seconds I was on his tail. Heh-heh. Okay, I admit it. A small part of me still enjoyed taking risks, the thrill of the chase, a good bust.
Dante’s voice came through the helmet’s speakers. “Got you in sight, Captain.”
I checked my side mirror and saw Dante’s lights flashing in the distance behind me. The 2002 Crown Victoria had logged over nine-hundred thousand miles on patrol and was on its third engine, but it could still haul ass. In front of me, the sedan suddenly braked and pulled a hard left down a narrow county road flanked by cow pastures and hayfields. Fulton must’ve known we’d radio backup and probably figured a roadblock was set for him on the highway ahead. This guy was thinking like a professional criminal. I hate it when they do that.
I took the corner behind Fulton. Dante lost ground at the turn, but the black and white cruiser soon caught up, too. A half mile down the road we passed a metal sign marking the end of the Jacksburg city limits, the end of our jurisdiction.
The poorly maintained road was pocked with potholes and bisected by cattle guards that caused my bike to shake roughly between my legs when I crossed them. Not an entirely unpleasant feeling, truth be told. If I didn’t get a date soon, I might have to come back and drive the road again.
Given the unfavorable driving conditions, the sedan was forced to slow down. Fulton had no idea what lie lay ahead of him. But I did. I chuckled into my headset as the road narrowed and the asphalt gave way to dirt. Welcome to the country, city boy.
An instant later, Fulton found himself hood-deep in hay in the middle of an open field. I stopped at the edge of the tall grass and watched as he careened and bounced across the uneven ground, leaving a wake of flattened hay, failing to notice the barbed wire fence looming ahead of him.
CRACK! Several of the weathered wooden fence supports splintered in two as the car plowed through the barbed wire. The strands of rusty metal closed around the car like a spiked net, the barbs scratching the paint and cutting into the tires. In seconds, all four tires were hopelessly flat. Fulton rolled another hundred feet on his rims before the car came to a stop.
I cut my engine and quickly climbed off my bike, crouching down next to it, keeping an eye trained on the sedan in the distance. I was out of range for most handguns, thankfully, but it couldn’t hurt to play it safe. I pulled off my glove and removed my gun from the holster, hoping like hell I wouldn’t have to use the thing. I’d had to fire my weapon only once in my nine years as a cop, but that one time had put an end to a life. It had nearly put an end to my career and my sanity, too.
Dante pulled his squad car up next to my bike, the Billy Graham bobble-head doll on his dash nodding frantically as the car lurched to a stop. He climbed out and crouched down next to me. With his brown head shaved bald, large round eyes, and full cheeks, he resembled a macho version of Mr. Potato Head. He eyed Fulton’s vehicle, hopelessly stuck in the field, entangled in barbed wire. “What a dumb ass.”
“Hertz will be none too happy with what he’s done to their rental car.” Holding my gun down at my side, I reached up with my free hand and grabbed the microphone for the public address system mounted on my bike. I squeezed the talk button. “Fulton! Come out of the car with your hands in the air.”
Dante took the mic from me. “Yo-yo-yo. Wave your hands in the air like you just don’t care.” Dante had aspired to be a rap artist, but having grown up a hundred miles north in rural Oklahoma had failed to provide the proper environment to produce a successful hip-hop singer. Nobody wanted to hear bass thumping to a rhyme about baling
hay or tipping cows. He’d had to settle for leading the choir at First Baptist Church.
“Cut the crap.” I grabbed the mic back out of Dante’s hand.
KAPOW! The retort of a high-powered rifle reached our ears as a bullet sliced through the air mere inches above us. We dived to the ground, scrambling frantically on our elbows and knees until we were behind the squad car.
“We’re taking fire!” I hollered into my shoulder radio. I looked down at the wide metal bracelets surrounding my wrists, cheap replicas of those worn by Wonder Woman. What I wouldn’t have given for a real pair of bullet-repelling bracelets about then. The only thing these were good for was hiding the deep, jagged scars on my wrist.
Selena said something back but we were nearly out of radio range so all we heard was “--opter . . . should be . . . county . . .”
“What?” I yelled back. Static was my only reply. Dammit!
I really wished Fulton hadn’t shot at us because that meant we’d likely have to shoot back. I wasn’t sure I could do that. Horrifying memories threatened to rush into my head, but I fought them back, forcing myself to focus on the sedan in the field. Wonder Woman never let anything fluster her. Neither would I.
A couple of bullets pinged off the hood of the cruiser. A third took out the plastic covering on the roof-mounted light bar, shards of red and blue plastic raining down on us.
“Aw, hell.” To save money, I’d upped the deductible on the department’s automobile insurance. The budget was already stretched thin and now, thanks to Fulton, I’d have to find room in it for a new light bar.
Dante curled up by the back tire. “Boy howdy, he’s a good shot.” His voice was calm, but the thick mustache of sweat he wore told me he was as freaked out as I was. We’d both assumed Fulton could be armed, but neither of us had expected such accuracy at this distance.
We continued to cower for a couple of long minutes when finally, from off to our right, came the whup-whup-whup of the county helicopter.
“It’s about time you got here!” Dante shouted to the sky.
Seconds later, the sheriff’s department S.W.A.T. team pulled up next to our cruiser in their boxy armored truck. The double doors on the back flew open and out leapt four male officers dressed in full riot gear, helmets on their heads and shields and guns at the ready. They bent low and took off running into the tall grass, two going in one direction, two in the other, surrounding the field. A fifth remained in the truck, crouched next to the small bulletproof glass window with the latest high-tech radio in his hand to coordinate their tactical operations. I’ve never had penis envy, but I’d kill for their equipment.
