"Oh what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive!"
Sir Walter Scott
Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field
Aw, shit!
Officer Oleg Krupa stared at a cell phone resting on the concrete, it's black-glass screen glaring at him; arched rows of tiny keys hinting of mocking smiles. For an instant, he was paralyzed, oblivious to the screams and chaos of people pushing and shoving, tripping over those who had dropped to the ground, desperately scrambling for cover. Shouts and earsplitting screams of fear drowned the echo of gunfire. A pungent odor of gunpowder tainted the air, accompanied by wisps of blue-gray smoke beneath the Ho's covered entrance/exit portico.
A tall, dark-haired young woman a few feet from Krupa was screaming, "You stupid son of a bitch! Why did you shoot him? You didn't have to shoot him! He's an Army officer! He didn't do anything!"
She stepped toward the redhead's body, then retreated, afraid to get between the cop and her loved one, shrieking hysterically.
"You bastard!" the woman shouted into Krupa's face, her eyes wide with angry, pained disbelief. A model's sharply defined features were twisted in anguish and rage, framed by hair that draped her shoulders.
"Get her outta here," Krupa growled, flicking a nod at a tan-uniformed officer.
The cop gripped the frantic woman's bicep, barked something, and firmly dragged her away from the crime scene. She was crying, yet continued to scream obscenities over her shoulder. Resisting the cop, she stretched a palm toward the victim's crumpled form.
Krupa holstered the Glock, reached across his chest and keyed a shoulder mic. "The guy pointed a four-thirteen at me," he radioed, knowing every senior Metro officer on the net would hear it. The comment also would be recorded on a police dispatcher's tape, "proof" that might ultimately save his ass.
"Where's that four-thirteen? The gun?"
The big Hawaiian officer, Akaka, was at Krupa's right shoulder, weapon at low-ready position, clamped in a two-fisted grip. Akaka's eyes were locked onto his target's muscular form. Another Metro police officer advanced from Krupa's one-o'clock position, aiming a shotgun at the motionless figure lying on the dirty concrete.
No threat, Krupa flashed, again feeling a current of abject panic shoot through his body. Legs were weak; arms heavy. Sour bile hovered at the back of his throat, forcing him to repeatedly swallow. He desperately needed to pee.
The suspect wasn't moving. Arms sprawled, legs twisted at unnatural angles. His head had slammed onto the hot pavement of Ho's covered entryway. Face turned to the left, lifeless hazel green eyes open, staring blankly. A pool of dark red expanded from beneath the body, the arc of its leading edge creeping toward the cops' boots.
"He pulled a gun. Pointed it right at me," Krupa snapped.
Akaka turned slowly, holstering his weapon. His dark eyes radiated skepticism. Towering over the much shorter Krupa, Akaka's presence was menacing.
"Yeah. Sure. But… Where the hell is it? I don't see no sorry-assed gun!"
"It's under him," Krupa assured. His heart was racing. He swallowed, panic born of raw exposure producing a metallic taste. Dozens of eyes bored into him. Accusing, hateful. Each pair a potential witness.
Competing emotions gripped Krupa, a mixture of heart-thumping fear, naked aloneness and giddy, adrenaline-pumped excitement. Fear that he'd made a terrible mistake competed with a surge of keen ultra-clarity of mind, the pure ecstasy and high of killing a human being.
As he'd discovered in combat, he was addicted to the pounding thrill of anticipating, then facing death, and living to fight again. However, at this instant, he also was conscious of being very alone. Of being on trial.
"Why'd you fire, dude?" the third shooter, Malovic, asked in hushed tones. He'd side-stepped over to the other officers, his weapon's muzzle also pointed downward, index finger aligned in register or "safe" mode, outside the trigger guard. Malovic's eyes were wide, and he kept licking dry lips.
Krupa ignored the rookie shooters and walked to the victim's body. Face impassive, the cop roughly planted a knee in the dead suspect's lower back, yanked the left, then right arm back, and bound both wrists together with a plastic wire-tie. He jerked the tie, making sure it bit into the man's ruddy skin.
Krupa stood and swaggered back to the huddle of cops. It now included a fourth officer, who rested a black, pump-style shotgun on his shoulder. All eyes were on Krupa, all questioning.
