by Soren Petrek
Copyright © 2011 Soren Paul Petrek
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1467931314
ISBN 13: 9781467931311
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61914-520-7
For my sons,
Max and Riley
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
DEDICATION
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Two detectives watched from an unmarked patrol car as a man entered a dilapidated warehouse. The driver’s muscular body strained the fabric of his rumpled suit, while his older partner reclined comfortably in the passenger seat, expecting a long stakeout. Young men loitered on the corner selling drugs. The street was rundown, dirty and dangerous. It wouldn’t be long before everyone knew where the two cops were.
“Is this the right place?” Roger Mills asked his partner, glancing through the grimy windshield.
“It has to be, that was David Prince,” Sam Trunce said, gesturing with his coffee cup over the steering wheel in the direction of the closing door.
“I didn’t get a good look.”
“I sat through four days of trial. I know what the puke looks like. The only honest testimony he gave was his name. Besides, you know it was a done deal when the judge threw out the dope we found. No, that’s him.”
“Now, you can’t blame the judge. You did run Prince off the road and beat him with the evidence in plain sight of a bunch of witnesses. Now don’t get me wrong, I loved it, but generally good police work doesn’t involve clubbing a suspect with a suitcase full of heroin and yelling, ‘book em Dano’ when the uniforms show up. That didn’t play well in court,” Mills said, wagging a finger at his partner and smiling wryly.
“Okay, granted, I did get carried away, but he did have several pounds of a ‘powdery substance’ in the trunk.”
“Technically he did, but when you first saw him, you only had a hunch that he had dope in the trunk, and that’s what you told the judge. You can’t be so blunt; you need to massage the truth a little during probable cause hearings. You know, give the judge an ‘accurate’ description of the totality of the circumstances.”
“I hate that damn word, technically. Technically, this asshole traffics massive quantities of narcotics and would sell to nursery school kids if he could.”
“Well buddy, one thing I know, is that you can’t beat a guy with a case full of dope in the middle of the city and expect to call it a good bust,” Mills said kicking aside a hamburger wrapper grimacing at the general disarray inside the vehicle. “How did you get so big and strong eating all this crap?”
“What? This is stakeout food. Besides you can get away with it if you go to the gym,” Sam said gently poking his older partner’s modest paunch.
“Yah right, and your car smells like a gym.”
“Maybe, but it’s time to take a look,” Sam said reaching for the door handle. “This time, I guarantee I’m going to see some probable cause when I peek in the doorway.”
“Sam, as your friend, approaching a significant retirement milestone, you need to see something concrete in there. Giant piles of dope in plain sight would be best.”
“I learned my lesson the last time, Roger, Scout’s honor,” Sam said, holding up his fingers in the Boy Scout salute, punctuated with a grin.
“I guarantee that you ain’t no Boy Scout,” Mills said with a chuckle.
“I was a scout in the army.”
“Remember, you can’t pull your ‘Special Forces’ crap on everybody you don’t like, Sammy.”
“I’ll be careful. If it looks like it’s iffy, I’ll let you know before I go in and you can call for backup. If nothing’s going on, I’ll slide back out and we’ll pick him up another day.”
“Okay, I’ll play along. I’ll be the doorman on the other side. No cowboy shit. I’m too close to retirement to stand in front of the chief’s desk with my hat in my hand, trying to explain why I went along with some bonehead move. You go check it out and I’ll call it in and give em heads up in case we need it.”
“See you in the middle, partner.” Sam said sliding off into the shadow of the nearest wall concealing his intent from the few people passing by in the street.
Sam ghosted along the side of the building and into a tight passageway, moving carefully, determined to do this one by the book. He came up to a door that was slightly ajar and looked inside. There were three men in the room, the man he’d followed in and a shorter one, taking turns beating a third guy tied to a chair. Sam recognized the smaller man as Martin Thompson, a thug who had beaten a murder rap years ago, one of Prince’s nastier enforcers. Sam positioned his body so that he could keep an eye on Thompson. Prince stepped back out of view as Thompson moved in to take his turn.
“Do him,” Prince muttered like he was ordering a cup of coffee.
Smiling, Thompson snarled, “Look David, this mofo got blood on my sleeve.” He drew a pistol from his belt and began to turn the gun on the man slumped in the chair. As Thompson pulled back the hammer, Sam ripped his 45 out of his shoulder holster, slamming open the door as he crashed through it. Without hesitation he fired catching Thompson in the chest as he swung his gun in Sam’s direction. The big .45 caliber slugs hit Thompson like sledge hammers swatting him back with their concussive force. Prince jammed his hand into his coat pocket reaching for his weapon.
“Please do,” Sam said as he leveled his gun at Prince’s torso. “We can finish this right now, and save the tax payers a lot of money.”
Prince slowly raised his hands away from his sides holding them at shoulder level as he glared at Sam with a mixture of hate and indecision, furious that he’d been caught.
