by Roger Hayden
Routine Patrol
Sergeant Miriam Castillo was behind the wheel of a 2008 Ford police cruiser, with her newly deputized partner in the passenger seat. Deputy Joseph Lang was still a rookie by any stretch, but he was a fast learner and motivated. They had spent most of the day exploring the sunny Florida landscape of swamps, forests, and wildlife to familiarize him with the area. He had recently moved to Palm Dale with his wife and two kids. Miriam had been with the department for five years and had lived in the area for seven. She was thirty-four and had Lang by a couple of years in age and experience.
She had moved through the ranks fast—considered one of the most promising officers, according to her annual review, anyway. With the arrival of a fresh face, she was at the top of the list to show him around.
“The first thing you need to learn about the area is that people like to keep to themselves out here,” she said with a half-full Gatorade resting between her knees.
Deputy Lang nodded along, surveying the homes set amid the marshlands outside the window.
“Most of them don’t want any trouble. But the ones who do ask for it and then some.”
The dispatch radio crackled as Deputy Lang turned to her. “What type of criminal activity do you deal with the most out here on patrol?”
Miriam took a sip of Gatorade and wiped her mouth. “Domestic calls. Robberies. Bar fights. Nothing too serious.”
They reached the outskirts of town, where there wasn’t a home in sight.
“I have to admit, this change of scenery is quite a shock.”
“Trust me, I know,” Miriam said.
“Angela doesn’t like the heat. We’re a long way from Chicago, that’s for sure,” Lang said.
Ahead, on a two-lane state road, a minivan dragged along, going at least three miles under the posted forty-miles-per-hour speed limit. Miriam shifted into the left lane, passing the van.
“Lots of old folks too,” she said.
Lang turned to look at the driver and saw an old man hunched over the wheel, wearing a camouflaged-net hat.
“It’s not their fault, though. Town started out as more of a retirement community. But you know how that goes,” Miriam added.
“Families move in. Suburban sprawl follows. Yeah, I know the drill,” Lang said. He then turned to her, speaking more casually than before. “So what do you like to do around here? You know, for fun?”
“Me?” Miriam asked, rotating her slender neck. Her long, black hair was tied in a bun. Her gray eyes, shaded behind dark Oakley lenses, remained ahead on the empty road. “I work.”
Deputy Lang laughed. “Come on, Sergeant. There’s got to be more.”
“Between this job and my daughter, that’s enough for me.”
“I have a family too, but you still have to make time to do things. Fun stuff. How close is Disney World from here?”
“Not close,” Miriam responded. She hadn’t been one for theme parks and family outings for some time. Freddy, her ex-husband, had managed to drain a lot of fun from her life over the years.
“How old is your daughter, Sergeant?” Lang asked.
Miriam thought to herself then answered. “She’s eleven now.”
“Wow. They grow up so fast. My two boys are four and six. How do you like that?”
“They’ll be in high school before you know it,” Miriam said. “Blows my mind that Ana will be in seventh grade next year.”
“Good schools here?” Lang asked.
“Not bad,” Miriam responded. “Helps when you have a good kid.”
“You must be proud of her.”
Miriam smiled. “Well, she’s not a teenager yet, and I don’t want to speak too soon.”
They shared a laugh as the dispatch radio crackled on with cross-chatter.
Surrounding palm trees moved gently in the breeze. They passed the first couple of homes they had seen in miles. A gate blocking a long dirt driveway led to a mobile home. A two-story house raced by, slightly dilapidated, surrounded by an old-fashioned rail fence. Then they came to fields on both sides, thick with underbrush.
“It’s kind of peaceful out here,” Lang said, looking around.
“About time to head back in. I just wanted to give you the lay of the land.”
A dispatch call came over the radio, requesting assistance. Miriam naturally went for the hand mic, not thinking to let the rookie have a chance at it.
“This is Bravo Twelve. Go ahead, dispatch.”
“Complaint at the Anderson Auto. Suspects on ground accused of bringing in stolen copper to sell. Owner made the call.”
Deputy Lang turned to the radio, carefully listening.
“Copy that,” Miriam responded. “Have owner stand by. We’re en route, code three.”
In the middle console sat a Toughbook laptop on a flat, extended platform. The dispatch radio hung above it, directly below the dashboard. A shotgun rested upright behind Miriam’s seat, held in place by a bracket. A cage divided the front and back seats, as in any normal police car. She placed the radio back on its clip and gunned it.
“We get a lot of calls about copper theft at the Anderson Auto Salvage,” she said to Lang. “I know a shortcut up here.”
Lang nodded, silent. Miriam took notice and felt a tad contrite. “Sorry, I should have let you take the call. Force of habit.”