"Okay. Uh… there's a semi-auto in an inside the waistband holster," Krupa reported, struggling to keep a tremor from his voice. "He musta pulled a second gun."
"Holy Mother of God," Malovic breathed. The rookie was visibly alarmed. He kept staring at the motionless, twisted body. "We killed an innocent man, because he was holding a BlackBerry? Oh Lord… ."
Krupa couldn't speak. His mouth was cinnamon-dust dry. His eyes were flicking left and right, as if fearing the crowd of at least fifty people might attack. Fortunately, cops swarmed the area, pushing the curious away, demanding they disperse.
Krupa watched a well-dressed Hispanic man approach the suspect's body, stop and stare. He cocked his head, then circled, assessing the corpse. The man glanced up and locked eyes with Krupa. A flash of fear crossed the witness's dark, mustachioed features. He backed away, glancing once more at the redhead's still form.
Krupa took a deep breath and glared at the officers huddled around him. "The captain'll be here in a few. He'll know what to do."
"Hey, you're… You shot some other dude a coupla years ago, didn't ya?" Akaka declared. "That perp who wouldn't get outta the car. Hell, you put six, seven slugs in him?"
"Nine," Krupa corrected, searching the crowd for Captain Greel. He'd straighten out this mess. Just like he did in oh-six.
"Captain Greel?" Malovic this time. "Why would 'Vader' get involved?"
Behind his back, the black-eyed, mean-spirited head of Metro's West Substation was routinely referred to as Darth Vader. Hardly as imposing as the Star Wars villain, he didn't wear a black helmet and long cloak, but the short-tempered Greel was equally feared by his subordinates. Smart cops gave the humorless captain a wide berth, ensuring they never hit his radar screen.
Krupa shot Malovic a withering look. "He runs CIRT. That's why."
Metro's Critical Incident Response Team was a handpicked group of officers trained to intervene, during standoffs, to "talk-down" amped-up suspects. Ostensibly, CIRT was formed to de-escalate tense situations and avoid the use of lethal force, if possible. In fact, every officer, from rookie to the sheriff, knew better. CIRT's primary purpose was to clean up embarrassing or legally dicey messes. Like officer-involved shootings and other massive screwups.
Malovic's eyes widened. "Aw, geez. We're in real trouble, aren't we?"
The rookie was starting to annoy Krupa. Damned religious freak. Couldn't say shit if he had a mouthful, Krupa thought, shooting Malovic a dark "shut-up" glance.
"Not if Captain Greel's on it," Akaka declared. "Do what he says, and we'll be alright."
The big Hawaiian glared at Malovic, underscoring words with what could only be interpreted as body-language threat.
"If Officer Krupa said the suspect pulled a gun, the dude pulled a gun. We had to shoot him. Got it?"
Malovic looked away and shook his head. He fought the urge to puke. They'd killed an innocent civilian! For what? Why? “Dear God, please forgive me, for I have sinned…,” the young officer muttered.
Captain Michael "Mikey" Greel ducked under a band of yellow crime-scene tape and skirted a smear of blood. He took note of an ambulance easing through the crowded Ho's parking lot, lights flashing. No siren.
Dead suspect, he surmised. Greel marched up to a cluster of tan-shirted officers, and ordered, "Okay, listen up. What do we have, guys?"
Everybody looked at Krupa, who gave a brief recap of events. "The ambulance just left, sir," he concluded, pointing.
"Suspect status?" Greel clipped, watching the square-body American Medical Response ambulance arc onto an access road and turn south, toward Charleston. A siren's wail then pierced the still, superheated Las Vegas air.
Krupa cleared his throat. "Expired, sir. We… . He took six, seven rounds. I fired first. Center-mass, double-tap. Officers Akaka and Malovic fired in support."
Greel's eyes swept the area, settling on a BlackBerry cell phone between him and the smear of blood.
"Where's the suspect's weapon? One of you bozos better not have… "
"No, sir," Malovic jumped in. "There wasn't any weapon. The guy only had that BlackBerry in his hand."
Greel slowly turned his head and leveled a withering gaze at Krupa. "You said he pointed a four-thirteen at you, officer. Heard it over the net. So, tell me: Where's the perp's firearm?"
"Sir, it was still on the suspect's body, when they put him in the ambulance," Akaka said. "It was in a soft-sided holster, tucked inside his jeans."
