Enjoy! Let me know what you think. My email address is Crawman2@Juno.com
For what usually turned out to be two times a month, Marlborough police detectives, as with their colleagues across the nation, patrolled the city streets to bolster the real effort of their brothers in uniform. This was made necessary earlier in the 21st century as a result of the federal budget cuts in the law enforcement budget. America's Benevolence Associations could've put their constituents on a nationwide police strike but didn't. Police chiefs and their subordinates alike grudgingly acknowledged the foolishness of doing such a thing. Striking for more budget allocations on a municipal level not only would've been greeted with apathy from the federal government (God only knew who or what would replace them), but it also would've profited nobody.
So, to maintain the thin blue line against the creeping chaos, the nation's law enforcement bodies, if they hadn't already, several times a month relegated routine police duties, usually farmed out to uniformed officers, to their detectives. Vice, Robbery and Homicide, Narcotics, and detectives from all other divisions were hitting the bricks with their uniformed counterparts. Every gold shield below the rank of Captain had to pitch in. Wearing their old blues was optional but discouraged.
The same night that Griffith had taught his first UMF class he and his partner had pulled patrol duty. To their amazement, it was a slow evening, amazing considering the current statistics- An average of two violent crimes were reported every hour within the city. They had just passed through French Hill and were now sitting in their unmarked on the Old Northborough Road, a potholed deathtrap to the axles of the motorist foolhardy enough to blindly travel down this part of the original Boston Post Road. The department, obviously, wasn't the only municipal agency to suffer cuts in state and federal aid.
John Griffith was sipping ersatz coffee just bought at a gas station/C-store on the highway. The cup was decorated with playing cards, a revival of the poker coffee cups of the 20th century that were once banned from use for fostering a glorified perception of gambling. Griffith was still trying to see what card was on the bottom of the cup when Frank asked him,
"Whatcha got, John?"
"I can't tell, yet," he said as he squinted in the dark. "I never have any luck with these damned things. One time, I got the Dead Man's Hand."
Frank almost blew fake coffee out of his nose.
"You're the Rodney Dangerfield of cops, you know that?"
Griffith finally decided to abandon police procedure for a second and turn on his Casull's flashlight to see the hole card: A pair of threes.
"By the time I get a straight, real coffee will be making a comeback."
"Yeah, you wish. Hey, look who it is."
Griffith switched off the light, looked through the windshield and at the gleaming car pulling up next to the island. It was quite possibly the only 70's Dodge Charger extant in the county, perhaps even in the Commonwealth. Griffith and Mulcahy whistled in appreciation of its external features, including no less than a glistening chrome overhead cam, a fresh easter egg-purple paint job, and almost surely a 383 Magnum under the hood. It rumbled so loudly Mulcahy could feel the glasspacks' vibrations through the steering wheel of the unmarked.
"Isn't that Andrew Conniff's ride? There's a warrant out on him, isn't there?"
Without taking his eyes off the car as the gas attendant trotted over to it, Mulcahy answered, "Fuckin' A, assaulting an officer a couple of years back. He never appeared in court after his arraignment."
"Before we do anything, Frank, lemme check it out on the NCIC."
As Griffith began feeding the plate number into small dash-mounted keyboard, Mulcahy wondered aloud,
"What is he thinking? Could he drive anything conspicuous? Like maybe a float stolen from the fuckin' Macy's parade?"
Griffith, ignoring his partner's wisecrack, silently cursed as his two index fingers pecked on the small keyboard, wishing that the feds had allocated them enough money to afford the newer voice activated ones. This format, even though the unit itself was fairly new, dated back to the 20th century.
He sniffed and awaited the response. Sure enough, Andrew Conniff was still wanted on two outstanding default warrants. The highlighted advisory said that the youth could be armed and dangerous. Such an advisory was automatically attached to the computer record of any suspect who in the past had assaulted an officer whether or not they'd used a weapon.
"Okay," said Griffith, "let's sit tight until backup comes." He reached for the vidphone in his left ear.
