by Faricy, Mike
I was coming down the stairs maybe three minutes later. I heard the heavy clomp of shoes on the front porch floor and hoped it might be the luscious Officer Trang returning to put me in handcuffs.
I had one of those nanosecond thoughts; the police would ring the doorbell, I’d answer, “Hi guys, be with you in a minute let me just turn off the television and the kitchen lights. Anyone want a Dr. Pepper?”
That wasn’t exactly how it went down. I was on the staircase, thought I heard shoes clomping, although in retrospect they were wearing combat boots, not uniform shoes. As I descended the stairs I could see trousers, Kevlar vests, shirt sleeves, protective plastic strapped over elbows and knees, all black. That should have been my first clue; St. Paul’s finest wears blue uniforms. Clue number two would have been the locked door suddenly flying open and the six guys storming in with weapons drawn. Two guys flew into prone positions on my entry way rug and leveled automatic weapons at me. I don’t know what kind they were, AK’s, maybe M-16’s. All I saw was the end of a barrel about a foot wide and pointed at me.
“Hands up, hands up!” someone screamed on the floor.
“Don’t move, hands up!” another guy yelled from the doorway.
“Hey, watch the woodwork, damn it.” I said and hurried down the steps carrying my Dr. Pepper can to inspect my damaged doorframe.
“Don’t move, hands up, get ‘em up, get ‘em up.”
“Gun!” someone screamed.
I had about four steps left to descend figuring I’d just calm everyone down when suddenly a very large arm grabbed my shirt, flung me over the railing and slammed me onto the oak floor.
“Ughhh,” was about all I got out as the wind was knocked out of me. Knees and feet pinned me to the floor, someone seemed to be standing on my head.
“Freeze asshole, don’t move,” someone yelled.
Move? That was the least of my problems. I couldn’t breathe, I was struggling for air, panicking. Some guy was sitting on my chest and it felt like it was collapsing. I couldn’t move, couldn’t get the weight off. I couldn’t breathe, more panic.
“Hold still, damn it,” someone screamed as a pair of hands reached on either side of the boot standing on my skull and twisted my head, slamming my face into the floor. My nose gave an audible snap when it met the quarter sawn oak floor, cutting off my air intake. I panicked even more and began to frantically struggle for air.
“Hold still, damn it,” someone slammed a boot or a fist a couple of times into my ribs just as my arms were twisted up behind my back, almost pulling them out of the sockets.
I vomited burrito and Dr. Pepper from the blows, coughed and then gasped for more air.
“Oh shit,” a guy yelled and the upper pressure on my right arm was relaxed.
From somewhere behind me on the stairs another guy laughed.
I was too busy passing out to find anything funny.
When I regained consciousness I was on my knees, vaguely aware my hands were cuffed behind my back. My head was held down, but not too forcefully. I could feel something cold moving back and forth across the back of my head.
“Just stay still, take some deep breaths, relax.”
Yeah, I thought, that’s what I’ll do, relax. Footsteps were pounding up and down the staircase behind me. There were two or three pairs of black boots moving in and out of my peripheral vision. On the floor in front of me blood continued to drop from my nose forming a small pool. The nose wasn’t working at the moment and I had to breathe through my mouth. The left sides of my upper and lower lip were swollen and torn and my lower jaw was not quite lining up.
“Three pistols so far,” a voice said. I heard the weapons bounce off one another along with some rattling or crinkling. I guessed each weapon had been placed in a plastic evidence bag and was being handed to someone.
I attempted to say ‘I’m licensed to carry,’ but it came out as unintelligible garble.
“No one’s talking to you, piece of shit. He good enough to travel?” A voice from somewhere above me thundered.
There must have been some sort of response indicated.
“Good, then get him out of my sight. Nesbitt’s out front with the brass doing the PR gig, stuff him in a squad and take him downtown, they’re waiting for him.”
