Third Watch

by Robert Dugoni

  “What was he saying?”

  “It was in Russian. They’re Russian. Then I heard this loud noise like he’d kicked the door down, and Helene started screaming at him. I heard glass shatter and banging like he was tearing the apartment apart. It was terrible. It was really terrible. Then it just went silent.” She looked to the building, a hand covering her mouth. “I’m afraid for Helene. I’m so afraid something horrible has happened to her and those two babies.”

  “You heard her screaming. What was she saying?”

  “I don’t know. It was in Russian. I couldn’t understand them.”

  Tracy pressed her shoulder mic. “Three-S-3. I’m in position. Possible domestic violence with children involved,” she said. “Any word on possible backup?”

  She knew any quick response would be unlikely. While she was en route to the apartment, the spark needed to ignite the night struck like a Midwest lightning bolt during a summer thunderstorm. Central Dispatch had requested all available units to respond to a melee outside Key Arena in downtown Seattle following a reunion concert of local grunge bands. The riot had apparently involved several hundred people, and there were reports of cars being overturned and one being set on fire.

  “Negative,” dispatch responded. “All units are otherwise occupied.”

  Tracy looked up at the two-story blue stucco apartment building. It looked like a cheap motel, and might have once been, with a single staircase leading to second-floor units accessed from an exterior landing.

  “It’s apartment 7, just to the left of the stairs,” the woman said, catching Tracy’s gaze and pointing. “Right next to mine.”

  Tevia Cushman stood on the sidewalk looking excited but cautious. She held her notepad and pen. Her camera dangled from a strap round her neck. “Wait here,” Tracy said. “Do not come up those stairs or approach the building for any reason. Do you understand?”

  Cushman nodded.

  Tracy started for the building but stopped when she realized the woman was following. “You stay here also until I find out what’s going on.”

  She crossed the parking lot amidst the gazes of the other tenants, who stood similarly attired in T-shirts, shorts, and sandals. Some were barefoot. One man stood in just shorts, his hairy chest and back on full display. Tracy felt the concrete stairs vibrate as she ascended. She spoke into her shoulder microphone. “Dispatch, this is 3-S-3 requesting the air be kept open.” She wanted the police channel kept open so she would not be competing with other, unnecessary chatter. That was going to be difficult given the riot downtown.

  At the top of the staircase Tracy turned left, pausing when she reached the window facing the landing. The drapes were drawn, but they were sheer. The interior of the apartment was dark but for the glow of a television and green digital lights coming from what appeared to be a small kitchen. She stepped quickly past the window. The door to the unit was recessed about three feet. It was closed, but it had been damaged by what looked to be a blow from a hard kick just below the door handle. The wood was cracked and the jamb split at the same level as the deadbolt. Two pairs of pink-and-white children’s sneakers lay on their sides atop a brown welcome mat with a green turtle wearing a red beanie.

  Tracy removed her nightstick, kept much of her body protected behind the stucco wall, and reached out and rapped on the door. “Seattle Police!”

  She heard the distinct sound of a shotgun pump racking and quickly pulled back and dropped just before what sounded like a canon blast. Splintered pieces of the front door blew past her and flew out over the railing, raining down on the parking lot.

  Twelve-gauge. Double-barrel, from the sound of it.

  Tenants, no longer so curious, scattered like billiard balls, ducking behind parked cars and running from the lot. Tracy unholstered her Glock 40 and scooted further down the landing, away from the door, careful to stay below the window. Her adrenaline was pumping, making her out of breath, and her ears were ringing from the blast of the gun.

  At least she had a definitive answer.

  She gripped her shoulder mic. “Shot fired. Officer in need of immediate assistance. Where is my backup?”

  “Backup is still otherwise detained.”

  “I have an estranged husband in an apartment with a double-barrel shotgun and a wife and two kids,” she said. “I am in need of immediate backup. Requesting emergency response team and hostage negotiator.” Tracy hoped it was a hostage situation and not a multiple homicide.

