Criminal Option
Page 21
“Ma’am, please stay on the line until a patrol car arrives.”
“And just when – well Lord sakes, they just pulled up.”
The black and white patrol car came quickly down the street, light flashing, but without a siren. The distinctive sound of the high performance motor and squeal of breaks caught Sullivan’s attention as he approached the front door. “Shit, now what?” he asked himself.
The two officers approached the Rourks, the older one greeting them, “Afternoon, are you Mr. and Mrs. Rourk?”
“Yeah, what do you want?” Sullivan snapped.
“Don’t get smart, asshole. We know you just got out. Don’t make me put your ass right back”, the officer snapped back, the congenial attitude gone.
“Sure, Deputy. What can we do for you today?” Sullivan said, politely enough.
“We got a call reporting that the same two skins who were here yesterday are back in the neighborhood.” As if to emphasize the point, a second patrol car pulled up in front of Mrs. Kravitz’ place, while two more began cruising the area.
April handed Lisa to Sullivan, and then placed an arm around his waist. He could feel her nervousness.
“What do you want me to do?” Sullivan asked.
The deputy said, “Just stay in the house for now, while we check the neighborhood.”
Conan was watching Rourk and the cops through the peephole while Scrappy tried to listen to what was being said through the broken front window that had been covered with plywood. The two skinheads began to sweat profusely. Their hearts beat a loud staccato in their ears, making it difficult to hear any outside conversation.
Conan opened the door to the entry hall and signaled his partner to climb inside amongst the coats, umbrellas, vacuum cleaner and assorted old shoes. Scrappy leaned a hand onto the back of the couch, then leapt silently over, and with one step was concealed within the closet.
Conan shut the door after him, before heading off toward the bedrooms.
“Just be aware that those two are around and call us if you see or hear anything” the deputy, Winchell, according to the nametag above his right breast pocket, said to Sullivan.
Sullivan replied with a courteous, “Thank you” and assured the deputy his full cooperation, all the while thinking, ‘Hey, I’ll bet this guy gets free donuts all the time!’
“Well, sure I’m sure, officer,” Mrs. Kravitz was saying to the deputy, who had come to take her statement.
“Yes, Ma’am,” Deputy Matern was attempting to NOT lose his patience with the woman, “and they were in a brown truck with big tires and the word ‘Toy’ was written on the tailgate?” he read back her statement.
“Yes, but that was YESTERDAY, don’t ya know.” Mrs. Kravitz replied.
“Wait a minute – are you telling me that the skinheads weren’t here today?” Deputy Matern was confused.
“Of course they were here today,” Mrs. Kravitz rolled her eyes, “Do ya think I would be calling to say they were BACK if they weren’t? Hmm?”
“No, Ma’am – at least I hope not.” Deputy Matern was wanting to go home. A beer and a movie – Stallone or Van Damme – “But you said they were driving a brown truck – now you tell me it was yesterday.” His bushy eyebrows arched with the question he had left hanging in the air between them.
“And so they were, don’t ya know.” Mrs. Kravitz was as fed up with Deputy Matern as he was of her. She continued primly, “And today they were in a blue Ford Bronco.”
Deputy Matern lifted his portable radio transceiver to his mouth, “Able two-six, control.”
The dispassionate voice of the female dispatcher came back, “Go able two-six.”
“Update on the suspect vehicle.”
“Hold for one.”
“Attention all units in the vicinity and all units responding, stand by for suspect vehicle update”, the dispatcher announced to all units before switching to allow Deputy Materns’ information to go out directly.
“Go ahead, able two-six.”
“This is able two-six, suspects last seen north on Arroyo Seca in a blue Ford Bronco.”
Mrs. Kravitz handed him a slip of paper.
“Repeat, blue Ford Bronco, California license number One – Niner – X-ray – Able – Charlie – Delta – Seven”, came the radio broadcast over the speaker in unit able – three-two. Deputy Chapman, in the passenger seat, hurriedly scribbled the information across the open page of his notebook.
Deputy Ross spun the steering wheel to the right, pulling into an empty driveway and told his partner that there was a blue Bronco two blocks back, as he shifted into reverse and completed his three-point turn. Dropping the transmission back into drive, he gunned the big interceptor motor.
Sullivan turned the key in the lock and turned the brass colored knob. His daughter still slept in his arms as he pushed the front door open. The door banged into the entry hall door, closing it tight. April followed, closing the door and locking the deadbolt behind her.
Sullivan walked through the living room, dining room and kitchen, stopping only long enough to grab a bottle of Dr. Pepper out of the fridge.
April dropped her purse onto the kitchen counter before following Sullivan through the hall into the nursery.
Scrappy was in total darkness, one hand held the pistol possessively, ready to fire. With the other, he tried to adjust his sweating balls within the confines of his jeans without disturbing the array of wire and plastic hangers above his head.
He had no idea where his partner was other than somewhere in the house – no matter what, one would not leave the other behind. Hearing the click of a woman’s high heels fade through what he correctly assumed was the kitchen, Scrappy felt the time to move was now. There was no doorknob inside the closet – no need since there was no locking mechanism. A slight nudge was all it took to open the door. The gun was the first thing out of the darkness. The .45 caliber barrel lead the way as Scrappy quietly and quickly unfolded himself from within the cramped closet.
