Enemies Domestic (An Alex Landon Thriller Book 1)

by Gavin Reese

  A light chime announced the coffee had finished brewing. “And that’s my cue, Junior. I’m off to fight all the crime.” Berkshire filled his large insulated coffee mug, grabbed a sprinkled doughnut, and turned to leave.

  “Best of luck, sir.” Alex saw Berkshire raised his mug in a mock salute on his way out.

  While filling his own mug, and just after his second bite of maple doughnut, Alex’s work cellphone rang and displayed an unfamiliar number. He swallowed hard and quickly rubbed his hands together to remove some of the wayward maple frosting. While holding the flip phone between his two least-sticky fingers, Alex opened it to answer the call and delicately held it in place to avoid applying maple glaze to his shirt or face. “This is Detective Landon.”

  “Hello, Detective? This is Jonathan McDougal, I heard you’ve been trying to reach me. Been tied up for the last few days and wouldn’t have called back anyway, honestly.”

  “Yeah, Jonathan, thanks for getting back to me, I really appreciate it. How are things?”

  A pregnant pause conveyed Jonathan’s lack of interest in small talk. “Absolutely shitty. Why feign friendship when you’re looking to charge me with child abuse. You?”

  “Sorry to hear that, Jonathan,” Alex decided to largely ignore the antagonism, “I needed to see if I could meet with you to go over a few things that should allow me to close this thing out. Do you have time to come down here today?”

  “I got nothing but time, Detective, but I think I need to meet you here at my mother’s house. I think I probably need your help with something, and I’ll probably have to show you what I’m talking about for it to really make sense.”

  A long pause announced Alex struggled to weigh his options and determine Jonathan’s intent. Suicide by cop? Self-surrender? Legitimate need? “Yeah, okay, Jonathan, let me grab the address and I’ll see what I can do. Any time work better for you? How urgent is this?”

  Jonathan considered that before answering. “Well, Rome isn’t on fire yet, but I don’t want to get pushed off for a week.”

  “Okay, late morning or early afternoon work for you?” Landon hoped that would give the man enough time to reconsider any ill intent presently on his mind.

  “Yeah, sure, that’ll give me some time to finish up a few things.”

  Thirty-Three

  Mrs. McDougal’s neighborhood. Dry Creek, Arizona

  Detective Alex Landon knew that Jonathan McDougal had only ever seen the Ford Explorers assigned to Wall and Landon, and assumed he would expect one of those SUVs to signal his arrival. Instead, Berkshire’s unmarked Taurus turned from the main roadway and delivered three DCPD detectives into the neighborhood. They implicitly began tactically analyzing the immediate area, sharing only information they thought particularly out-of-place or relevant. As his mother lived in a typical, middle-class American neighborhood, and McDougal had scheduled the meeting for the middle of the day, detectives anticipated seeing activities of normal life in that area: kids playing, parents pushing strollers, delivery drivers, service vans. Alternatively, they focused on identifying the things that didn’t belong and stood out in this environment as potentially dangerous: a driver or groups of out-of-place men sitting in parked cars near the target house, nearby “lookouts” who watched vehicles coming through the neighborhood, or maybe McDougal hiding behind hedges with a long gun and “Fuck DCPD” written across his chest. They saw no such threat indicators, which lessened, but did not eliminate, the danger of continuing on.

  Berkshire passed the house, stopped a full five doors west of the residence, and the three detectives sat in place for a moment to conduct a final check of the area before Berkshire dropped the transmission in Park and killed the engine. Alex doubted McDougal intended anything stupid, but Wall and Berkshire had insisted they proceed with reasonable caution given his recent mental state and personal struggles.

  The oppressive desert heat easily defeated what remained of the cold interior air as Berkshire notified Dry Creek dispatch they would be out of their car at the listed address. Berkshire further provided dispatch with their vehicle and clothing descriptions and declined assistance from uniformed DCPD patrol officers. Landon expected the Dry Creek dispatchers to relay that information to nearby patrol officers to “deconflict” the detectives’ presence, and avoid the potential of a “blue-on-blue” incident should things go south.

