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CONGRESS HEIGHTS, SOUTHEAST, Washington, D.C.—Forest Ridge and The Vistas Apartments
Just after midnight was really off the chain, psychotic, plain nuts. These sad, miserable, sons-of-crack-whores are a piece-of work. The killer wanted to shake things up again, right in the heart of the ghetto. Right now! Even at this hour there were far more men hanging out on the block than he cared to see. What a bunch of losers. I can spray them all pretty quickly.
He has watched them from three-stories up; some of them the father and mother of children who were set to travel right down their path to nowhere. Well except, jail. He thought of his own father, the absolutely irresponsible prick.
Then, he saw the tall buff drug dealer he’d been buying from, wave at an addict, pulling on his white gloves. Latex gloves were commonly worn by individuals who distributed PCP. Worthless trash. Phony salesman-like attitude written all over the dealer’s face.
Boom! Boom!
Two bull’s eyes.
Two exploding heads cantaloupes.
That’s how their lives should end. Strong executions.
He had to block out the rude thoughts in his mind. He already had plans to take out a more important D.C. Metro-area denizen. A U.S. Senator. Maybe dos. They were dead meat.
The really interesting thing about the dealers was that none of them paid much attention to a pole-mounted MPD surveillance camera that captured all of their stoop sales. Thurman, with his apartment window open had previously heard the stupid ingrates express the position that the cameras were fake or inoperable.
After all, they engaged in several urban warfare-style shoot-outs and the police never showed up. He knew they were off-base. The MPD had been wearing velvet gloves with steel fists inside, undoubtedly, prepared to lay the hammer down.
__________
David Thurman’s attention was captured by an unmarked Yukon Denali rolling into the apartment complex’s parking lot. Pulling out his binoculars, he smiled oddly at a team of Gun Recovery Unit officers, wearing menacing tactical gear. The apartments’ residents scattered as officers exited the SUV. Officer Katz accosted Rudy Briscoe, an eighteen-year-old talking on his cell phone. Briscoe, a resident of the complex for ten years, was known to the officers and always suspected of committing one crime or another. He backed away from law enforcement, who said, “Get against the wall. You have any weapons?”
Ah, the inherent power of the unconstitutional stop and frisk tactic.
Bristol did not answer and quickened his pace. What happened next was captured on the MPD surveillance camera.
Bristol sprinted out of the parking lot into an adjacent street. Officer Katz gave chase but did not demand the suspect to stop. Officer Sheehan raced back to the Denali, hopped inside, and chased behind Briscoe without activating the vehicle’s siren. They didn’t want to alert any law-abiding citizens of their potential debauchery.
Crossing the street, a dark object appeared in Briscoe’s right hand prompting officer Katz to snatch his weapon from its holster. Reaching the opposite sidewalk, Briscoe glanced at least twice over his left shoulder at the approaching vehicle, arms pumping, trying to reach the driveway leading to a wooded area. As Briscoe pivoted to turn into the driveway he abandoned his weapon. Continuing to flee, the Denali pulled parallel to him. Officer Sheehan pointed his gun, fired twice, hitting Briscoe in the left buttock.
Rising, falling, then, sprawling on the ground, Briscoe held his hands away from his body. Officer Katz stood over him with his gun pointed at him.
Briscoe volunteered, “The gun ain’t real, please don’t kill me.”