by Bob Mayer
That cheered him up a bit. It meant Chase wasn’t going to ask him to bust open the front door. Of course, Chase didn’t plan on doing that himself either. There were eight men on the SWAT team and as the seconds ticked away, Chase began to wonder where the hell the rest of them were.
It was decision time. The police book said wait until the entire team was on station, then proceed cautiously. But someone probably had been hit by those bullets and could still be alive but bleeding out. And there was a baby. And Chase had been trained differently in the ‘killing house’ at Fort Bragg: hit fast and hard. It wasn’t correct police procedure, but correct police procedure could get people killed in unusual situations like this as Columbine and Virginia Tech had demonstrated.
Chase lay down in the street and edged his head around the van’s back tire. The house was set into an incline as the Open Space behind it rose to a ridgeline. Garage doors on first floor, stairs to the front door on the right of the garage going up to the second level. Small balcony on the front of the top floor. No lights on. Nothing moving in the windows.
Another SWAT man arrived and geared up. Three of eight. Pederson was on the other side of the van, rifle pointed at the house. The two black and whites were still parked caddie corner, their former occupants waiting with shotguns trained. At the range they were from the house, Chase knew those shotguns were worthless.
“Joe,” Chase nodded at the newest arrival. He nodded in return, continuing to gear up.
The shift lieutenant should have been here by now, Chase knew. This was his call until someone higher ranking arrived. Where the hell was everyone?
“Hey!” Pederson hissed from his position. “Front door!”
Chase got back on his belly and looked. The door was opening very slowly. One of the idiot patrol car officers trained his spotlight on the door, blinding the person coming out. Chase almost yelled for him to turn the light off, then he saw the figure in the door. A woman. She had a short skirt on and was naked from the waist up. Her chest and stomach were covered with blood. A gun was in her hand, but like an afterthought, as if she wasn’t even aware it was there any more. She took a step out, onto the small landing, and then collapsed almost in slow motion, to her knees, then doing a face plant onto the steps. The gun tumbled down a few more steps before coming to a halt.
Chase knew she was dead. He’d seen people die and she was dead as the proverbial doornail. But he also knew he was the only one watching who was sure of that. Everyone else was on edge, anxious to do something, but waiting on orders. And there might a baby. Of course, there was someone else with a gun in there. Unless she’d shot herself a couple of times in the chest. Right.
The shift sergeant came running up. “What are we going to do?”
“Joe. Doug.”
Both of them stared at Chase expectantly. Yeah, in normal time, the Boulder PD looked at Chase like dog shit as a cop, but they knew his background and right now, both of them wanted Chase to solve this problem. To take charge.
“Here’s the plan.” It took Chase thirty seconds to outline, and that was speaking slowly. He’d always given plans in the simplest language and spoken carefully, looking men in the eyes to make sure he saw a spark of understanding. Given it took only thirty seconds meant it wasn’t much of a plan. But as his first team sergeant in Special Forces used to say, even a shitty plan was better than having Rommel stick it up your ass on the drop zone. Chase had never been quite sure what he’d meant by that.
“Got it?”
Both men nodded, Joe less enthusiastically as he was going to be the more exposed of the two. Like Chase gave a damn. His ass was going to be the one on the line literally and legally.
Chase turned to the other person in the back of the van. “Got it?”
The shift sergeant nodded, then ran back to the black and whites to update the patrolmen there.
“Let’s go.”
Pederson took his place at the back of the van with the sniper rifle.
Chase put his hand on Joe’s shoulder, letting his finger slide above the armored collar. He could feel the man’s pulse racing, but not out of control. “You ready?”
Joe nodded.
“On three. One. Two. Three.”
The two broke from the back of the van, running all out for the front of the house. Chase’s head was tucked down and they were both leaning forward, as if going into a fierce wind. Chase remembered reading Killer Angels and that was how Shaara had described the Confederate Troops as they approached Cemetery Ridge during Picket’s charge-- hunched forward, anticipating the bullet. It’s bizarre the things that go through a person’s head in three seconds of running.
