Dog One

by Jim Riley

  The second biggest reason I hated Stalone was his good looks. The rat bastard. If good looks were diamonds, and stature were gold, I wouldn’t have enough money to buy a cup of coffee. I am a towering 5’ 5” if I stand up very straight. My one hundred sixty pounds are well proportioned on my frame, but it doesn’t show. I can do a hundred push-ups in sixty seconds, but my biceps refuse to grow any larger than my wife’s. Due to childhood acne, or as I have often wondered, perhaps the result of some horrible sin by my father, my face looks like it caught on fire and someone put it out with a chain. If that’s not bad enough, I have a very visible scar that cuts my bottom lip in half and works its way diagonally to the bottom of my chin. Naturally, it stops right where you can’t see it anymore. No use in scarring me where it doesn’t show, right? When I look at Stalone, I see all the injustice in the world packaged into a 6’ 2”, well-proportioned, gracefully tanned, blond-haired, blue-eyed, white-toothed SOB.

  I didn’t, however, let this hatred for the man cloud my judgement when he offered to chip in $15,000 of the P.D.’s budget to buy equipment for the team. Even though I knew the real reason he was doing it. He would not have rested until he had some kind of pull over the team. With him donating the equipment, he thought he would have at least some kind of that “don’t piss me off or I’ll take my toys and go home” thing powerful people try to use against us have-nots. It didn’t really work for me, though. I’d decided if he messed with my team, I’d just kill him and take his toys.

  The team came along wonderfully. All the involved departments made the necessary sacrifices to allow the team members to get off from work on the training days. When the entire department is made up of just enough men to keep the schedule running day and night, that’s a pretty big sacrifice. One of the things I had made clear from the beginning was that the financial cost of the equipment was not the real cost. That came in man-hours of training.

  Within six months I had the men shooting at adequate levels. By the end of the first year, they could shoot and move pretty well. By the end of the first year and a half, we were really a team. We may not have been able to compete on every level with Dallas SWAT, but I would have had no hesitation going into a room with my guys. I wasn’t only proud, I was impressed. And not just with my men, but with myself. I had managed to either screw up, piss off, or quit before I should have, most everything in my life. On the day that I saw my team do a mock entry of a hostage situation and pull it off flawlessly, I felt like I had really accomplished something for the first time in my life. It was a big moment for me. Little would have I had guessed how it would pale in comparison to what I would be a part of a few years down the road.

  Chapter Two

  March 25th had started out as any other day for me, except that I was on the road while working an embezzlement case. I don’t like traveling. I like routine and waking up in a hotel is anything but. I had been a detective at the Sheriff’s Department for four years at this point and had never had to leave the state before on a case, which suited me fine. Nevertheless, I would only be in St. Louis for two days, and then I would be on a bird back home. Ironically, I had jumped at the chance to go do the interview. Upon reflection, it was dumb. As I said, I don’t like to travel and really had other things to be doing on the case. The junior detective that was now working with me could have easily done the interview. It was obviously an important witness, but it was also an interview that was hard to screw up. All the wit had to do was shoot down our suspect’s alibi and pick his face out of a line-up. With the exception of the line-up, damn near the whole thing could have been handled over the phone. But in high profile or sensitive cases, you have to look important witnesses in the eye. A good cop can tell within the first five minutes of meeting someone if they are going to be a help, hindrance, or full-blown pain in the ass to the case. I wish I could say that’s why I took the interview—to make sure the case stayed on track. Unfortunately, my motives were not that altruistic. When Kent Barnes, my junior detective, begged to go, I said no, I was doing it. It was just a guy thing. He wanted it, so my selfishness overrode my common sense, telling my nine-year-old inner self this must be really good and I pulled rank. I was once again kicking myself and regretting the decision as I strolled down the hall to the scumbag’s office.

  A person doesn’t have to live in an alley or be a hype to qualify as a scumbag. This particular scumbag I had come to St. Louis to interview had a quite nice office on the third floor of the JP Goldstein building, which was located in an outlying section of St. Louis that was quickly expanding. I looked down at the carpet in the hallway as I walked from the elevator to his office. You can tell a little about a place by the carpet. Normally in the hallway of buildings, they have a medium-priced, commercial-grade carpet. It’s glued to the floor and doesn’t take very long to begin showing a wear path down the middle. I was looking down at a high-dollar wool carpet. Although the colors were nice, what made it obviously expensive was the length and density of the nap. It was thick and plush, and this was just the hallway. Nice. Then I remembered that the asshole was paying his rent with money embezzled from my county’s residents. In essence, what he had gotten from the deal between him and my suspect probably wouldn’t have made a full year’s rent in this place, but it still galled me.

  The asshole he was in cahoots with, our main suspect, was still back in the county presiding over the largest bank in my jurisdiction and feeling impugned to the enth degree for even being accused of doing so pedestrian a thing as stealing. The feeling of outrage he was feigning now was nothing compared to the feeling I was determined that he would experience. I told him that the real impugning he would be feeling was the one he was going to get when he bent over in the shower for the soap at Limon prison.

