by Chris LeGrow
“What the—” The Sarge jerked back. “These guys are…what do they call it…um…high-stepping. Like when they approach the goal line untouched.”
“But wait. There’s more,” Smitty said. “Can you see in the car?”
He zoomed in closer, but even with the fuzziness of the closeup, the Sarge could see the antics. “They’re high five’n!”
With a nod, Smitty relaxed into his chair. “Kind of what you’d see football players do after a touchdown. Yes?” Smitty said with a note of sarcasm. “Never saw bangers do that. My guess is they’re local football players. That would explain the different races…playing on the same team but living in different neighborhoods. They’re all athletes and work as a team. One’s a blocker who knocks the sense out of their victims by hitting her like a linebacker. Then the speedy running back takes the ball—or purse in these cases—and darts for the end zone: the waiting vehicle.”
Smitty pointed at the vehicle driving away. “I’ll also bet that these vehicles are from the players’ girlfriends. If we get a license plate, it comes back to a family that doesn’t fit the profile, and the detectives just move on. Another bad lead.”
“Okay,” the Sarge said slowly. “So they’re athletes. Between the metro and surrounding areas, there are lots of schools. How do we figure out which one they all attend?”
“If it were me, I’d run the plates again. Give another look at the families of the owners. I’d bet the mortgage most of them have daughters who attend the same school as our perps.”
The Sarge shoved the ragged cigar back into his mouth and stood up with a satisfied sigh. “Don’t know if it’ll fly, but I’ll call it into the crime line and let the investigators follow up.”
“One other suggestion?” Smitty added. “I’d focus my attention on schools with a large Latino population.”
A long paused passed between them.
“Okay, Smitty, I’ll bite. Why should they focus on schools with a large Latino population?”
“The victims,” Smitty said and pointed to the reports. “The classic blunder for investigators. They focus on the suspects and forget about victimology.”
“That’s why you wanted the background on ’em,” the Sarge said. “And you can wipe that gloating look off your face. What else ya got?”
“The majority of the victims were Hispanic. Most of the robberies took place during the second and fourth weeks of the month. Paydays for most people. I’m thinking our guys are familiar with that particular population. Mexican women generally carry all their cash in their purses. They don’t like banks because of language problems. And—” Smitty stood and stretched, “I’ll bet there are a bunch of other victims who haven’t reported their robberies because they are illegal. If I were to guess, I’d say that one out of three victims have reported it. They’re the perfect victims. They carry cash and won’t file a report for fear of being deported. They’re sitting ducks in this game.”
“You got it all figured out?”
“Pretty much.”
“Smitty, you’ve earned your pay.” High praise from the Sarge.
Smitty smiled, then let loose with a flatulent salute.
“Applesauce again?” The Sarge asked with a strangled laugh.
“How’d you know?”
“I’m the boss; I know everything.”
“When it’s pointed out to you,” Smitty called back.
Sarge went straight to the phone to relay the new information to investigators. If Smitty was right—and he almost always was—there were a lot of unreported victims and many more potential ones. He hated men who enjoyed hurting women. They had to be stopped, and this was the unit to do it.
“ANONYMOUS,” TIM CURTIS, A SHORT, SQUAT GANG UNIT sergeant said. “An anonymous tipster calls and specifically states that this string of robberies doesn’t belong to us?” He shook his head in disbelief and examined the transcript in hand. “It’s football players? From a local school and we should check for large Hispanic populations. Talk to owners of vehicles we’ve already determined were not involved?”
He ran his fingers through his cropped hair and frowned. “We need to find out where their daughters go to school. Good Lord, they even said we can expect the next robbery today or tomorrow!” He crumpled the paper in his fist. “Who does this guy think he is? I’ve been in this unit five years and never seen anything like this.”
“We following through with it?” Jorge Thompson, a GU officer asked.
“No clue,” Tim said, striding toward the door. “Let’s see what the brass says.”