  Without appearing to conspicuously do so, the three detectives assessed every potential threat as they exited the sedan and walked to McDougal’s door. Only a matter of footsteps, and mere seconds, from finding out if he had killing on his mind, Alex consciously worked to maintain appropriate vigilance. This circumstance embodied exactly what Alex envisioned when he thought of General James Mattis’s famous quote, “Be polite. Be professional. But have a plan to kill everyone you meet;” Alex knew of few greater, more accurate analogies to the position in which modern American law enforcement found itself. He had to be equally competent and capable in roles as diverse as the cop from Norman Rockwell’s diner and a Marine Corps squad leader kicking a door and clearing a building with hostile gunman inside. Today, Alex and his colleagues had to ring Jonathan McDougal’s doorbell and wait, patiently and vigilantly, and be equally prepared and capable of smiling and shaking his hand or dropping multiple hollow point rounds into his chest and head at close range if he presented them with a lethal threat.

  Wall reached the door first, and looked back at Berkshire and Alex to ensure they were set. The three men nodded at one another, and Wall initiated the contact. The three detectives tried to create a tactically advantageous situation, all while appearing non-threatening.

  Ding…dong….

  Wall pushed the doorbell and held it to distinctly separate the two sounds, which Alex understood to be his usual practice. Moment of truth. Wall stepped back to the handle/right side of the doorway and watched the nearby windows, while Alex stayed at the hinged/left side of the doorframe. This allowed them to maintain an L-formation and avoid a crossfire while creating one for McDougal. Berkshire stepped farther left and back, just far enough to simultaneously watch the backyard gate and the front door, which helped prevent anyone from surprising them.

  “…Coming…” Alex recognized McDougal’s voice as he walked through the home to open the door for them. Only a few seconds passed before he saw the interior foyer lights turn on near the front door. A few more seconds passed before Alex heard the deadbolt move and saw McDougal open the door to greet them. It appeared to Alex that McDougal only saw him at first, but soon recognized Wall and Berkshire’s presence and positioning. Alex realized, thankfully, that both of McDougal’s hands were empty as he pulled the door open widely and stepped back into the foyer as though inviting them inside.

  “I thought it best to make it clear I wasn’t trying to go all PTSD on you,” McDougal wryly explained, while seemingly disappointed by their tactics. He looks like shit, Alex thought. The circles under his eyes had darkened, and he looked pale and about a week unshowered. A razor hadn’t approached his face in weeks and his dirty t-shirt displayed stains consistent with coffee and what looked like remnants of canned hot dog chili. Alex distinctly smelled cheap bourbon and stale cigarettes emanating from the open door.

  Alex put his open hands up in front of his chest to show his intent to only speak with him. “Jonatha--”

  “Don’t apologize, Detective, I don’t fucking deserve it. In all fairness, I could have come to your office, but I wanted to see where I stood with you. Now I know. In case you’re wondering, I’d ‘ve done the same thing to you.”

  Alex stood silently for a moment, assessing Jonathan’s demeanor and feeling himself at a tremendous disadvantage. “What can I do to help you, Jonathan? You called me.”

  “Come in. I think my brother Billy is into some bad shit and I think you need to know about it.” McDougal stepped farther back into the small foyer and pulled the door open even wider to allow the detectives inside. Alex led t
he detectives past McDougal and into the foyer. Despite the room being only about eight feet long and somewhat narrow, he didn’t want to walk any further into the unfamiliar home and find anything unexpected. McDougal closed the front door and tried to direct them ahead into his mother’s living room. All three detectives, in near simultaneous motion, indicated for Jonathan to lead them into the unknown home.

  Detective Wall quickly spoke for their group. “Go ahead, Mr. McDougal, you’re the only one who knows where we’re going.”

  “Of course.” Alex saw him smile sheepishly, and then squeeze himself between the detectives and the narrow room. Once past Alex, McDougal led them onward; as they walked, Alex assessed the home, which his host soon noticed. “There’s no one else here. Billy doesn’t live here and my mom’s at work. Just me and not a single boogeyman. Although, this does give me a better understanding of how all those Iraqi and Afghan families felt when my men and I rolled into their living rooms. ” As they reached the couches and loveseat, Jonathan motioned for the detectives to sit. “I just never imagined anyone would be in my home doing the same thing to me.”

  “We certainly don’t mean to offend, Mr. McDougal, this is such a habit that I do this in my own mother’s home,” Wall offered. Alex wondered if there existed a question or awkward circumstance for which the senior investigator did not have an immediate explanation.