  I had my interview technique all lined out in my head. Start out friendly and explain it was in his best interest to cooperate, because if he didn’t, he could find himself telling his story in front of the Grand Jury, where I would no longer be able to offer him any consideration for his help. I would remind him that his involvement in the fraud had been minor at best, and I’d even offer to go to bat for him with the DA. If not, then it was the Grand Jury route. If he were smart, he would know that no one on the western slope of Colorado even empanels a Grand Jury. Hell, we do well to get twelve citizens to sit on a regular jury for a couple of days, much less regularly meet for Grand Jury proceedings. But I didn’t think he knew. If he resisted all my suggestions or called my bluff, I would just have to resort to my more natural technique and threaten to push him out of his office window. I was ten short steps from his office door and what was going to be an important and no-doubt productive interview when I heard it. I knew what it was as soon as it reached my ears, even though it was very faint. It must have happened on a different floor, but there was no doubt in mind what it was. Automatic gunfire.

  My first thought was that it was an active shooter situation. The kind of incident that has become so popular with disgruntled employees who, instead of taking out their frustrations by drinking too much or keying the boss’s car, bring a weapon to work and kill the poor lady answering the phone. That thought passed when I heard more than one weapon. In fact, I could hear numerous weapons. I instinctively reached for my Sig 9mm that I normally carried on my right hip in a pancake holster. My heart dropped when I felt nothing but belt, and I had an instant picture in my mind of the weapon sitting on the nightstand where I’d left it. I had decided it wasn’t going to be worth the effort of trying to get it on a plane. Shit. I started to run to my witness’s office and hide in there, but then I reconsidered. In a situation like this, you really should either be with someone you trust or by yourself. So much for my interview with numb-nuts. I started running back down the hallway to find an office and use the phone when I heard the next sound to make my sphincter tighten. The elevator bell indicating it was stopping on my floor. I didn’t know if it was a man with a gun, but since all I had to fight him off with were my cell pho
ne and witty charm, I opted for the conservative approach and hid in the supply closet I found myself next to. It had been the right decision because from inside the closet, I heard several pairs of boots stomping on the fine wool carpet. I could tell there was more than a couple but couldn’t make out much more. Being the Curious George I am, I opened the door a little. I had waited until I felt the group was well past the door and down the hall, but I still nearly blew it. The first group definitely was down the hallway all right, but the second group had just barely passed me. Another second sooner and I would have been toast. The first thing I noticed was that the first group of four was all in military BDUs, black balaclavas over their heads, and were carrying M16s and AKs. They were moving in formation, although not well, but still together nonetheless. By contrast, the second group consisted of six men. Four were armed, also with M16s, and the two in the middle were not. The second group moved with a much greater sense of purpose and skill. The four on the outside were obviously bodyguards or such, and the two men in the middle were clearly important to the group. The bodyguards wore some kind of black flight suits, the kind you can get out of military and cop catalogs. Their boots were shined, and I could tell they were alert. They moved as a unit. In fact, I’d say they were a real team.

  One of the men in the middle carried a large black case about the size of an old Samsonite, and the other was dressed in a robe-like thing and had one of those multi-colored rags around his head. I assumed he was a sheik or something based on his dress and the fact that he was fingering his prayer beads. Damn, I thought. A terrorist incident. I mentally kicked myself for not having already considered that. Then the thought struck me. What the hell was so important in a seven-story building on the edge of the suburbs of St. Louis? My thoughts were interrupted when a suited man stepped out of his office down the hall to see what the noise was about. I recognized the face of my witness just about the time one of the BDU-clad warriors zippered him with his M16. There goes my case, I thought.

  I was trying very hard to focus my thoughts on what to do next but found it hard to concentrate. My ego kept insisting I get a weapon from one of the assholes and be the hero. Fortunately, my common sense won out and I finally put that thought to bed. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my cell phone.

  Now let me stop and explain that although I’m not a Neanderthal when it comes to electronic devices and know basically how to use them for the most part, I just don’t care to. In fact, I wouldn’t be carrying a cell phone at all if my department hadn’t forced me to. And while all of my compatriots have expensive smart phones, I still carry a basic flip phone. In my defense, though, it was a brand new one. I guess I should also admit that although I do carry it, I don’t even turn it on unless I have to. Just saying.

  As soon as I turned it on, it started playing some fucking tune and I couldn’t get it to stop. I stuck my hand with the phone in it into my pocket and gripped it tight like I thought I was going to torture it into shutting up. It finally stopped making noise and I pulled it out of my pocket. I used the light from the screen on the phone to check out the broom closet I was in. It was about 6’ wide by 5’ deep. But that was misleading since with shelves all the way around and a vacuum and mop bucket in the floor, I was using up just about all the available floor space. I checked for a door lock and found there wasn’t one. I also realized that since the door opened outward, there was no way to block it closed.