  “Three-S-3, I am determining whether any units are on low-precedence and can be freed to respond. Hang tight.”

  Tracy pressed her back against the wall, still fighting to control her breathing and waiting for the dust to settle and the ringing in her ears to quiet. The smell of gunpowder wafted on the breeze-deprived night air. A woman stepped from an apartment three doors down the landing holding a crying girl in her arms. They looked to have just gotten out of bed. With only one staircase, there was no way to get the woman safely past the Gorshkovs’ apartment. Tracy waved them back inside and the woman quickly retreated, looking confused and frightened.

  Tracy wiped perspiration trickling down the side of her face. She could feel her shirt sticking to her back and chest beneath her bulletproof vest. She took another deep breath and duck-walked to the edge of the wall, Glock in hand.

  “Alex?”

  No response.

  “Alex, my name is Tracy Crosswhite. I’m a Seattle police officer.” She waited a beat. “Alex, I need you to talk to me.”

  “Do not come in.” The voice was deep, heavily accented, and clearly agitated. “I will shoot.”

  “Nobody’s coming in, Alex. Okay? Nobody’s coming in. But I need you to calm down. Can you do that for me?”

  “I will shoot anyone who comes in.”

  “I heard you. And I’m telling you nobody’s coming in, Alex.” She waited a beat. When she got no response, she said, “I need to hear your wife’s voice, Alex. I need to hear Helene. I need to hear that she and your two daughters are okay. Can you do that for me? Can I hear them say they’re okay?”

  She heard him speaking muffled Russian. A good sign.

  “Helene, are you and your daughters okay?” Tracy asked.

  “We are okay.” The voice was halting and laced with fear.

  Tracy lowered her voice and spoke into her shoulder microphone. “Unit 3-S-3 checking on backup.”

  “Three-S-3, we’re working to free a unit on downtime.”

  “I’m also going to need medical personnel. Keep this channel open.” Tracy lowered her hand and inched closer to the edge of the wall. “Okay, Alex, I need you to talk to me. I need you to tell me what’s going on. Will you tell me what is going on? Alex?”

  “She is leaving.” Tracy heard the anger and sorrow in his words. “She says she is to leave me and to take them from me. She is to take my babies.” The accent was making it difficult to fully understand him, and he was slurring his words.

  “You and your wife have had some problems. I understand that, Alex. I understand you’re upset.”

  “No. You no understand. You come and you make me leave. Always you make me leave. Why don’t you make her leave?” His voice grew louder, angrier. “Tonight I not leave. Tonight I stay.”

  “Of course you want to stay. I can understand that. I was married once. My husband left me. So I know the pain you’re feeling.”

  “I come here to work. I bring my family here to have better life.”

  “You can still do that, Alex.”

  “No!”

  “You can. You can still have that better life.”

  “Is too late now.”

  Tracy had hostage-negotiation training, but the only rules she recalled at the moment were to keep the lines of communication open, keep him talking, and assess his demands. “It’s not too late, Alex. But you have to let me help you. All you’ve done up until this point is destroy the front door. I’m sure the landlord won’t be too happy, but that’s not so bad, right? W
e can get the door fixed, right?”

  “She is leaving. She is taking my girls.”

  Tracy looked down over the railing to the street, hoping to see her backup arriving. Tevia Cushman and the neighbor had taken cover behind the police cruiser. Cushman had her camera in hand, lens focused up at Tracy. “Listen to me, Alex. Will you listen to me?”

  “I listen.”

  “This is America. We have laws to protect both parents. Okay? Both of you. Your wife can’t take your girls from you, Alex. You have a right to be with them as their father. Do you understand me? You have a legal right to see your daughters. I can help you do that. There are people who can help you do that.”

  Another prolonged silence followed.

  “Alex? Are you still listening?”

  “How I do this?”

  “You can get a lawyer.”

  “No. No lawyers. They take my money and not do anything.”

