Dog One

by Jim Riley

  I decided to take a different tact.

  “911, what is your emergency?”

  “This is Lieutenant Smith…ory,” I mumbled so she couldn’t quite make out what I had said. I had clearly pronounced the title “Lieutenant” though and hoped that was the only thing she picked up on. “Who is the on-scene Commander at the Goldstein Building?” I said it with purpose, clarity, and authority.

  “Captain Pullman just took over the Command Post, sir. Who did you say you were, sir?”

  “Patch me through to his cell phone right away. It’s urgent.” I hoped my authoritative tone would scare her into just doing it. It didn’t.

  “Yes, sir, I will. Exactly who am I patching through, Lieutenant?”

  “Lieutenant...Smith,” I said clearly, praying to God there actually was one.

  Either it worked or I had simply frustrated her to the point of confusion. because after a moment of silence where I thought I had been cut off again, a phone on the other end started ringing.

  “This is Captain Pullman.” The voice was abrupt and had that certain quality of being in authority and obviously annoyed by the phone call. I hesitated a moment too long and he said, “Hello. Who is this?”

  “This is Sergeant Dell Moffat. I’m with the Logan County Sheriff’s Department from Colorado.” I could picture the man looking at the cell phone with a “what the hell is this” expression on his face. He wasn’t even to the stammering part yet where he would get his thoughts together to tell me he didn’t have time to talk to me right now because he was in the middle of a crisis. I managed to get the important words out before he started up. “I’m in the building.”

  It didn’t make me the most important person in his life at that moment, but I did get his attention.

  “Where are you in the building?”

  “Third floor.” I didn’t tell him exactly where. I gave him credit for being smarter than the dispatcher, but I didn’t know him well enough to hand my life over to him either.

  “What’ve you seen?”

  I told him what I had seen with the two groups of men. I didn’t get into all the details I had picked up on. Some of it because I didn’t feel it was absolutely necessary information at this point, and some of it just because I couldn’t quite articulate yet. I did summarize it for him though. “These guys, at least some of them, are well-trained.”

  “Who did you say you work for?” My blood pressure went up by twenty. What difference does it make? I’m a cop. I’m a SWAT operator, and a good one. I know a trained operator when I see it. I was about to lash out at the idiot when I realized there might be a different motive for him asking. Like verifying my bona fides?

  “My name is Dell Moffat. I’m a sergeant with the Logan County Sheriff’s Department in Colorado. Badge number 1632. My sheriff is Tobias Christman. He’ll verify me. I used to be with Dallas P.D.,” I added. That was stupid, I thought. Like that was going to impress him. I could tell he was about as impressed with that as I was with myself at that moment. “SWAT, actually,” I added, again wondering if I was sounding as lame as I felt. That got his attention, though.

  “You’re with Dallas SWAT?”

  Had he been listening to anything I’d said? “No, I used to be. Now I’m with Logan County.”

  He didn’t say anything else, but suddenly I felt like he was replaying everything I had told him through a new filter on the assumption now that I might know what I was talking about. I was right.

  “And in your opinion these men are well-trained? Militarily?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe.” I had heard the hesitation in his voice. “What?” I asked.

  More hesitation then, “Nothing.”

  His tone didn’t sound very confident. He wasn’t going to tell me what the problem was, but I knew he was second-guessing something. Normally, the smaller the commander, usually the smaller the fuck-up. Conversely, the bigger the commander, the bigger the fuck-up. This was a Captain, which meant it could be pretty bad, whatever it was. I didn’t get any more information or questions and I was getting bored, so I cleared my throat.

  “What?” he grumped.

  “Is that all you need from me?”

  “If that’s all you’ve got for me right now, yes.” He wanted my cell phone number so he could call me if he had further questions, but I explained to him that if it rang at the wrong time it could be bad. He suggested I put it on vibrate, but I told him it didn’t have that feature. Hell, it could have had a feature that rubbed my back and I wouldn’t have known it. As I said, I’m not into cellular phones. He gave me his cell phone number so I wouldn’t have to go through the lieutenant ruse with dispatch again, and told me to call back in thirty minutes, even if I didn’t have any new information. After I scratched the phone number onto the shelf with a pen I’d wrestled from my pocket, I hung up.

  I thought about calling Tish but let the thought pass without completely understanding why I didn’t want to. It probably had something to do with our last conversation being an argument. Maybe I didn’t feel like it was the right time to finish debating why I thought her boss was an ass. She had seen right through all my attempts at logical reasons I had earlier offered. Finally, she got me to admit it was because he was good looking, ten years younger than me, and he liked her. She assured me the feelings were not mutual, but the facts remained and they made me jealous. It sucked. Her boss sucked. Life sucked. I suck, I admitted.

  I decided now was not a time for deep introspection either and concluded with the promise to make things better at home, if I lived. Now there’s a deal, I thought. My next thought went to calling work and talking to Toby. That’s what I call Sheriff Tobias Christman when we’re not in the presence of others. I finally decided against calling the office. Toby would know soon enough about what was going on with me, because I’m sure Captain Pullman had assigned someone to verify who I was. I would have if I were him.

