The crack sounded off to Bill Logan’s right. He dropped to
the ground and rolled until he reached the cover of a dumpster. Where’s Joe? I thought he was covering the doorway. He ran through a list of
possible locations for the shooter as he checked his gun for damage. Looks good, thank God. Wish I could say the same for my shoulder.
He brushed the accumulation of gravel and grit from his jacket. How can something so small hurt so much
through a jacket and a shirt?
“Yo, cop, come on out and take your medicine!” The taunt
seemed to come from above the street level, and bounced off of the hard
building surfaces. “You know you shouldn’t-a come after me. This is my street
and I charge a fee for using my street. Now you got to pay.”
The voice belonged to Frankie Bishop, the suspected drug
dealer Logan and his partner Joe Grobel had been trailing. A real tough guy,
Bishop’s reputation for killing off competition, slow-paying customers and cops
with equal lack of concern had both cops on high alert. Logan only hoped the
shot he’d heard hadn’t been intended for Grobel.
Logan scanned what he could see of the back of the old
factory building across the alley from his dumpster refuge. He spotted a broken
window on the third floor. As he looked, he saw movement within—too dark to
make out details in the shadowed interior but definitely a movement. His smelly
cover suddenly felt inadequate. If I can
see up there, whoever it is can see me down here. He hurried around the
corner of the dumpster in a crouch. As he moved, another shot rang out and
struck the already cracked paving where he had been less than a moment before.
Bits of shattered asphalt peppered his foot before he could pull it around the
metal behemoth.
Where was the backup
he had called for? Bishop might not be alone in the old building.
From his new position, Logan no longer had a clear view of
the window. He could, however, see the recessed back door Grobel was supposed
to cover. There was no sign of the older man. He could make out a darker rectangle
within the recess, as though a door was open to the unlit interior.
Another shot, then more—three, four, five, all told –exploded
inside the building. At least two weapons,
he thought from the noises. Then silence. Logan peeked around the front of the
dumpster, trying to see the upstairs window without exposing himself. When he spotted
no movement within, he sprinted across the open driveway toward the door, staying
as low as he could.
He stopped in the relative safety of the entry’s setback to
assess the situation. The door itself hung from a set of rusty hinges and stood
perpendicular to the frame, projecting into the building. Logan pulled out his
flashlight with his left hand and thumbed it on. He spotted two sets of fresh
human footprints among the animal tracks in the dust on the floor. Both sets
headed off to the left, with one set overlapping the other in a couple of
places. A few boxes were scattered around the floor, every bit as dusty as the
floor. The footsteps led through a doorway and the darkness seemed less
intensive there.
Logan turned off the flashlight and pocketed it before he edged
around the door frame and into the room. A quick check behind the entry door
revealed this room as all clear. A sneeze threatened to betray his position as
he inhaled the dust-laden air, but he stifled the impulse.
He took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the murky light
of sunshine through unevenly painted window panes as he edged toward the next
room. On the far side, he could make out a stairway, the apparent destination
of the two who had entered before him, judging by the prints. Where in the world was Grobel? Did one of
those sets of footprints belong to him?
As he paused at the bottom of the stairs to reconnoiter, he
spotted a flashlight beam interrupting the semi-darkness visible at the top of
the stairs. He stepped deeper into a shadow, anxious to see whose hand held the
shifting stream of light.
Irregular footsteps approached the stairway and the light
grew brighter even as its movement grew more erratic. Whoever was coming
sounded as though he was in trouble. Logan heard a metallic clunk and the
flashlight beam dropped, followed by the noise of the metal-cased light rolling
down the steps. It came to rest on the floor, inches from Logan’s foot, a faint
beam still flickering despite the beating it had taken. He recognized it as
Grobel’s by the blue rubber band around the casing.
A thud upstairs spurred him into motion. He took the steps
two at a time until he was high enough to examine the room without exposing
himself to fire. A man sprawled prone on the floor. Logan recognized Grobel’s
gray crew cut. The pool of red spreading from under Grobel’s torso added urgency
to Logan’s approach.
Logan reached his partner’s side in a heartbeat. Even as he
scanned the room for anyone else, he felt for Grobel’s pulse. Faint, but
present. He pulled out his cell and called for an ambulance with the dreaded
“Officer down” report.
He rolled the older man over and spotted the wound, just
above the man’s belt on the left side. The cloying smell of Grobel’s blood
filled Logan’s nostrils as he shed his jacket and used it to apply pressure to
Grobel’s wound.
The injured man’s eyelids fluttered open. His gaze met
Logan’s and a small lifted one corner of Grobel’s mouth.
“I nailed…him, Bill. While he was try…ing to draw a bead on
you, I…got close enough…But he heard me…at the last second. Should’ve…waited
for our…backup, huh?” The words, whispered between gasps, tore at Logan’s
heart.
“Help’s coming, Joe. Hang on.” Logan could hear the wail of
approaching sirens. “Can you hear that, Joe? They’re almost here. Just hold
on.”
