Death Row

by William Bernhardt

  “Maybe. Or maybe he wants to die. Maybe he’ll shoot everyone in sight.”

  “Sorry, Mike, but I disagree. We do it my way.”

  Mike grabbed his arm. “Excuse me? You’re overruling me?”

  “I’m the SOT team leader, Mike. This is my field of expertise.”

  “Nonetheless—”

  “Mike, you’re a homicide detective.”

  “I don’t care if I’m the goddamn county dogcatcher. I’m a major, you’re a sergeant. And that means I call the shots!”

  Hoppes’s eyes burned like fire. A million retorts must’ve run through his brain, but in the end, he kept his cool. “You’re only here by accident, Mike.”

  “Consider yourself relieved, Tom.”

  Hoppes’s lips tightened.

  “You’ll be my number two. But I’m in charge.”

  Hoppes bit back whatever he was thinking. “As you say, Major. We’ll be in position behind the perimeter. Just in case you need us.”

  Mike watched Hoppes back off, his fists tightly clenched. There’d be hell to pay when they all got back to headquarters. But he had to do what he thought best. Hoppes was a superb marksman, and he knew SOT maneuvers better than anyone on earth. But his understanding of human nature was much less sure. And as a tactician, he sucked.

  Not that that meant Mike had to take over. When would he learn to stop thrusting himself into these situations? He was too old and too smart to keep volunteering for trouble. But he happened to be in the south Tulsa neighborhood, on his way back from interviewing a potential witness, when the call came in about the hostage situation at the local Burger Bliss. And so he sped to it and offered Hoppes his assistance. And one thing led to another . . .

  He made his way to the front lines, where Hoppes had been broadcasting through an electronic bullhorn, trying to persuade the man inside to give himself up, without luck. He took the bullhorn.

  “Listen to me.” Mike was startled to hear the electronics give his voice a mechanical, almost eerie, tone. Small wonder no one ever responded well to it. “My name is Mike Morelli. I’m a policeman. I want to negotiate with you. I assume there must be something you want or you wouldn’t be doing this. Tell me what it is, and I’ll do everything I can to make it happen. All I ask is that you don’t hurt anyone. If you don’t hurt anyone, no one will hurt you. You have my word on that. May I come in?”

  Mike lowered the bullhorn and waited. And waited. Had the wild man with the gun agreed? Had he even heard?

  Mike heard a groan of disgust from Hoppes. He tried again. “I am not armed. No gun, no knife, no nothing. You have my word. I’ll come in naked, if it will make you more comfortable. I will not harm you. I just want to talk. May I come in? Please?” He waited another few seconds. No response. “Please.”

  A moment later, the side entrance to the Burger Bliss opened. An elderly woman who appeared to be absolutely terrified pushed her head through the door. “He says you can come in.”

  It worked! He was halfway home.

  Now all he had to do was get those people out of there safely, Mike told himself. And not get killed in the process.

  He slowly approached the side door, talking quietly into the microphone buried under his bulletproof vest.

  “I’m going inside. When the SOT team arrives, put them into position, but keep them out of sight. I don’t want to agitate the gunman.”

  “Yes sir, Major,” Hoppes snapped back.

  Mike kept moving. “There doesn’t seem to be any resistance. Maybe he’s ready to give up.”

  Hoppes’s voice crackled in Mike’s earpiece. “Maybe he’s going to shoot your sorry butt the second you come through the door.”

  A cheery thought. Mike heard a squeal of Jeep tires somewhere behind him. The SOT team had arrived, no doubt. In a few minutes, they would be armed with sniper rifles and waiting for a clear shot. If he was going to end this mess without bloodshed, he was going to have to move quickly.

  Inside, the decor and layout looked pretty much like any other fast-food restaurant, with the standard bright plastic tabletops and the efficient order counter McDonald’s had pioneered years ago. Most of the hostages sat at the tables, but a few of the employees were still behind the counter. As a whole, the hostages were staying admirably calm. A few were crying, trembling, worried that this inexpensive meal would be their last. The kids were the worst. Some of them were toddlers. They couldn’t possibly comprehend what was happening or why. They just knew there was a man with a gun. And they were terrified.

