by Chris LeGrow
TAKING A SHORT BREAK FROM HIS BRAINLESS TRUSTEE duties, Earnest detoured to the common area and pounced on the remote. Something ought to be coming out of Omaha by now. He punched the power button; his hopes soared. Revenge was definitely sweet…or at least it would be when he got confirmation. He’d make a point to thank Clubba when he came back—and come back he would. Almost every parolee did. Earnest figured the cops would have the kid arrested before the weekend ended. Tiny would be six feet under by then.
Earnest settled into his favorite chair and smiled as though he hadn’t a care in the world. The local news channel interrupted regularly scheduled programming with breaking news. Earnest’s smile widened. Good, good, good stuff, man. “Recently paroled…Te’quan…aka Clubba…killed…death of a former police officer…retirement home.”
Key words registered with Earnest, but he only listened with one ear. His spirits soared; he couldn’t remember being happier than right now. Tiny was dead by Clubba’s hand! Man, could he pick a pawn or what?
Life was sweet! After all the years in the joint, the score was finally even. I finally did it—his grin widened in self-satisfied triumph—and from prison no less. I’d like to see somebody beat that.
Earnest flicked off the TV and headed back to his job. The evening news would fill him in on all the juicy—and he hoped—gory details. Earnest headed to the cafeteria for a lunch that, no matter what they served, would taste like heaven.
He pushed his mop and swiped his broom along the corridors with a smile he couldn’t suppress. The hours flew by and Earnest’s anticipation grew with each tick of the clock. At five o’clock on the nose, he joined his fellow inmates in the common room, but the news wasn’t on.
“Channel twelve,” Earnest growled. “Now.”
“Who you think you are, old man?” Manny, a tall, extremely fit twenty-year-old from Scottsbluff straightened up and towered over Earnest.
“Clubba killed an ex-cop in Omaha,” he said. “Don’cha wanna know more?”
The message swept through the room. Murmurs and whispers undulated along each row. The young man with the remote switched to the requested channel. “Clubba?” he exclaimed. “Man, he gonna be cock o’ the walk once he gets back here.”
“—with more specifics on the double homicide at the old veteran’s home,” the well-dressed, handsome young anchor said. “One was a retired police officer; the other was his assailant. Sally Quinn is at the scene with the story.”
“Don,” the blond reporter began, “Te’quan Yates Koak was the son of a Sudanese immigrant mother and a local African-American father who he never knew.”
Earnest straightened in his chair. “What did they say his middle name was?”
“Yates,” Luther, a young man hoarding the remote, said. “Like yours.”
“I spoke with his mother earlier today,” Sally said.
Previously recorded tape rolled and presented Clubba’s heartbroken mother, Zarifa Koak. “He was turning his life around,” she said with tears flooding her dark eyes. “Getting back on the straight and narrow.”
The interviewer nodded somberly.
“Th-they didn’t have to shoot him three times,” Clubba’s mother said around a sob. “They shot my b-baby th-three times.”
All the air in Earnest’s lungs rushed out; a deafening silence roared in his ears. He’d met Zarifa shortly after she arrived in Omaha. Quickly becoming a couple, they’d lived together until Tiny sent him to the pen this last time. Time stood still. His mind raced. It couldn’t be! Te’quan Yates Koak…how could he have missed it? “He was my son,” he whispered behind his hand. “My only boy.”
“Clubba’s dead?” Manny asked.
Murmurs of disbelief ran through the room
The words echoed in Earnest’s mind. A double homicide: Tiny and Clubba. The person he’d whipped into a lethal frenzy to take out his nemesis was his flesh and blood. The mission had been accomplished but at what cost? The euphoria of Tiny’s death melted into soul-searing grief.
Earnest stood in silence and headed to his room. For the next week he spoke to no one, barely eating a full meal. Eight days after learning that he’d gotten his own son killed, Earnest Yates cleaned his cell and stripped his bed. The night correctional officers found him dead in his cell dangling by his neck, a perfectly knotted, homemade noose wrapped around his throat.
Jake knew what came following a police shooting: paperwork, administrative leave, and a grand jury investigation. Two weeks later he was back on the job, cleared of all wrongdoing; three weeks later he received an official commendation for meritorious service.
Brittany’s stitches had been removed, and she was healing well physically. Jake made it a point to spend as much time with her as possible. The more he knew about her, the harder he fell for her.
Jake pulled up to the precinct and turned his car off. His dilemma weighed on him heavily: What to do about the Ol’ Blues. The cloudless sky overhead met the deep green grass and foliage in quiet perfection. A gentle breeze sifted through the flowers along the pathway. Hard to believe it was the same place of carnage from two weeks ago. He shook off the memory and stepped out onto the gravel drive.
Making his way inside, he nodded at each officer—ex-officer— who stood sentinel protecting the secrets of the place. The Sarge and Smitty were in the Sarge’s office.
“Hey,” Jake said in greeting.
“Jake,” the Sarge said around the unlit cigar in his mouth. “We were just talking about you.”
“Good stuff I hope,” he said with a smile he didn’t feel.
“Always,” the Sarge said. “Your job—among other things—is to protect the Chief, right?”
Jake didn’t trust or like the line of questioning. He narrowed his gaze at the Sarge. “Yeah…so?”
“So,” the Sarge said, “if word of what we do here got out, he’d lose his job—”
“—for sure,” Smitty said.