"Fuck backup, I'm gonna say hello," said Mulcahy, kicking open the unit's gull wing driver side door.
John, taken aback by the abruptness of Frank's departure and as well as his departure from strict procedure, had no choice but to cover him. Kicking open the passenger side door, Griffith looked for a place to put down the cup of kava, eventually throwing it against a rotting picket fence.
"Hey, wait up!", he loudly whispered but his partner was already halfway to the easter egg-colored Charger. "I'm calling."
"Order me a pizza," Frank said over his shoulder, "extra onions."
Griffith didn't know if he was serious or if that was part of a casual ruse to throw off the driver. What worried Griffith more than anything was the fact that the Dodge had tinted windows and he knew that they weren't within legal limits: After many unsuspecting officers across the country had been shot without ever seeing their assailants or killers, heavily tinted windows were prohibited- Period. Griffith was shaking his head, wondering what this jerkoff was thinking by taking this unique and attention-getting car on the road.
"'Scuse me," said Mulcahy, rapping on the driver's window, "Mind if I do your windshield?"
Griffith took in his breath forcibly as the desk sergeant answered the call.
"Lem, send us some backup. Frank's winding up again; See?"
From the station two and a half miles away, Sgt. Lem Davis could see what Griffith was seeing, thanks to the mini vidcom unit that the desk sergeant had accessed from his console when Griffith had opened the hailing frequency.
"Yeah, I see," Griffith heard in his ear. Davis was used to the routine and it sounded it, to judge from his tone. Frank observes suspect, Frank starts salivating, Frank pounces on suspect. "I'll send a unit, John."
As Griffith advanced toward the Charger, the gas attendant, doubling as the cashier this evening because the scheduled one pulled a no-show, walked out of the store. Griffith didn't see her, as she was coming up on his blind side, made blinder by the mini cam perched on his right temple. He and Lem Davis had seen her just as she got within the camera's range. She was the same person who had sold him the two cups of kava.
Oh, shit...!
"Hey, detective! Forgot the doughnuts?"
"Shit," said Lem, "I'd better send units."
"Good idea," said Griffith but the still unseen driver had already heard the girl's greeting.
The next thing either cop and the teenaged cashier was aware of was a high pitched squeal as the souped-up Charger began fishtailing before lunging forward. Griffith, on his way to the passenger side, leaped to the left of the purple and chrome monster just in time. As the car sped off, it had broken off the detachable gas hose still attached to the tank. The heavy collar hit Griffith square in the right temple, smashing the mini vidcam but possibly saving his skull from being crushed.
The impact was still significant enough to slam Griffith against the metal
and plastic pump. He just caught a glimpse of the girl as the car sped off. She was breathless with excitement, as if she'd secretly hoped for a moment like this to break the monotony of her dull nights at this place. For a split second, Griffith fancied that she looked like the kind of babe that stands between two amateur dragsters. Her long, wavy brown hair was flying across her face and only after a long second did she raise a delicate hand to brush a shoulder length lock from her flushed face. Frank...?
"Frank?!" Where was Frank? "Where'd he go?!", he demanded of the girl.
In response, the high schooler pointed to the Charger about to circle the gas station. At first, all Griffith saw was the chrome bumper reflecting the red of the brake lights. It wasn't until the driver took a sharp right that John saw what had happened to his partner-The crazy bastard had leaped onto the Dodge's hood just before it took off. The only thing keeping him even tenuously on the accelerating vehicle was the chrome overhead cam. The kid appeared to be trying to shake him off.
Instinctively, Griffith shot his right hand to his ear before realizing that the speaker, along with the camera, was smashed by the gas hose's collar.
Communicating with Lem was out. All the desk sergeant could do was rely on Mulcahy's visual and pray that one didn't go out. Unfortunately, they were prone to do just that even during the most uneventful of nights. John had worn virtually every unit in the batch that was bought sight unseen from a defense contractor before he'd even joined the force. The only good thing that could be said about the vidcom units was that if one of them inexplicably crapped out, as with John's, the entire street force would triangulate on the signal's last coordinates.
