THE GREAT BUNEY STANDOFF Part 2
Bascom frowned.
“Hoke called again?” He shrugged. “Hmm. I guess he’s still upset about
something.”
“You know about this?” King pushed his food
aside and slid out of the booth. He studied Bascom’s face. “You do know about
it! Why haven’t you disarmed and arrested this man?”
“Aw, Hoke Chase
is a harmless old guy who’s probably just lived alone too long,” Bascom said.
“I’ve known him all my life, and he’s never done a thing wrong that I can remember.”
King stared,
astonished. “You are the Chief of Police in this town, Bascom,” he roared,
ignoring the fact he had the attention of everyone in the Rooster’s lunchtime
crowd. He pointed toward the Arkansas River. “There is an armed man out there barricaded
in his house, and you’ve done nothing about it? That’s a disgrace!”
Bascom pointed at
the foothills in the opposite direction. “He lives that way,” he said. He
motioned for the waitress to wrap his cheeseburger to go. “I tell you what,” he
went on calmly, coming to his feet and dropping a couple bills on the table,
“we’ll just drive up there and talk with him, and you can see for yourself he’s
no threat to anyone. No matter what he says on the phone.”
“Let’s go,” King
said coldly. “But I must advise you your job could very well be in serious
jeopardy over this, Chief Bascom.”
Bascom caught
Watson’s eye. “Did Hoke say he intends to shoot anyone,” he asked.
She started to
nod, then checked herself. “No. He only said he wasn’t coming out.”
Bascom nodded.
“That’s what he told me,” he said, looking back at King. “Hoke Chase doesn’t
say things he don’t mean. What difference does it make to the law if he wants
to stay in his own house with his own guns and not come out?”
The waitress handed Bascom the sack
containing his lunch. King’s burger was left cooling on the table.
“Are you
seriously going to just ignore this situation?” King’s face hardened. “This challenge
to your authority?”
“Hoke Chase is
harmless,” Bascom said, his own face taking on a hard look. “He’s just in a
mood.”
“He’s flaunting
the law,” King said tightly, gesturing at the diners packed into the cafe. “I
watched the same kind of thing happen yesterday on live television. People like
that have to be shown they can’t get away with criminal behavior. This is your
town, Bascom, but this Chase character is making a fool of you in front of the
very citizens you’re sworn to protect and serve.”
Not pointing out how
it was King who seemed bent on making him look like a fool in front of the townspeople,
Bascom wordlessly led King and Watson from the eatery.
As soon as they
were gone, two strangers wearing caps bearing the logos of competing network
television stations ended whispered cell phone conversations, left plenty of
money to pay their bills, and jogged off toward where the news remote trucks
were parked beside the Arkansas.
On the drive to Hoke’s
place, Bascom called one of the part time reserve officers from the car and
ordered him to join the rest of them at the scene. Bascom, King, Watson and the
reserve all arrived in separate cars at the same time, and lined up on the road
out in front of the Chase home.
Bascom started
toward the house, but King pulled him back.
“Don’t be a
fool,” King hissed. “It’s a trap!”
Watson and the
reserve pulled their sidearms and scampered to the far side of Bascom’s
cruiser.
“Put those guns
away,” Bascom snapped. “Hoke isn’t gonna hurt anyone.”
“Keep those
weapons ready,” King barked, turning a fierce expression on Bascom. He pointed
at the house. “Do you see that white paper on the door?”
“I saw it,”
Bascom said. “It’s probably a note someone left for Hoke when they came by and
he didn’t answer. Remember, he said he doesn’t want to come out and talk.”
“Chief Bascom,”
King said tightly, “I’ve seen this ploy before while out on calls with the
Denver SWAT team. That’s bait, and it’s supposed to lure someone close enough
for the perp to open fire.”
“It looks like
it’s just a note.”
“You don’t know
that! It may look innocent, but—ah, good.” King pointed back toward the
downtown area, where the two television trucks and a faded minivan were barreling
toward the police cars. “The press is coming.”