  My thirty minutes were almost up without any more voices outside of the door. My legs had long since gone to sleep, passed the tingling stage, and now were in oh-my-God-this-hurts stage. I wanted so bad to stretch them out I had almost decided to get down from my perch. Fortunately, before I did I thought it out further and figured that if I jumped down to the ground now I couldn’t catch myself. I’d crash and burn with no legs to soften the blow. Instead I called the Command Post, commonly called the CP for short, five minutes early just to get my mind off my legs.

  Captain Pullman was obviously in the middle of something and made no attempt to hide his annoyance that I had called and disturbed him. I reminded him that he had told me to call. It didn’t seem to matter a whole lot that my following his orders seemed to be the source of his irritation. Either that or the notion was so foreign to him that he could actually be the problem and not the line worker. I finished my report to him as quickly as possible, which wasn’t a problem since there was nothing to report and hung up.

  My phone rang and sincerely, I almost wet myself. Even though it was lying on the shelf next to my fingers, it seemed like a greased ice cube in my hand. I couldn’t get the damn thing open quick enough, and it rang a second time.

  “Hello.” I answered as angrily as a person can in a whisper.

  “Moffat, this is Captain Pullman.”

  I wanted to kill him. No, I wanted to beat him, then kill him. I settled for scolding him. “I told you that my phone ringing could get me killed.” Then the thought struck me. “How’d you get my number?”

  “My phone has Caller ID. Look, tell me about the four men in BDUs again.”

  I told him everything I could remember. How they moved, albeit not smooth, but in formation, their weapons, and that they moved with a sense of purpose, like they knew exactly where they were going.

  “But the real interesting group were the other ones.” I could tell from his lack of response he wasn’t listening. I kept going hoping he would catch on. “The men in the middle were obviously the leadership. And the case is a big unknown. C
omputer? Communications? Bomb?” The last word got his attention.

  “What about a bomb?”

  “No, I said I wonder what was in the case. Maybe it’s a bomb.”

  “It’s not a bomb.” He said it matter-of-factly. It begged the question, so I asked it, assuming he knew the answer.

  “How do you know?” He didn’t take it quite as nicely as I meant it.

  “I just know,” he barked.

  I had had about as much as I was going to take from the pompous ass. I’m sure that if he had spoken to Toby, he had gotten the 411 on two things: I have a bad attitude when I feel I’m being unfairly stepped on, and I do know what I’m talking about in tactical situations.

  “How do you know?” It was more than a question, it was an accusation that he didn’t.

  “I can’t tell you what we know and how.”

  He could very well have been telling the truth, but somehow, I didn’t think so. I decided to use a little interrogation 101. “Well, what about those wires hanging out of it, then?”

  “What? You didn’t say anything earlier about any wires. What kind of wires?” I could hear him moving paper, probably trying to find something to write on.

  “There weren’t any wires. And you don’t know what’s in that case.” I didn’t add it but my tone implied, “Do you, you son of a bitch.”

  He had been caught in a lie, but as all administrators, he knew how to cover himself. He became condescending. “Look, Sergeant Moffat. I know you’re trying to be helpful, but don’t confuse the situation by guessing at what you don’t know. Just report what you do know.”

  It was good advice, but only when the people being reported to were competent. I was beginning to get the feeling I would have been better off on my own. “What makes you think it’s not a bomb?” I had decided to take a different approach.

  “Why do you think it is?”

  Mexican standoff.

  “Because it’s worst case scenario until you prove it’s not. Have you gotten any demands?” It was changing the subject, but I was starting to feel uncomfortable with my situation and wanted to know all I could in case I decided to abandon my new friend here.

  “No.” If he had thought about it longer, he probably wouldn’t have even told me that much. “Why would they take a bomb the size of a suitcase into a building? What’s the worst they could do with it? Blow up part of a floor?” It was more like he was thinking out loud than asking me the question, but it appeared he also wanted someone to agree with his analysis. Like he needed some validation. That’s when it hit me.

  “Your SWAT Commander told you that you had to assume it was a bomb, too, didn’t he?” It was just a guess, but I had played lesser odds before. His lack of immediate response assured me I had hit the nail on the head.

  “I’ll call if we need you.” He hung up.

  “Like hell you will,” and I turned off my phone.

  Chapter Three

  My legs had finally stopped hurting. Now they were into the completely-numb stage, like they weren’t even there. I am no doctor, but that can’t be good. I was quickly giving in to the idea of getting down from my perch, even if it meant falling to the floor six feet below. I had visions of being skewered by the mop handle, but by this point it would have been a welcomed end to the agony. I had figured out that there was at least one two-man roving patrol on my floor. I had heard them go by my door several times in the last four hours that I had been there.

