The Big Guy Chapter 15

The Big Guy
Chapter 15

“I think I’ll stay here forever,” she whispered.

“Then I think I’ll need a new wardrobe.” For some reason, she thought that was hilarious and broke out laughing. After thinking about it for a second or two, I joined her. True to her word, she was still there when I walked to the bed. By then, the laughter had died out to be replaced by kiss after kiss on my face, neck, and lips. I placed her carefully onto the bed, slipping in behind her. She found her usual place—head on my left shoulder and left leg lying on my thigh—when I told her again how much I loved her. The next thing I recognized was the alarm at 6:30.

The mood was festive at inspection, and it was perfect, as had become the norm over the recent weeks. I sat in on the morning briefing with Daryl, then retired to my office to prepare for my budget meeting with the City Council. I knew that Lucy would move the meeting that way right after they took care of asshole Carl Haynes, replacing him with Jasmine. That would be a significant step forward. I’d heard from many people on the street while walking through the downtown area. Everyone who approached me had expressed their thanks to me and their total disappointment in Haynes and his family. Second only to their scorn for Carl Haynes was their disdain for former Chief Joe Wilson.

It was noon before I knew it, and even then, it was only because Daryl came to get me. “Damn, Matt, you’re really into that budget.”

“Yeah…like I have a choice; can you believe there’s no vehicle replacement plan? According to the garage foreman, some vehicles are over five years old. None of them have less than five hundred thousand miles on them. Some Council members are in for a big surprise, and I will apply for federal grants. Paul McCormick has told me he gets much of his equipment that way—weapons, vehicles, ammunition. I can’t find a single application in the files, nor can Sandra. She’s worked here for eight years.”

“Well, it’ll still be here when we return from lunch. How about Earl’s?” Earl’s sounded good. The restaurant wasn’t named “Earl’s,” but that’s what all the locals called it. We walked out with Max, knowing he’d be accepted at Earl’s just as he was almost everywhere else.

Sure enough, Earl himself met us outside the door. This was an Italian restaurant, and Earl was a short, heavy African American. Go figure! I asked him how business was. “It’s great, Matt, now that I don’t have to give those freeloading cop bastards free meals every day.”

Max sat at one of the tables, and Daryl and I were at my feet. We ordered Italian subs with Cokes and had returned the menus to Earl’s meaty hands when he asked, “I got some fat and some cut-up pieces of meatball and sausage—the mild stuff. Is it okay if I give it to Max?”

“Sure, Earl, but not too much. Lucy will kill me if he gets diarrhea.” Earl laughed, but he knew I was serious. What he produced was no bigger than a small scoop of ice cream. I thanked Earl as he set the plate on the floor beside me. I signaled Max that he could eat, and I thanked Earl again.
Daryl and I talked shop until our sandwiches arrived. I returned to the office around 1:15, where I tried to organize my work for Monday evening's presentation. I left at 3:30 sharp, telling Sandra I had to take Lucy to the doctor.

“Good luck,” she told me with a wry smile. I smiled back and shook my head as Max and I strode out the door. Ten minutes later, I was in the driveway where my wonderful wife was waiting. She jumped into the car and drove off while Max licked Lucy’s face and hands and wagged his tail wildly. I left the windows open but told Max to stay when I walked Lucy into Dr. Murphy’s office.

We waited over twenty minutes before a nurse called Lucy’s name—almost. “Lucille Bascomb” was the name that was called. The nurse was somewhat surprised when I accompanied Lucy to the exam room. “Why are you here, Ms. Bascomb, and who is this with you?”

“I’m a bit surprised you don’t know I’m married. It was in all the newspapers, and I told the woman who made the appointment I was. This is my husband—Chief of Police Matt Cahill—and we’re here to learn if I’m pregnant. I used three of those home pregnancy tests last week, and they all said ‘yes,’ but we’d like confirmation, and I assume that I’ll need a series of appointments.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been on vacation for three weeks. I’ll make the change in name and marital status immediately. Even though you’ve already done this, I’d like you to use these three tests. Please wait until the middle of your stream and stick them in so the urine covers the test area. Dry them with a paper towel, but don’t rinse in water. Okay?” Lucy took the strips and stepped out with a smile, followed closely by the nurse.

I was alone in the exam room for about five minutes, but there was no way I would read any of those sappy women’s magazines on the rack on the wall. Fortunately, Lucy returned, and she smiled again. “Six for six,” she said, laughing. Then she came to me and gave me the sweetest short kiss. It was brief because, just ten seconds into it, a woman I assumed was Dr. Murphy opened the door and entered.