Bascom watched
them approach. “They’re speeding, too,” he said. “Way over the limit.”
King brushed Bascom’s
observation aside. “In this case,” he said impatiently, “it doesn’t matter.” He
fished his cell phone from a coat pocket and flipped it open, and scrolled
through his list while Bascom motioned for Watson to supervise getting the news
trucks parked safely off the road. “This is King,” the POCI man suddenly said.
“Listen carefully. Call the Chaffee County Sheriff in Salida, and order him to
send as many deputies as possible to Buena Vista.” He hesitated. “I don’t know.
Hang on.” He turned to Bascom.
“What road is
this?”
Bascom told him,
and King relayed the information to whoever he was talking with while Bascom
fumed. King also ordered a Colorado Highway Patrol chopper to be dispatched from
the Springs.
“Mr. King,”
Bascom said, the rage in his voice barely under control, “I am the legally
empowered Chief of Police in this jurisdiction. You, sir, are not—”
“Just a minute,”
King snapped.
“No!” Bascom
clenched his fists. “Dammit, I’m in charge here, King, and if you think—”
“I said wait a
minute,” King snarled through clenched teeth.
The two news
video crews were joined by the three young college-age guys with camcorders who
had arrived in the minivan, and they all gathered around Bascom and King.
“And...we’re
live,” one of the reporters said.
When King was
sure all the cameras were aimed at him and working properly, he turned to
Bascom.
“By the power
vested in me by the Colorado Police Officer Certification and Inspection
Board,” he said clearly enough for the microphones in the hands of the
reporters to pick up, “I hereby supercede local police authority in this incident.
Chief Bascom,” he went on, raising his volume a notch, “I relieve you of
command in this situation. Stand down and await additional instructions.”
Flabbergasted,
Bascom slumped back against his car while King pointed at Hoke’s home.
“Who are you?” a
reporter asked.
King gave his
name, the spelling of his name, and his official position in the state
government.
“Got it. What’s
the trouble here?”
“Inside that
house,” King said into the microphones, “an armed man is defying the law by
surrounding himself with weapons and threatening law enforcement officials.”
“What’s his
name,” one of the reporters asked.
King turned to
Bascom, a question in his eye.
“Hoke – no. Henry
Chase,” Bascom said slowly. “And he didn’t threaten—”
“Yes, Henry
Chase,” King said, taking back the reporters’ attention. “I’m sure you can get
the spelling of that name from a local citizen.”
“I met a Henry
Chase this morning,” one of the reporters said. “He seemed friendly enough. Did
he shoot someone?”
“We do not know
all the offenses Mr. Chase has committed at this time,” King said. “But as far
as we know at the moment, no. He has not shot anyone. Not yet. That we know
of.”
“Okay.”
Cars were passing
slowly, and a few were pulling off onto the shoulder, their occupants gazing
curiously at Hoke’s house. Some were getting out and gathering into groups.
Bascom turned and
whispered an order to Candy Watson. She walked over to speak with the
onlookers, then she gathered them into a herd in the large open field across
the highway instead of near their cars.
“How do you know he’s even there,” the other
reporter said. “I haven’t seen any indication from the house that anyone is home.”
“Oh, he’s there,”
King said. “From here, you can see his television is on. He’s probably watching
this on live TV at the moment.”
One of the
college kids spoke up. “Have you contacted him about his demands?”
“We were just
about to,” King said, frowning slightly at the young man. “Are you with the
press?” he asked. “You don’t seem old enough to—”
“Who’s that?” One
of the reporters pointed at another car speeding toward them, its headlights on
and its emergency flashers blinking.
Bascom recognized
it as the vehicle belonging to the local newspaper reporter. It stopped beyond
the news trucks, and the reporter quickly joined the growing crowd around King.
“Chase’s
telephone line is dead,” Watson announced, holding out her cell phone.
“In that case,”
King said, “I’ll attempt to contact him with a bullhorn. Chief Bascom, you do
have a bullhorn?”