  McDougal took up residence in a nearby recliner, reached forward to the ash-strewn glass coffee table, picked up an empty Bud Light bottle, and spit tobacco juice into it. Alex noticed he, Wall, and Berkshire continued to survey the room; for his part, Alex no longer searched for threats, but scanned for further evidence of how bad living conditions had become in the home.

  Alex made eye contact with the former Captain, who appeared to suddenly become self-conscious about his appearance and the condition in which he had his mother’s home. Spreading his arms to encompass the room, he offered an apology. “I’m sorry, gents, this is all me. My mom kept a clean house until I showed up.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Jonathan, I’m just glad you called, and I hope there is something we can do to help you out.” Alex detested the smell of cigarette smoke and knew he would have to get his clothes dry-cleaned before wearing them again. Maybe I can throw them in the trunk and drive home in my boxers.

  McDougal spent the next fifteen minutes detailing his previous encounter with Billy and his friends at The Watering Hole, and his suspicion that they hoped to build and use explosives. While Alex and Berkshire peppered him with questions, McDougal provided seemingly unrehearsed answers and, as far as Alex could tell, told them everything he knew, thought he knew, and had inferred from the men’s suspicious behavior and attempts to pry specific information from him.

  Wall eventually took his turn at questioning their informant. “So, let me make sure I’m clear. You only know the first names of those three douche bags, but no vehicles, no residences, and you think they were calling each other by nicknames?”

  “Yeah, I know how bad that sucks,” McDougal replied. “Finding a particular angry white guy in rural Arizona named Mikey is probably like finding a specific hadji named Mohammed.” Spit. “There’s one on every corner, and they’ve all got rifles, but they’re not the one you’re looking for.”

  “It sounds a lot like my time spent in the jungle looking for Vietnamese men named Charlie. At least there shouldn’t be too many ‘Clevelands’ out there in the sticks,” Wall returned the joke from his own military perspective.

  “So, what’re you guys gonna be able to do about The Chosen Few?”

  “Well, Jonathan,” Wall offered, “it depends on a lot of things. If these guys are already documented assholes, our job’ll be a lot easier. If no one else has them on the radar, we’ll have a lot more legwork to do, and it’ll take a lot more manpower and time. I really won’t know until we start digging.”

  “Can you call me and let me know?”

  Wall again spoke, as he and McDougal now seemed to ignore the other detectives. “Probably not. I can, maybe, let you know some general info, just because I think you oughta know if your brother is into something really bad. I’m sure you’d want to know whether it was safe to allow him and his buddies to come around here.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s up to my mom, and she’s never listened to the cops about getting trespass and restraining orders against Billy. Hell, that kinda thing started with the juvenile detention folks, and continued with probation officers and the parole board. She turns a blind eye to what he does, and prays he’ll change someday. Seems that God isn’t listening to her.” Spit. “Maybe it’s just that Billy’s supposed to die in prison.”

  Alex saw Wall look at the other detectives, as though to ensure they heard McDougal’s statement. “I think we can let you know some basic info, anyway, just in case Billy and the gang come callin’.”

  Alex interjected with what he deemed more relevant questioning. “Do you know where Billy lives? We can start by going out and trying to talk to him, see if he’ll let us search his property.”

  He reflexively shook his head side-to-side before speaking. “No, I haven’t been to his trailer in years. I only know he lives in Tonopah somewhere. No way he’d let the cops search his place, and even if he did, it would only be because he got rid of anything he could get in trouble for.”

  “What can you tell me about the trailer?”

  “Nothing. The last one got repo’d when he went to prison, so I don’t even know what the current one looks like.”

  “Unless, like Detective Wall said, someone else has already run across these guys, that’s gonna leave us with probably starting at square one, Jonathan, but we’ll write up a brief report, and we’ll try every legal angle to figure this out, as soon as possible. I don’t want to get your hopes up, because we may not have any answers for a while.” Alex paused for a moment while he decided how much he wanted to deflate the man’s expectations. “We may, because this all took place in the county, even end up kicking this over to their detectives because this all started in their jurisdiction. If that happens, I don’t want you to think we’re punting this problem away, it may end up simply being a jurisdictional issue.”

  “I understand, you can’t go play in someone else’s backyard without their permission.”