Tentatively, Dante and I peeked over the trunk of his cruiser. The sheriff’s department chopper came in low, hovering at the far edge of the hayfield, the swift air from the blades kicking the hay into a swaying frenzy and sending up a spray of dirt and bugs. A marksman with a rifle leaned out the passenger side, testing the limits of his seat belt, taking aim at Fulton’s car. Fulton opened the door and climbed out, throwing his hands in the air in surrender. I heaved a breath of relief. Looked like there’d be a quick end to this standoff, thank goodness.
Sheriff Dooley’s voice came from the chopper’s speaker. “Turn around and put your hands on the roof of the car.”
Fulton began to turn toward the car, hands still in the air, when all of the sudden he vanished from view, dropping out of sight into the tall grass.
“Shit.” Dante exhaled sharply. “That can’t be good.”
The chopper flew in ever-widening circles over the field, the sharpshooter leaning forward in his seat, scanning the field, trying to get a fix on his target hidden somewhere in the tall, swaying grass. As the helicopter edged closer in the sky, we saw Sheriff Dooley’s pasty face peek out timidly between the sniper and the pilot, his eyes wide. All three heads swiveled left and right, surveying the field, searching for Fulton.
I edged forward in a crouch and looked around the front bumper of the cruiser. “Fulton could be anywhere.”
Dante looked at me. “What should we do?”
Chances were the guy was making a run for it and had headed farther out into the field. “Let’s go. The sheriff’s department can take it from here.”
As the chopper swung out across the countryside to search for Fulton, Dante and I edged along the cruiser to the passenger side door, keeping our heads low, just in case. I stuck my gun back in the holster, yanked the door open and crawled onto the front seat.
“Gah!” I found myself face to face with Fulton, who was sneaking in the driver’s side. There was no time to think. In my position I couldn’t reach my weapons, so I did the only thing I could—use myself as a human battering ram. Face down, I lunged forward with all my might, head butting him full force with the top of my hard, white helmet. There was a sick crunch followed by a yowl of pain. Fulton fell backwards out the open driver’s door, covering his nose with both hands, blood gushing between his fingers.
Dante may be big but he was also fast. In a heartbeat he ran around the car, tackled Fulton, and rolled him onto his stomach on the ground. Dante attempted to cuff the man’s wrists, but Fulton writhed wildly under the former high school linebacker, trying to break free from the officer’s grip. Dante shoved Fulton’s bloody face into the dirt. “Don’t move, cracker!”
Dante’s language didn’t exactly comply with police protocol, but I let it slide. I’d been known to say inappropriate things in the heat of the moment, too, once calling an obese drug-dealing pimp an “inbred lard ass” when he spat a gooey loogie onto the floor of my squad car. He’d retorted with “It takes one to know one, fatty-fatty two-by-four.” Real mature, both of us. None of that exchange went into my written report.
Dante put a knee on Fulton’s spine and yanked his arms up behind him. Immobilized, the man finally gave up the fight. I edged backwards off the seat and stood next to the cruiser, waving both arms over my head to signal the sheriff and hollering to the S.W.A.T. officer in the nearby truck that we’d nabbed Fulton.
The chopper soared in and set down in the field nearby. Sheriff Dooley jumped from the helicopter, stomping through the hay toward us, his face purple with rage under his gray military-style buzz cut. Dooley waved his nightstick at me and Dante. “What the hell do you two think you’re doing? You’re out of your jurisdiction. I told your girl we’d handle this.”
“We didn’t get the message,” I said. “We’re out of radio range.”
I could’ve argued with the sheriff. After all, we’d been in pursuit and had every right to chase the guy down and haul him in. But given that our department lacked the funds to have Fulton’s broken nose seen to or to provide him room and board until the state of Illinois could prepare extradition papers, we’d have to let the sheriff’s department have him. They’d get the glory, but they’d also get the paperwork and the bills.
The S.W.A.T. officers tromped back through the hay, shoulders slumped, dragging their shields, disappointed they hadn’t gotten to kick some ass. Dooley stepped over to Fulton and hauled him up by one arm. Dirt was stuck to the blood on Fulton’s face, a dazed ant ambling across his chin. Yuck. I had no thoughts of kissing him now.
Dooley shoved Fulton forward across the hood of Dante’s cruiser, playing tough guy now that Fulton was in cuffs. A brown and tan sheriff’s department patrol car pulled up behind Dante’s cruiser, followed by a county crime scene van. A deputy stepped out of the cruiser and helped Dooley wrangle Fulton into the backseat. A man and a woman dressed in matching khaki pants and brown knit shirts climbed out of the van. The male tech set off trotting in a wide circle around the field, stringing a perimeter of yellow crime scene tape between the remaining fence posts. The female tech pulled an orange plastic toolbox from the back of the van, ducked under the tape, and headed into the field toward Fulton’s rental car. Good luck finding bullet casings in all that hay.
Without another word to us, the sheriff shoved Fulton into the back seat of the county cruiser a
nd climbed into the front passenger seat. The deputy drove them away. The S.W.A.T. truck followed behind them.
Dante brushed shards of red and blue plastic off the roof of his car. “That son-of-a-bitch did a number on my light bar.”