Conan was much more arrogant, much more demented. He did not seek a place to conceal himself. Just the opposite, in fact. He sat propped against the headboard of the Rourks California King bed. He, too, held his pistol tight in one hand.
Deputy Chapman keyed the radio microphone, “Able- three – two, requesting back-up.” His breathing became rapid, heart rate increased as the adrenalin pumped through his body, “Suspect vehicle located at”, he paused, craning his neck to read the numbers attached to the eaves, “at three-seven-seven-two-zero Desert Sunrise!”
“Roger, able – three – two,” the dispatcher’s normally dispassionate voice now held a slight tremor. She had only been on the job for a few months, long enough to get to know most of the deputies. Sending them into a situation such as this was both exhilarating and frightening. The action on the radio was about to increase ten-fold. However, if something went wrong, it was her voice that had sent everyone where they went, and that could be a chilling thought.
“All units, deputy needs assistance, three-seven-seven-two-zero Desert Sunrise, units responding code two identify.”
When a deputy makes a call for assistance, all units in the area respond, the dispatcher may specify one or more units, but it’s usually just a call to arms answered by all even remotely near the scene. There were twelve patrol units and two supervisory units within a twenty-mile radius of the location – all called in to the dispatch center as responding. The dispatch supervisor notified the watch commander of the Indio Station, who, in turn, placed the S.W.A.T. team on alert.
‘Alert’ for this team was to respond with lights, but no siren, to the general location area and await further orders.
Sullivan sat his Dr. Pepper on the changing table, and then laid Lisa in her crib.
“We’re going to have to buy her a real bed pretty soon,” April said, pulling the covers up to Lisa’s chin.
“Yeah, I can’t believe how big she’s gotten.” Sullivan leaned down and gave his litt
le girl a kiss, then turned and gave one to his wife.
“Mmm. Take me to bed, Mr. Rourk.”
“My thoughts, exactly.”
Sullivan grabbed his soda and a handful of April’s ass as she led the way out of the nursery. Thy turned right and walked toward the master bedroom.
April stopped cold at the doorway, a scream caught in her slender throat. Sullivan, who had had his eyes riveted on his wife’s swaying ass, nearly collided with her. Looking over her shoulder, his anger soared. An automatic pistol was pointing at them, held by a heavily tattooed skinhead who was leering at them.
Sullivan started to pull April behind him, but stopped when he felt the unmistakable pressure of a gun barrel pressing into his back.
“Step inside, Rourk,” Scrappy whispered.
April tensed even more, looking over her shoulder to see a sheriff with a gun shoved in her husbands back. “Help us!” she managed to speak through the tears that constricted her throat.
Scrappy laughed as he took off his cap.
Sullivan pulled his wife to him with a protective arm wrapped around her waist. Terror filled the tear filled eyes that looked up at him imploringly. They stepped hesitantly several feet into the bedroom.
In less than two minutes, there were 8 black and white and two unmarked sheriff’s units parked haphazardly near the Bronco on desert Sunrise. The street had been blocked, and deputies were informing neighboring residents to remain indoors and away from the front of their houses. There were a dozen deputies crouched behind vehicles, guns drawn, awaiting contact with the occupants of the house whose driveway contained the suspect vehicle.
Detective William Weise, a big man, 6’4”, 250 pounds of solid muscle, with a mop of curly brown hair on his head and a face that would be perfect to play the part of Santa Claus, was waiting patiently for the dispatcher to obtain the telephone number for the house in front of him. When he got the number he quickly dialed on his cell phone. The call was answered almost immediately. The frightened Hispanic female voice on the other end was nearly impossible to understand. In his own broken Spanish, the detective was able to ask the woman to come outside.
“Mi′ Madre Dios!” exclaimed Maria Sandoval as she dropped the phone and ran for the front door. Stepping outside, Maria screamed as she rounded the corner of the garage and was quickly grabbed by two uniformed deputies and propelled toward the barricade of police cars.
Detective Weise and Deputy Leo Rivera waited for her. Deputy Rivera quickly obtained the information they sought from Mrs. Sandoval, then translated it to Weise.
“All units, suspects are now described as armed with handguns and dressed in Riverside Sheriff caps and jackets, suspects were last seen entering the rear of three-seven-seven-two-one Arroyo Grande from the adjacent property. All units responding switch to tact-two,” came the dispatchers slightly excited voice.
Detective Weise had assumed command of the situation. He ordered several units to join Winchell and Farrell on Arroyo Grande to secure that side of the location. Other units were going door-to-door evacuating residents. SWAT was called to the location.