I was helped to my feet, sort of, pulled up by the shoulders by the two large cops dressed in black on either side of me. Lifting me up must have seemed like nothing more than throwing a beach ball around to the two of them. The guy on my left squeezed a blue gel pack in his hand. I half caught his eye as I stood.
“Thanks,” I mumbled.
He looked at me with cold eyes, dropped the pack on the floor, “Shut the fuck up, asshole.”
“Just a minute,” a very large cop with a thick mustache and some sort of sinister looking automatic weapon over his shoulder held his hand up. I think he was the one who had asked if I could travel, he held the evidence bags with my pistols. For the first time I saw SWAT in white letters across someone’s back.
“Devlin Haskell, you have the right to remain silent…”
Eventually I was led out the door toward a squad car waiting in my driveway with the lights flashing. There were two uniformed officers standing on the city sidewalk talking to three different camera crews. My guess was it was the guy named Nesbitt and some higher up puke that fascist with the mustache had mentioned.
The news crews rushed past him as soon as they saw me on the porch. A couple of uniforms made a half—hearted attempt to hold them back.
“Why did you kill Fiona Simmons?” a woman said into her microphone then thrust the thing in my direction. The microphone was fuzzy, gray and looked like a Muppet on a stick. She looked familiar, the woman, but I couldn’t place her.
“Where did you get the fingers?” some guy shouted, his toupee went slightly askew when he tried to duck under the arm of a police officer and he quickly took a step back, indicating with a wave of his arm that the cameraman should focus on me being placed in the back of the squad car.
“Why were you stalking the English woman, Fiona Simmons?” another guy asked.
Cameras and news people clustered alongside the squad car as the two officers took their sweet time climbing in. We sat in my driveway for a good couple of minutes so everyone could get their shots of me arrested, handcuffed and bloodied being taken downtown. Many more camera flashes and I was going to have post traumatic stress.
As we backed out of the driveway the woman with the fuzzy gray microphone was back on the sidewalk, pushing her microphone into the face of the fat woman with the dog. Fatty raised her hand holding the bag of dog shit and pointed at me as we drove away.
Chapter Thirty-Three
We took a different, less direct route than the one Officer Trang drove to the police station yesterday. But then, this entire experience had been a world of difference from my encounter with the beautiful Officer Trang.
“God, really sorry about that,” the officer in the passenger seat said. He nodded in the direction of my head, I still couldn’t breathe through my nose and I was aware of the blood running over my lips dripping onto my shirt. My left cheek bone felt like someone had taken a belt sander to it.
I half coughed and spit a mouthful of blood and mucus into the corner of the car floor in an attempt to clear my throat. The cop in the passenger seat turned round and glared at me for a second then half smiled, looking friendly.
“Sometimes those SWAT guys get carried away, you know, things just get out of hand even when it’s a nice guy like you,” the driver said. He looked at me in the rear view mirror, grey eyes lifeless. I preferred the sparkles in Officer Trang’s dark brown eyes from yesterday.
“Yeah, we’ll get you checked out, make sure everything is okay. I’m wondering Donny, if we shouldn’t report this, Mister Haskell being abused like this, it’s just not right,” passenger seat said.
Donny the driver nodded his agreement.
Passenger seat turned to face me ag
ain, “Any consolation, it probably feels and looks a lot worse than it actually is. You’re young, day or two, hell you’ll be good as new.”
“Some folks just don’t get it. It’s like those skating chicks, The Roller Derby chicks, they can say and do anything they please. Wear those outfits leaving nothing to the imagination. You and me make a comment, look at ‘em wrong, next thing you know suddenly we’re in trouble. What the hell is that all about?”
There it was, my pals. They were just letting me know they understood why I murdered Harlotte Davidson. Matter of fact, might be a good idea to just get the whole thing off my chest, imagine how good I’d feel once I confessed and told them all about it.
I just stared out the window. We were going in the opposite direction from the police station, heading out Rice Street to Maryland Avenue, hopefully. With any luck, we’d cross over the freeway. The route just about tripled the time it took to get to the station. That left just enough time for me to confide the horrors of my crime to my two new best friends.