He ended up in front of Lieutenant Jack Anderson, an African-American ex-basketball player. His buzz cut sported clean lines and right angles at the temples. He glanced over the crumbled paper Tim handed him, brows drawing together in question.
“How the devil would someone know stuff this specific?” the lieutenant asked.
“Beats me,” Jorge said. “It’s like our tipster has inside information or something. This isn’t the usual stuff.”
“I know,” Tim murmured and skimmed the notes from the hotline. “It’s usually something like, ‘This is the guy who did it or where the stolen items can be found,’ but this—this is almost a primer on how to conduct an investigation.”
“I know,” Jorge said. “Damnedest thing. It even tells us who to interview and that it’s not our case.”
Tim blew a low whistling breath.
“So what do we do?” Jorge asked. “Redirect the investigation? If the suspects aren’t gang bangers, then it’s not our case—”
Jack stopped the train of thought with a cold glare. “Is this a joke?”
“No,” Jorge said. “At least I don’t think so, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Me neither. A school with high Hispanic populations,” Tim mused, “football players…”
“So…” Jorge said with a shrug. “Transfer it? Give it to Officer Can?”
“No trash can…yet.” Tim twisted his lips in what looked like disgust.
“Reinterview the owners of those vehicles again,” Tim said.
“No way!” Jorge said. “Are you kidding me?”
“No, I’m not,” Tim said. “True, this isn’t a normal tip,” he continued. “It’s much more than a tip; it’s an investigative guide to breaking up this group.” He skimmed over the paper again. “The tipster seems to have an insight into investigations. I’d like to see how much.”
He caught the detective’s gaze and held it. “I’m intrigued—and curious. Talk to the vehicles’ owners again and be sure each interview is done right. I want the report tomorrow.”
“To—”
“Yeah,” Tim said. “There’s something to this, something different and I want to know what it is. That’s all, detective.”
Summarily dismissed, Jorge left, his brows furrowed together.
“Back to the drawing board then,” Jack said and turned back to his office. “Let me know how it turns out.”
The gang unit followed orders. In their absence, a hotline officer brought in a second tip. “I think it’s safe to say this is from the same guy. Note the extra instructions.”
Once you get a solid lead on which school the kids go to, bring the football coach in and have him view the videos. All of Omaha has seen them and you can’t really tell what the suspects look like. There’s got to be other video being held back so investigators have a better idea of the suspects. The football coach will be able to identify most of them—Crime Stopper Tip 1A227.
“Whoever it is sure seems to know what he’s talking about, that’s for sure.” Tim exchanged a quizzical look with the hotline officer.
Smitty, Big Brock, and Bensen were assigned to the parking lot of the Southern Wheel Mall. Each sported a baseball cap with communication earpieces that looked like a common hearing aid. Big Brock and Bensen brandished walking canes that could shoot orange pepper spray twelve to sixteen feet. Smitty had a walker. Not that he needed it, but the little
metal basket in the front was sure handy to carry the liquid surprise “piss packs” the crew loved to throw at the perps. A few hid their urine packs for four days, and the smell was nothing short of gut-wrenching. Smitty liked to think of it as twentyfirst-century street justice.
A dark four-door sedan turned into the parking lot. Exactly what he was waiting for. Smitty signaled the others. If he was right, they had their men—or boys as the case may be. Smitty watched and counted four males; he also noted that they weren’t parking, just tooling around. Reconnoitering from Smitty’s view. Looking for something. Or someone.
Of course, he thought. A very special someone.
They stopped the vehicle, faced the exit, and waited like a giant spider in a sci-fi flick for a Latina woman. Smitty turned his head and spoke in a low tone into his modified hearing aid. “These are our guys. The dark blue sedan. I’m going to mosey over and set up.”
Big Brock and Bensen had taken point at the bus stop bench and now faced the car. With all but imperceptible nods, they, too, pushed off and did their best little old man shuffle toward the mall. Their route took them right by the sedan. One ducked his head to speak to Smitty. “Don’t even see us,” he murmured.
