I HUNG UP THE PHONE. DETECTIVE Hatch was on his way to the cleaners to talk with Ms. Chalmers. We were waiting anxiously for him to arrive. I heard dispatch respond, “Frank-4 do you have that van with that license plate?”
“That’s affirmative. I am southbound on the Blvd. approaching the 500 block.” There was a very brief pause and I heard, “Frank-3, Frank-4.” It was Roscoe. “I have that tan van you’re looking for southbound on the Blvd.”
“Control, Frank-3, put me Enroute to Frank-4’s location.” I turned to Sikes, “That could be our man, Grumpy, let’s go.” We left Ms. Chalmers with a blank look on her face as we rushed for the door. I forgot, the damn door’s locked. “Ma’am, the keys!” I yelled and Ms. Chalmers reached into her pocket, fumbled for her keys, what’s takin’ her so long, and tossed them across the counter to me. I had the door unlocked in an instant and we sped for our patrol cars. Every second was precious. That’s my rookie out there, she’s solo and that bastard likes killin’ women, I imagined the worst.
“Frank-3, that vehicle has spotted me and is pulling to the curb.” I could hear a quiver in Roscoe’s voice. She knew we were looking for a killer and she was by herself. “I’m pulling up behind the vehicle. Give me a code red.”
In my car, I called, “Control, go ahead and arrive me.” As I sped northbound on the Blvd., I felt as if I were in slow motion. Finally, I spotted a tan van and a police car properly stopped behind it with its lights flashing and with Roscoe behind the safety of her door, gun drawn. Good girl! Don’t take chances. That’s my rookie!
I wheeled past her and whipped my vehicle around, screeching to a stop behind Frank-4’s car and positioned to block traffic southbound to protect my officer. I figured that if Tom-335, Sgt. Steve Tolley, heard, he would already be blocking off the Blvd. at Charleston, knowing that this was a felony stop, and that shots might be fired.
“Sam,” I told Sikes, “I’ve got the left, you take the right.” Sam Sikes, Adam-12, followed my lead, whipped around and positioned his car to the right of mine, directly behind Roscoe’s.”
The occupant of the vehicle had not exited. We did not know how many were in the van as it was a closed transport without back or side windows. I had observed a single male behind the wheel as I passed only moments before.
From her position Roscoe ordered, “Out of the vehicle, with your hands raised!”
The van’s door opened slowly, and a large, stocky, darkly tanned male stepped to the pavement. He was approximately six-foot, 275 pounds, long, black hair tied back in a pony tail, a floral Hawaiian shirt, extra, extra large, over an enormous, square-built frame. He forebode trouble, looking like a steamroller ready to overrun us all. But he was sloppy, wearing baggy, below the knee shorts that hovered carelessly above his groin as if they were ready to fall. His feet were sockless and were encased in heavily stained, tan dockers. He started advancing toward Roscoe.
“Stop!” Roscoe ordered, “Put your hands on your head. Down on the ground, face first.” Arrogantly, he continued to stride toward her. “Get down, now, she commanded,” He did not heed her. I did not interrupt her orders, as another officer, even a rookie, trying to talk with a suspect tends only to confuse the issue. “On the ground now, or I will shoot.”
I know she won’t shoot because he has no weapon. I came up behind Roscoe and told her, “Stay where you are and keep me covered.” As the wanted Samoan, Blade, reached the end of the van, I was already at the front end of Roscoe’s vehicle, my gun holstered, my PR-24 drawn. I stayed out of Roscoe’s line of fire. I was making a ruthless move, probably not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, I admonished, but that big lummox isn’t stoppin’. The air was tense; this was a highly volatile situation. Sam Sikes had our right sides covered, as he was buttressed behind Roscoe’s passenger door, his Commander-45 drawn.
As Blade took his first step beyond the van, I had covered fifteen feet between the two vehicles, I held my PR-24 down and behind my back as I walked, then I swung it hard to the left, power hitting the Samoan directly on his left knee. The bigger they are, the harder they fall. Blade went down, falling on his buttock and rolling to his left, all the while grabbing his left knee and moaning. I was immediately on top of him, reaching for his thick, brutish wrist. However, he had usurped my efforts by placing his arms beneath his chest as he rolled face first onto the asphalt. “Give me your wrist, you bastard,” I ordered. I took my gloved thumb and pushed hard against his eyeball and cautioned, “Put your hands behind your back or I’ll pop your eyeball out of your head.” He did not move so I applied more pressure to the eye. His first arm struggled under my weight to come up, and then the second arm came out.