He hesitated.
"And… ?" Greel urged.
"A hell of a lot of civilians saw it, sir. Several people were right there. They saw the gun. Some even said so."
"Holy shit," Greel murmured. He stared silently after the ambulance. "Did a Metro officer accompany the suspect?"
That was standard procedure, but he had to ask. These idiots had already jacked things up so badly…
"Yessir," Krupa said quickly, adding the officer's name. "He went with the AMR crew."
"Probably to University Medical," Greel said absently.
He stepped away from the other cops, pulled a cell phone from his pocket, scrolled through a list and tapped the screen. Holding the phone to one ear and jamming an index finger into the other, Greel circled the bloody spot where the victim had been. He then eyeballed expended ammunition casings scattered around the area.
"Hey! Captain Greel. You're riding with the victim, right? East on Charleston… ?" He waited, nodding. "You got it in hand? … Good! Now, listen up. I'm sending a cruiser. Stop that damned ambulance, and stay put till the cruiser catches up. Give the perp's gun and ID to the officer I'm sending, then stay with the suspect's body all the way to the hospital. Don't leave until…
"I don't give a rat's ass what the EMT says! The guy's dead! What the hell's the hurry? Getting that gun back here ASAP is a lot more important. Got it? Out! "
Greel punched the phone's glass face.
"You!" Greel pointed at the officer carrying a shotgun. "Move out. Lights 'n' siren. East on Charleston. Catch that ambulance, snag whatever our guy gives you, and get your ass back here immediately! No radio traffic, either, ya hear? You have problems, you call me by phone—and only me! Got it?"
The captain shoved a business card at the dumbfounded cop and waved him away. The officer sprinted for the Ho's parking lot.
Greel wiped a rivulet of sweat running down his cheek. The rotund officer stretched to make five-foot-six and, because he was at least forty pounds overweight, suffered mightily in the desert heat. Dark stains spread from his armpits, and blotchy patches ran vertically along the back of what had been a crisp, tightly stretched uniform shirt. Thinning, prematurely gray hair was sweat-matted across his forehead.
"Where's that undercover security guy?" Greel demanded. "The sumbitch who started this god-blessed goat-rope?"
Krupa spun and searched the thinning crowd, then hooked an arm at Hajji Taseer. Hovering nervously near the roll-up entrance door, Hajji grinned and trotted over to the cop-huddle. Krupa introduced him to Greel, explaining how Hajji had pointed out the suspect, after the big redhead and tall woman had slipped past Krupa.
Greel assessed the nervous figure before him. Soft, pudgy facial features. Twenty-something, maybe early thirties. Indian or Pakistani heritage, he guessed. Out of shape, with a good twenty-five pounds hanging over his belt.
"What happened inside, Mr. Taseer? Just the facts, please," Greel ordered.
"Well… this big dude was acting kinda… you know… like… weird. Strange, shifty. Opening packages. Like… sorta throwin' stuff around. I watched him and… you know, he… Just didn't look right. Sorta off. Maybe on… like… some kinda drugs or something."
"Did you approach him? Ask any questions?"
"Ah… no, sir," Hajji said, dancing from one foot to the other. Hands jammed in his pockets one second, then waving, simulating the victim's actions.
"I'm a loss prevention security officer, sir. We have to stay… you know… discreet. Kinda undercover. Just watch and report strange behavior to a, like… a manager. I called Joe and he talked to the big dude."
Greel didn't answer. He nodded, coal-black slits of hooded eyes boring into Taseer's.
What a worthless sack of pond scum, the captain decided. We killed a man, because YOU thought he was 'acting strange?'
"And… ?"
Hajji's tongue flicked across thick lips. Eyes darted between Greel and Krupa.
Tin god rag head, Greel concluded. Disgusted, he wanted to choke the life out of Taseer, but smiled and nodded, instead, coaxing more details.
"Uhh… Joe talked to the… the suspect, and, you know… the guy sorta mouthed off. Said he was an Army… like a Green Beret or whatever. Dangerous type… had that big gun. Never know 'bout them. 'Specially when they're acting, like… sorta dodgity."
Hajji took a deep breath, smiled broadly and added, "I made a… like… a command decision, sir, and called three-one-one. I just had a feeling… ya know… . The guy wasn't right!"