The Dodge continued to roar throughout the gas station like a wounded dinosaur as Frank continued holding on. By now, John had practically ripped the Casull .454 out of his shoulder holster but was helpless to take a shot. Indeed, there were a million reasons to take the shot and not one to take it. All the same, drawing was SOP, in case the suspect ditched the car and bailed.
"Frank! Bail out when you can!"
In response, Mulcahy merely looked at his partner for the fleetingest of moments. Griffith couldn't tell in all the excitement, but in retrospect, the expression on his face suggested that the asshole was actually enjoying the ride!
The next thing Mulcahy did was even more unexpected. Hanging on with his left hand to the rapidly heating overhead cam, he extracted his own service pistol and pointed it at the heavily tinted windshield. Judging where the driver's head would be was problematic, at best, as he would probably duck down to the dash. But Mulcahy apparently hoped that the sight of the Javelina would make the kid panic and bail out, making himself dinner on the hoof for Frank. Mulcahy thought right.
Fortunately, the driver had the sense to slam the car in park before running out. The transmission made a horrible death rattle as the gears and ports were shredded to filings. The car's leftover velocity made it swerve one last time before gently rolling and harmlessly bumping into another pump. Frank rolled off the hood of the derelict and was about to pounce on the driver just before the youth cut a 45 at the last second. Hiding behind another pump, Griffith got his first good look at the suspect just before he picked up a hose, approved it, and flicked a large disposable cigarette lighter in front of it. It was turned up to maximum and then some. Griffith could tell from the six inch high flame that the butane jet had been removed, in order to ensure faster acts of arson.
The desperate youth, not Andrew Conniff but his older brother Darnell, then held the flame next to the nozzle. Had it been one of the old vapor recovery nozzles of the previous century, there wouldn't've been any cause for worry. The bulky plastic or rubber bellows would've had to have been retracted at least a half inch before any gas could be released, therefore tying up both hands. Not so with these newer ones, in use since the 90s. They seemingly had reverted back to the old style of nozzles, before the bellows, or even those ridiculous-looking spray guards at the base of the nozzle. These were devilishly simple to use- Hit the big button signifying the octane rating of the desired grade, then squeeze.
The youth, even though he'd run only five yards or so to the pump, was breathing so hard Griffith feared he would slip into hyperventilation. Frank had his 10 millimeter trained right at the kid's forehead. Griffith could just make out the red dot of the undermounted laser sighting. When he'd exited the car, the suspect's green bandanna had been torn off. Under the bright mercury vapor lights of the sprawling canopy, Griffith could see the artfully designed scabwork, the latest youth fashion. The illegal "tattooes" served a manifold purpose- They were a rite of manhood in all gangs and they were less confusing than colors.
"Get the fuck back, 'Madman,' jump the fuck back!! I ain't goan back!" The kid, predictably, knew Mulcahy on sight.
"Got your shot, Johnny boy?", Frank casually asked without taking his eyes off the boy.
"Uh," was all Griffith could say in response. Of course he didn't have his shot. In a gas station, with the kid's hand already on the nozzle's trigger, the other holding a lit lighter?
Yeah, sure thing, asshole. Where the fuck's our backup?!
"If you wanna sit this one out, Ranger, just tell me. I've got enough bullets in this babe to take care of his whole fuckin' gang. 27, to be exact."
"Frank, don't, backup's on the way. Let the Gang Unit talk him down. You just keep him under the gun, understand?"
"Ain't nobody talking me down, Chalky! I ain't goan back!"
The black youth was every bit as much on the edge as he must've been driving the car around the islands.
"Frank, talk to Lem and ask him when the backup's coming. I'm sure they'll be here any second!"
"Can't, Johnny boy. The unit's on the fritz. This asshole must've busted it during his joyride."
Two dead vidcoms. They may even call in the staties for this one. So much the better. Griffith half expected a state cruiser to come flying off of 495 any second.