“You gotta wonder about some chick with the name Harlotte Davidson,” passenger seat leisurely chatting with Donny and me, trying a little different tack. “I mean, Harley builds the iconic American bike brand and these English chicks, with no sense, go out and try to ruin the thing or ride on the coat tails of all of Harley’s hard work. What the hell is that about?” He asked looking back at me.
Donny nodded his agreement.
I continued to look out the window. The Foundry bar was off on the left hand side. We were driving over 35E then heading up the Maryland Avenue hill. I picked up a girl at the Foundry one night a couple of years ago, or did she pick me up? I couldn’t recall. Traci, Toni, Tina, I tried to recall her name. I remembered she’d had a lacy tattoo on her lower back running from hip to hip. Red roses, with little stars and a banner in the center across a large heart that read ‘Pleased to Meet You’.
I just concentrated on trying to remember her name and hoped these two delivered me into Manning’s protective custody sooner rather than later.
“Not only that,” Donny said, he was turning onto Payne Avenue, heading back toward the station, ten minutes, tops, I guessed. “What does that do to the sense of morality in the country? Like it isn’t tough enough teaching kids the lessons of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.” Passenger seat gave him a look that suggested they’d most likely reached the end of their probing routine.
Tally, Teresa, Twyla, I concentrated, kept trying to come up with her name. She had black hair a little more than shoulder length, black hair with white blonde streaks. She had a little diamond pierced on the left side of her nose. She’d had a belly button ring with a large blue stone. My head was throbbing.
“You follow that Roller Derby much,” Donny asked. It was his last shot, we were pulling up in front of the building, parking almost exactly where the luscious Officer Trang had parked earlier yesterday. His voice sounded hopeful, but his eyes reflected the same lifeless grey in the rear view mirror.
“Give it a rest, Donny,” passenger seat said. “They’re waiting for you up in interview room one, asshole.” Then he groaned as he climbed out and stepped over to open the rear door for me.
Interview room one, at least I’d be in familiar surroundings.
“Tonya,” I said, as he helped me out.
“What?”
“Tonya, the girl at the Foundry, with the blonde streaks in her hair, ‘Pleased to Meet You’ tattooed on her lower back.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
I hadn’t been seated at the table in the interview room for more than a couple of minutes before the door opened and Louie came bouncing in, Manning was right behind him.
“So, how’d it go public enemy…” Louie’s eyes went wide as he looked at me beaten up, bloody and bruised. He rushed over to me, tossing his briefcase onto the floor.
“Been better,” I gurgled, then coughed up some more blood.
“What the…” Louie started to say.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?” Manning asked. He hadn’t moved more than a couple of feet into the room and sounded genuinely concerned.
Louie turned on him and exploded. “This is your idea of cooperation? You beat the shit out of the guy. What the hell is wrong with you idiots? The deal is off, right now, we’re finished. Tell your people to get ready for a brutality suit, this is…”
Manning had already picked up the wall phone, and waved Louie quiet.
“Interview room one, now, we need medical assistance. Now, goddamnit! And find Elkers, I want him in here.” He shook his head as he listened to some sort of response, all the while saying “no, no, no,” in a low voice. All of a sudden he erupted into the phone. “I don’t care who in the hell he’s meeting with, you tell him interview room one, now,” he screamed and slammed the receiver back into place. He took a deep breath and turned to face us.
I attempted to shrug my shoulders and smile, but it hurt so much I stopped halfway through.
“Jesus, you attempt to resist arrest?” Manning smiled, but his heart wasn’t in the joke and his head was quickly growing from scarlet to purple.
“We are so fucking through with this agreement to cooperate and you are going to have one hell of a lawsuit on…”
“Look, I have no idea what happened, we were supposed to send a squad to bring you in, some news cameras. What the hell happened?”
I gave a half—hearted shrug and grimaced for added effect.