Greel nodded, returning Hajji's nervous grin. The captain felt gut-roiling revulsion for the toady.
Dodgity? What the hell?
Greel weighed his response and opted for honey rather than a club.
I may need this cockroach.
"You did the right thing, Mr. Taseer. Never know these days. The perp might have pulled his weapon and started shooting customers. But… . Did your supervisor, Joe, ask the guy to leave? Maybe take the weapon to his car?" Greel pressed.
"Ah… like… no, don't think so, sir. Joe just talked to him, then said he was…like an Army dude," Hajji stammered. "Those Green Berets are trained killers, you know!"
Olek Krupa, an Army infantry veteran, growled, "Hey, asshole… !"
Greel cut him off with a raised palm, then craned his neck, checking the portico roof.
"Got it. Now… . How 'bout the video surveillance system? I see one camera. Any more integrated with those domed light shields?"
Hajji gave a quick summary of the outside camera configuration, pointing to several hidden ones.
"We got cameras throughout the interior, too. Wanta see 'em, sir?"
Greel shook his head. "Is the recording system operational?"
Hajji nodded eagerly.
"Oh, yes, sir! We capture video data from… like… twenty cameras. Somethin' like that. Record it on a DVR. We don't miss one damned… "
"Any backup? Auto-streaming of video off-site? A feed to corporate headquarters? Real time or delayed?" Greel asked sharply, dropping into machine-gun mode.
As expected, Hajji recoiled, off balance.
"No… like… I mean, yes! We record on site and stream real-time video to our contractor's office… and to corporate. They're up in… you know… like, Oregon. That's up in the northwest," the security guard stammered.
Greel nodded absently, eyeballing the cameras. He let a strained silence hang, aware of his officers watching closely.
"Sir… . Do you want a bottle of water? I'll go get… ," Hajji asked weakly.
Greel froze the little toad with a frosty gaze, then forced a lopsided half-grin. Positioned to Greel's ten o'clock, Malovic shivered. The captain's cold, menacing smile reminded the rookie of a cobra, fangs exposed, hood flared, poised to strike. He glanced back to the security guard.
Stupid maggot. No clue that he's being set up, Malovic thought. He actually felt sorry for the Ho's guard — but only for a micro-flash. Taseer had caused this nightmare, and a man had died as a direct result of this idiot's terrible mistake.
Greel purred, "No thanks. But I would appreciate you doing one thing for me: copy the last two hours of video data onto a blank DVD. Just one, please. And bring it to me. Only me, okay?"
Hajji yes-sirred a couple of times, then headed for the Ho's security room. Greel noted that the out-of-condition lowlife was knock-kneed and waddled.
To nobody in particular, Greel muttered, "Cop wannabe. Couldn't get hired by a real department. In his own little kingdom here. Big minnow in a tiny puddle."
Greel turned and scanned the concrete. "I count seven casings. Who fired, and how many?" he demanded.
"Only two rounds, sir," Krupa reported.
"Not sure. Four, five… ," Akaka shrugged. He turned to Malovic.
"I fired once, sir. I didn't see any… I mean… Officer Krupa fired two quick ones, then Kale opened up. I assumed they saw something I didn't, so I… I fired once. One round, sir," Malovic rambled.
Greel stared at the rookie's name tag. Malovic. Then the big Hawaiian's. Akaka. The senior officer made a snap decision, a judgment founded on years of gut-level intuition. That sixth sense was his forte, one of many reasons he led Metro's elite Critical Incident Response Team.
Malovic could be a problem. Akaka was solid. Krupa? He was a dumb ass, who managed to repeatedly wind up in messy situations. But also a committed Metro drone, who never asked "why." No worries there.
"Awright, let's get this straight, boys," Greel said, hands on his hips. "Officer Krupa was the senior officer on-scene. He was in the best position to assess the situation. Krupa, you say the suspect pulled a weapon and pointed it at you. Fearing for your safety and that of innocent bystanders, you fired.
"Officer Akaka, you, too, saw the suspect pull a firearm, and you fired in support of your fellow officer."
He fixed the other rookie with a cold gaze. "You, Officer Malovic, were not in position to see what the suspect was doing, but acted to protect Krupa and Akaka. Precisely as you were trained. That's exactly how it went down. Correct?"