“Perfect,” Smitty said.
In an instant, one of the boys inside jerked to attention and pointed. His companions followed his lead.
About as subtle as Machiavelli in a romance novel, Smitty thought but he, too, checked out the location indicated. As expected, there she was: a middle-aged Hispanic woman. A massive purse hung off her shoulder. It couldn’t be more perfect.
“At your twelve o’clock,” he said. “That’s their gal.”
Indicating the transmission was received, the other Blues continued their shuffle toward the car and the suspects.
The car doors opened and two boys got out. They sported the latest in banger fashion: dark hoodie and sports caps. Completely unoriginal but pulling the hoods up concealed most of their faces while the bill of their cap kept the hood from covering their eyes. They’d done their homework or else a friend had clued them in.
The boys got fifty yards south of the victim who walked in a westerly direction. They vectored to their left and zigzagged through parked vehicles on their approach. The other two occupants laughed in obvious anticipation and watched their buddies zero in on the woman.
Good, Smitty thought. Oblivious mopes missed what was happening under their noses.
Big Brock and Bensen strolled past the vehicle and kicked small triangular stop sticks in front of the tires. With their sharp embedded nails, they rendered a car undriveable after a few blocks.
Smitty smiled. There’d be some pretty pissed off parents tonight.
The two guys in the car didn’t seem to care about the two old men as one adjusted his hearing aid and the other talked to himself. In instant dismissal, they went back to watching their buddies.
“Everything’s in place and a go.”
The announcement came through Smitty’s earpiece. “Okay, you two stay in position to spray into the windows when they make their getaway. I’m gonna place myself between the two in the lot and their car with a special piss pack delivery as they run by.”
“Ten-four,” came the reply and Smitty clearly heard the excitment from the other end.
The two boys outside ducked down and waited for the woman to draw closer…closer…closer.
“Señorita!” Smitty jumped out and pointed at the two crouching teens. “Banditos!”
She screamed, turned on her heels, and ran back toward the mall. The boys who seemed rooted in place at their discovery comically glanced at one another. The bigger of the two grabbed his buddy by the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here!”
In the car, their friends waved them over and screamed to hurry. The driver started the engine, and the second boy threw open the door. Two steps from their vehicle, something hit the bigger teen in the chest, something wet. He dove in the car followed in quick succession by his co-conspirator. The driver revved the engine; burning orange liquid splashed onto the inside of the windshield, droplets exploding into the cab. With a flourish of smoking tires, they screeched off.
Bensen pulled out a cell phone and dialed 911. Another anonymous tip, Smitty thought. Whatever.
He beckoned his crew, and they quietly got into their own waiting vehicle and slowly followed behind. Three blocks away, the stop sticks did their work. The dark sedan veered off the road and hit a tree. The four occupants had opened their doors, screaming and gasping for air. They planted their faces in the freshly cut grass looking for some relief from what could only be described as having their eyes burned out of their skulls.
Police officers arrived. When they got out of their cruisers, they stopped and momentarily surveyed the scene of gagging, coughing, choking suspects. In moments, the boys were handcuffed on the ground.
One of the officers pulled the biggest one to his feet. “Jeeze!” He turned his head to the side and gagged. “You freakin’ reek, punk!”
Smitty slowed his car even more. The boy glanced up and Smitty swore he detected a moment of recognition on the kid’s face. Smitty smiled at the teenager, flipped him the bird, and drove off laughing.
The radio call of an attempted robbery at the Southern Wheel Mall had come through loud and clear. Uniformed officers had four suspects and were calling for a medical unit for decontamination.
“Yes!” Tim Curtis said and slammed his fist on his desk. “We caught a couple, and by the sounds of things they put up a fight.” He picked up the Crime Stoppers tip again and glanced it over: ….expect the next robbery to occur today or tomorrow. He reread it a second time and for good measure a third. “Unbelievable!” he said out loud. “Freakin’ unbelievable!”