“The media, the mayor, the community would all say he had something to do with…with what happened this month.”
Jake wasn’t buying it and shook his head.
“Wait a minute,” Smitty said. “Hear us out. After all, it was the Chief who specifically asked us to work with community organizations.”
“Not like this!” Jake raked a hand through his hair and shook his head. “You guys are out of your minds.”
“Wrong,” the Sarge responded. “What we are is full of experience— the likes of which you don’t begin to have in your department anymore.”
“Jacob.”
His brother’s voice came from behind him. He turned toward the door and spotted Ben. “You too?”
“Surely you see the capabilities of this organization. The surveillance and planning that the regular police officers can’t always do? The technology only we can provide? With you on board, our ability to disseminate that wealth of knowledge will save a lot of lives: cops and civilians.”
Jake sank down onto the same couch where he’d first seen Brittany. “I don’t know, Ben. How can we possibly keep,” he motioned around the office, “all of this secret? How do we keep it all from leaking out?”
“Smitty,” the Sarge said. A smile turned up the corners of his mouth. “Take him for the complete tour.”
“I’m your liaison,” Jake said. “I’ve already taken the tour, remember?”
“Oh, no,” Smitty said. “You took a tour; you haven’t taken this tour.”
“Start down at supply,” the Sarge said. “Let him see what we’re really capable of.”
“Got your ID?” Smitty asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“Just go with him, Jake,” the Sarge said with a smile.
“And be amazed,” Ben said.
“I can’t believe this,” Jake breathed, still stunned at everything he’d seen and heard. “I have to deceive my boss.”
“Yep,” Smitty said. “You can be like Brittany—a young Ol’ Blue.”
“I don’t like
it,” Jake said, “at all, but I don’t see another way.”
“None at all,” Smitty said.
“And Smitty,” Jake added. “I’m going to marry Brittany.”
“When did you decide that?”
“After eating those awful cookies.” Jake laughed. “Those really awful cookies.”
“You Mormons move fast,” Smitty said. Smitty’s gaze softened. He slapped Jake on the back and caught the younger man in what passed for a burly hug.
The monthly board meeting of The Bureau gathered in the lavish conference room of Ben Mitchell’s corporate headquarters. He sat at the head of the table. At his side sat the Sarge, his usual unlit cigar perched in the corner of his mouth. Gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows and running his hand over the polished mahogany table, he shot Ben a pointed look. “Nice digs.”
“Thanks,” Ben said. All members of his ad hoc group turned their attention to him.
Ben distributed a report detailing the Ol’ Blues, their true capabilities, and what they’d accomplished in a year. Eyebrows lifted; soft whistles flew through pursed lips. Everyone was clearly impressed.
“I’ve got one more,” Ben said, breaking the silence with a second report on the two homicides at the retirement home for police officers. “You can read this at your leisure,” he said, “but I want to point out that these men not only assisted local law enforcement with community relations, but they solved several major crime sprees. A lot of criminals are behind bars—or on their way—because of the efforts of these Ol’ Blues. They also prevented Omaha’s first warlord from establishing a criminal enterprise. Almost every member of Clubba’s organization is behind bars and facing decades in the penitentiary. Not to mention the death of their leader.”
“Koak, wasn’t it?” Steve DeGoff asked.
“Right,” Steve said and turned back to the reports.
“What about the ex-officer who was beaten to death?” Dan asked. “Is that something we’re willing to chalk up to business as usual?”
Ben drew in a deep breath. He’d liked Tiny—a lot—and mourned his loss along with everyone else in the room.
“You want to take this?” Ben asked and turned to the Sarge.
He took the cigar from his mouth and cleared his throat. “Tiny set himself up as bait with full knowledge of the outcome. He wanted to go out like that, not in a hospice with machines and tubes hooked to his body. It was his choice and he made it. He was one of the finest cops I’ve ever known.”
Silence settled on the group once more as they considered the Sarge’s words. Ben exchanged a concerned look with the older man realizing they’d reached a critical juncture and today’s meeting would decide the Ol’ Blues’ future.
Bud Williams, at the far end of the table, slapped his newspaper on the table. “There’s a serial rapist on the loose.”
Ben smiled and looked at the Sarge who looked about The Bureau and said, “We’ll just have to send a little justice his way.” The Sarge smiled and chewed on his cigar. Bonnie Platt clicked her gold-plated lighter and leaned toward him. “No thanks,” he said with a wide smile. “Don’t smoke.”
Settling back into the butter-soft chair, the Sarge smiled.
SO DEAR FRIEND, IF YOU’RE EVER IN A PARK OR ON A CITY street and feel confronted with a dangerous situation, just look for a couple of harmless, nameless old men playing checkers, cards, or simply strolling around with particularly shiny walkers or canes. Make it a point to stay close to them.
They won’t mind, you see, because all their lives protecting you has been their only duty. It’s all they’ve ever known and all they’ll ever be. Every one of them knows that one day they’ll be called for their final “End of Tour.” Each wants only to be remembered as a good cop—one who has lived with honor and true to the code of Ol’ Blue.
DETECTIVE CHRIS LEGROW, badge number 1557, is a member of the Omaha Police Department’s Special Victims Unit. He investigates domestic violence cases that include everything from destruction of property to sexual assault and crimes against vulnerable adults. Formerly he worked for nine years as a Family Teacher at Boys Town. He and his wife, Kara, have nine children.