They reached the garage doors. Joe pulled a flash-bang grenade off his vest and held it tight. Chase moved to the right where the molding cornered underneath the drainpipe. He slung the MP-5 over his shoulder, then grabbed both sides of the molding, around the corner.
Chase began to climb, feeling naked as he went up. Anyone inside the house would have to stick their head out a window to see Chase, so that wasn’t too bad, but he didn’t exactly trust all the people behind him, who were supposed to be on his side. If someone with a gun stuck, his head out there were three possibilities, two of them bad. One that Pederson would shoot the bad guy and that would be that. Two that Pederson would miss and the bad guy would shoot Chase. Three, that either one or two happened but some other idiot with a shotgun or pistol would plug away, miss the bad guy and hit Chase. Chase should have told the shift sergeant to have his men lower their weapons. Too late now. It’s the details that get you killed, Chase had been told time and time again in his various assignments and training.
But no one stuck their head out, so no one had to shoot. Chase reached the top of the house, his arms quivering with exhaustion. The roof had a thirty-degree slope, not a problem, and he quickly moved to the peak until he was over the bay doors that opened onto the third floor porch. Which should lead into the master bedroom. Regardless, he was on top and the one rule that had been beaten into Chase during close quarters battle training, CQB as the army called it, was the optimum way to proceed was to clear from the top. Military guys like the high ground any way they can get it.
Chase crouched on the edge of the roof and looked down. The balcony wasn’t as big as he had thought. Maybe it was the perspective, because if he missed it, there was a hell of a fall to the driveway. Joe was looking up at Chase, the grenade still in his hand. Chase nodded, hoping Joe could see the movement, while Chase unslung the MP-5, holding it in his left hand.
With his other hand, Joe smashed the small square window in the garage door, pulled the pin, then tossed the grenade in the garage. Chase had three seconds. He waited one and a half, then jumped. He hit and his right knee, the one he’d hurt on a jump years ago, buckled. He ignored the pain and pushed forward, smashing through the glass.
The flash-bang went off in the garage, the sound echoing loudly through the house at exactly the same time Chase went through the glass. He was on his feet moving, sweeping the room with his eyes, the muzzle of the MP-5 following wherever he looked.
It was the master bedroom but no one was in it. Chase limped to the door, bleeding from a half-dozen cuts on his exposed skin. He ‘pied’ into the hallway, taking the door in sections, weapon extended, until he was completely in the hall.
There was a noise coming from the other end. As Chase took a step forward, he tried to place it. He moved down the hallway, his finger ready over the trigger. As he got closer, he recognized the sound. Someone trying to breath and not doing a good job at it, struggling for air because they had a hole in one of their lungs; what the medics called a sucking chest wound. Chase had heard this exact sound before and he paused, then shook his head, getting rid of that memory.
The door at the end of the hallway was partly open. Chase could see a blood trail leading from it to the stairs. Chase looked over the railing. The blood went down as far as he could see. The wife’s. She’d made it to t
he front door, dying all the way.
Chase tucked the stock of the MP-5 tight into his shoulder. The sound was coming from beyond the partially open door on this floor. He could see a small section of wall, dimly lit by a low-level glow, perhaps a night-light. The wallpaper was Winnie the Pooh and the rest of the cast of characters.
Chase stood perfectly still. The hoarse breathing was the only sound he could hear other than the thud of his own heart. He slowed his breathing and focused all his consciousness into his senses and the weapon in his hand.
Chase hit the door fast and low. He didn’t do any of those bullshit rolls like actors did in movies. Just skidded to a halt in a squat, presenting as small a target as possible, weapon tight to his shoulder and his sight picture square on, dead center between the eyes of the man lying half-upright against the wall next to the crib.