"Hey, dickhead," Mulcahy called to the terrified youth, "you ever seen a statie SWAT team in action? They come with M17s and M40s and all sorts of nice toys for scabheads like you. They have wet dreams that begin like this."
"FUCK you, pig!", the youth exploded just before spraying the perimeter around him with gasoline. Mulcahy, for reasons as yet unknown, shifted the laser sight to the suspect's right hand and fired, shattering the metacarpals and the lighter.
The lad screamed in agony just a second before the spreading perimeter was ignited by the sparks and dollops of flame dripping from the boy's jacket sleeves. It was at this moment that Frank jumped into the circle of fire, out of sight.
(Marlborough, MA, June 30, 2042)
The ME's report came as no surprise to anyone. Cause of death was due more to inhalation of fire than smoke. An examination of what was left of the alveoli cells had revealed that death was not instantaneous but took up to a half a minute to come to either man.
Griffith couldn't even begin to imagine, as he sat in the waiting room of Marlborough-UMass Hospital, what that would feel like, to breath fire, to feel your lungs burning into scar tissue before you'd die. It surprised him even more that, all during the incident, which culminated a mere minute or so before the staties and Marlborough police finally arrive, he'd never once thought of how his own father died, back in '27.
Patrolman Matt Griffith was dispatched to another gas station, this one in Hudson, on a dark but uneventful night like this evening. That in itself wasn't unusual, as municipal cops were allowed up to a mile and a half outside their jurisdictions. The Hudson PD was stretched thinner that night than a whore's alibi and Officer Griffith, 14 months from retirement, and counting every day, had been dispatched to a suspicious person's call at the old Texaco on Washington Street.
Matt Griffith went as much out of curiosity as anything else, just to see how the old sweatshop looked. After all, he used to pump gas at that place, back when it was owned by some crazy Italian who hadn't a clue how to treat his employees right. Pulling up to the lighted but otherwise deserted filling station, Matt Griffith couldn't quite recall the old man's name, but remembered that the six months he'd worked for him was the worst time of his life, barring the time his wife Kimberly was dying of kidney cancer a few years ago.
He put the blue and white Chevy cruiser in park, notifying the dispatcher that he'd arrived at the scene and was about to investigate. He smoothly put his hat on while getting out and looked around. Nothing, at first. But why were the canopy lights on?
He walked to the storefront, holding the flashlight in classic police fashion, knuckles up. Sgt. Griffith looked as far in as the locked door allowed him. Jiggling it, he then walked first to the inspection bay at the right, looked around, then was about to walk to the bays on the left when he saw the glint in the storefront.
He pointed the flashlight at the interior again, just before the bay doors he was about to inspect flew open at the same moment the canopy lights went off. Griffith darted to the left, identifying himself as a police officer while the shadow ran down South Street, but his highly polished service shoes went out from under him. The next thing of which he was aware was the smell of gasoline. Most anyone would've easily smelled it almost immediately but Matt Griffith always did have a rotten sense of smell. He'd slipped in a pool of the gasoline and was drenched in it. Just as he struggled to regain his footing, the kid who turned off the canopy lights darted out of the open bay, discharging his 12 gauge.
It wasn't so much the shot itself that had killed Patrol Sergeant Matthew Griffith as the sparks from the buck impacting with the metal pumps behind him- The sparks ignited the gasoline pooled under him and the flames quickly climbed up the man before he could even alert the dispatcher.
A full five minutes had gone by before the sleepy civilian dispatcher, noticing that Griffith hadn't called in in six minutes, had finally sent another unit to the scene. Downtown was deserted after dark and even the traffic at that time of night, in that part of town, was sparse, at best. Imagine the second officer's shock when his friend from the Academy days was found a smoldering heap in the middle of the island.
Meanwhile, his only son, John, sat alone in the kitchen of their modest house on Lakeshore Drive, alternately looking at the cake and the clock and expecting his father to be home in less than 90 minutes to help him celebrate his 16th birthday, albeit at midnight.
The cake came in handy at the funeral reception, which young John had quietly arranged, as well as the wake and funeral itself."