Lang raised his hand in a reassuring gesture. “No, no. Don’t worry about it. I’m fine observing for now, Sergeant.”
The cruiser sped through a long curve, flanked by palmetto bushes on both sides, and came up suddenly on a slow-moving blue station wagon, right in their path. The double-yellow lines said enough: don’t pass. Not wanting to act reckless around the rookie, Miriam slowed as they got closer to the Buick’s wood-paneled hatchback.
“Sometimes you just have to turn your lights on to get them out of the way,” she said with a laugh.
Deputy Lang took off his sunglasses and squinted ahead. Something wasn’t right. “Looks like they have a taillight out.”
Miriam sighed under her breath. The station wagon wasn’t going a mile over forty-five—usually the case on the open road. On closer inspection, Lang was right. The Buick’s left taillight was out.
“What do you say, Deputy?” Miriam asked. “It’s your call.”
Lang cleared his throat. “I know we’re wanted at the salvage yard, but we could take a moment just to let the driver know.” He waited silently for Miriam’s approval. She found it endearing.
“Good call. That’s what we’re here for.” She raised her hand to the ceiling console and flipped on the flashing lights, absent the siren. Through the window of the hatchback, they could see the silhouetted driver look into her rearview mirror. It looked like a woman. The car slowed and drifted to a halt on the shoulder as they followed, stopping. Deputy Lang grabbed his handle to open the door. Miriam stopped him. “Hold on, now. Let’s run the plates first.”
“Right, of course,” Lang said, embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t want to hold us up.”
“Good policing takes time,” Miriam said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Lang nodded and waited as Miriam checked the license plate database on the laptop. Green text appeared on the screen listing the owner’s registration information, not far from where she lived herself. “Car is registered to Betsy Judith Cole. Fifty-four years old. Lives on 2438 Woodshire Drive. About ten miles from here.”
“So she’s local?” Lang asked.
“Sure is,” Miriam said. “So that’s good. Go ahead and take care of it.”
Lang placed his sunglasses on, smiling. “Will do.” He opened his door and stepped out as Miriam sent the vehicle information back to headquarters. She looked up and called out to Lang before he shut the door. He stopped and turned around. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“Nothing fancy. Get her license and registration. We’ll run another check, tell her about the taillight, and drive on.”
“Unless we find multiple warrants on her,” Lang said,
smiling.
Miriam shrugged. “Never know around here.”
Lang closed the door and walked around to the front of the cruiser as blue and red siren lights continued to flash. Miriam watched with a smile as Deputy Lang approached the Buick’s driver’s side. He was young. Twenty-five, she believed. He was polite and eager to learn. His attitude made her feel good about her job—a job largely responsible for the decline of her marriage. Deputy Lang walked with a confident stride in his black short-sleeved uniform. His gun and radio were at his hips. He was thin and fit. His short dirty-blond hair freshly trimmed—a model rookie officer. Miriam had to admit, she liked him. As a colleague of the law, of course.
She watched carefully as he made his way to the window, instructing the driver to roll it down. Suddenly, her iPhone vibrated on the dashboard. She grabbed it and typed her PIN. There was a text from Ana asking when she was going to get home. It was Friday, and Ana wanted to order pizza. The request warmed Miriam’s heart. It had been a while since her daughter asked to hang out with her. She feared by high school, it would only get worse.
Wanted 2 have some friends over & watch a movie, Ana said in her text.
Miriam felt deflated. Oh. I’ll be home soon and we’ll order it then, she typed.
Just as she pressed send, a gunshot blasted. Her head jolted up. Deputy Lang collapsed onto the pavement. The Buick engine roared and jerked into motion, peeling out. Miriam was in complete shock, but somehow her mind and body kicked into motion. She grabbed the hand mic, shouting into it.
“Code eight! Code eight! We have an officer down on Route Forty-four! I repeat, officer down!”
She tossed the mic to the side and jumped out, reaching for the pistol at her waist. The Buick spewed exhaust as it sped off, pebbles flying in the air. She raised her pistol and fired three steady shots, traveling straight through the back window. The Buick was undeterred and continued on, too far out of firing range. Lang lay motionless on his back two feet from where Miriam stood. Her face was pale with sickness. She fell to her knees by his side and looked at him as tears streamed from her eyes.
“Deputy Lang! Speak to me!” She could see the hole in his left cheek and the blood pouring from his nose.
She grabbed his wrist, trying to control her own breathing, and felt for a pulse. There was nothing. No breathing. No pulse. Not the slightest sign of life. It was impossible. There was no way.