Chase’s finger tightened on the trigger, then paused. The man had a gun in his hand, but it was on his lap, not aimed at Chase. He wasn’t even looking at Chase. He was looking at the crib.
Chase didn’t want to, he shouldn’t have-- bad procedure-- but he looked too. He felt something slam into his chest and he rocked back on his heels. Not a bullet, but pain and shock, as if someone had just swung a sledgehammer and hit Chase. The tiny body in the crib was nothing but dead flesh and splattered blood.
Chase looked back at the man on the floor. His shirt was soaked in blood and ripped open to his waist in the front. Chase could see an entry wound in the man’s upper right chest, the bubbling froth of pink where air was desperately being sucked in, and blood and air came out with each exhale.
“Kill me.”
Chase looked into the man’s eyes.
“Kill me,” he repeated.
Chase was amazed he could even speak given his wound.
“My fault.” He leaned ever so slightly toward the crib. “Kill me.”
“Anyone else in the house?”
The man shook his head. Chase kept the MP-5 trained on him and with his right hand keyed the radio handset clipped to the upper part of his vest. “Pederson. Over.”
“Here!” The radio crackled, before Pederson remembered proper procedure. “Over.”
“Come in. I think the rest of the house is clear, but I wouldn’t bet your life on it. I’ve got the husband and--” Chase paused-- “baby here. Third floor, rear bedroom. We need paramedics. Move! Now! Out.”
“Kill me.”
He was like a bad tape recording. He began to lift the gun.
“Don’t do that.” Chase let go of the radio and put both hands on the MP-5.
The man’s hand was shaking.
Chase heard the front door get busted in.
The man pointed the gun at Chase. The muzzle was wavering, but it was in the general direction of Chase’s head. He knew that because the opening at the end of the barrel was growing larger. “Put it down!”
Chase heard boots on the stairs.
The man’s finger curled around the trigger. Chase saw the look in the man’s eyes. Chase had seen that before too.
Chase fired, the round hitting the man just three inches to the left of the other hole, and an inch up. Straight through the heart. The man died without blinking.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chase stood in the police chief’s office. It reminded Chase of going around to upperclassmen’s rooms as a plebe at West Point. They’d had a ritual called the ‘magical mystery tour’. Some upperclassmen would play the Beatle’s song loudly on his stereo to drown out the screaming, then plebes would get sent from room to room, not knowing what to expect with each new door. Some upperclassmen would flame you, others would be doing homework and barely acknowledge your presence, making you stand at attention in a corner until the song started again and it was time to move to a new room.
This looked like a flaming to Chase. The chief was behind his desk, flanked by the mayor and DA. They were sitting, Chase was standing. Nobody had said ‘Hey, Chase, how’s it hanging?’ when he’d walked in. Nobody looked happy.
Chase had told his story for the fifth time and they had a copy of the report he’d typed up in the wee hours. He made sure his knees weren’t locked so he wouldn’t cut off the flow of blood to his lower legs and keel over. Just like he used to during parades on the Plain at the Academy. It occurred to Chase that he was reverting, going back to all the places he’d said he’d never go to again.
“So the suspect didn’t fire at you?” District Attorney Wheeler asked.
Chase turned his gaze toward the DA. Wheeler was of medium height, with gray hair that was little too long in Chase’s opinion for someone who worked for the people. His face was permanently flushed, a result of too many business lunches and after-work cocktails. Wheeler had a reputation for being afraid to tackle any hard cases. Porter had told Chase that he couldn’t remember the last time Wheeler had set foot inside a courtroom to actually try a case. The DA’s office plea-bargained everything they could. That was winning in their opinion.
Chase kept tight rein on his voice as he answered Wheeler. “Perhaps I should have waited until the suspect shot me in the head.”
“And he asked you to kill him, right?” The chief was supposedly a different story. He was post-Ramsey, post-Karr, and he was smart. At least that was what the Daily Camera said. Chase had never spoken to him before. The Chief spent his time playing politics in the minefield of Boulder’s hierarchy. Chase had never seen him in the squad room.