A half hour later the phone rang. “You know those kids from the mall incident today?”
“Yeah, what of ’em?”
“Two of the three families had daughters at South East High School. There’s a large Latino population, and the school is pretty integrated,” the officer on the other end reported.
“Then go to the school and ask the football coach to come in for an interview.”
“Why? We could just go to the school and start asking around.”
“Just do what I said,” Curtis barked. “Don’t talk to anyone else; bring me that coach.”
“You got it,” the investigator said, evidently knowing when to shut up.
An hour later in the conference room, Curtis, Jorge, and a very confused football coach sat around a small table. “Coach Jenson, thank you for coming down.”
“Sure,” he said. “But why am I here?”
“You’ve heard about the purse snatchings? Where those women got pretty badly injured when they were robbed?”
“Sure,” responded the coach. “Who hasn’t? What’s that got to do with me?”
“We have some video clips of the suspects. We think they may be some of your players.”
“No,” Jenson said and shook his head. “Not possible.”
“Humor us,” Curtis said and started the video.
The surveillance tape showed several different young men participating in each encounter. The coach stared at the screen. Thirty seconds into the first, he melted into his chair and covered his face with his hand. “Mitch Johnson,” he muttered. “He graduated last year and was supposed to help me with football camp this summer.”
Curtis nodded and jerked his head toward Jorge who wrote the name down.
“Victor Gonzalez,” came the coach’s agonized voice. “That one”— he pointed to the screen where the boy in question grabbed a purse. “What were they thinking?”
“Coach,” Sergeant Curtis began.
Jenson’s gaze fixed on the screen transfixed. “Mitch,” he said, “knocked that poor woman to the ground, and Victor,” he said in a strained voice, “stole her purse.”
A tiny Latina woman, her thick black hair pulled back in a ponytail filled the screen. She wasn’t more t
han a hundred ten pounds. The victim rolled on the ground in pain; the two athletes bolted for a waiting vehicle out of camera range. A deadening silence filled the room.
“Show me,” the coach said. “Show me all of them. If my players are responsible for this, they’ll take responsibility.” The coach’s voice was flat and furious. “I’ve known and worked with these kids a long time. For them to do such a despicable thing…” his voice trailed off. “Whatever I can do to help, I will.”
It didn’t take the coach long to identify half of the suspects. The final clip rolled. The picture didn’t show the suspects as well as the previous ones, but the vehicle was crystal clear.
“Wait a minute,” Jenson said. “That looks like the car my son’s girlfriend drives.”
“Coach,” Curtis said, “we think the boys were getting the cars from girls they knew without telling them the reason why. That way if we identified a vehicle, it would lead us to a young woman who could actually be innocent instead of the young men who committed the crimes—and they were right. It threw us for a while.” He watched the coach still centered on the screen in front of them. “So are you certain this vehicle belongs to your son’s girlfriend?”
“Yes. I’m positive and I’ll have him down here in an hour,” the coach said. “I guarantee you he’ll tell you whatever you need to know.” He sat unflinching with the stern yet resolved face of a determined father.
True to his word, the coach had his son, Jeb, a lanky seventeenyear-old with a scowling countenance, in the same chair Jenson had occupied an hour before. The coach stared straight ahead, not sparing a glance at his son.
Curtis didn’t envy either one of them. He pushed the play button once again.
Jeb squirmed. “What’s this got to do with me? I didn’t do anything to those women. That’s not me.”
“We know, Jeb.” Curtis ran each video clip making sure to point out the women and their injuries as they lay on the ground. He even had the crime lab photos of their faces complete with gashes, blood, and bruises from their admittance to the hospital. Curtis guessed this dad had taught his son respect for women. He also thought Jeb hadn’t actually hurt anyone. He was probably one of the drivers. Maybe showing what they’d actually suffered might prick his sense of right and wrong enough to get him to talk.