“Hello, Lucille.”

“Hi, Dianne; I’d like you to meet my husband, Matt…Matt Cahill.” I stood and nodded in greeting, then sat down and watched Dr. Murphy take over.

After examining the three tests, she told Lucy to sit on the exam table as I moved out of the way. “These tests are about 96 percent accurate, but I’ll need a little blood to be sure. If you’re pregnant, your body will produce several hormones only in your blood during pregnancy. Are you still afraid of needles?”

I didn’t need to hear an answer. Lucy’s face showed her panic. I walked over to hold and hug her face and head. I whispered into Lucy’s ear as Dr. Murphy quickly inserted the needle and waited until the vial was full. A few seconds later, Lucy’s arm was bandaged while Dr. Murphy went through a spiel that she must have recited more than a thousand times about diet, exercise, no smoking or drinking. A series of appointments were set up before we left at almost five o’clock. Rather than go home, I took Lucy out for an early dinner.

Max was happy to see us, and he had warmed to Lucy even more than I could have hoped. He moved to her as soon as she was in the car, wagging his tail wildly. “I think he loves you almost as much as I do, Lucy.”

“That’s okay because I love him too—not as much as I love you, though.” Then she leaned across the console for a sensational kiss. Breaking it, she told me, “I’m in the mood for pizza for dinner. Is that okay?” It was, so back to Earl’s we went. His pizza was just as good as his Italian cold-cut subs. We ordered double sausage with two Cokes, sitting at the rickety table as we ate. I kept some of the scraps for Max to eat later. We walked out just before six, and then—catastrophe!

There is nothing a police officer hates more than a hostage situation. Only a domestic dispute even comes close. My phone rang, and caller ID told me it was headquarters calling. Sgt. Holland, the evening sergeant, said there had been a silent alarm at George’s Men’s Wear about fifteen minutes ago, just before closing. The responding officers found that George was stuck in his shop with a white male who held a gun to his head.
They had secured the front and rear of the shop, and Holland wanted to know what to do next.

“Call every officer from the day shift you can reach, especially Lt. Evans. I have to take Lucy home and then be on the scene. Contact the phone company and have them send a technician to hook us up with the shop’s phone.” Lucy was already belted in when I hit the light bar and siren. There was no time to waste. Drivers in Tennessee generally pull over to allow police, ambulance, or fire trucks right of way, and as soon as I pulled out, there was a clear lane for me. I hit fifty down the city’s main drag before pulling off onto our street. Once the door was opened, I ran into our home office to open my gun safe. It was big, almost six feet high by three broad and two deep. I pulled out a hard-shelled case that weighed nearly thirty-five pounds. Opening it, I carefully counted eleven .50 caliber bullets. Carrying it in my right hand, I ran back down the stairs to hug and kiss Lucy before leading Max back to the SUV.

“Please be careful, Matt,” Lucy yelled as I began to pull away. I had more than one good reason to be extremely careful.

I sped up to the cross street where George had his menswear shop, skidding to a halt just before the intersection. I opened the hatchback and carefully donned my vest, ensuring my Colt Python was easily accessible. Then, I grabbed the heavy gun case and trotted down the block. I was pleased to learn that day shift officers had blockaded the street and removed any residents from the apartments above the stores. That was especially important above George’s shop.

Looking across the narrow two-lane street, I could easily see into the well-lit store. George was pulled in front of a young white male who held a revolver against his head. So far, so good, I thought. The kid hadn’t panicked yet, and his pistol wasn’t cocked. I turned to one of the officers and told him, “Get whoever has this car tonight to turn it so it’s on a sixty-degree angle to the curb, like this.” Then I showed him with my hands how I wanted the car. I had opened the case and was putting my weapon together by the time he and another young officer had returned.

They stopped short when they saw it. “What the hell is that, Chief?”

“Ever try to shoot through plate glass with a 9mm or a 5.62mm from an M-16? If you do, you’ll see that the glass is so complex and thick that it will turn the bullet. That won’t happen with this. I held up one of the rounds—a .50 caliber BMG round for my Barrett M82 A sniper rifle. I attached the scope and set the front bipod up on the squad car’s roof. The rear stand I adjusted so the rifle’s barrel was just even with the perpetrator’s head. Daryl handed me a headset courtesy of the phone company.