Bascom tossed
King his car keys and wordlessly jerked his forehead toward the trunk. While
King was retrieving the bullhorn, five Sheriff’s deputy cars arrived from
Salida and disgorged another ten heavily armed lawmen, while the news cameras
caught it all. King spoke with their chief for a moment, and they spread out
and took up positions behind the original four cars on the scene.
Satisfied with the
arrival of the reinforcements, King positioned the bullhorn and cleared his throat.
He clicked it on, and turned the volume up all the way.
“We know you’re
in there,” he said, his amplified voice echoing softly off the nearby foothills.
“Now come out with your hands over your head!”
With everyone’s
attention on Hoke’s house, the only sound was a distant beating of rotor blades
from an approaching helicopter.
“I said come out
now,” King barked, his voice clipped with authority. “Don’t force us to open
fire!”
“Don’t shoot,” a
weak voice cried from Old Man Duggan’s house, next door. Every head turned in
unison toward the sound. The old man wobbled out onto his front stoop, his shaking
hands held as high over his bald head as he could possibly get them. His
bathrobe hung open, and he was otherwise dressed only in blue boxer drawers and
dirty sweat socks. “I swear I didn’t know that German gal was a spy,” he
rasped.
Red-faced and
seething with anger, King turned the bullhorn toward the doddering old codger.
“Get back in your house,” he yelled. “This doesn’t concern you!” Turning to the
video crews King plastered a forced smile on his flushed features. “Ah…don’t
air that,” he said as calmly as he could manage.
The newsmen
passed subtle nods, and held their microphones in even closer.
Bascom motioned
for Watson to go over and look after the old man. Then he turned back to King. “Dammit,”
he said, far more calmly than he felt, “that’s enough. If Hoke doesn’t want to
come out, he doesn’t want to come out. It’s not our place to—”
“Someone get me a
com link to that chopper,” King said, ignoring Bascom. “I want to know what
he’s seeing around this house.”
The reserve
officer reached into Watson’s patrol car and twisted the radio channel selector
until they heard someone inside the helicopter trying to reach someone, anyone,
in charge on the ground. He handed the microphone to King.
King experimentally
keyed the mic a couple of times.
Inside Hoke’s
house, at the top of the stairs, the lights on the big remote-controlled toy truck
suddenly blinked twice, and the massive plastic wheels jerked it forward an
inch or so.
“Mr. King,”
Bascom said, “really, there’s no need in—”
“I’ll decide
that.” King shook the microphone at Bascom. “I’m in charge here, not you.”
Then King pressed the button and held it
down.
A wall-banging racket
started up inside the house. Bascom winced at violent thumping noises from
upstairs, and then the unmistakable crash of glass, a lot of glass, shattering
in the living room.
King dropped the
microphone and dove behind Watson’s car, and shouted for someone to trigger a
warning shot into the house.
But Bascom yelled
for them to hold their fire.
“Dammit, Bascom,”
King roared, “I told you you’re relieved. Now either shut up or leave the scene!”
Bascom met the
bureaucrat’s withering glare with one of his own and pushed a camera lens out
of his face. “Whatever it was has stopped now,” he bellowed. “There’s no need to
do this!”
King grabbed up
the radio microphone again. “And I told you we’re doing it my way,” he shouted,
thumbing the communication button again.
At the house, curtains in the front room
window suddenly started shaking violently.
The toy monster
truck belonging to Hoke’s grandson, its large wheels caught in the curtain
material, scampered up the drape. Then it crashed through the window to hang by
a pull cord before landing hard on the porch, where it became tangled in the
remains of the phone Hoke had thrown out earlier. It jumped into the yard and turned
three manic donuts before zipping off at full speed, dragging the phone behind
it. As the truck whipped past the police cars, the phone came loose and flew
straight at King’s head.
King ducked and screamed for the lawmen to
open fire. Instantly, the sheriff’s deputies laid down a steady barrage of
shotgun fire at the blue streak, gouging big, meaty chunks of sod from Hoke’s
lawn. But none of them hit it.