Her mind raced as the stench of the Buick’s exhaust settled over her like dust. She placed a hand over Lang’s chest as more tears flowed from her eyes. Lang’s face was already turning blue. She wiped her face as her mind kicked into high gear. There was only one thing left to do, and it didn’t involve waiting for backup.
She stood and sprinted to her patrol car, pistol in hand, as the lights continued flashing. She swung the door open and threw herself inside. She turned the ignition, put the car in drive, and floored it as the door flung closed.
“Dispatch, I need immediate air support!” she shouted into the mic. “Suspect is fleeing. Currently in hot pursuit.”
The sight of Deputy Lang’s lifeless body in the rearview mirror saddened and sickened her. The only hope she had was that she might find the shooter and bring him to justice. The cruiser raced down the barren road at its highest RPMs. She was clocking over one hundred on the speedometer. She could see dust ahead as though the Buick wasn’t far off. She looked for taillights, brake lights, anything that would indicate the shooter.
“Where’s that backup?” she said.
“Bravo Twelve, backup is on the way,” the female dispatcher said.
The cruiser raced ahead as the road became one long, straight line, flashing by in a vortex with no sign of the Buick. There was no way they could have vanished like that. She pressed on as chatter came over the radio, other officers telling her they were on their way. The mood coming over the airwaves was tense. No one was sure yet exactly what had happened.
Miriam couldn’t say herself. Her partner had been shot. All she knew was that she had to catch the car before the shooter got away.
Crime Scene
In her five years on the force, Miriam had never witnessed a police shooting within the department. It was new territory for her. She raced down the cracked and faded two-lane road, squeezing the steering wheel with fierce intensity.
Chatter from a dozen different officers consumed the dispatch radio. They wanted answers. Her siren blared at its loudest pitch as the lights flashed wildly. She wasn’t going to let the shooter get away. The yellow lines in the road flashed by in a rapid blur as she pushed the car to its limit.
With her eyes locked on the road, she grabbed the hand mic. Her hand trembled as she shouted. “Where’s that chopper, damn it?”
“Air support en route. ETA, five minutes.”
She could hear a faint aerial rumble closing in, hoping that it wasn’t too late to find the fleeing suspect. The barren road sharply curved to the right. She slowed as the tires screeched against the rough pavement, and the heat shield around the exhaust rattled as though it were coming loose. The helicopter was getting louder and closer. There was still hope, and then, after three miles of intense pursuit, she saw it—the blue Buick station wagon—parked to the side of the road, sitting on the grass and slanted on a sloping shoulder.
“Vehicle in sight. I repeat, vehicle in sight!” she said into the hand mic. A blue-and-white police helicopter flew overhead from the distance.
“Zeroing in on your location,” the pilot’s voice said back.
She slammed the brakes as the station wagon came into view, parked on the side of the road. She skidded to the side and into the grass, stopping right in front of the Buick. She jumped out and went down on one knee, holding her pistol up. She remained crouched down and approached the Buick with her gun in the air. No one was inside the car. It appeared to have been abandoned.
She looked around: nothing but trees and palmetto brush as far as she could see on both sides of the road. It was the perfect sanctuary for anyone to flee into. The helicopter was low and circling. They had to have seen something. She pulled out her handheld radio from her side belt and spoke into it.
“This is Sergeant Castillo. Suspect is not in the car. Preparing to engage on foot.”
She carefully circled the station wagon, breathing heavily. Adrenaline pumped through her veins. Beads of sweat covered her forehead, collecting just below her hairline. The shooter could only have gone so many ways. She examined the ground near the car, looking for footprints leading into the woods. Nothing looked disturbed, and the fact that the car had been so easily and quickly abandoned had her doubting that fifty-four-year-old Betsy Cole was the culprit.
“Sergeant Castillo, we need you back at the scene. We’ve got an officer down here,” said a voice through her radio speaker. She recognized the voice. It was her commanding officer, Captain Porter.
“Sir. I am in pursuit of the suspect right now!” she said, ready to storm into the marshy forest to her side.
“We’re assembling a pursuit team. If you’re at the vehicle, suspect couldn’t have gone too far. Now—”
She turned the radio off mid-sentence. He’d be upset with her, but she didn’t care. The helicopter was circling the area, aimlessly it seemed.
“Where are you, you son of a bitch?” Miriam said under her breath.
She headed into the forest, swiping at branches and palmetto bushes lined up like crops. She held her gun up, ready to put a bullet into the shooter’s head. Sticks and leaves crackled under her boots. Sunlight flashed through trees as sharp, green palmetto leaves poked her legs. She continued on, pushing her way through the brush, sweaty and exhausted.