  He heard Hoppes barking in his ear. “Can you see him? Are you in a position to shoot him?”

  “No,” Mike murmured. “I don’t have a weapon.”

  “You—what? Why in hell not?”

  “Because I gave him my word.”

  The man with the gun had barricaded himself between two large trash receptacles. His gun was out and his hand was shaking. He was a thin, long-haired man. Couldn’t be more than twenty. He was wearing a solid black T-shirt and had a few scruffy hairs on his chin passing for a goatee. He was drenched in sweat. His eyes were red and worried; they never seemed to stay in one place for more than a second.

  “My name’s Mike.” He kept a good ten feet away. “What’s yours?”

  The young man whipped around, pointing his gun in Mike’s direction. “Why do you want to know my name?”

  Mike tried to keep his voice even. This guy was worse than on edge. He was already in the midst of a major meltdown. “No reason. Just so I know what to call you.”

  “You don’t need to know my name!”

  “All right. Then I’ll just make one up. How about . . . Elmer?”

  “That’s a stupid name!” the kid shouted, waving his gun around. “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Of course not. How about . . . Bob?”

  The young man inhaled deep and long, like a diver with a bad case of the bends. “I can live with that.”

  Great. They’d made progress. “What is it you want, Bob?”

  “I want my goddamn job back, that’s what I want.”

  Mike’s lips parted. “You used to work here?”

  “Damn straight. For almost two years. Till that son-of-a-bitch manager fired me. He said I was screwing around, not getting my work done. Made other people carry the slack. But he was full of it!” Watching the gun bob and weave in all directions made Mike sick, but there was nothing he could do about it at present. “I worked hard. Every day, hard. Not like some manager who sits on his fat ass and watches other people work. I didn’t deserve to lose my job. And I want it back!”

  And you thought the smart way to get it would be to run in with a gun and take hostages? Was he utterly insane? Or was Mike’s friend Ben’s theory right—that people of the modern world suffer from a societal illness more endemic than the Black Plague. Terminal stupidity.

  “So, Bob . . . if I was able to get your job back, would you stand down? Let these nice people go?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Well . . . they didn’t take your job. You have no grudge against them. Why don’t we let some of them go. Like maybe the children?” Out the corner of his eye, through the windows that surrounded the restaurant on three sides, Mike spotted the SOT snipers positioning themselves. Damn Hoppes, anyway! Why didn’t he keep them out of sight? Those rifles had a thousand-foot range. Why did they have to get right under the man’s nose?

  “I guess that’d be all right. But no tricks.”

  “I promise you, Bob. No tricks. Let’s start with those two over by the door, okay?”

  The children didn’t want to leave their parents. Mom and Dad both pushed them toward the door, but they wouldn’t go.

  Mike bit down on his lower lip. “Maybe if I escorted them. Okay?”

  “All right, but I’ll be—damn!”

  Mike knew what had happened. As Bob turned his head to look at the children, he’d spotted a khaki-clad SOT officer positioning himself by the south entrance.

&n
bsp; “Bob, listen to me. Those men will not harm you.”

  “Then why are they here?” He was bouncing back and forth, bellowing. “Why are they here?”

  “They’re just trying to protect everyone. They won’t hurt you.”

  “Make them go away! Make them go away!”

  Mike spoke into his wire. “Hoppes! What the hell are you doing?”

  “Taking charge, Morelli.”

  “Hoppes, I am ordering—”

  “Screw you.”

  “I am your commanding officer—”

  “You are a goddamn hostage! Out of commission. Therefore, I am forced to take over.”

  “Make ’em go away,” Bob shouted, waving his gun every which way at once. “Make them stop or I’m gonna kill someone!”

  “Back off!” Mike shouted into the wire.