“Give me a couple of minutes to find…”
There was a knock on the door and two EMT’s hurried in wheeling a stretcher with a black medical bag sitting on top of it. They wore navy blue trousers and short sleeved white shirts with a red fire department patch on the shoulder. They were pulling on surgical gloves over their hands.
Manning jerked his scarlet head in my direction. Louie took a step back as they approached, patted me on the shoulder, said, “Hang in there buddy.” Then, motioned Manning to a distant corner of the interview room.
The EMT’s started in with a blood pressure cuff and a pen light shinning in my eyes. With them hovering over me and asking questions I couldn’t see or hear exactly what was said between Louie and Manning, but most of it seemed to be unpleasant and sounded like it was coming from Louie. There was just the occasional word or grunt of acquiescence from Manning.
The EMT’s were applying creams to my cheek bone and then a bandage, “You’re not going to need stitches, it’s just a little raw.” Once they cleaned up my face they smeared some sort of menthol salve on my lips that burned and reminded me of a bad curry dish I’d gotten sick on a while back.
“How many times has that nose been broken?” one of them asked as he knelt down in front of me. He was a red headed guy, average size, lots of freckles, soft voice.
“More than twice,” I said, and then coughed more blood.
“I’m gonna reset it, if that’s okay, it will help clear up those air passages. That all right with you?”
“Go for it, Doc,” I said, then grabbed onto the side of the table for support.
He placed his hands on either side of my nose and gave a brief look at his partner who opened the medical bag and slowly pulled something out.
I glanced down to see what the partner was getting, felt a sudden pressure and heard an audible snap.
“Ouch, Jesus,” I half screamed.
Manning and Louie looked over in our direction.
“There,” he said,” back to a thing of beauty. You’ll live, but you probably know the drill, swelling for a few days, eyes will blacken. This will help open that up,” he said. Then pulled out a reddish rubber ball thing with a small pointed end, the thing looked like a miniature turkey baster. He gently inserted it into my nasal passage.
“Just aspirating here, get some of that blood and mucus out. Believe me, this will be a lot better than trying to blow it out later tonight.”
The door opened and Captain Elkers stepped in. He took one look at me, saw
the conference in the corner and headed toward Manning. Before the door closed completely Aaron LaZelle pushed the door open and entered the room.
Aaron took one look at me, mouthed the word ‘fuck’ and joined the conference heating up in the corner.
I winced as the one of the EMT’s placed some pressure on my ribs.
“Oh, what’s this?” he said, lifting a stethoscope from around his neck.
“Someone tried to get my attention,” I grimaced and exhaled.
“Let me just lift that shirt, mmm-mmm,” he said looking over my rib cage. “Anything here,” he asked pressing up and down my left side.
“No nothing.”
“And here,” he said, doing the same on my right, but a lot more gently.
“Yeah, oh Jesus, yeah that hurts.”
He was on it with the stethoscope, gently, listening to my breathing.
“I want you to raise your arms to shoulder height, take some deep breaths if you can, okay?”
I nodded, did the deep breath routine. It was sore, but not as bad as I’d feared. My guess was they weren’t broken.
“I don’t think they’re broken, a little bruised, nothing forty-eight hours and taking it easy won’t help heal. You’re a bit banged up, but you’ll live. If you want we can maybe transport for x-rays?”
“You recommend that?”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s necessary, but I suspect this might be on the city’s nickel.” He said under his breath, then gave a nod to the far corner where Manning was getting it from Louie, Aaron and Captain Elkers. I thought I might have detected the hint of a smile from the EMT. “I suppose if there’s nothing else I could give them the word.”
“Nah, I don’t want to do x-rays. I think I’ll be fine, but maybe we could let them discuss things a little further,” I said, then moved my head in the direction of the conference corner.
Louie was in the process of jabbing a finger at Captain Elkers and I heard the words, “with your goddamned signature,” and a little later, “grabbing headlines.”
