The Big Guy Chapter 12

The Big Guy
Chapter 12

There were no affirmatives, so the first voice continued. “We have to get this big shipment in before Cahill takes over, and then we can bide our time until we can handle him,” Lucy asked to have the tape stopped.

“The first voice belongs to Carl Haynes, Jeremy’s father. God knows I’ve heard it often enough at Council meetings. I’m sure you realize the third is Jeremy Haynes, his son and formerly one of Bascomb’s Landing’s finest. That’s no surprise, but the second one is. That’s Joe Wilson, who used to be the police chief.” That’s what I thought, but getting confirmation was good.

The tape was restarted a minute later, and we heard a fourth voice. “When is it coming in? I think I can dress in my uniform that afternoon to screen off the entire area and keep the rest of the cops away. Too bad I can’t get one of the patrol cars. Maybe we can devise a diversion like an accident or a report of shots fired. We’ll come up with something.”

“You can use my car. I’ll phone in sick that afternoon. Just drive to my house and pick it up. I’ll also give you my pistol and belt so you’ll look official.”

“That’s good thinking, Stan,” Carl said. “Junior, how did your Memphis sale go last week?”

“Smooth as silk. He had the bread just as we wanted—small used bills…ten thousand bucks, and he said he’d need a lot more in another month.
The good thing about selling there is that nobody knows any of us. That university is going to be a goldmine for us.”

“Okay,” it was Carl again. “The truck is scheduled to reach us from Mexico on Thursday the eighth, sometime in the afternoon. I’ll get a call on my cell about two hours before they arrive, so we’ll have plenty of time to get ready. It will probably take us a couple of hours to get everything out of the truck and into the warehouse. Once we lock up the gate, we’ll be home free.”

“Yeah, using that old, abandoned quarry is genius. The best part is that it’s on older man Bascomb’s property. Nobody ever goes out there.” There was some idle chatter and the clinking of glasses before the meeting broke up. We all turned to Lucy, who was livid.

“The fourth voice is that of Gil Parsons…Jeremy’s partner is in crime and the force. I know exactly where the quarry they referred to is, and they’re right—nobody ever goes there. It’s fenced with barbed wire on top, and the gates are always locked. I don’t know how Carl Haynes got a key, but I’ll venture that he stole it from my father at one of his parties. The other voice is that of Stan Irwin. He’s a lieutenant on the force. Geez, the whole force is corrupt.”

“Not the whole force, fortunately, but enough to ensure they were never caught. I’d like to know how long this has been going on. Daryl and I will have a plan to deal with them long before Thursday.”

Julia took over the meeting then. “Thank you for your assistance, Lucy. It was precious. Do you think we can get a key for the gate?” Lucy laughed and pulled her key ring from her purse. A minute later, she handed Julia a big key. “This one should do it, but we might want to try it first in case the lock changes.” We spent the rest of the day laying plans for an ambush. We’d have more than thirty state police and DEA agents, and Lucy promised a couple of big ore-carrying trucks to block the entrance once they were inside the quarry’s perimeter. Daryl and I would participate as representatives of the local police, but I insisted that Lucy stay home. I made a point of speaking with her father about her staying with them for safety. He assured me he’d have two considerable trucks in the area long before the Thursday deadline.

Through the bugs and phone taps, we knew more than a day before the big drug truck would arrive in Bascomb’s Landing. There are times when interagency operations have failed because of petty jealousy or ineffective communications, but not this time. We were in place before the cell phone call to Carl Haynes. The two ultra heavy-duty ore trucks “borrowed” from a Bascomb pit mine about four hundred miles away arrived on Wednesday afternoon. The drivers stayed with Jonathan and Marylou overnight. Lucy told me these trucks got less than a mile a gallon of diesel fuel.
Fortunately, they have two two-hundred and fifty-gallon tanks. They were hidden about five miles away on a friend’s farm until they were called to the scene. The drivers were ready by noon on Thursday.

Our first step was to arrest Stan Irwin at his home once Parsons had taken his squad car. Daryl, Max, and I knocked on his front door while Dan Powell covered the back. Stan appeared confused when he saw us, but he opened the door to talk. “You need to come with us, Stan. I have a warrant for your arrest on conspiracy to sell and distribute illegal drugs. Where’s your squad car?”