The miniature
truck took a wide curve on Hoke’s grass, whizzing past the firing line again and
picking up speed, to crash into the base of a large spruce tree at the edge of
Old Man Duggan’s yard. Churning up dirt, its enormous back wheels slowly began
digging a hole under the tree until a final blast of buckshot from one of the
county boys put it out of its misery.
“See!” King shook
the microphone, its communication button still pressed, at the house. “He’s
throwing things!”
“What is your
next move, Inspector,” one of the reporters asked. “Will you—”
“Inspector King,”
the chief Sheriff’s deputy said, interrupting the newsman, “I concur that we
should fire a warning shot through the window.”
Instead of
arguing about this, Bascom frowned at the radio microphone, then at the gutshot
heap of smoking plastic and aluminum that used to be a radio-controlled toy. He
pointed at the pint-sized monster truck.
“Hey King—”
“Yes, deputy,”
King screamed, ignoring Bascom, “fire a round into the room!”
Before Bascom
could stop him, the chief deputy popped up, shouldered his military-style
shotgun, and fired at Hoke’s front window. Then everyone hit the ground when something
inside the room exploded.
“Dammit,” Bascom
screamed, peering over the hood of his car, “you hit his television!”
Bascom couldn’t
see it from where he knelt, but some of the first things to catch fire when the
Daewoo blew up were the ammunition boxes Hoke had stacked near his ratty old barcalounger,
which was sporting its own set of eager young flames seconds later.
“Get the fire
department out here,” Bascom yelled. “Now!”
Before either
King or the deputy could respond, other explosions started cooking off inside
the house and bullets began whizzing by overhead. The onlookers across the road
dropped to the ground.
King jerked the
bullhorn to his lips.
“He’s attacking! Fire
at will!”
The lawmen pumped
round after deadly round into the house while the video cameras caught the
barrage on tape. Before long, smoke and flames billowed from the broken front
window, quickly catching the porch roof afire. Within minutes, smoke was pouring
out Hoke’s open upstairs bedroom window. Return gunfire from the burning house was
relentless, as if a small assault squad of Hokes was shooting from the front
room.
Fire flickered from
every window and lapped inexorably at the eaves when Bascom, sickened by the
sight of the dying home he used to visit as a child, and no longer caring about
his job, slid the backup key from its hiding place under his cruiser and
slipped inside. He started the car and pulled onto the roadway, headed west
toward the nearby foothills while King and the others scrambled for cover
behind one of the county patrol cars.
Two miles up the
road, Hoke halfheartedly reeled in his fourth hefty rainbow of the afternoon
and slumped his shoulders. Even with a friend a few feet away for company, and
enough fresh trout for both supper and breakfast, he just didn’t want to be
here. He wanted to be sitting and staring at his TV while the world went on
about its business without noticing him and his petty moods.
“I’m gonna call
it a day,” he sighed, standing and gathering up his gear.
His friend merely
waved. Men like these didn’t need a lot of noisy words between them to
communicate.
Hoke decided not
to take the path back through the woods because he didn’t see as well as he
used to, and timber rattlers were still out this time of year. Alone, he’d
stand no chance if one of the devious snakes happened to tag him when he walked
by. So he cut straight across a meadow to the paved road and turned east toward
home. A few minutes later, he saw a police car approaching.
Snatching his
badge from his shirt, Bascom tossed it over his shoulder into the back seat as
he glided smoothly around the first curve out from town. Returning his
attention to the road, he saw a familiar figure walking toward him on the
shoulder.
“Oh my God,” he
breathed.
When he stopped
to pick up Hoke, Bascom reached into the back seat for his badge and pinned it on.
A large helicopter
bearing the SWAT team from Denver was just touching down in Old Man Duggan’s
yard when Bascom braked to a stop in front of the fire-ravaged Chase home.
