Ridley Pearson - Chain of Evidence

OPERATIONS VAN: Team leader?

FIELD AGENT: Suspect has passed target. He’s turning down the drive.

Schultz yanked the gooseneck microphone to in front of his mouth and said for everyone to hear, “He’s going for the back door. We’ll take the front.” He threw the switch on his communications device and spoke.

SCHULTZ: We’ll need ten seconds.

OPERATIONS VAN: You won’t get it.

Schultz placed his gloved hand on the doorknob.

Pointing at Brandon, Dart asked, “Can we leave the camera set up in here?”

“If we leave Brandon, we can,” came Schultz’s answer. “We don’t have the necessary warrants for wire surveillance, but we are allowed in here. If you want to record this guy, it’s going to have to be in person. Your decision.”

“But we’ll pick it up in the van?” Dart asked.

“In the operations van, yes,” Schultz answered.

“Brandon and I stay,” Dart said.

OPERATIONS VAN: Suspect is inside the back gate. You better get out.

Dart heard a rattle at the back door as a key turned.

Schultz faced his crew and said, “We’re going to take him, people. Positions!”

“No!” Dart objected with a harsh whisper, his body in full sweat, the sound of the key in the lock somehow louder.

“We can’t make it.” Schultz countered, “We’re too late.”

Dart argued, “We hide. Ride him out. Maybe we get a shot to leave.”

Schultz and Dart faced each other, and despite the goggles, Dart felt as if he were looking directly into the man’s eyes and that they were locked in a battle of wills.

Schultz acquiesced. “Observation only until further notice. Go!”

The door cracked came unlocked and cracked open tentatively.

The ERT crew scattered and disappeared instantly. Brandon and Dart raced up the stairs. Dart didn’t see where the others went, only Schultz, who stashed himself into the front coat closet. As he reached the landing, following closely on Brandon’s heels, Dart heard something like static in his right ear and realized it was Schultz, barely whispering over the intercom:

SCHULTZ: I want location reports. Check in ASAP.

Give me suspect’s position, people.

ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Philgim. I’m in the kitchen.

ERT AGENT DONALDSON: Donaldson. Basement stairs.

ERT AGENT BRANDON: Brandon. Upstairs bedroom.

DART: Dartelli. Upstairs bedroom.

SCHULTZ: Split it up, up there.

ERT AGENT YATES: Yates. Basement with Donaldson.

ERT AGENT PHILGIM: He’s inside.

Silence over the intercom. Dart heard a floorboard creak downstairs, and he prayed it was the suspect, not one of Schultz’s commandos. He didn’t want a dead suspect, and these ERT types were weapons-sharp. Brandon, following orders, motioned for Dart to enter the closet and that he, Brandon, would take up a position in the bathroom.

To Dart, it felt as if several minutes passed before another voice came over the intercom.

ERT AGENT GRITCH: Gritch. Living room. He’s heading for the stairs. He’s using a flashlight.

The idea of a flashlight didn’t sit well with Dart. The resident would certainly use the lights- unless , Dart thought, he wanted to disguise his coming and going.

Perhaps hiding in the closet affected Dart, so much of his youth having been spent hiding in places like this. Perhaps it was that even all these years later by imitating his actions as a child, he was suddenly a part of those emotions. A surge of frustration, anxiety, and anger swept through him, stealing control of the rhythm of his heart. He realized that he was not standing inside this darkened closet by choice but because someone else had directed him here. Brandon. Schultz. It didn’t matter who. He had done this not by choice, but necessity. Adrenaline filled him with panic. He felt claustrophobic, as if this tiny space were shrinking in on him. He heard footsteps coming up-and he could actually smell his mother’s cheap perfume, could hear the woosh of her dress. He knew where he was, a cop standing in a darkened closet, that it was their suspect coming up the stairs, not his mother. But nonetheless, he smelled her. No mistaking that perfume. He yanked the goggles down over his eyes and wondered if the beating of his heart could be heard through the closet door.

SCHULTZ: Suspect is at top of stairs. Donaldson, Philgim, provide backup.

Schultz was seeing to it that Dart and Brandon-an HPD cop and a techie; the lowest of the low in his opinion, no doubt-had some ERT support, something Dart could do without. He mustn’t lose this suspect or find himself in a firefight.

He heard breathing on the other side of the closet door, and it was everything he could do not to imagine his mother. I’m a grown man! he told himself. And yet the past remained. He held his breath-he could hide better than the best of them. He reached down and fingered his weapon. If that door came open, there was going to be hell to pay.

He could picture the two ERT men ascending the stairs delicately, not emitting a sound despite the old planks. Trained to be weightless. Trained killers. He wondered what their nightmares were. What demons possessed them?

The sound of the suspect’s heavy breathing passed by the door, grew faint, and then disappeared.

ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Suspect is inside the bathroom.

Dart heard a sweep of fingers on the outside face of the door, like a faint scratching, and realized that the ERT men were signaling him, warning him they were in the room. They didn’t want Dart firing on them.

SCHULTZ: I don’t want Brandon at risk. Apprehend suspect. Repeat: Apprehend.

ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Apprehend. Copy.

Dart gently eased the closet door open. Philgim’s goggles swung to face him. The agent nodded, pointed toward the bathroom and then to the weapon in his hand. Dart slipped his sidearm out. Philgim pointed to Donaldson, who was also facing Dart. Donaldson held a phosphorous grenade up for Dart to see and indicated for Dart to remove his goggles-the bright light would be blinding. Dart nodded, lowered his head, pulled the goggles up onto his head, and covered his eyes.

ERT AGENT PHILGIM: Brandon. Phos. grenade.

Dart heard the click of a tongue. Brandon, being in the same room as the suspect, could not speak, not even in a whisper, and yet had communicated his acknowledgment.

These people aren’t human, Dart told himself.

He heard a loud pop, and even with his eyes shielded, a flash of blinding white light flooded him. There was a series of harsh shouts and commands as the ERT agents announced themselves. “Police! Stay where you are! No movement! Hold it!” They moved in careful orchestration, one protecting the other.

Dart, screening himself with the doorjamb, saw the suspect kneeling on the floor, both hands over his eyes. The grenade had blinded him. The effect would last several minutes. There was a smell of bitter smoke and a gray haze floating on the ceiling.

The porcelain lid that belonged on the top of the toilet tank was off, and a wet brick and a plastic bag containing small glass vials sat on the closed seat. The brick, ostensibly inside the toilet to conserve water, turned out to be a hollow plastic imitation-a hiding place designed and sold as such. In their quick assessment of the bathroom Yate and Gritch had missed this.

Philgim yanked the man’s arms behind his back, announcing, “You are under arrest on suspicion of tampering with crime scene evidence.” This was the way the search warrant read. Dart was amazed at the team’s efficiency, and the way that they stuck to procedure. The handcuffs snapped into place.

“Fuck off!” said the husky voice of the suspect, his head still bent toward the ground.