“I put that in report because that’s what happened. He felt bad about killing his kid.”
The chief looked inside a file folder, then up at Chase. “His gun didn’t fire the bullet that killed his baby.”
Chase locked into the chief’s eyes. “Then he was torn up about his wife having shot the baby while trying to shoot him.”
“The gun the wife carried out the door didn’t kill the baby either,” the chief informed Chase. “And the first round that hit the man you killed-- Barnes was his name, Tim Barnes-- wasn’t fired from the wife’s gun. We haven’t recovered that gun. It wasn’t in the house.”
Chase felt a flash of anger as he realized he’d been ambushed.
The chief was watching Chase. “You thought a husband-wife domestic fight? Baby shot accidentally?”
Chase nodded.
“You were wrong.”
“I made the right decisions on the scene,” Chase said.
“That will be for the review board to decide,” the chief said.
“Why weren’t you there?” Chase asked. A red flush ascended from the chief’s collar and across his hatchet-like face. “We were on scene for almost ten minutes before we went in,” Chase continued before the chief could say anything. “The shift sergeant was there, but not the shift lieutenant. Don’t you think that’s curious? Sir?” Chase added, his tone on the last word indicating what he thought of the chief. “Don’t you think the review board ought to consider the entire situation, sir?”
“It’s your actions that—“ the chief began, but Chase cut him off.
“I work for two bosses,” Chase said. “You can put me before your review board, but my other boss is going to be very interested in the timing of events last night. Very interested. They know how a competent police force should react in that type of situation.”
If looks could kill, Chase would have been incinerated on the spot. Chase didn’t know how much, if anything, they knew about Wyoming and how his far ‘other’ boss would be willing to let him hang out to dry, but life is a poker game. Sometimes you call the bluff and you play the hand.
“And if he isn’t that interested, the media will be,” Chase threw the last gauntlet on the table. When you have nothing to lose, you have nothing to lose.
The chief exchanged glances with the DA and the mayor. “You’re dismissed,” was his way of ending the interview.
Chase walked out.
* * * * *
Chase didn't get over to see Hanson until very late in the morning. It wasn’t only the
meeting in city hall. There was paperwork to be filled out. Detectives never fill out forms on TV as far as Chase had ever seen, but he not only had to fill out his but Porter's too. It was part of the deal they had. Porter was still out pounding the streets. He hadn't even come into the office this morning. He was smart enough to know that if he did it would be hours before he got out again. Chase had to wonder if his partner didn’t come in because he was afraid of fallout from the shooting from the night before. He didn’t think so, but things were beginning to get hairy.
Porter’s paperwork wasn’t too bad this time, but Chase had enough forms to fill out about the previous evening on top of his original report, that he wondered how anything got done. After finally achieving that satisfied feeling of having, an empty in-box, no matter how briefly it lasted, Chase got the hell out of there. He still hadn’t heard from the chief or Donnelly so it seemed as if his bluff was holding.
A cold front was moving through Colorado and Chase had to turn on the heat in the Jeep. It was a fifty-minute drive to Denver and Hanson's office. The coroner was seated at his desk looking through a thick book and making notes.
Chase took a seat and waited. The coroner wasn't being rude. He was just working. Finally, Hanson closed the book. "Found something intelligent to ask?"
"A couple of things. First. Rachel Stevens. The woman from last week?"
He nodded.
"You said it wasn't rape even though you found the semen. How sure are you?"
Hanson steepled his fingers together and looked at Chase for a few seconds before replying. "I can't guarantee it, but I would not be willing to testify that it was rape based on the physical evidence."
"But couldn't she have been threatened into having sex? Wouldn't that have kept her from getting torn up?"
"You're forgetting something, Detective Chase. Even if she'd wanted to, the men who supposedly raped her wouldn't have worried too much about not hurting her. They killed her after all."