Astounded beyond
words at the destruction, and the size of the fire, Hoke merely sat stunned in
the patrol car and fought desperately to understand what had happened while he
was out fishing. As he watched, the entire upper story and roof collapsed into what
was left of the ground floor, birthing a sun-bright fireball. Sparks and
colossal ash flakes erupted from the hellish blaze to drift south on the lazy afternoon
breeze.
Hoke groaned out
loud, and wiped away a tear.
“Come on, Hoke,”
Bascom said, opening his door. “Let’s get this mess figured out.”
Dazed, Hoke
followed. Shoving his way through the crowd of spectators and news people
gathered around King, Bascom stepped into the live television picture,
interrupting the state official.
“Bascom,” King
growled, “what the hell—”
“I wanted
everyone to meet the man who owned house we just burned down for the television
audience,” Bascom said loudly, reaching out and pulling Hoke by the left arm.
“This is Henry Chase.”
King eyed the
newcomer suspiciously, then turned to Bascom. “I don’t know what you think
you’re doing,” he said dangerously, “but Henry Chase could not possibly have
survived that fire. It’s a tragic death, but it was his own fault! If you think
you’re going to make a fool out of the state by dragging some local yokel in
here to embarrass me, you’re sadly mistaken, Bascom. I’ll see you stripped of
your badge for this, and make sure you never get another one!”
“I know this gentleman,”
one of the reporters said, stepping up close. “This is the same Henry Chase who
introduced himself to me earlier.”
Hoke absently
muttered a half-hearted howdy.
“Okay,” King
said, visibly containing his rage, “if this is Chase, who has been shooting at
us from that house?”
Bascom shrugged.
“I didn’t see anyone in there. All I saw was the television on, and a big remote-controlled
toy that started running every time you called the helicopter on the radio.”
King considered this. He glanced nervously at
the video cameras. “What do you think you’re trying to do to me, Bascom,” he
snarled.
“Mr. Chase,” the
other TV newsman said quickly, shoving his own microphone in closer to Hoke,
“what do you intend to do about your home and property now that it has been
burned to the ground? Do you plan to sue the state?”
“Uh…well, I—”
“There’ll be no
more questions from the press,” King bellowed, grabbing Hoke’s right arm and
attempting to drag him away. “This man is being placed under arrest!”
“What for?”
Bascom asked, holding tight to Hoke’s left arm, and standing firm. “He didn’t
do it, King. You did.”
“Deputy,” King
yelled at the county law. “Read this man his rights and cuff him. If Chief
Bascom interferes,” he said, glaring at the Buney law, “arrest him, too!”
“Why are you arresting
these men, Inspector King,” the local newspaper reporter asked.
“I said no more
damn questions, dammit! Keep it up, and I’ll take you into custody, too!”
Bascom escorted
Hoke to the deputy’s car. Instead of concentrating on King, the reporters followed,
leaving King shouting orders to firemen, lawmen, and anyone else who’d listen.
Before the deputy could read Hoke’s Miranda rights, a third helicopter bearing
the logo of the Federal Bureau of Investigation landed beside the SWAT chopper.
It was the plush executive kind the highest ranking government officials liked
to fly around in, Bascom noticed. Instead of allowing the county deputy to make
the arrest, Bascom slipped his cuffs from his belt and snapped them loosely onto
Hoke’s wrists.
“Henry Chase,” he
said loudly, “as Chief of Police of Buena Vista, Colorado, I am arresting you
on suspicion of possessing unlawful explosives.”
The deputy fumed
and the video cameras rolled, but Bascom recited the list of rights Hoke
retained as a lawful prisoner, and asked if Hoke understood them. Hoke muttered
he did.
“Good,” Bascom
said, watching two suited FBI agents emerge from their helicopter. “Over here,”
he yelled at them. “I have the suspect in custody, and I believe you’ll want to
talk with him.”
“R-Roger,” Hoke
said, looking sadly into Bascom’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I left you a note
explaining myself.”