Greel's black eyes shifted to each officer, in turn, until he received a nod. Only Malovic hesitated a few seconds, his mouth gaping in disbelief. He finally nodded.
Reluctantly, Greel observed.
"You have a problem with that, Malovic?" The captain's voice was soft, but with an unmistakable edge.
"No, sir." The rookie shook his head slowly and dropped his eyes. Despite the 114-degree heat, a cold shiver rippled from his neck to waist.
Oh, Lord in Heaven… , Malovic prayed.
The screech of brakes attracted Greel's attention. The cop he'd dispatched to intercept that AMR ambulance ferrying the victim's corpse opened a patrol car's driver-side door, glanced fore and aft, then slipped out. Two quick steps and he surreptitiously handed Greel a small bundle. Wrapped in a blue cloth stamped "AMR" was a Kimber Ultra Carry .45 caliber semiautomatic pistol jammed tightly into a nylon holster.
Greel barked at another uniformed officer standing guard near a strand of crime-scene tape, then motioned at a shopping cart. Stacked with yellow bags of water softener and topped with boxed items, the cart had been abandoned in the melee that erupted, after the three officers fired. That cop maneuvered the orphaned cart to within feet of a blood smear on the concrete, as Greel herded several other officers closer.
When surrounded, Greel squatted, unwrapped the .45 pistol, and flicked the blue cloth with one hand, drawing attention to it. Shielding his other hand with a knee, the captain surreptitiously placed the victim's semiautomatic on the concrete, still in its holster.
In a single, smooth motion, he made a show of spreading the cloth over a fluid pool of dark-red blood. Standing, the bombastic captain pointed and ordered, "Get this mess mopped up, before that stuff congeals. In this damned heat, it'll stain the concrete and ol' Ho won't ever get it clean!"
A ripple of nervous laughter answered. An officer tentatively grabbed a corner and dragged the cloth through the pool, careful to avoid touching the thickening fluid. Another yelled at a Ho's employee, who hustled into the store for a mop.
People were still milling around, but most of the shell-shocked customers had fled to the parking lot and departed. Officers had herded ten-to-fifteen individuals into the Ho's tire department, where they would be detained, until Homicide detectives arrived to take witness statements.
* *
Inside the store, Hajji Taseer collared a wide-eyed, jittery young stock clerk, who doubled as the Ho's-Summerlin information technology guru. Hajji whispered an order and slapped the kid's back.
Solo, the clerk slipped into the store's security office, a long, narrow room dominated by a bank of six TV monitors, and closed the door. Each screen displayed a section of the warehouse store, its image switching every three seconds to automatically access a different camera. The IT technician slid into a chair and hunkered over a keyboard, ignoring a Metro cop and tall woman arguing at the far end of the office.
Katrina Hart couldn't stop crying. "Where're they taking him? Is he still alive?" she pleaded, frantically glancing at the security monitors over her shoulder. "Why won't you tell me?"
Via those monitors, she'd spotted paramedics load Erik's body into an ambulance and depart. Her witnessing even that tidbit had prompted a sharp rebuke from her Metro-cop guard, who demanded she turn her back on the bank of TV screens.
"You've got to let me go!" she cried again.
"Ma'am, as soon as we take your statement, you'll be allowed to leave. Detectives will be here any minute now," a uniformed officer said, trying to soothe the young woman.
She pivoted in her chair, stealing another frantic glance at the row of monitors.
"Don't look at those!" the officer yelled. "Do it again, and I'll have to arrest you!"
Over Kat's shoulder, the cop had seen Captain Greel pointing and issuing orders, then squatting, surrounded by a tight cluster of brown-shirts. He'd seen CIRT take over a crime scene before and had an inkling of what was unfolding in the Ho's entryway.
Kat flared, angry. "Why the hell can't I look? What're you guys hiding? I've got to know what happened to Erik! Is he alive?" she shouted, jumping erect. The wheeled chair spun into a wall and ricocheted.
"Is he going to live?" she screamed.
The officer grabbed Kat's upper arm, roughly jerking her close. He caught a hint of expensive perfume, as she lost her footing and stumbled. The cop yanked her arm, preventing a fall. She twisted free, and thrust her face close to his.
"Don't touch me, you son of a bitch!" she screamed. Her eyes were red, tear-smeared mascara leaving charcoal tracks on each cheek.