“You’re wrong, Chief. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“All the same, you’re coming with us. Let’s go.”

“Just let me get my jacket.” He started to turn away, but I stopped him by drawing my revolver and telling him to stay where he was.

“There’s no place to run, Stan. The back is covered, and you’re not making any phone calls. We have you jammed. Turn around and place your hands behind your back.” Once he was under control, Daryl walked inside to check for weapons. I read his Miranda rights as we walked him to the car. We dropped him off at the staging point behind an old and unused strip mall less than a mile from the quarry under the custody of the state police. Our next stop was just outside the quarry.

I parked my SUV about a quarter mile behind Parsons, who was stationed just outside the open gates at the quarry. If we stayed low, there was a lot of brush on the shoulder to cover our approach. I told Dan to stay back in case Parsons was able to escape. “If necessary, fire at his tires. You’ll give us away, but that can’t be helped.” Dan nodded his agreement as we stole away until we were almost at the squad car. Daryl noticed that Parsons had the windows open and was smoking—a definite no-no in police vehicles. That would help us if we could get close enough.

We stayed on the edge of the old dirt road, knowing that it would be harder to see us there than on the driver’s side of the car. I signaled Daryl to take the passenger side of the car while I tiptoed around the rear, drawing my Python once I was there with Max at my side. From there, it was only two quick steps before I surprised Parsons by pushing my pistol into the side of his head. “Keep your hands where I can see them and off the horn. I won’t have any problem shooting your head off, scumbag!” He placed his hands behind his head and slid under Max’s eye. I bent him over the trunk and handcuffed him, turning him over to Dan Powell, who drove the squad car back to the staging area with Parsons confined in the back.

Carl Haynes and his wife had been the first to arrive. We watched from the top of a big hill opposite the gate as they drove their car inside and closed it, replacing the padlock on the chain but not locking it. Fifteen minutes later, we heard a radio call reporting shots fired and officers needing assistance on the other side of the city. We weren’t surprised to see Jeremy Haynes and Parsons drive up in Irwin’s patrol car a few minutes later.
They stayed outside the fence “directing traffic” until the Chief arrived and drove into the quarry, where he met with Carl Haynes outside one of the large warehouses on the site. Jeremy Haynes waited until he saw the big tractor-trailer slowly wend its way up the road. He had the gate open by the time it finally arrived and walked through it, closing it. We took out Parsons once he was well inside.

Once Dan had taken Parsons to the staging area, the road was sealed off by state police, who permitted only the two giant ore haulers and official vehicles. I had instructed the ore haulers to be backed up to the gate and their beds lowered as far as possible. They more than filled the broad entryway to the quarry. Daryl and I slipped into the quarry grounds with twenty men and two women from the state police. The remaining officers stayed at the entrance to seal off any escape attempts.

We knew we had to deal with Carl and Jeremy Haynes, Joe Wilson, Mrs. Haynes, and the three we had seen in the truck. We were heavily armed, not knowing what kind of weapons they had with them. I thought it might help if we could turn off the big semi they had driven, so I hurried to my SUV and retrieved my Benelli M4 semi-automatic shotgun. Quickly, I ejected the six buckshot shells in favor of six magnums with steel slugs—guaranteed to crack virtually any engine block or penetrate any bulletproof vest.

Slipping under the enormous trucks that blocked their escape, twenty of us spread out around the quarry buildings. Max followed my cues, maintaining silence as Daryl, Dan, and I hid behind one of the rusted-out sheds. Just ahead of us, we could see the four locals joined with three from the truck’s cab counting through the money—more than one million dollars fresh from the First National Bank of Memphis. They talked and joked as the suitcase of cash was stowed in the rear of the cab. After completing this formality, the seven worked together to unload the truck and place the illicit goods onto pallets, keeping them off wet floors. We moved into a position where we could observe and proceed with the arrests.

Using my radio, I determined that all of us were in place, so I called out, “STAY WHERE YOU ARE! THIS IS THE POLICE. WE HAVE YOU OUTNUMBERED AND SURROUNDED. MOVE TO THE OPEN AREA IN FRONT OF THE TRUCK WITH YOUR HANDS ON TOP OF YOUR HEADS. YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO COMPLY.”