  “There are agencies you can go to for no charge. I can help you do that.”

  “There is no such agency. Lawyers take your money, then say they can’t help.”

  “There are agencies, Alex. They’re called Legal Aid. I can help you find them. I can help you get a good lawyer so you can see your daughters every week. But you have to work with me, Alex. You have to let me help you. This is not the way to do it.”

  After another long pause, Gorshkov said, “Why? Why should you do this?”

  “Because I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I know how painful that is, Alex. I know how much pain you’re in, what you’re feeling.”

  “You do not know. You do not lose your children.”

  “No. No, I didn’t lose a child, Alex. I lost a sister. A sister I loved very much. Someone took her from me and my parents, and we never found her again. I never saw her again, Alex. But your two girls are still here. They’re still with you, and you can still be with them. You have a legal right, Alex. A legal right to see your girls. I want to help, Alex. Will you let me help you?”

  “How? How you help me?”

  “If you put down the shotgun and come out, I can help you.”

  “No. I no come out. They will shoot me.”

  “Nobody’s going to shoot you, Alex.”

  Tracy heard sirens and looked down over the railing. The swirling lights of two police vehicles lit up the parking lot. She gripped her shoulder mic and again lowered her voice. “Tell everyone to stand down. Tell them to turn off the sirens and lights. And no one comes up the landing. The situation is volatile. I am in communication with the suspect. He has his wife and two girls in the apartment with him.”

  “You come in,” Alex yelled. “You come in. I will give you the gun.”

  The officers spilled from their cars but did not approach. She saw one speaking into his shoulder microphone. Another started ushering residents from the lower-floor apartments and out of the parking lot.

  “My sergeant is not going to let me do that, Alex. He’s not going to let me go into your apartment alone if you still have the gun.”

  “You come in and I give you gun.”

  Tracy closed her eyes and swore under her breath. “I need to talk to your wife and girls again. Can I do that?”

  After a moment Helene said, “Hello?”

  “Are you and your girls okay, Helene?”

  “They are afraid.”

  “I’m sure they’re scared. Is anyone injured? Does anyone need a doctor?”

  “No. No one is injured,” she said.

  “Alex, you don’t want to scare your girls, do you? You love them. You want to tell them that you love them?”

  She heard Alex speaking Russian, followed by the sound of two high-pitched, shaky voices.

  “Why don’t you send your wife and daughters out, Alex. Send them out so they’re not scared. We can keep them safe for you.”

  “No one comes out. We stay together. You come in.”

  “Okay, Alex, I’m going to come in, but I can’t see. I need you to turn on the lights so I can see. Will you turn on the lights?”

  After another moment, a wedge of dull light seeped out onto the landing. Tracy carefully raised her head to look in the window. The light appeared to be coming from deep inside the apartment, likely a bedroom at the back. At least she had Alex’s location. She relayed the information over her microphone. Then she stood and holstered her Glock, hoping she wouldn’t have to take it out again, knowing that if she did, Gorshkov would be dead.

  “Okay. I’m coming in.”

  “No guns!”

  “No guns, Alex. When I get in I’m going to show you my hands. Okay? I’m going to show you my hands, and I want you to show me your hands. Will you show me your hands?”

  “You come. I show hands.”

  The front door hung catawampus on its hinges, a gaping hole in the center and multiple smaller holes spiraling out from there. Tracy put her hand on the wood and slowly applied pressure. The door opened partway, then caught on the tile floor.

  “The door is stuck, Alex. I’m going to have to push on it, okay? You might hear a noise, but that’s just me pushing on the door. Are we good?”

  “Yes,” he said, but now the words were coming in between sobs. Tracy had a bad feeling about this. Everything—her training, her common sense, her instincts, everything—was screaming not to go in the apartment, that it was insane to do so. And then she realized something even more insane. She was going to do it. She had to do it, for Helene, and for those two little girls. She took another step forward and watched her hand reach out and touch the door as if it didn’t belong to her but to someone else. She felt the splinters where the shotgun pellets had ripped through the wood and thought of what another blast could do to her, vest be damned. The scraping of the door on the tile seemed to bring her back to the reality of her situation. She pushed a little harder, and the door came free and swung open, banging like a shutter in a strong breeze against the opposite wall.