“Move your hands and I shoot you in the knee first. You won’t like that, I promise,” Sam said edging closer towards Prince as he kicked Thompson’s gun out of the immediate area with his shoe. “Now, Mister Prince, what’s a nice man like you doing trying to kill a guy in my city?” Sam said, keeping his focus on Prince as Thompson’s body jerked and laid still. “He’s done,” Sam said tipping his head in Thompson’s direction as he reached with his left hand drawing a second gun from a waist holster strapped to his right side. He trained both on the man in front of him.
“I owe you cop, I get the chance, you are one dead motherfucker!” Prince said through a sneer. Almost imperceptibly, his posture changed as his eyes darted over in the direction of a side door.
At the last second, Sam realized something was wrong. Had he been alone, Prince might have tried to run when Sam burst into the room or get to his weapon more quickly. He was not alone. Through a door to Sam’s left, three men ran into the room with their guns pointed at him. They hesitated, seeing Prince’s hands in the air.
“Well, cop man, what are you going to do now?” Prince said beginning to lower his hands, glancing over Sam’s left shoulder.
“Lower your hands and I’ll shoot you now, and not in the knee,” Sam said boring his eyes into Prince’s. “I may be surrounded, Hoss but that just means we’ve got a decision to make,” Sam said, adjusting his aim. “I recommend that the boys behind me take it easy. I didn’t just stroll in here alone.”
“Nice try. I’ve got guys on the corner and if a bunch of po-lice were outside we’d know.”
“I got in here,” Sam said.
“Yah and look at your dead ass now, asshole,” Prince hissed through a twisted smile.
“It doesn’t have to go down that way. I will get you and a couple of those boys,” Sam said gesturing with his head. That’s right boys, I’m Special Forces. I will kill some of you. I guarantee that. I may get popped, but I will get you.”
The men confronting Sam glanced at each other and looked at Prince, expecting him to make a move or say something. They weren’t in a hurry to start shooting and Sam could sense their hesitation.
The drug dealer looked carefully at the big cop pointing an equally big gun at his head. The cop wasn’t scared in the least. Obviously, this wasn’t the first time a gun had been pointed at him. He counted up the prison time in his head for the massive quantity of heroin in the next room, then for attempted murder and resisting arrest. He really didn’t care if his men got away, he could buy more, but he wanted to get away himself and take his drugs with him. He instantly made a decision and dove to the side.
Sam spun and moved, shifting his weight and torso to throw off the aim of the men behind him. He saw three and fired at two of them, and fired a shot to spoil the aim of the third. They fired back wildly and most of the shots missed, most of them. Sam was caught in his upper chest and leg simultaneously by large caliber bullets. He had felt the impact of the bullets without pain. He rolled and came up with his Sig-Sauer and his .45. He got off several shots and took out the two men who had been in front of him. He was just slow enough so that one of them got off a round that hit him square in the cheek and went through, knocking him back onto the floor.
Everyone in the room was down. Smoke hung in the air, stinking of gunpowder and dead men. On his back, Sam rolled his head the best he could to check for movement. That was about all he could do. He saw the other men were down and motionless, Prince wasn’t among them. Shit, he missed his man again. He reached up feeling a tear ripped through the right side of his cheek. Blood ran down his chin onto his neck as he tried to count the number of holes in him. His head was wet with blood, as he felt a pool spreading out slowly from his upper body. Briefly his mind focused when he heard Mill’s huge Dirty Harry cannon go off three times, followed by a big thud and then silence.
“You lose, Prince!” he spat out through his torn mouth, blood spraying out with each word.
Mills ran into the room and saw Sam on the floor covered in blood.
He yelled “Officer down!” into a hand radio as he hurried to Sam’s side holstering his pistol seeing the dead men scattered around the room.
“You big dumb bastard. You better not die on me, soldier!” Mills said as he dropped to his knees, tearing open Sam’s shirt.
Sam turned his head and looked up at Roger. He heard him, but it was like a whisper from far away. He knew he had to concentrate on staying awake. He could feel Mill’s hands on him, working to stop the hemorrhaging. Roger never talked about his time as a medic in Vietnam, not even to his partner.
“Sorry Roger, looks like I fucked up again,” Sam said reaching out to touch Roger’s leg. He felt like he was deflating and Roger looked like the only thing solid in the room.
“The choppers are coming, big man, a bed with sheets and nurses. You stay with me. It’s no big thing.” Mills was somewhere else a long time past. His hands were skillful and practiced as he worked to keep Sam alive.
It seemed funny to Sam how the words didn’t seem remotely out of place. Mill’s tone was soothing and comforting, like a brother or a best friend. He relaxed a little, but knew he was bad. God damn drug dealers, Sam thought.
“Tell my parents I love them. John Trunce, Patience Missouri,” Sam said slipping down. He looked up at Mills and saw a mixture of compassion and resolve. Maybe he’d die, maybe he wouldn’t he thought. He didn’t seem to mind.