  The first shot cracked through the glass window on the south side. Everyone in the restaurant hit the floor, including Bob. Several screamed as panic spread through the room. Men and women and children cried and clutched at one another. An elderly man in the rear began reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

  The next shot came from the east. It ricocheted off one of the trash receptacles. Close, but not close enough to do any good.

  The third shot came from the south again, and a split second after Mike heard the report, he heard Bob cry out in pain. He’d been hit—but not incapacitated.

  Bob pushed himself back to his feet, bleeding from his right leg. “You lying sons of bitches! You’re just like all the others. Just like all the others!”

  He raised his gun and fired, spinning around in a circle. Mike dove behind the condiments counter and hugged the tile floor. The gunfire continued to rain down all around them.

  Mike crawled around the edge of the table area to see what was happening. Bob had snatched up a baby with his right arm and held him close against his head to shield himself. He wrapped his gun arm around the neck of the baby’s mother. With hostages flanking him on both sides, it would be all but impossible for the snipers to get a clear shot.

  “Where are you?” Bob shouted. “You lied to me! You told me they wouldn’t hurt me!”

  I was misinformed, Mike thought ruefully.

  “Where are you, you lying bastard?”

  Bob whirled around the restaurant, dragging the mother and baby with him. The baby was crying; the mother was screaming. None of it fazed him.

  The situation had gone from grim to dire. Ben knew the snipers wouldn’t shoot as long as he was moving and had hostages all around him. The brick walls beneath the windows prevented them from shooting below the chest, and a head shot, even if it hit Bob first, could easily travel on to one of the hostages.

  “What’s happening in there?” Hoppes was shouting into Mike’s earpiece. “Fill me in!”

  Mike didn’t say a word. He couldn’t take the risk.

  “You can’t hide from me!” Bob cried.

  Maybe not, Mike thought, but I can damn sure try. He crawled to the other end of the condiment counter, hoping he could flank Bob and get behind him.

  “Can you get him to drop the hostages?” Hoppes’s voice crackled. “Or force him closer to the windows?”

  “No,” Mike whispered. “I can’t.”

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Just stay put and keep your men out of sight. There’s still a chance I can—”

  “All right,” Bob shouted, “you won’t show yourself? Fine. I’ll kill someone else!”

  Mike cried out, “No!” But it was too late. A second later, the gun fired and the elderly woman who had opened the door for him crumpled to the floor.

  “What’s going on?” Hoppes asked. “What should I do?”

  “Take him out,” Mike growled.

  “Still won’t show yourself?” Bob said. “Fine. Here comes victim number two!”

  “We can’t get a clear shot,” Hoppes said.

  Mike sprang forward, snatching the baby away and shoving the mother to the floor. “Now!” he barked.

  A nanosecond later, five rifles fired at once. Three of the bullets hit Bob, making him twitch like a dissected frog. The mother crawled to safety, and as soon as she did, bullets rained down on Bob. He looked like a wind sock caught in a tornado. He was torn one way then another, twitching as if suffering from some uncontrollable spasm, until finally, mercifully, his body crumpled lifelessly to the floor.

  “All clear?” Hoppes asked.

  “All clear,” Mike whispered back. “Get some medics in here.”

  Mike returned the baby to its mother and looked for the people who were hurt. There were many. Way too many. At least five people injured, maybe fatally. And the woman by the door was definitely dead.

  What a stupid, pointless waste. This could’ve been handled bloodlessly, Mike was sure of it. But instead, blood was everywhere. All over everything. Including him.

  It was a tragedy, a stupid loss of life. And he knew what would happen once Chief Blackwell got wind of this. Worse, once the press got wind of it. Every move, every action he had taken would be scrutinized. Every judgment call would be questioned. And when the investigation was over, someone would have to pay.

  And he had a pretty good idea who it would be.

  Chapter

  5

  “How often do you have sexual feelings?”

  “I do not have . . . sexual feelings.”

  “None at all?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Not even occasionally?”