I was angled with my left knee on Blade’s neck, my right knee in the middle of his shoulders, and as he gave me his right arm, Willy and Gilmore, who had joined us, started to cuff him. Gilmore stated, “These cuffs won’t go around his big wrist, Randel, what should I do?”
“Just clasp them through the skin with two cuffs,” I instructed snappishly.
To my surprise, Blade uttered, “Yeah that’ll feel real good. Go ahead. I like pain.”
That’s what your mother said, I thought. Let’s see how you feel when it’s your own. Gilmore pushed with all his might and fastened the doubled cuffs through Blade’s extra thick skin. There was a clunk, like a bar of soap dropping on a wet shower floor, as the cuffs clicked inside the opened, wounded skin. Wells followed suit and Blade, though bleeding slightly and in agony, was cuffed, hands behind his back. Grumpy, who had holstered his 45, was there to lift the big Samoan by his cuffs to his feet. I looked up when I heard the police helicopter overhead. Its lights blazed down on the scene, illuminating the area.
Roscoe, who felt secure, knowing that all of us had Blade in hand, proceeded to the driver’s side of the van, her gun drawn as she still did not know if there were other occupants in the van. However, no one had made any noise or exited the van. Roscoe cautiously opened the driver’s door, fanned right to left, then stepped on the running board. With her knee on the driver’s seat, she scanned the interior back of the van. Then I heard her call nervously, over the den of the helicopter blade’s noise, “Sikes come here!”
Sam released Blade to me and quickly lumbered to the same side of the van, wondering expectantly what Roscoe wanted. I watched as Roscoe holstered her gun, and I felt at ease. There was no further jeopardy. Obviously there were no others in the van. Roscoe slid off the seat and stepped out of the van.
Turning my attention back to Blade, I thrust him across the hood of the car, face down. I read him his rights and he made no sign of acknowledgement. I lifted hard against the cuffs and said, “I’ll read your rights again, you bastard, and you’d better understand them. As I raised his arms, up went one of his legs, undetected by me. Willy, thinking that Blade was trying to kick me, used his PR-24 to hit him on the ankles. However, when his ankles were struck, Blade’s head came up again, so I shoved it back onto the hood. His leg rose once more, and Wells repeated the action with the PR-24. Subconsciously, I heard a thump. Up came Blade’s head, I put pressure on his cuffs and pushed down hard on his head, propelling his face into the hood. “Stay down, buster,” I commanded as I heard another thump. Blade’s body had arched again, and I turned to see Wells bringing his PR-24 back to his own right. Driving Blade’s head downward and making a dent in the hood, I heard Willy demand, “Quit trying to kick the officer, or I’ll break your legs.” Then I figured out that every time Willy struck Blade, his body came up and I shoved it down. His legs went up and Wells hit him again. Up, down, up, down…This could have continued for hours! Good shot though, rookie! That PR-24 training taught the boy something. At least he didn’t hit me this time.
“I’ve got him, Wells, thanks,” I stated almost laughing aloud. As I turned Blade’s body away from the hood of the car, Gilmore came forward and moving in, took Blade from me.
Gilmore affirmed, “I’ve got him Hawk. They need you at the van.”
Releasing the hold on my suspect, I instructed, “Pat him down real good, Gilly.”
I stepped to the back of the van where Sikes and Roscoe were unlocking the doors. Roscoe turned toward me and placing her hand on my shoulder cautioned, “Rod, your not gonna like what we found, so stay calm, and let us handle this.”
Both my hands rose to my waist and turned outward, like empty vessels as I shrugged my shoulders and gave Roscoe a questioning look. As the back doors swung open, Grumpy was quick to guard the entry. “We’ve already called Homicide and Criminalistics, Hawk,” Sikes said. “I think that’s Detective Hatch’s unit pulling up now.”