“No you don’t Sam. No way you’re leaving me here. You don’t get to die today,” Roger said looking directly into Sam’s eyes.
Emergency medical personnel and several uniformed officers crashed into the room. Sam slid over the invisible edge. Mills was still at his side when it all went dark.
Sam bolted up in his bed; a sheen of sweat covered him as he remembered where he was, home, and not shot up on some dirty floor in Detroit. He had the dream much less often but it still came.
Sam swung his legs over the side of the bed and counted his blessings. He had had enough of sleep and dreaming for one night. He pulled on a t-shirt over his scars and looked out his window, squinting into the Missouri sunshine. He knew he had a lot to be thankful for. The doctors had been great, but it had been Roger Mills who had saved his life. While Sam was still in the hospital, Roger had put in his retirement papers. He had visited Sam often, and when Sam moved back to Missouri, Roger kept in touch, even coming to visit him once in a while in that big Winnebago of his.
Outside Sam’s modest home, the air hung thick and heavy. It was midmorning and the oppressive heat would only get worse. The buzz of the cicadas gave the dark woods an eerie, prehistoric feel. Growth crept everywhere up to the curtain of the highway and around every post, mail box, and tree.
Sam walked out of his bedroom and looked around his empty home. It was full of things, but didn’t feel like a home. He was alone except for an ancient, scrawny cat that made a mournful howl as Sam lumbered into the kitchen and attacked the coffee pot. Sam scratched the cat’s ears, he had a soft spot for cast offs and runaways. Some days he felt like one himself.
“Mangy rat. Today’s the day for the dog food factory,” he declared, smoothing down the old tom cat’s fur.
The cat had been his girlfriend’s, the girlfriend who now lived somewhere else with someone else. She had left the sorry looking animal behind like an unwanted gift you can’t return.
All coffee was good first thing in the morning as long as it was black and corrosively strong. The older he got the less he felt like blasting into action. Since the shooting it seemed like he needed more time than he used to wake the hell up and get oriented.
The cat rubbed up against Sam’s leg mewing at him and varying his pitch like he was trying to speak.
“You’re probably right kitty, I’m just getting old and worn out and should probably just hang out with you for the day,” Sam said tickling the cat’s ears.
Sam walked out onto his porch, sat on a wooden swing and looked out onto the day. There had been a time recently when he met every day with optimism and a sense of adventure. After the shooting, that spark had been slow to come back. He was getting to that age when he knew he wanted something to bring his life together. What that was continued to elude him. He looked at the old clock thermometer hanging next to the door. It was time to go to work. He got up and went inside to the bathroom. He glanced at himself in the mirror and decided that he looked like a bouncer. One certainty he had discovered, was that you just can’t change your genetics, at least not yet. Until then he’d make some effort to keep healthy, do some running or hiking and lift weights. Being shot and coming close to death put vanity and health into immediate perspective. Well screw it, he thought, time for work.
Sam
wandered into his sparsely furnished bedroom. He wasn’t much interested in décor and seemed to spend more time outside than in. He’d picked out his furniture in about an hour, all from the same store.
As he dressed for work, he felt a little slower and thought, the only thing about me that is quick these days is my temper. He was pissed off a lot. Maybe that was an age thing, too. No wonder generals and admirals were older and ill-tempered. He remembered meeting an old WW II Navy Captain once, who had been about his age during the war. Out of curiosity Sam asked him, “What’s the first thing you do if an enemy ship is steaming towards you over the horizon?”
“Sink the bastard,” was the reply. That pretty much summed up Sam’s feelings toward the world today. Something needed to happen to push him out of this funk. Maybe today was the day for moving on. In his experience, life changing events came when you least expected.
Sam stepped to the railing of his porch and gazed out across the long hill in front and far off into the distance, where he could see the land just shy of the Mississippi, but not the river itself. He knew it was there. It always was when he went to find it. Like many people who live near water, he went to check on it from time to time. There were always people fishing down by the river. Sam liked to see his old friends, meet new people and talk fishing.
Sam walked down the length of his porch. It was nice and wide to keep the sun from blasting it all day. Most summer days, the second he stepped outside his door he was drenched with sweat. The humidity was staggering. The only relief was the thunderstorms which came with a ferocity that was both exhilarating and scary. Sam had built his modest home, up the hill and away from the river the creek became when the sky opened up. With the summer vegetation growing over everything and the constant sound of insects, the area Sam lived in was all but jungle. If it was a choice between hot in the summer or cold in the winter he’d take hot every time. The winters during his years as a cop in Detroit had torpedoed any romantic notions of winter wonderlands he may have mistakenly entertained. Winters in the upper Midwest were life threatening, at least to a Missouri country boy. What had he been thinking about when he followed an old army buddy into the Detroit police force?