  “Of course not. You know why.”

  “Still, there must be something.”

  “Perhaps once. Several months ago. While I slept.”

  “What were you dreaming about?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Gabriel Aravena hated these sessions. He’d be willing to do anything to avoid them—anything except break parole, that is. Life was full of unpleasantness. He didn’t enjoy his visits with his parole officer. He didn’t enjoy his work. But he despised his sessions with the psychiatrist.

  Dr. Hayley Bennett was a thin, auburn-haired, angular woman. She wore black-rimmed glasses although Aravena suspected she didn’t really need them. More a fashion statement, he thought, or a protective barrier between herself and her patients.

  He didn’t know why he hated these sessions so. Objectively, she should have been his favorite. She was much easier to look at than his PA, and he didn’t sense the wariness, the suspicion, he did there. Which was ironic, in a way. Given all he had done, the woman should be the one who wanted the least to do with him.

  “Have you been taking the medication?” Dr. Bennett asked, crossing her legs in a manner that, at another time, he might have considered provocative.

  “Do I have a choice?” A stupid question. He got a shot once a week. That was an express condition of his early release.

  “Any more side effects?”

  “My breasts continue to enlarge,” he said, trying not to flush. It was deeply embarrassing, watching himself swell up like a woman.

  “That’s a common side effect of Depo-Provera,” Dr. Bennett explained. “It’s a hormone-altering medication. But you know that already, don’t you?”

  He nodded. He knew all about Depo. He knew it was a trade name for a generic drug called medroxyprogesterone acetate. He knew it was essentially an artificial simulation of the female hormone progesterone which, when injected into men, often acted as a hormone inhibitor. Among other things. It diminished the libido. Recidivism rates for sex offenders taking Depo were less than ten percent. He knew all about it.

  He knew what it really did, too. It castrated him. Chemical castration. It made his head fuzzy, messed with his vision, and sucked away his sex drive. That was the price he was paying. For now, anyway.

  “Anything else?”

  “My hair is falling out. Not just on my head. And I feel tired all the time. Sluggish.”

  “I’m afraid those are also common side effects.”

  “The
n why did you ask?” Stay calm, he told himself. You don’t want to blow it. Not when you’re so close.

  “There’s a lot about this drug we don’t know. That’s why we’re conducting these trials. You know that.”

  He nodded. He’d been briefed in detail, before he signed the release forms. As if he had a choice. If it would’ve gotten him out of that hellhole, he’d have agreed to a real castration. He would be their little lab rat. He’d let them shoot drugs into his body that turned him into a woman.

  “How is your work going?”

  “Very nicely, thank you. I manage now, you know.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I—I’m the manager.” Aravena had been in the States so long he had lost most traces of broken English. But he still occasionally had trouble coming up with the right word.

  “That’s wonderful, Gabriel. I know some people over at FastTrak; they won’t make just anyone a manager.”

  No, and they won’t pay them anything, either. But they are one of the few places that would hire a man with a record. Especially a sex crimes record.

  “And at home? Any new developments?”

  “No.” What did she expect? That he would have a girlfriend? Not likely. Not while he was on this drug.

  “I know your father is deceased. Have you had any contact with your mother?”

  “No. I think I’m better off . . . without contact with my mother. And she lives very far away.”

  Bennett nodded. “Well, perhaps you’re right.” Aravena watched as she opened the file in her lap to the page covering Aravena’s childhood. A moment later, her face paled. How is it possible that a mother could do such things? she must be thinking. And what hideous effect must that have had on her poor, defenseless son?

  “You know, Gabriel . . . Depo-Provera suppresses sex drive. But it doesn’t eliminate it. Nothing does.”

  Aravena nodded. Even physically castrated men sometimes committed rape. He’d known one, back in the penitentiary.

  “And of course, it’s well-established that most sex crimes aren’t about sex, anyway. They’re about anger. About power. Control.” She paused, as if waiting for an answer to a question she hadn’t asked.