Great Deception

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

There was always that hated paper work. All looked intent with Andy the sole exception. His legs were dangling over the edge of his desk drawer while his laptop balanced on his lap. A small grin crossed his lips and then a laugh escaped.

“This isn't supposed to be fun,” Jones said as he glanced over his eyeglasses that sat low on his nose. Jones was the newest member of the team. Sullivan was the one that put him on the team after Jones' partner had been killed during an earlier case that Sullivan was working on. He had been impressed with the way Jones handled himself, so invited him to join the team. Jones turned out to be a good detective and team player. He was once asked by a fellow policeman on the Augusta force what it was like being the only African-American on the team. He responded, “What's it like being the only Italian on the team?” Smiling at his fellow officer, “I'm just an American, never been to Africa. I like to believe what Martin Luther King said about judging a man by the content of his character, not the color of his skin.” That ended the questions.

Andy looked over at Jones while still laughing, “Come here, you gotta see this.”

Rolling his chair over, “This better be good,” Jones said. Studying the picture on Andy's computer for a moment, “I don't get it and it sure as heck isn't funny.”

“I know, just wanted to see if you'd be sucker enough to roll on over.”

“You are such a jerk sometimes...grow up,” Jones said as he stood and rolled his chair back.

“We got something,” Sullivan nearly shouted from his office. “The DNA is in on that cigarette butt, and he is a known felon. Saddle up, we're rolling,” he said as he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. “Jones and Ted with me, Andy you hold down the fort. Let's move em out!”

As they rushed out, Andy yelled, “That's it Sullivan, no more western novels for you. I will not be a party to that kind of talk.” Andy returned to his computer where there was a picture of Madison staring at him. “I wonder if I could get her to bring me lunch,” he said aloud and then settled back regretting he was left behind. He enjoyed the action and always wanted to be in on it.

Sullivan explained the little he knew to Jones and Ted. Detective Striker of the Portland PD was waiting for them. Striker was not a big man. He stood about five foot seven and weighed maybe one forty soaking wet. His blonde hair was always neatly combed to match his well pressed suit, shirt and tie. He took great pride in how he looked. He sometimes overdid the macho stuff to compensate for his stature. Sullivan had recently learned that when the governors advisers were deciding who to recommend for the position at HIU that he now held, Striker was high on the list of candidates. The little experience that Sullivan had with Striker helped him understand why. Striker had taken the news in stride with some disappointment that he would never show publicly.

Sullivan looked at the screen of his buzzing phone. “Yeah Striker, what ya got?”

“You know the bar called The Junk Store on Forest Avenue?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me a block east of the bar. We know the perp lives on the second floor in a rented room above the bar. We'll plan our insert when you get here.”

“Do you have eyes on the exits?” Sullivan asked.

“There is a plain clothes detective watching each.”

“Thanks, we'll be there in less than ten minutes.”

“Good, I'll be watching for you,” Striker said, and then punched off.

Eight minutes later, Sullivan's cruiser crept up behind Striker. The snow piled up along the curb made it impossible to be clear of the lane of traffic. As he began to open his door, a car drove by depositing slush and mud across the whole side of his vehicle. Some splashed over the top of the door nailing him right in the face.

Striker got out and hustled back to talk to Sullivan. He moved to the sidewalk and up to Sullivan who was now out of his cruiser and wiping his face. Holding out a folder, “There's a picture of the perp in here,” Striker said trying not to laugh as he watched Sullivan wipe his face, and then he noticed the black and blue circles around his eyes. “That explosion did a number on your face.”

Opening the folder and ignoring the comment and look on Striker's face, “Looks like a pretty rough character, but I don't recognize him.” At the time of the picture after an arrest, Clyde Erskin's black hair was sticking up in all directions and had obviously not showered for quite sometime. His shirt shown in the picture was gray and wide open exposing a dirty tee shirt. He was also obviously high on something. “He doesn't look smart enough to pull off the explosion, but looks are deceiving. Let's go get him and find out.”

“Hold up,” Striker said as he put his hand on Sullivan's chest. “This is my collar and operation, so I'd like you to follow me in. We'll go in through the bar. It's possible he might be there. If not we'll move to the stairs in the back that leads to his door at the top of the stairs on the right.

Jones and Ted were standing behind Sullivan having studied the picture that Sullivan had passed to them. Jones turned to Ted after studying the picture and nodded. Ted nodded back and began to follow Sullivan as they walked toward the bar entrance.

Striker had his suit jacket pushed back on his right side making it easier to get to his pistol if necessary. Sullivan and his team did likewise. Within ten seconds of their entry, the place went deathly quiet. There was no doubt in any patron's mind that the police had arrived. They fanned out as they cautiously checked each patron.

