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Between Honor and Duty |
| Written by Daniel | |
| Saturday, 12 April 2008 | |
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Share it:      Between Honor and Duty It was one in the morning and Officer Robert Cooper was certain that something big was happening on Brackett St. he had seen half a dozen cars go up the dead end street in the past twenty minutes. There were a total of six houses on that quarter mile stretch of road. Half of them were occupied by honest, god-fearing senior citizens, just trying to live out their golden years in peace. The other three, however, were notorious drug houses. In his black and blue squad car, parked well out of range of the nearest street light, Officer Cooper was practically invisible, while enjoying an unobstructed view of his target. Some of the cars turning in he recognizes immediately as users that he had arrested in the past. Other vehicles were unfamiliar but, using his binoculars, he could make out at least one passenger that he recognized. Shady Meadows was not a large enough town to supply a continuous flow of fresh offenders. In his two years on the force, after leaving the Marine Corp., he had come across just about all of the regulars at least once, usually more. He straightened up in his seat as a vehicle that he had never seen before turned up Brackett St. It was a a dark colored mini van with only one white male occupant. He turned in so quickly that Cooper didn't have a change to get a good look at him, but he could tell that he appeared to be about his own age and was wearing a baseball cap. In drug interdiction school, Cooper had learned that people carrying large quantities of drugs usually didn't travel in old beat up wrecks that were sure to attract attention. Instead, most of them drove drab colored, unobtrusive sedans to try and blend in with the normal flow of traffic. Mini vans were often used for the large cargo area which could easily be converted to hide one or two secret compartments, and because they were naturally associated as family vehicles. It would be hard to imagine the Brady Bunch muling crack. His heart began to beat a little faster as he recalled these facts. If there was a major shipment coming in tonight, that would explain why so many users had gathered in one place. They wanted first pick at the new merchandise before it was dilluted by baking soda or whatever the dealer would use to "cut" it with. They did that to make extra product for themselves, and thus extra money at the cost of product quality. Cooper thought about calling for more units to be enroute to the area but decided against it. He didn't know anything for sure yet, and calling in backup because they were selling drugs on Brackett St, would be like refusing to vote because you suspected a politician of lying. It was laughable So he settled back in his seat and listened to the night sounds through his open window, while keeping a watchful eye on the illuminated street. From his enshrouded hiding spot, he soon saw a pair of headlights coming out. This would be the first vehicle he had seen leave and would tell him something about who he was dealing with. As the mini van came into view, his heart began to beat faster again. A shipper wouldn't want to wait around while his product was cut or consumed. He would want to deliver it to the dealer, get his money, and then leave as quickly as possible while the dealer conducted his own business with the waiting junkies. As the van approached the T intersection, it slowed down considerably at the stop sign, but then abruptly made a left hand turn, going back the way it had come. He must not have been very concerned about being watched, or he's new to the trade, Cooper decided. Although it wasn't much, the suspect had just ran that stop sign, giving Cooper a perfect reason to pull him over. Experienced carriers followed every traffic law to the letter, never giving any reason to be pulled. He turned on his vehicle and roared out of his hiding spot, not turning on his headlights until he had passed the entrance to Brackett St. He waited until he was right up on the vand and had called in the traffic stop, which included the vehicle tag, description and location, on his radio before activating his blue lights. The whole thing took less than thirty seconds. He didn't want to give the man inside a chance to ditch any remaining drugs or possibly go for a weapon. After being lit up by the flashing blue and white lights, the driver obediantly pulled to the right and stopped in a small gravel pit, less than half a mile from Brackett St. Cooper centered his spotlight on the drivers side mirror, to conceal his angle of approach. As he exited his vehicle, flashlight in hand, the hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end. There was something odd about this stop. All cops learned to trust their instincts. It was not so much of a supernatural or psychic phenomenon. It was their subconscious mind processing facts and details that were too small to have been committed to memory, but when they were added up they gave strong indications of danger. Cooper had ignored his instincts once before, nearly resulting in his own death. He wouldn't make the same mistake again. Never turning his back on the van, he walked behind his own car and approached from the passenger side with his hand resing on his sidearm, something he rarely did. As he had hoped, the driver was still looking out his own window, trying in vain to see the approaching officer. He had a thin build, with short scraggly facial hair. His red and white cap was pulled low on his hand and his bony hands gripped the steering wheel much harder than was necessary. After a cursory glance of the inside of the vehicle revealed no visible weapons, Cooper tapped on the passenger window. The driver whipped his head around in surprise, giving Cooper a surprise of his own. "Paul?" he asked in disbelieve. "Is that