  I was mulling over my situation and contemplating moving out when I heard some voices. At first, I assumed it was occupants of the building making a break for it but then realized two things that changed my mind. First, the voices were much too calm, and second, they were speaking in Arabic.

  I noticed I was breathing hard and forced myself to calm down. I hadn’t done anything to wind myself and knew the feelings of exertion were just coming from stress and adrenaline. When adrenaline is coursing through your system unimpeded, it interferes, or in some instances, completely shuts down what it considers unnecessary operations. In most cases that includes all upper-level thought processes, and instead puts its energy into fight or flight. Neither of those was an option for me at the time, and a well-thought-out plan was going to serve me much better.

  I could hear the men talking, but even if I spoke Arabic, I wouldn’t have been able to understand what they were saying. It was too muffled. I did recognize the language, though, from hearing it on television from time to time on news broadcasts. I also heard something even more ominous—the opening and closing of doors. I looked down at the impotent doorknob and cursed the designer for not putting locks on the broom closet.

  As carefully as I could, I moved the toilet paper rolls on the bottom shelf and stepped onto it lightly. It creaked, and I grimaced. Well, screw it, I thought. If I stand here, they’ll find me anyway. Might as well do what has to be done. By the time I got to the top shelf I was sweating. Not from the climb, but again from the stress. I moved a box of paper cups to the next shelf over and grabbed as many small items as I could to put in front of me. I’ll just blend in with the Lysol spray, I thought sarcastically. I had barely finished arranging my aerosol camouflage when the doorknob began to turn. It seemed like slow motion as light bled into what I was feeling like was my sarcophagus. I kept waiting for someone to stick his gun, or at least his head, into the room. For a second, I started to close my eyes like a kid would do to keep the monsters away. If I can’t see him, he can’t see me, right? Instead, I kept my eyes open, and suddenly the man at the door began talking to someone in hallway. Although it was gibberish to me, there seemed to be urgency in his voice. A head abruptly peeked in the room and scanned the lower portion of floor and shelves. He never even looked up my way. When the door shut I let out a long, slow breath.

  I had put the cell phone back into my pocket, so now I was trying to ease it out without making any noise. Easier said than done while lying on your side, knees scrunched up, and camouflaging Lysol cans inches from your body. I finally managed to get the phone out and opened it up. The screen had little bars on the left side, and I thought I remembered that meant it had service. I wished the damn thing to be quiet, but it refused. Those annoying tones sounded like fire alarms as I punched in 911.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  “There are armed men in the JP Goldstein building in St. Louis. They have killed at least one person,” I whispered into the small, silver Motorola phone.

  “We are aware of the situation. Thank you for your call.” She hung up.

  I looked at the phone in disbelief and cursed every dispatcher I had ever known. Then I called back. “This is Sergeant Moffat.” I didn’t tell her what department I was with. If I had said I was with Podunk Sheriff’s Office, I would have gone back to being a no one as far as she was concerned. I went on, “Listen up. You have at least eight armed men in the JP Goldstein Building. They are dressed in BDUs and are armed with automatic weapons. I’m not sure of their agenda but they have killed at least one person.” I stopped talking and I could hear her typing, no doubt sending information out to MDUs, or Mobile Data Units, all over the city. I could also hear a cacophony of radio traffic in the background, as well as phones ringing off the hook. Finally, she spoke again. “Okay, I got that. Now, who is this again?”

  “Sergeant Moffat.” I started to tell her I was in the building but stopped. I wasn’t sure why at the moment but knew I shouldn’t.

  “Are you on scene?” She obviously was assuming I was with the St. Louis P.D., or at least a local cop, by the way I had briefed her.

  “Yes.” I hesitated a moment and told her I would call her back.

  It took a minute for my subconscious to communicate with my conscious thoughts and realize what my hesitation was. If I told her I was in the building, she would have put that fact out over the air to validate the source of the information. That would no doubt serve a legitimate purpose, I knew, but if the bad guys were scanning the frequencies, which at this point I had to assume th
ey may be, then they would be coming after me.

  I waited for another ten minutes before I attempted another call. In that time, I had considered my options. I could try and get out of the building, but judging by the manpower, firepower, and planning I had seen so far, I assumed they probably had the exits secured some way. The other option was the macho one of taking them on. That notion quickly passed as suicidal and I settled on the third. Be a good witness. That’s what they teach you in the academy. If you can’t take care of the situation in a safe manner, don’t put people in more danger; just sit quietly and be a good witness. I called back. It was a different dispatcher, but the same attitude. I tried to keep my own attitude in check, I knew they were being swamped by calls and radio traffic. She still managed to piss me off and if it weren’t for the fact that it may have gotten me killed, I would have yelled at her. As it was, I whispered as loudly and forcefully as I could. It must not have impressed her, because she ended up cutting me off. I’m sure she would have said it was an accident, but I knew. She had hung up on me.