The bar room was long and narrow. The bar, where most of the patrons were sitting was on the right and stretched about thirty feet toward the rear. On the left were several smaller tables that were mostly empty. The path down the middle was narrow and hard to navigate. Striker shoved several chairs out of his way as he proceeded toward the back checking each patron against the picture he held in his hand.

When Striker had reached the back of the bar he motioned to Sullivan that he was going up the stairs. Sullivan whispered to Ted to stay at the bottom of the stairs. Ted nodded.

Turning to Sullivan who now stood right behind Striker, “I'm going up, stay a couple paces back and watch the door at the top of the stairs,” Striker ordered.

Sullivan was as serious as he could be. He had faced similar situations before and they rarely had a good outcome. He hated these set ups because they were sitting ducks if the perp came around the corner with a gun. Jones stayed two steps behind Sullivan.

Ted looked back toward the bartender and saw him on the phone. Shouting, “Striker, watch it he's been warned.”

At that moment, the door flew open and gunfire erupted. Striker was the first to answer. Pop, pop, pop and the perp was down, but the gun was still in his hand and firing. Striker was hit, Sullivan covered Striker's body with his own as he lept up and put two more bullets into Erskin.

Sullivan got up barreling forward, rolling to a standing position, he stomped his foot onto Erskin's hand that still held the gun. Bending over he felt for a pulse and found none. Erskin's eyes were still open. “Ted, call for help,” he shouted.

Ted was already on his phone shouting “Officers down, officers down.” While shouting, he hovered over Jones, who had blood spurting from his neck. Looking up the stairs, he could see Sullivan tending to Striker's wound to his arm. “Cole, Jones is in serious trouble here.”

Sullivan looked down, “Can you control the bleeding?”

Having ripped off his jacket, he held it tightly against the wound, but blood was still seeping out. “I don't know Cole, he's bleeding out fast.”

Looking down at Striker, “You okay? Can you hold this handkerchief against your wound?”

“Yeah, go help Jones,” Striker whispered.

Sullivan descended the steps two at a time. Ted now had Jones laying at the bottom of the stairs. “I think the bleeding has stopped, at least it has slowed. If the EMT's aren't here soon though we're in deep trouble .”

Putting his hand on Ted's shoulder, “Good work,” Sullivan said. He then went back up to where Striker was sprawled out on the top stairs. “How ya feeling?”

“I've been better,” he smiled weakly. “How's Jones?”

“Don't know, but it's bad.”

“I'm sorry, this fiasco is on me.” Striker said. “We should have done it differently,” he continued and then laid his head back on the top stair.

“We can always second guess ourselves and we'll discuss it at a later time.”

“Is the Perp dead?” Striker asked.

Looking over the top of the stairs, “Yeah.” Sullivan answered.

The two police that had been watching the exits were now inside making sure no one left. One of them had come over to where Ted was tending to Jones. “Arrest the bartender, he warned the shooter,” Ted said.

“You got it,” the young detective said and then did just that. There was slight resistance, but short lived as the bartender was thrown to the floor behind the bar and then cuffed and left to lay there while the chaos lasted.

It was about five minutes more before the EMT's and what seemed like every cop and emergency vehicle in the city had arrived. Traffic was blocked off in both directions and it wasn't long before the traffic was backed up several blocks. Sullivan and Ted stood back while the EMT's worked the scene.

Sullivan was sweating profusely caused by the adrenaline and stuffiness of the bar. Speaking to Ted, “I guess the silver lining in all this is that the threat may be over.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Ted responded.

Continuing to watch the scene unfold, “It does seem a little too pat, doesn't it?”

“This guy just doesn't fit the mold somehow,” Ted said.

“My thought exactly, but if he isn't our guy, why was he shooting at us?” Sullivan said as he pushed himself away from the wall and walked over to look behind the bar. Looking at the bartender laying on his face and then at the policeman who was keeping an eye on the bartender, “Looks like good work.” Patting the officer on the shoulder, “I'll take over from here, thanks.”

By this time, Ted was stretched forward so as to see over the bar, “This guy better have a good story.” Squeezing by Sullivan, Ted rolled the guy over, got down on one knee beside him and said, “Your actions caused two officers to be wounded, one seriously.” Ted then lifted his knee off the floor and placed it in the center of the guys chest and growled, “You'd better pray that he doesn't die.”

Ted then rose, grabbed the guy by the collar, hoisted him to his feet and shoved him into the arms of a waiting uniformed officer. “Take him down town and make sure no one gets to him until we get there. I don't want anyone roughing him up, as tempting as that will be.”

The officer led him outside into a waiting police car after responding with just a hint of sarcasm, mumbled, “My pleasure.”