you?" The driver stiffened at hearing his name spoken, but a nervous smile broke out on his face as he recognized the voice. "Sure is Coop. How the hell are ya?" The two had served in the Marine Corp. together for three years, and had seen combat on two continents. Their unit had become their family, and they were as strong as brothers. As the direct or indirect result of their actions, they had saved each others life at least half a dozen times. After being discharged, the men in their platoon had gone their seperate ways, but most still kept in touch with one another. Paul Mcpeters, however, seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. There were rumors that he was dead, the possible victim of a random car crash. But seeing him here, in this state, Cooper was afraid that an even worse fate had befallen him "I'm good Paul. You got your license and registration on ya? I need to see it right quick." Paul fished his license out of his wallet and handed it to his friend. "I ain't got the registration," he said apologetically. "This ain't my van. I was just borrowing it for a bit." Another red flag went up in Coopers head. "Check in the glove box," he said. "Sometimes they keep it in there." Paul cleared his sinuses hard and gripped the steering wheel tighter. In the glare of his flashlight Cooper could see beads of sweat break out on his friends forehead. Without saying a word, Paul reached over and pressed the button that released the lock mechanism on the glove box. He quickly plunged his hand inside, trying to root through the contents, searching for the registration. But Cooper saw something else too. "Take your hand out Paul, and put it back on the steering wheel for me." He complied nervously and looked down in his lap dejectedly as Cooper fished out the large zip lock bag he had seen. It was filled with a clear crystalline substance, resembling rock salt. He recognized it immediately as meth, maybe five or six ounces of it. It was the most that he had seen in one place. Way too much for personal use. "Paul, come out here and talk to me for a second. Hand me the keys too." Paul looked at his friend for a moment, then did as he was told. He handed the keys to Cooper as he came around, then stood there with his head down and his hands thrust deep in his pockets. "What's up with this?" Cooper asked. In the bright lights of his patrol car, he could now see that his friends face was gaunt, with eyes sunk back in his head. Festering sores now peppered his face and hands and he reeked of body odor worse than when they had been in the field for two weeks straight. "Coop, I don't know," he said quickly, using Coopers old service nickname. "I told ya this ain't my van. I just needed to borrow it for a while. I'v never seen that stuff before." Cooper was quickly becoming angry ad being lied to by his friend, but he managed to make his voice sound calm as he continued to play the game. "Why were you on Brackett St.?" Paul gave him a puzzled look at being asked that question. It was one Cooper had seen a hundred times before when he had confronted an offender with information that they didn't know he had. "The dead-end street you were on no more than three minutes ago," he reminded him. Paul's eyes went skyward as if searching the stars for the location described to him. After a moment, a fake expression of realization came across his face and he smiled brightly, showing several snags of yellow teeth. "Oh I was just going to se a friend of mine. He wasn't home." "Really? Well I know about everybody up there. What's his name? Maybe I know where he is." "Roy." "Roy what?" Cooper asked although he already knew. Roy Oneil had been arrested on federal drug conspiracy charges one week earlier. His son and his two girlfriends, who were living in the same house, had continued the business in his absence. Their time was fast approaching also. "I don't really know his last name. He just owed me some money and I was gonna go see if he had it." Paul was beginning to look more nervous with each passing second. The sweat on his forehead was now starting to run down the side of his face, although the night air was no more than 65 degrees. He kept shifting his balance from one foot to the other, and his eyes were constantly flicking to the left and right. Cooper recognized the signs that a suspect was preparing to run, but never though that Paul would try it. He decided to confront him with what he knew, and hope for some cooperation. "Cut the bull, Paul." Paul's eyes widened in surprise at hearing this. "You and I both know what you were doing up there and we both know what's in this bag. Talk to me. You know I'll help you. Marine's take care of their own." Paul's nervousness didn't subside, but his head lowered in shame as he heard those familiar words. Cooper's radio suddenly came to life, as the dispatcher checked on his status. He turned his attention away from his friend for a split-second as he confirmed that he was 10-4. He advised for his backup unit to continue on. Just as he finished uttering those words, a bony fist made contact with the right side of his head, hard. His knees bucked and the ground rushed up to meet him as he fell. Instantly, adrenaline pumped into his system, clearing his head and allowing him to rise unsteadily to his feet only moments later. He was just in time to see Paul, his friend, sprinting into the house across the street. It was an old Victorian style house that had stood for almost a hundred years, and had apparently been abandoned for nearly as long. In the spring, the local fire department, at the request of the owner, was going to buring it to the ground for some much-needed training. But first, Officer Cooper had business inside. "851 to HQ," he radioed as he ran across the street. "I'm in foot pursuit with the suspect. White male, 30 years old, red and white cap, wearing jeans and a T-Shirt. Subject has gone into the old white house to the left of my vehicle. Unsure of the