  “Okay, Alex. The door is open. Is it still all right for me to come in?”

  “Yes.”

  Tracy stepped onto the tile. She noted children’s toys strewn about the entry. To her left, furniture had been upended and she noted what appeared to be broken glass in the light spilling from the back room.

  Stop she told herself. Just stop. But she didn’t stop. She took another step. Then another.

  “Everything is going to be okay, Alex. You still believe me, right? I’m giving you my word that everything is going to be okay.” The interior smelled like boiled vegetables, the air as sodden as a sauna. She licked her lips but her mouth and tongue were dry. Beneath her vest her heart pounded, and sweat continued to trickle down her face and neck.

  Picture frames lay shattered on the carpet at the edge of the entry, photographs of a man with a crew cut, a blonde woman, and two little girls, their faces partially obscured behind the shattered glass. Tracy continued to step slowly, and cautiously, toward the light at the back of the apartment. “I’m still coming, Alex. I don’t want you to be surprised. I’m just coming slowly, okay? Helene, are you and the girls still all right?”

  “Yes,” Helene said, the words choked. “We are good.”

  A stereo and television console lay smashed on the ground, shelving toppled. The soles of Tracy’s boots crunched glass. When she reached the edge of the wall leading to the short hallway she paused. “Alex, is everything still okay?”

  She heard sobs, great gasps followed by low moans, but it wasn’t a woman. It was a man in agony and pain.

  “Everything is going to be okay, Alex. I’m going to help you. You’re going to let me help you, right?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She pressed her back to the hallway wall and leaned around the corner to look into the room. Helene sat huddled on a twin bed pressed in the corner, her arms locked fiercely around her daughters, her hands covering their eyes. Pinned on the wall above them were multiple finger paintings beneath a border of stenciled unicorns.

>   Tracy made eye contact when Helene looked to the doorway and raised a palm, gesturing for Helene to remain where she was and not to move. She moved her hand up and down as if patting the air, communicating to Helene to remain still and calm.

  “Alex?” she said, continuing to look at Helene.

  Helene shifted her eyes to a corner of the room, but from her position, Tracy could not see him.

  “Alex, I’m going to show you my hands as I promised. I’m going to show you I don’t have a gun in my hand. Can I do that?”

  Tracy raised her hands, took another step forward, and slowly reached her hands around the door frame, careful to keep her body behind the wall. She felt like she was sticking her arms inside a lion’s cage. “Okay, Alex, now I’m going to need you to show me your hands like we agreed. Will you do that?”

  The sobs became more pronounced. Helene was looking more and more panicked and Tracy was afraid she might bolt from the bed. She again indicated with hand signals for Helene to stay put. “I need you to talk to me, Alex.”

  More sobs.

  Tracy leaned her head forward and peered around the doorjamb. What she saw sent a shiver through her body.

  Alexey Gorshkov knelt in the corner near a white children’s bookcase, stuffed animals scattered about the carpet. He had the barrel of the shotgun pressed beneath his chin, his finger firmly affixed to the trigger. The knuckles of both hands were white. His T-shirt was soaked and sticking to his skin, his face beet red and streaked with tears and perspiration. He sobbed again and his body shook.

  Tracy took a step back, taking a moment to gather herself, trying not to visualize the similarities between the scene in this bedroom and her father’s suicide in his den, also with a shotgun.

  After a moment she stepped slowly into the room. Helene started to move, but Tracy quickly raised a hand and shook her head, and Helene retreated back into the corner.

  “Alex? Are you listening to me?”

  Gorshkov had his eyes closed.

  “I need you to put down the gun so I can help you.”

  “No. No. No,” he mumbled. “Is too late. Is too late.”