It sunk in that I had not paid attention to the last conversations between Roscoe and dispatch. I just thought she was clearing the code red. “You may not want to see this, Rod, but you need to,” cautioned Sikes.
I walked forward and gazed into the back of the van. Lying on the floor, wrapped like a shrink-wrapped, bloody beef steak, lay the bludgeoned body of a small white female, wrapped tight as a drum from head to foot in cleaner’s plastic. Her short-cut blond hair was matted with blood, her blue eyes still stared with a look of utter panic into endless space, and her soft pink mouth was open from her last dying efforts to breathe or to scream.
I was not aware of what I did for the next few seconds, but I realized that I was shaking from head to toe, as I took a deep breath trying to breathe for my little cocktail waitress friend, Mary. I barely knew her, but I loved her. Then I felt Roscoe’s hand on my shoulder, trying to hold me back. “No, no, baby, not my sweet little Mary. She’s too little and so sweet. How could he hurt her? How did I let this happen?” Unabashed tears rolled from my eyes down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry baby.” I’m so inept; I can’t even protect my friends.
Then rage washed through my body, a dark rage, an evil force that took control of my very being. My breathing was harsh and forced, my fists were clinched and my muscles became taut; I roughly brushed Roscoe’s hand from my shoulder. Churning with contempt and malice, I bolted from the van and reached Blade as Gilmore was placing him in the back seat of his patrol car. Shoving Gilmore aside, I grabbed the big Samoan by the throat and jerked him to the trunk of the car. I shoved him backward and changing hands, continued my throat hold with my left hand, then bringing back my right fist, I buried it deep into Blade’s belly.
Blade only emitted a ‘puffff’ as he expelled the air, then he smiled menacingly up at me, a mortifying, mad expression flooding across his face; I hit him again in a belly that he had hardened such that my fist bounced back; undaunted, his mocking smile widened, his white teeth becoming a target. Wild with passion and fury, I drew back to strike him again when I felt a large hand cover my fist.
“Hold up there, partner,” cautioned Sam Sikes, as Detective Hatch pulled me away. They were probably the only ones that could have controlled me in my anger. “Leave some for the rest of us, Randel. We’ve got him.” I glared at the lump of feces that I held by the throat, loathing all that he was, and seeing every woman’s face that had been listed as murdered or missing in the last few months. I wanted him dead, and I was ready and willing to do the deed. It took all I could do to let go of his throat, even though I could see the bulging eyes, the deep purple-red of his face, and Blade’s bloodthirsty desire to be bludgeoned, to feel the pain of torture like he had inflicted on his victims.
Choking and coughing as he rose, Blade glared at me, and grinning, whispered, “I know you Randel. We’re made of the same crazy thing. You can kill just like I can. And you would enjoy it like I do; it’s fantastic!”
“I’ll see you in hell then, Blade, because that’s where you’re goin’.” I backed away from him and Grumpy released my still clinched fist. “Thanks, Sikes,” I rejoined.
“That’s what partners are for, Hawk. Let’s get this bastard where he belongs.” Sikes turned on Gilmore, “Gilmore, what the hell you waitin’ for, boy? Can’t you see this suspect is ready for transport?” Gilmore moved in once more and took control of the suspect and I walked aimlessly to the back of the cleaner’s van where Maggie from Criminalistics had taken command.
Emotionally drained, I numbly mourned the loss of my little friend Mary. We had dated briefly and she was such a nice woman. Only 5’ 4” tall, she was a warm and loving lady with a beautiful smile that let everyone know that she was friendly and anxious to help them. She was an excellent cocktail waitress and a joy to have as a friend. Mentally, I could still see her pretty face. I will miss you, Mary. But by damn, maybe all these endless murders will stop now. I bade lifeless little Mary a silent goodbye, went around the end of the van and retched and heaved, but nothing came up. I swallowed hard, forcing all the hurt and anger and sorrow back deep inside. I blew my nose as I returned to my patrol car. I climbed behind the wheel, started the engine, sat inert for a minute, then picked up my mike and called, “Control, Frank-3, you got anything for me?”
“Frank-3, this is Frank-4, Hawk, I’ve got your back!”