numeric." By the time he had completed the transmission he was standing on the front porch. The kicked-in door was still standing open, but looked far from inviting. "810 to 851," the scratchy voice of his supervisor came to him over the radio. "Do not pursue into the house. Secure the perimeter and wait for backup." Cooper paused for a second and then deliberately turned his raio off. He could always say later that he didn't copy. Marines take care of their own. He drew his sidearm and entered cautiously. Although he still had his flashlight in his other hand, he didn't turn it on. It would be like a beacon, giving away his position. He held his breath, listening to every sound. There was no way Paul could have made it out the back door so quickly in the dark. Yet there was no sound of any movement as he tried to make his escape. Cooper knew he was lying low, waiting. But was he waiting for a chance to escape, or a chance to turn the table from hunted to hunter. Cooper didn't think that the Paul Mcpeters that he knew would ever seriously injure him, but with the junk coursing through his system, he couldn't be sure that man even existed anymore In the faint glow from the nearby streetlight, he saw a half-rotten staircase to the left, a hallway to his front, and a room immediately to his right. He flicked on his flashlight for just a moment, swept the room to make sure Paul wasn't there, and turned it back off, plunging the room back into darkness. He stepped carefully, half afraid of dropping through the decrepit floor into the basement. That was certainly something that he wanted to avoid. He guessed as best as he could which way the back door was, and made for it with all due and proper caution. His gun followed his gaze as he checked the two rooms that passed on the way to the rear exit. As before, he flooded them with light for a split second, just enough time to check for his target, his friend, before turning his light back off and moving quickly out of the way of anything which may be sailing through the air at him. Finally, he reached the kitched, where the back door was usually located in such houses. To his surprise, he saw Paul standing on the other side of the room, illuminated by the small amount of moonlight spilling in through the window. A tacky yellow and green mat, covered with numerous unidentifiable stains, lay on the floor between them. The backdoor had been nailed shut long ago, preventing his escape. He looked desperately at Cooper, almost crying. "Just let me go, Coop. You know me. You know who I am. Don't do this. You have the stuff and the van. Just say you couldn't find me. I ain't hurt nobody. Please." It was that last statement that spurred Cooper to speak. "How can you say that nobody's been hurt? Have you seen what that crap does to people. Have you seen what it's done to you?" Paul seemed not to hear him. He fell to his knees and put his hands up, begging. "Please Coop. Remember all the times when we only had each other to count on. We made it through that nightmare by being there for each other. I'm counting on you now. Please Coop. Just let me go." Cooper couldn't bear to see him in this condition anymore. Besides, his backup would be here any second. Already he could hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance. He stepped forward to secure his prisoner. The mat on the floor gave way, to reveal a gaping hole, leading down into an abyss of darkness. Cooper gasped and manged to grab onto a secure piece of the floor on the way down. He heard his gun skitter across the room as he hung there, his legs dangling over an ocean of black. His arms strained to pull himself up, but stopped when he saw Paul standing over him, his own recovered weapon pointing directly at his head. Paul's hand was shaking hard. From a conflict with his conscience or drug withdrawal, Cooper couldn't tell. Neither moved. Neither spoke. Time was measured only by the increasing pain in Cooper's arms as he struggled to delay his fall into that pit. The sirens were getting closer. Through the drug induced fog surrounding his mind, Paul heard them also. If Cooper fell, the other officers would be too busy attending to him to give chase. He would get away. They both knew it. Cooper closed his eyes as he prepared to fall or be shot. Both likely shared the same result. Just as gravity was prying his fingers loose from the wooden floorboard, Paul threw down the gun and grabbed on to his friends' arms. Together, they both strained and pulled towards a common goal. When Cooper was once again standing on solid ground, he looked thankfully at the man that he knew once again. "Marines take care of their own," Paul said in response to his unspoken question. Cooper took his hand and shook it vigorously, as he had when they had first graduated from basic training so many years ago. Then, using his own body as leverage, he twisted down and to the outside. Paul was suddenly faced with the choice of going to the ground, face first, or suffer a broken arm. With a startled grunt, he chose the former. Before he could move, Cooper straddled his back and pinned both his arms with his knees. Paul was helpless as he felt the cold metal handcuffs go around his wrists. They didn't cut off his circulation, but made movement an impossibility. He heard heavy breathing in his ear as Cooper leaned in close to speak. "You're right. Marines do take care of their own. And I'm going to take care of you, whether you want me to or not. I'm going to get you the help you need to get off this stuff. When you stand before a judge, I'm gonna be standing right beside you, telling him about the Paul Mcpeters that I know. The one that saved my life. Now, on your feet Marine." Without a struggle or a curse word escaping his lips, Paul Mcpeters was led out the front door to the waiting patrol units that were now pulling up. A new tour of combat was about to begin. Copyright 2008 Daniel |
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