She looked up as the helicopter flew past, hoping it would land, but it flew off instead. There was no going any farther. She was already in the thick of it with nothing to show. She turned back and trudged her way through the brush, keeping a keen eye out for anything that moved.
&n
bsp; By the time she emerged from the woods, there were ten police vehicles already parked along the road. Blue and red flashing lights reflected against the windows of the empty Buick. She approached a group of officers huddled by her patrol car, oblivious to the dirt and tear streaks covering her face.
“The car’s stolen,” she said as they looked at her, startled.
“What was that, Sergeant Castillo?” O’Leary, an older but boyish-looking detective, asked from the group.
“The car. I’m certain it was stolen…” she said, dazed. She tripped and nearly fell against the hood before O’Leary caught her. The other officers backed away.
“Easy there, Sergeant,” he said. “Looks like you’ve been through enough already.”
Miriam regained her balance and gently pushed O’Leary away. “I’m all right. We don’t have much time. We have to find the shooter.”
“And we will,” he said calmly. He turned to his own unmarked cruiser, a gray Ford Taurus. “Let’s go back to the scene now so you can explain exactly what happened. The captain is waiting.”
Miriam hesitated, looking around. O’Leary put a hand on her shoulder. “Whoever did this is not getting far. We’re mobilizing the entire department. Might even get other counties involved in this too.”
“Okay,” Miriam said, giving in. “Let’s go.”
She followed him back to his car, stepped into the passenger seat, and closed the door. O’Leary backed his car out and sped off, back to where the nightmare started.
Cop cars zoomed past them going the other way, their sirens shrieking. Miriam wasn’t sure how much time had passed since the moment she heard the gunshot. Everything after that—the car chase, the foot pursuit through the thick brush—was a blur. It was impossible to think that the shooter could just vanish like that. She hoped Detective O’Leary was right. She hoped with more than twenty police officers on the ground, they could find him.
They arrived at the crime scene, where even more officers had flooded the area. Two helicopters now circled overhead. The area was being cordoned off with police tape. Yellow numbered markers rested on the ground, around the disturbed area where the blue Buick had stopped before it had fled. A single shell casing lay on the ground next to a fresh pool of blood. Deputy Lang’s body was nowhere in sight.
Miriam exited the car and saw that his body was already concealed inside a zipped-up body bag and resting on a stretcher outside a waiting ambulance, its lights flashing.
“I’m sorry,” O’Leary said, leaning against his car door.
Her heart sank as she rushed over to the ambulance, where two paramedics were preparing to load the gurney inside.
Captain Porter stepped out of nowhere, immediately blocking her path. “Slow down, Sergeant. We need to talk.”
“Sir…” Miriam began. She had nothing to say to him. Nothing she wanted to say to him, anyway. Her partner was in a body bag not five feet from them. That was all that mattered.
“What were you doing out here?” the captain began. “How did this happen?”
She looked up then, past him. His thin, clean-shaven face had a slightly stern but sympathetic expression, clearly evident behind his square-framed glasses. She tried to look over his shoulder toward the ambulance. His white button-down shirt had two double-bar ranks on the collar.
“Sergeant Castillo, I’m talking to you,” he added.
She flashed him a quick glance, verging on anger. “Sir, the only thing I’m interested in is catching the bastard who did this.”
“We’re on it,” Captain Porter said. “The suspect won’t get far. In the meantime, I expect a full report. There’s a lot that doesn’t make sense.”
Miriam looked at him quizzically. “Like what, sir?”
“Like how the suspect was allowed to pull a gun on Deputy Lang, let alone shoot him?”
Miriam felt as if her insides were being pulled apart. The weight of what happened hadn’t fully sunk in yet.
“Now, I’ve got one officer dead and another who fled the scene,” Porter continued.
“I was trying to—” Miriam began. She had yet to even take notice of the dried bloodstains covering her uniform.
“I know what you were trying to do, Sergeant,” Captain Porter said. He looked her over and shook his head. “Are you okay? Why don’t you let the paramedics check you out?”
She watched as they lifted Deputy Lang’s gurney and pushed it into the back of the ambulance. “I’m fine,” she said and then turned to look at the bustling activity—the area filled with police, some taking photos and videos, others looking for blood and other evidence, and looking as if it were some kind of convention. “Any word on the suspect?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he answered with a sigh. “They’re looking.”
The sun was going down—a blurry orange orb in the pink sky. The helicopters in the distance had their spotlights on. Time was running out, and the shooter had vanished even with the number of law enforcement on the scene. She had never witnessed an act so cold, callous, and evil. It made her sick inside. She still couldn’t believe it.