The boy approached the still bedroom as if arriving at his father's wake. With his untimely departure, the old man's bedroom had been transformed from a place of sleep and grooming to a hollow shrine. Things that had since grown as well-worn in his memory as hole-y shoes on a vagabond had abruptly been imbued with a new light:
The tarnished brass dish for the ever-available pocket change and important-sounding keys whose function remained ever a mystery to be awed; the rough, black brush with matching comb neatly sunk in the center of the slightly glistening bristles; the pine shoe box that always vaguely recalled the earthy scent of Kiwi shoe polish.
His hands lingered through the contents of the kit with all the care of a good homicide detective. There was the small, circular daubing brush, that left a gray smudge on the boy's thumb after feeling the top of the stiff bristles; the soft, semi-white cloth with which Dad would buff his service shoes to a gloss that would've made patent leather insecure; the can of Kiwi itself, with dried beads and smears of black polish limning the edge of the small, flat can. He twisted the tiny wing nut, opening the Kiwi. An almost perfect circle of silver, like some ancient, valuable coin that had passed through millions of invisible hands, offered his imperfect reflection. He closed the can with a soft, hesitant click, looking at the picture of the Kiwi bird closely for the first time.
On the polished bureau lay a barely used tube of Brylcreem, squeezed properly from the bottom; next to that a nearly empty bottle of Old Spice. He twisted the small cap, letting the last drops land on his palm. He rubbed his hands together slowly, and put the cool residue to his peach-fuzzed face. It was reminiscent of something, like a half-lost dream, but it still did not capture his father's essence. On the right side of the bureau sat that teak tie rack that mom had bought for him while putting her son's name on it. The lad still remembered the Christmas that he'd received it, fawning over the thing with a deep garrulity as if it were the best present he'd ever gotten. Perhaps, in a way, it was.
He fingered through the dozen or so ties that were on it- They felt slick and cool to the touch. The boy noticed for the first time that none of Dad's plain blue uniform ties were on the rack. It was as if he was reserving the present for the ties that had meant the most to him, the ones that more accurately defined him. Resisting the urge to twirl it around, he walked away and sat on the bed, looking at his father's immediate universe.
The room had stood exactly as he had left it, giving it that museum air, an air that one can't quite appreciate while still sensing that awe should be given to it. Dad hadn't used the bedroom since that fateful day last week, the day of John Griffith's 16th birthday, July 16, 2027. The room could've easily been used in a holopic of the 20th century.
These anachronistic items were the real legacies of his Dad's maleness; The quiet but firm whispers of his masculinity, as understated but self-assured as the man, himself. Perhaps his voiceless love for his only child was just as self-assured. Perhaps, during those hungry years, John was looking for more than his father could comfortably give.
John Griffith, his face in his hands as he sat in the empty waiting room, was … no longer alone as the ME walked up to him and gave him the findings. Griffith put his face back in his hands and deeply sighed.
Prior to this, when he'd first arrived at the hospital behind the EMTs, John had gone into a supply closet to check out Frank's vidcom unit. It was indeed battered and slightly melted, but he'd still been able to summon a puzzled Sgt. Lem Davis, who at first was wondering why Det. Griffith was calling him from a small room with boxes of gauze and steri-strips in the background.
As the properly somber ME walked away to tell the other officers who'd kept a discreet distance away, Griffith was already playing the events to come as a result of Frank's and the suspect's death; Coroner's inquest, Civil Review panel, maybe even an IAD probe. An official reprimand, even another suspension was possible.
The other cops in the hospital, who'd maintained a distance that couldn't accurately be termed as respectful, had already begun whispering amongst themselves that he'd choked, that perhaps he was even the one who pulled the trigger on the poor innocent lad threatening to turn them all to toast. Griffith couldn't hear them, but he could read their furtive looks loud and clear: weren't you there for him? Where were you when he needed you?
Griffith knew why he'd choked, but it wasn't why anyone had thought.
Enjoy! Let me know what you think. My email address is Crawman2@Juno.com