“Just don’t say
anything,” Bascom whispered, even angrier at King – if such a thing was
possible. The paranoid, attention-grabbing idiot. He turned Hoke away from the
county law and nodded at the grim-faced newcomers. “You haven’t done anything
these federal guys can hold you on,” he explained quietly, “and this way you’ll
be out of King’s reach. At least, until we can get this all figured out.”
“Who’s King?”
“He’s…never mind.
Just do what I tell you and stay quiet. I’ll have a lawyer at the Federal
building by the time you get to Denver.”
“I’m going to
Denver?”
Instead of
answering Hoke, Bascom sketched the situation to the FBI agents, emphasizing
the way Hoke’s house had seemed to explode. He concluded by offering the possible
theory Hoke had been storing illegal explosives in there, their intent as yet
unknown.
With the news
cameras rolling, the feds took custody of the prisoner with a minimum of words
or fuss, and helped him into the chopper.
Among the remains
of Hoke’s house, something else in the fiery ruins abruptly blew up – probably
the propane bottle for Hoke’s barbecue grill, Bascom guessed – chasing firemen
back a few yards. When the smoke and flying embers cleared enough for them to
work, they moved in to continue dousing the blazing pile of timber and
household belongings.
Bascom noticed
when King folded himself inconspicuously into his sensible state-issue car and,
making an illegal u-turn in the road, headed toward Highway 24.
As the FBI helicopter
lifted off, with every camera at the scene aimed at it, Bascom couldn’t help
smiling. No matter who they sent to investigate the ashes of Hoke’s house,
weapons and explosives experts would find only what Hoke had: A ruined
television and what was left of legally purchased small arms ammunition for what
was left of legally purchased small arms. There might be a local charge against
Hoke for calling in a fake police report, but it would be about all he’d face.
The fine was about two hundred dollars, which Hoke would have no problem paying
out of the cash settlement he was bound to get for the loss of his home and its
contents.
Bascom was almost
jealous of his best friend’s father.
Climbing into his
car, Bascom noticed the bag with his uneaten cheeseburger sitting there. He
decided to drive up into the hills and finish his lunch. Watson was still on duty,
as was the reserve officer. He’d call and check in with them later, and get
started on Hoke’s legal defense.
From the air, Hoke
looked back at the steadily shrinking scene below. He’d never even been inside
a helicopter before, and he suddenly looked forward to flying over the mountains
to Denver in this one. But he couldn’t help feeling sadness for the loss of the
home his father had built all those decades back.
On the other
hand, he realized, he was free now.
Free from the unrelenting
sameness of his recent past. Free from the unsatisfying protocol of maintaining
formal acquaintances with people he’d known all his life but had never really known
all that well. Free from a houseful of aging and uncaring things – keepsakes,
souvenirs, knick-knacks, doodads, whatnots, foreign-made televisions and that
damn bent-frame recliner – things he’d grown tired of long ago.
Free to leave Buney
if he wanted.
Free to not come
back if he didn’t want to.
Free to…to do
anything.
He drew a deep
breath.
Yes. Anything.
He’d watched
enough TV news to understand what Bascom had done for him. And because the news
crews had been there to record everything, he knew he could demand almost any
amount of money he wanted from the state for the loss of his home and all his
belongings. Good mountain land suitable for living on was expensive, and he
held clear title to a fair-sized chunk of prime real estate he no longer
particularly wanted. Even though he had only a few dollars in his wallet, he
would soon be a rich man, and the thought put a secret smile on his face.
The helicopter
banked toward Denver, and an exhilarating thrill shot through him at the
unfamiliar sensation of flight. He relaxed contentedly on the plush aircraft
seat when the back side of Pike’s Peak slid into view eighty miles in the
eastern distance.
Kansas City lay somewhere
in that direction, he knew. Chicago,
Memphis, Atlanta,
Dallas, New York,
most of the places the live news reports he liked to watch originated.
So was Florida.
There were Bass Pro Shops in Florida, too, he recalled. It would be nice to
have someone help him learn to catch bass.
He wondered if
Robert Maple might need a fishing buddy.
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