  Although they weren’t sticking to a hard schedule of when they would make their rounds, which was very smart on their part and something I needed to note to someone who could use the intel, it was now never less than twenty minutes between the times that I heard them. My guess was that even though they varied their rounds, it always took them at least twenty minutes to make them. The patrol had walked by about five minutes prior, and I thought the timing would be right to make the leap. I knew that someone still may hear me, but it was a chance I had come to be willing to make. Just as I was building up myself to roll off my perch, I changed my mind again. It wasn’t out of fear but a small voice in the back of my head telling me to call Coop. I had been considering it for a couple of hours but hadn’t come to any conclusions. It probably wasn’t going to help me in any way. He worked for the FBI but was in Denver, 850 miles away. I decided to call anyway and turned the phone on. Damn, those tones again. He picked it up on the third ring.

  “Yeah.” It was his standard way of saying hello.

  “Bite me.” It was my standard way of responding to him.

  “I don’t have time right now, Dog. I’m in the middle of something.” Dog was the nickname he had given me. It was short for Road Dog, which I had no idea what that meant. What he was in the middle of was surveillance on an armed robbery team that had been plaguing the metro area. Coop and his team were closing in. Tough.

  “I’m in the shit.”

  “You okay?” It was sincere concern.

  “You hear about what’s going on in St. Louis?”

  “Yeah. You trying to get Toby to let you take your SWAT team over there and help out?” he joked.

  “Maybe they’ll come rescue me. I’m in the building.” Now I had his attention.

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “Nope.”

  “How the hell did you get in there?”

  It was one of those dumb questions you ask, then wonder if you really said that out loud. He knew it would require a sarcastic remark and waited for it. It was obligatory, so I responded. “By foot.”

  He went on without comment. “What’s going on?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.” I knew that although it was St. Louis P.D.’s jurisdiction, the FBI could take over the situation when it became a terrorist event. I had assumed that at some point over the last four hours, that had become clear to everyone. I assumed wrong.

  “I don’t know. Last I heard us and the P.D. were fighting over jurisdiction.”

  “Why?” The question probably sounded stupid to him, but I was still going on the assumption that the terrorism question had been answered.

  “We haven’t been invited to the party yet. Are you okay? Where’re you at?”

  “In a broom closet.”

  “Mmm.” I heard him snicker.

  “What’s ‘mmm’ supposed to mean?”

  “I don’t know, it just seems funny.”

  “Bite me.”

  “Why’d you think we would have been in charge?”, getting back to our conversation.

  “Because it’s terrorism.” As the words came out of my mouth I figured it out. “Pullman hadn’t told y’all, has he?”

  “I don’t know, Dog, I’m not in the loop. How do you know it’s terrorism?”

  I laid out the story for the third time. Only this time I threw in the nuances of the things I saw that didn’t seem to amount to much when you put them into words. Coop was on the FBI SWAT team out of the Denver Field Office and knew tactics, but more importantly, Coop knew terrorism. He was one of the top five terrorism experts in the FBI, which meant in the country. His current assignment in violent crime had simply been a slap on the wrist for being insubordinate with a superior officer. During an ass-chewing, Coop had reminded the Assistant Agent in Charge, or ASAC, that he was only superior in rank. Coop, on the other hand, had him beat on everything from closed cases, to shooting skills, to penis size. The result had been a typical, nonsensical, FBI response of putting an agent with no terrorism experience in charge of that Division while Coop cooled his heels doing something else. He had taken the violent crime assignment and excelled with it, thus turning the disciplinary action on its head. The brass hated Coop. I loved him. When I got to the part about the sheik in a robe and the bad guys speaking Arabic, his voice went up an octave.

  “How do you know it was Arabic?”

  “I’ve heard it before. You know, movies, CNN.”

  “Is it safe for me to call you back?” Now, see, that’s an operator, I thought. He
calculated that it may not be safe for me to receive a phone call and asked. Damn that asshole Pullman.

  “No, I’ll call you.”

  I decided it had been a good thing to call Coop. From what it sounded like, Pullman hadn’t even told the FBI about what I had told him. I could be wrong. Coop was out of the loop and maybe just didn’t know. Maybe the FBI had already taken control of the Command Post and Coop just hadn’t heard yet. Yeah, and maybe I’ll get a Christmas card from the bin Ladens. I knew as well as I was lying here in a paraplegic ball that Pullman was holding out. He was scheming or scamming something. That’s why he had been so evasive with me.

  I waited about ten minutes and called Coop back. The line was busy so I kept trying while keeping an eye on my watch. Pete and Repeat were still doing their tour of duty every so often, but never under twenty minutes. It had been fifteen when Coop’s phone rang through.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Good. Take down this number.”

  I groped for my pen and realized that my right arm was now becoming numb as well. I had been lying on it for a long time. My fingers felt like they were the size of baseball bats. I fumbled with the top to my pen and it fell to the floor. I still had nothing to write on, so like a good cop, I wrote the number on the back of my hand.

  “Who is it I’m calling?”

  “Bib Stinson. He’s the SAC for the St. Louis Field Office. He’s at the Command Post now and wants to hear from you asap.” Suddenly I felt important.

  “His first name is Bib? What kind of name is that?”

  “How the hell should I know? Besides, don’t call him that.”

  “What should I call him? Your Highness?”

  “Just call the man.”

  I called the number and a man answered. He didn’t sound like a “Bib,” but I gave it a shot. “I need to speak to Special Agent in Charge Stinson.”