  Alex genuinely liked and pitied Jonathan, and believed everything he’d told them, but he also felt certain Lieutenant Dobbins would never allocate the resources and time required to chase down these leads, especially when the suspects likely lived in the jurisdiction of the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. He looked again at Jonathan’s handwritten note with Billy’s full name, date of birth (26-DEC-76), last known address, and vehicle information. Jonathan’s description of Paul’s right forearm tattoo of “The Chosen Few” might generate some leads, but Alex had never heard of the group and thought it might be a play off the Marine Corps motto. Maybe they had a few Marines among their founders, he thought, it’s enough to start looking into Billy, but it’ll be a quick dead-end if he’s never been arrested or interviewed with any of these characters. Time to change that. Assholes and explosives go together like sandpaper and handjobs.

  “Jonathan, have you had any luck with work or the VA?” As it seemed Jonathan had nothing more to offer on The Chosen Few and Billy’s association with them, Alex wanted to bring the discussion back to the child abuse case. He watched Jonathan absently stare at the coffee table, holding tightly onto the spit bottle. The question had clearly teleported him to a completely different set of thoughts, emotions, and problems.

  Jonathan again spit tobacco juice into the bottle before he looked up, met Alex’s gaze, and spoke somberly. “No news on work, seems no one is hiring or I’m ‘over-qualified’ for their current openings. Frankly, I’m a little tired of being encouraged to ‘check back’ and ‘apply for future management opportunities.’ Seems like a lotta business owners aren’t all that interested in taking a chance that I wo
n’t ‘snap’ and shoot up the place.” Spit. “I read a news piece yesterday that claimed, like, ninety-three-percent of counties across the country still haven’t recovered from the 2008 recession. How is that even possible, it’s been nine years?” Spit.

  “On the other front,” Jonathan quickly continued on before giving anyone an opportunity to respond, “got some help from a VA head doc named ‘Martin.’ I went in there hoping to see him three or four times a week, but once every week or two is all the time I can get. I’m hoping it works like an E-R and they triaged my lack of immediate intent to kill myself or others to mean I’m more stable than the guys they’re making more time for now. Pretty fucked up all around.” Spit. Jonathan looked back down at the coffee table and avoided making eye contact with any of the three detectives. All four men sat in silence, and stewed together in Jonathan’s blatant, uncomfortable honesty. Alex, for his part, felt really incapable of addressing Jonathan’s problems, and recognized his disgusting lack of viable options to help the man. He couldn’t say, “it’s going to be okay,” because he had no right or basis to expect that to be consoling or true. He had no short-term or immediate fix, and Alex understood he could do absolutely nothing to help. They could have listened to Jonathan a while longer, but their open criminal investigation created an ethical issue.

  “Truth is,” Jonathan eventually continued, “I’m riding a damn roller coaster, just that the peaks are only a little less shitty and depressing than the troughs, but somehow the troughs keep getting deeper. It’d be a damned sight easier to get through this living back home with my wife and kid, though. Any word from C-P-S on how long they’re gonna keep this up?”

  “No, Jonathan,” Wall quietly responded, “they haven’t told us much of anything, and I don’t think they’re especially close to having an answer themselves. The best thing you can do to speed that along is to keep working on getting yourself right.” Wall paused, as though searching for the right words. “You need to hang in there, Jonathan. Me and, I think, almost every guy I came home with, went through something like this,” Wall offered. “We didn’t talk about it, at least not much and not with the right people. We were forced to silently suffer through it, come to terms with adjusting ourselves back to some semblance of reality, often alone and without help. Humans are not psychologically built for sustained, long-term violence and your generation of soldiers is the first in American history to have carried such a tremendous burden. Every other conflict has lasted only a few years, and recently sent most of our boys into harm’s way for a year, two at most, but most of your generation have been deployed for the better part of a decade. Sixteen years of constant combat has robbed us of too many great, patriotic Americans already. Your wife and son need you, Jonathan, your mom needs you, and brother is definitely gonna fuckin’ need you, especially if I get a hold of him.” Wall gently slapped Jonathan’s knee and tried to lighten the mood, which at least brought a momentary, weak smile to the man’s face. “In all seriousness, and this bullshit aside, call me if you ever need anything. It’s the least I can do for you.” Wall handed Jonathan a business card with his personal cell number written on the back. “Free piece of advice, though. I would get your mom’s house cleaned up, right quick, because before C-P-S can close out their investigation, they’re likely to want to meet you here and see how you normally live. If this is what you have to show ‘em, that’s not going to be real encouraging to get them to close their case. Nothing about this is illegal, but it doesn’t make ‘em want to move onto the next guy and leave you and your family the fuck alone.”