Grobel’s eyes closed and Logan feared the ambulance would be
too late. When Grobel inhaled another shallow breath, Logan felt hope rise. Please, God, he whispered, we need Your help. Keep him strong enough to hold on.
Before he could continue his prayer, he heard the sweet
racket of an ambulance crew entering the building.
“We’re up here!” he yelled, still keeping pressure on the
wound. “He’s hanging on, but hurry up!”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“ME says you put four rounds into Bishop,” Logan said as he
positioned the straw projecting from a cup of water so Grobel could reach it. After
three days in ICU, Grobel was finally in a private room and allowed visitors. “Your
grouping was textbook.”
“Would’ve been better if I had gotten my four rounds off
before he fired his one,” Grobel observed. He sealed his lips around the straw
and drew in a cool sip.
“Maybe so, but you’re alive and he isn’t so I’d say you
won.”
“Doesn’t feel like I won when I try to turn over. The doc
said I was lucky nothing vital was hit, but not so lucky with the muscles involved.
Don’t guess I’ll have to worry about doing crunches any time soon. But you’re
right, I’m alive and that’s more than Bishop can say.”
“Have you heard the update on his gang?” asked Logan. When
Grobel shook his head, Logan continued. “The turf war between Bishop’s boys and
the Downtown Dominators has left seven dead pushers so far, with another
eighteen in the hospital in custody. Meanwhile his lieutenants are duking it
out for the role of head honcho. Three are dead, six in the hospital and we’ve
arrested five more of them on a variety of charges. The in-fighting made them
careless. You struck a real blow against the bad guys, partner.”
Grobel smiled. “Good. I’m glad to hear this wasn’t for
nothing. But it sounds like they are doing themselves more harm than I did.”
“One more thing before I go,” said Logan. “Now that you’re
on the road to recovery, I can tell you I’m shoving off. I put a couple of
applications in with Mississippi departments a few months ago. Got a job
starting in two weeks in a little town called Cypress Point. I’m leaving
tomorrow.”
“What in the world will you do in Mississippi? How can you
walk away from the action here in Sac?” asked Grobel, his eyes wide in
surprise.
“I’m tired of drug rings and cop killers and citizens who
think we’re all on the take. Seeing you on the floor in all that blood was the
last straw. Any hesitation I might have had is gone. My mother’s family is from
Mississippi. It’s been way too long since I saw them. I’ve always thought of
Mississippi as home, and I want to go home.” Logan’s eyes were bright with
memories of childhood visits.”
“I thought you were West Coast all the way through,” Grobel
observed. “How come you never said anything about Mississippi before now?”
“My dad was in the Navy so we were all over the place,”
Logan replied. “No real roots on his side of the family, but he always liked
trips back to Mom’s home. We all did. He always said he wanted to retire there.
He just didn’t live long enough to do it. After he died, Mom headed back, but I
was already on the job. I thought I could make a difference here, so I stayed.
But I don’t want to end up like my old man, dying a continent away from
everyone and everything I love. So I’m going home. Mom’s excited and my
sister’s ready to throw a party. When you feel up to traveling, come on out and
take a vacation with us. I’ll show you around some of the prettiest country
this side of heaven,” Logan said.
“I’ll miss you, partner, but I can understand wanting to go
home. I hope you’ll be happy down there in the boondocks.”
Logan laughed. “One man’s ‘boondocks’ is another man’s
paradise. Take care of yourself, Joe. Get well soon.” They shook hands and
Logan headed out of the hospital, out of California and into his new life.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
One more shift finished. Sergeant Bill Logan rolled into the
station parking lot and shut down his squad car. The day had been quiet and he
had no paperwork-except to sign out-to finish before he could head home. He’d
never had a shift like that back in Sac. Most days there ran long past
end-of-shift with the paperwork requirements.
In the two months he’d been on the Cypress Point force, he’d
seen a whole different side of police work. In this town, people knew each
other and were quick to point out strangers or things out of the ordinary. Back
in Sac, anyone like that would have been labeled a busy body. Here, they were
all being neighborly and looking out for each other.
Logan worked with a small group of top-notch police officers
and he found he looked forward to coming to work each day. He hadn’t made a lot
of arrests, but then there weren’t a lot of crimes committed either. He knew life wasn't perfect here, but it sure came close. In his
time here, no one had shot at him, not once. No one had spat at him or thrown
rocks at him. He’s gotten more hugs from citizens than he could count,
something he couldn’t remember happening in California.
The biggest bust he’d made so far was an out of town visitor
exceeding the speed limit. Mostly he went around town getting to know everyone
and offering a visible police presence. He wished his brother officers on the
West Coast could experience the sort of acceptance and appreciation he felt in
Cypress Point. Bill Logan was proud to be a police officer, proud to be part of
this community. He was glad to be home in Mississippi.
© 2016 Mary Beth Magee