"You killed him, didn't you? You killed him!"
"Look, ma'am," the cop said, lowering his voice. "I don't know what happened to your… your significant other. I'll try to find out, if you'll… "
"Shut up!" Kat bellowed, her long hair whipping the cop's face as she spun away. Again, the officer grabbed her, pulling the woman from the row of security monitors.
A shocked Ho's employee seated at a console recoiled and shot the cop a frantic glance. The guy was retrieving a silver disk from a digital recorder, the officer noticed.
Kat twisted free and slumped into another chair, burying her face in both hands. She sobbed, anguished. The cop knelt in front of the shapely woman, trying to console her.
Kat wiped tears away, eyes flicking to the officer. "I… Please… I have… to know… ," she sobbed, shoulders heaving.
She sat erect, pulled a ragged breath and announced, "And I have to go to the bathroom. Where's the ladies… ?"
"No! You can't do that!" the cop insisted, standing over her.
"Fine! I'll pee right here, and you can clean it up!" Kat fumed.
She headed for the door, trailing the Ho's employee. The guy was carrying two square envelopes, the officer observed, as he seized Kat's upper arm.
"Hold it!" he ordered, then hesitated, unsure. "Alright, lady. But I'm staying with you. I can't let you go alone."
Kat whirled. "Oh, really! You have to watch me take a piss! You'd like that, wouldn't you? Pervert!"
She marched from the Ho's security office, heels clicking. The cop followed her into the ladies restroom, then stood outside a stall door. Kat soon flushed the commode and flung the door open.
"Thanks. I was getting desperate."
She'd regained a smidgen of control, but her voice was still weak, strained.
The cop nodded and looked away, embarrassed. He felt sorry for the dark-eyed beauty, but had his orders.
Hajji Taseer, waiting outside the Ho's office, accepted two DVD disks from his IT expert. Pocketing one, he carried the other outside and caught Captain Greel's attention. Greel acknowledged with a nod, said something to one of his officers, then joined Hajji.
"Here's the video, sir," the security guard announced. A broad, proud grin revealed a crooked row of whitened teeth. "Proof that the perp pulled a gun. Right there, sir. We got us a slam-dunk here!"
The excited little bowling-pin-shaped twerp danced from one foot to the other. In his twisted mind, he was now a Metro insider, a dream come true. Through a fluke, he'd become a critical element in a high-profile, important incident, and was now working with his heroes, Metro law enforcement officers!
And he was responsible for taking down a dangerous Army dude. Hell, they'd probably give him a medal! For sure, his Afghan countrymen would hail him as a hero.
Greel wanted to choke the simple-minded weasel, but restrained himself.
"Thanks, Mr. Taseer," he purred. "One more thing," he added, resting a hand on the young man's shoulder.
Hajji nodded enthusiastically, a wide-eyed puppy anxious to satisfy its master.
"Just in case that video doesn't show what we expect, I think we should take some precautions." Greel then outlined, in detail, what Hajji should do with the security surveillance video recording system.
"A Metro Homicide team will be here in a few minutes," Greel concluded. "Do not let them take that recording system, understand? Make sure they know it's been out of service since last Thursday. And that it's Ho's proprietary equipment. Tell Homicide they can not confiscate the DVR! Got it?"
Hajji repeated Greel's directives, clearly excited and eager to please.
Greel patted the guard's arm. "Hajji, you take care of this and I might be able to pull some strings on your behalf," he smiled, emphasizing the guy's first name.
We're buds now, the captain implied. "Metro is always looking for good people… " Greel let the come-on dangle in the heavy summer heat, a baited hook twitching before a hungry mackerel.
"Yes, sir!" Hajji enthused. "I'll take care of the DVR. Nooooo problem!"
Greel shook the little twerp's hand and shooed him away. Not trusting the half-wit to effectively disable the Ho's video-surveillance system, the captain made a mental note to call Ho's headquarters in Oregon. A smart vice president of security would take care of it — once the mutual risk factors were properly explained.
Greel had underestimated the young Ho's guard, though. Las Vegas Metro's brilliant, go-to cover-up architect had no idea Hajji Taseer possessed a second copy of that video data, a two-hour clip of stark truth, captured in vivid, high-definition color. That error in judgment ultimately would doom Metro and its cohorts.