Of course, I never expected that they would. Instead, the three outsiders, who turned out to be members of an infamous Mexican drug cartel, ran to get their AK-47s, shooting wildly in all directions. They were wearing vests, but that didn’t bother me. I raised the Benelli, took aim, and fired. A 12-gauge magnum shell has extra gunpowder that propels the heavy steel projectile at extremely high speed. Even if it failed to penetrate the vest, it would surely break several ribs, rendering the perpetrator useless in any skirmish. I watched as the slug struck, blood gushing out of the man’s back as he fell to the ground.

One of his partners climbed into the truck’s cab and tried to start the engine. My next two shots were through the radiator and into the block. Steam poured through the holes as the slugs ripped through the copper tubing. I doubted the truck would go far even if the exit weren’t blocked. As I watched, the state police fired perhaps a hundred shots into the cab and eliminated the driver from the battle. Max and I crawled off to the left as Daryl and Dan headed around the truck to get better firing angles on the erstwhile drug dealers.

I couldn’t believe my luck when Carl Haynes and his wife backed up to almost where Max and I stood. When I spoke, it was barely a whisper. “Raise them, Haynes, and don’t try anything stupid. My dog will take you apart if I don’t shoot you first.” He dropped his weapon and raised his hands. I pulled him and Mrs. Haynes around the truck’s trailer, securing their hands with vinyl wrist cuffs. After a quick pat down, I passed them off to the state policewomen to be held away from the action. I learned later that a careful search of Mrs. Haynes revealed a detailed ledger showing the group’s sales, profits, and offshore accounts of more than ten million dollars.

Now, there were only three fugitives—Jeremy Haynes, Joe Wilson, and one of the truck drivers. There was sporadic firing, but primarily, it was intended to locate targets. Max and I crept forward again, keeping low. We turned left once we had reached a group of drug-laden pallets. About twenty feet away, facing to our right, were Joe Wilson and the remaining Mexican taking shelter behind steel gears for a tall conveyor belt. I signaled Max to follow as I scooted further to my left to get behind them.

I could whisper their location into my radio once I had crawled behind a rusty steel cart. Once again, I yelled, “IT’S OVER HAYNES. I’M BEHIND YOU, AND THERE’S NO PLACE FOR YOU TO GO. GIVE IT UP WHILE YOU STILL CAN.” Wilson and the Mexican glanced behind them while I fired my Colt Python over their heads. Wilson threw his weapon down, but the Mexican ran. I called into the radio not to shoot as Max instinctively took off after him. Haynes, seeing no alternative, ducked into the warehouse where they had planned to store the drugs. The Mexican had run all thirty feet when 130 pounds of dog took him down. He lay on his stomach with Max’s jaws around his neck when I walked up to him.
Once I had him secured, I stood him up, and the state officers approached with Wilson also handcuffed. We retreated when Haynes fired two shots that flew barely over our heads.

I called out to him, telling him there was nowhere to go, but his response could have been more encouraging. “FUCK YOU, CAHILL, AND FUCK THAT AFRICAN AMERICAN YOU HAVE WITH YOU.” I was prepared for a long siege when Daryl told me he had an idea. After listening for a minute, I told him to go ahead and try.

He called out to Haynes. “Okay, Haynes—we both know you got nowhere to go. But here’s a thought for you to think about. You are not going anywhere unless you want to take your chances with the canyon or you want your shot at me. I’ll meet you mano a mano right out here in the yard. Just throw your gun out, and you can have your chance.”

“Yeah…sure; right after you shoot me. No thanks,” Haynes called out from the dark interior of the big building.

“Let’s face it,” Daryl continued, “We have water and can get all the food we need to starve you out, or we can just shoot some tear gas into the building, but then I’m going to miss out on whopping’ your fat ass for you. I knew you were a racist, but I never figured you were a coward, too.
You’re going to prison either way, so why not go as a man and not some pussy white chicken shit?”

It was all I could do to keep a straight face as I whispered, “I never knew you were a racist, Daryl.”

“Shut up, Matt. I’m getting to him. He thinks he can whip me, so I need to bait him a little more. You’ll see.” Then, raising his voice again, “I can’t believe you’re such a pussy…afraid to go one on one against this worthless African American.”