It took less than 90 seconds for the SWAT van to pull up in front of the Rourk’s residence. From that point, Lieutenant Timothy Allen was in command. His six-member team filed out of the back of the van, each man or woman indistinguishable from the next due to the nearly head to toe protective covering they wore. Black helmets topped their heads, which were covered by a Kevlar head and facemask – leaving only eyes, nose and mouth exposed. Black, long sleeved jumpsuits, also made of Kevlar and fitted with ceramic shields in the chest, back, arms and thighs to absorb any possible bullet that may be fired at them. There were a multitude of zippered pockets containing an array of special gear from binoculars to tear gas to spare clips of ammunition for the automatic weapons each member carried. They were all equipped with high-tech radios that were voice activated and allowed for hands-free operation. Every member had a holstered Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistol on his or her hip. Only the assault weapons were varied, based on the members training and preference. Members ran to take up their individual positions as directed by Lt. Allen.
The Lieutenant gazed steely-eyed at the Rourk residence. All his training – from basic in the USMC, to actual combat in Desert Storm, the Police Academy, SWAT training with the City of Cypress Police Department, the years of night school to gain his BA in Criminal Justice, the years as top homicide detective in the Orange County Joint Murder Task Force – now his first call as SWAT Commander since unilaterally transferring to the Sheriff’s Department less than two months earlier – was going to be tested. He knew that blood had been spilled in the driveway of this house once before, He didn’t want it to happen again.
Detective Weise briefed Allen with the little information he had. Allen listened without saying a word, his eyes never leaving the house.
Once each of his men had taken up their positions and called in to Allen, he asked for the Rourk’s phone number. Dialing without looking at the keypad, pressing ‘send’, bringing the phone to his ear as the phone in the house began to ring, the steely gaze remained rooted to the house.
Scrappy stepped around the Rourks and asked Conan what they should do next.
Conan turned his attention to Scrappy, the phone rang, the baby started to cry.
Sullivan took all of this in in an instant. Fear, anger and the natural instinct to protect his family took over. He shoved April – propelling her into the hall – while simultaneously swinging the hand holding the Dr. Pepper bottle into the side of Scrappy’s head.
Scrappy crumbled into an unconscious heap on the floor.
April darted into the nursery, snatching Lisa from her crib, cleaving her to her chest, then ran back into the hall and toward the front door.
Sullivan leapt toward Conan, his hands curled into claws, reaching for the throat as if he were a wild beast attacking his prey in some primeval forest rather than in the Ethan Allen furnished master bedroom of an upscale home in an affluent golfing community. Conan managed to bring the gun up, catching Sullivan in the jaw, causing the weapon to discharge.
At the sound of the gunfire, every officer first cringed in a natural avoidance of possible injury or death, and then in the next instant drew a bead on the Rourk house, searching for a target.
April fumbled with the deadbolt, the baby crying hysterically in her arms. The door came open.
“Hold your fire!” ordered Lt. Allen as he saw the front door begin to move.
April ran straight for the mass of squad cars. Deputies Winchell and Farrell fell in behind her, offering their own bodies as shields between those in the house and the woman carrying the child.
Mrs. Kravitz ran past Deputy Matern, her own maternal instincts forcing her out into a potential line of fire in order to reach her young neighbor to give comfort to both mother and child. She had lost her child to a bullet all those years ago; she would not allow April Rourk to suffer the same lifetime of endless sorrow.
The blow to the jaw, combined with the deafening explosion of the gun firing next to his ear, sent Sullivan’s mind reeling. He struggled to remain conscious as he repeatedly struck out at Conan, his punches ineffectual due to a severe loss of equilibrium. He managed to wrap one hand around the wrist holding the gun, struggling to keep its deadly end away from him.
Conan reached out and grabbed Rourk by the face, seeking to push out an eye with his thumb. He growled in frustration as Sullivan leaned back, leaving himself a fraction of an inch free of blindness. Conan pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession, the bullets lodging harmlessly into the attic rafters.
April followed Mrs. Kravitz and several cops into the old woman’s home.
Lt. Allen was right beside her, pressing for information. Between sobs, she was able to quickly describe what she had just fled.
Mrs. Kravitz took the baby from April, holding the crying child to her bosom, whispering to her in soothing tones, easing the baby’s fears.
They reported in order, “Able secure,” “Baker secure,” “Charlie secure,” “Denver secure,” “Edward secure,” “Frank secure”.
The shots had come from within the house, but were not aimed out of the house.
It took two deputies; Matern and a female named Kaufman, to hold April back from following that second round of shots.
Sullivan felt the skinhead’s hand press into his face. He pulled back, but couldn’t avoid the man’s grasp. The vision in his left eye blurred, his fury exploded. He slammed the skinhead’s gun hand repeatedly into the headboard, finally causing him to release the gun. As soon as the gun fell, landing between the mattress and headboard, Sullivan let go of the other man’s wrist and grabbed the man’s crotch, pulling and squeezing as hard as he could.
Conan’s scream was cut off by the vomit that suddenly filled his throat. The stench of bile and partially digested food filled the air. The skinhead passed out, slipping willingly into the darkness, escaping the unbearable pain.
Sullivan continued to pummel the unconscious man lying in his bed, rage leaving him on a precipice, teetering toward insanity. The face soon became a torn and bloody mass of raw meat, unrecognizable as to even what species of animal it could have been, certainly not human.