That got Haynes worked up because he responded almost immediately. “I’ll show you who’s a pussy. Just don’t shoot me and Cahill, you keep that fucking dog away from me.”

“No problem, Haynes; just throw your guns out the door.” I held Max as he stepped toward the doorway to throw his AK toward the state police. A few seconds later, he stepped out into the clearing.

“Don’t forget your pistol, Haynes,” I reminded him. He reached behind his belt and, smirking, tossed it away. Daryl stepped from behind the cart and handed me his shotgun and pistol before removing his vest.

“What do you think, Matt? Fast and painful or slow and agonizing?”

“In this case, I think slow and agonizing are more appropriate, don’t you?”

“I do.” Then he turned and walked to the center of the clearing, summoning Haynes to him with a casual wave of his hand.

Haynes approached menacingly—slowly, shifting his weight ponderously from side to side as he stepped closer and closer. He clasped his hands together and cracked his knuckles as if that would intimidate someone like Daryl Evans. If there were one thing a former military police officer would remember for the rest of their life, it was the lessons in hand-to-hand combat—lessons drilled in through hours and hours of repetition.

Perhaps Haynes thought that he would catch Daryl by surprise with a roundhouse right. I relived my training when I saw Daryl step inside the punch, his forearm angled up and away from his body. Hayne Haymaker flew harmlessly over Daryl’s head while he ducked under and behind his lumbering opponent. Darryl took a quick step away and paused halfway there to deliver a hard elbow to Haynes’ right kidney. Any more of those, and Haynes would piss blood for a week.

Daryl used to bob, weave, and strike when the opportunity was present. In and out, he moved, slapping and punching the bigger man’s face and body but receiving nothing back but lumbering blows that fell harmlessly short or long of Daryl’s body. I appreciated Daryl’s strategy because before ten minutes had passed, Haynes could barely move due to his exhaustion. Now Daryl gave him the coup de grace—rapidly punching his face and, when he had raised his hands, going for the big man’s body.

After less than five minutes, Haynes stumbled to his knees and couldn’t get up again. Two state troopers stepped forward to handcuff the gasping, struggling man who was beyond resistance. They led him past Daryl and me, but he couldn’t resist a jibe. “I would’ve gotten you in a fair fight.” I would have laughed had the situation not been so pathetic. This man couldn’t beat Daryl if he’d had a club. Daryl and I had sparred many times and beaten him fewer than a dozen, but then, I had him by fifty pounds, just like Jeremy Haynes. The difference was—my weight was muscle, and he was flabby fat.

We used the same forklift they had used to return the pallets of drugs to the trailer but needed to be more knowledgeable about the state of the vast diesel engine until the two drivers from the Bascomb mine came forward to check it. They leaned in to check the block once they had the massive hood up. One pointed to an ooze of vibrant yellow that they identified as antifreeze. “Crack in the block,” the taller one said. “Mr. Bascomb told us to phone a number if we needed a tractor or a tow truck. If I call them now, they should be able to get here in an hour or so.” I gave him the okay, and after the calls, he and the other driver removed their other carriers en route back to the mine. These trucks were so big that they needed a particular “WIDE LOAD” permit and smaller vehicles ahead and behind to travel on the highways.

We had timed our raid almost perfectly because only three of what looked to be thirty palettes had been unloaded. This was technically my investigation since the quarry was in the City of Bascomb’s Landing. However, I was more than happy to turn all of the drugs over to the DEA and State Police. I had limited lab facilities to examine and verify the types of medications confiscated. However, from preliminary examination, there appeared to be primarily pills—oxycontin and other opioids—and cocaine with about a ton of baled marijuana added in. I knew the payment had been more than a million dollars, so I anticipated the street value would be at least four or five times that amount. From what I was told, everything would be tested, identified, and assigned a street value. I was glad to see the trailer pulled away, attached to a new tractor with DEA vehicles ahead and behind, their blue and red lights flashing.

I closed and locked the quarry, understanding that the state would send crime scene investigators immediately. I handed the key to my counterpart from the state police, who congratulated me on a successful operation. “Yeah--successful in that we arrested one former chief, one lieutenant, and two patrolmen. That’s just great, isn’t it?” I shook my head, and he joined me. No police officer enjoys seeing officers arrested for corruption. That undermines all of our authority and community confidence.



To be continued