I took the radio handset from the squad and set it to serve as a bullhorn. “HELLO, IN THE STORE. THIS IS CHIEF CAHILL OF THE CITY POLICE. I WANT TO TALK TO YOU ON THE PHONE SO YOU CAN SPEAK BACK TO ME. PLEASE PICK IT UP WHEN IT RINGS.” I turned it off, dropping it onto the car’s seat. Daryl had coordinated with the phone company technician, telling him we wanted an open line to the store. A few seconds later, I heard the phone ring across the silent street.

Warily, the young man pulled George across the showroom to the phone. I spoke as soon as he had it up. “This is Matt Cahill. Why don’t you call me Matt? What should I call you?”

“Oh, no, you don’t; I’m not giving you my name.”

“Okay, how about if I call you Bob? It’s as good as any name.”

“Um…okay.”

“So tell me, Bob—how’d you get into this mess? You’re in a real pickle, aren’t you?”

“My car ran out of gas, and this guy was the only one open.”

“I see, but George is a nice guy. He would have given you twenty bucks if you had asked him. Why the gun, and why take him as a hostage?”

“I…I need more than twenty. I need my medicine.”

“You seem a little tense, Bob—and jittery, too. That sounds like meth to me. Is that what you’re on? Don’t let that cause you to make a stupid mistake.”

“What…what do you mean?”

“Well, I’m sure you watch TV, so you must know that the police never allow someone in your situation to walk away. We have you surrounded—front and back—so the only way you’re going to get out is to put your gun down and walk out the front door with your hands on your head. Don’t let anything happen to George. He’s the only thing keeping you alive.”

“What do you mean…the only thing keeping me alive?”

“Well, it’s simple. You’re using George as a shield. But what do you think would happen if you shot him? There would be no reason not to shoot you. I hope you understand that. It’s important. I want you to relax. As long as George is okay, you’re going to be okay. What about food or something to drink like water or a Coke? I could get you some burgers from Wendy’s right up the block, or I could get you some chicken from KFC. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah, I am hungry. Say, how do I know you have people out back?”

“That’s a fair question, Bob. Tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll have one of my men shoot his rifle into the heavy steel door out back. You and George can stand in the doorway to the back room but don’t get too close to the door in case it breaks and splinters. I don’t want either of you getting hurt.”

“Um…okay; go ahead, but don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t, Bob, but that’s good advice for you, too. Don’t do anything stupid; we’ll get through this, okay.” I had him right in the crosshairs throughout the entire conversation, and I could have taken him out at any time, but I was hoping that wouldn’t have been necessary.

“Bob, Officer Lovett is out back with an M-16 rifle. Neil, please take three and only three shots at the center of the door when I give you the word. Are you ready, Bob?

“Yeah…okay, go ahead.”

“You heard the man, Neil.” A second later, the sound of three quick reports broke the still night, and I could hear the rounds impact the steel door.

“You can believe me, Bob. I have no reason to lie to you.” I saw him then return to the showroom, and it took all my resolve not to swear out loud. On the way back, looking through the scope, I saw him quickly swallow several pills from a plastic bag. If they were more meth, this situation could go south in a hurry. I needed to keep this guy calm and relaxed, so I changed the subject back to food.

“Okay, Bob; I was just thinking. Burgers would probably be better than chicken, you know? You’d probably need two hands to eat the chicken, but only one for the burger. That way, you could still keep your gun on George but don’t worry. He’s not going to do anything to hurt you. He’s one of the nicest guys I know. You don’t have to hurt him, and you don’t want the gun to go off accidentally, do you?”

He moved the barrel of the gun away from George’s head, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Now, I had to keep him as calm as possible. I made arrangements to get two double with cheese combos from Wendy’s, even asking him what he wanted on it. Then I asked him to speak to George to find out what he would like. Finally, we took their order for drinks. “It will take about ten minutes—maybe a trifle longer. We’ll cut the line, but the officer must still get there and back, so please be patient.”

I waited a few minutes before speaking again. “Which is your car, Bob? Is it out on Main Street?”

“Yeah, it’s on the other side of the street…a 2007 Pontiac. It’s a Grand Prix…white.” Daryl nodded, then dashed up the street in search of the car. It would be great to learn more about “Bob,” anything that would help bring this crisis to a peaceful conclusion.

“Say, Bob, are you from around here or just passing through?”

“I was born near Memphis but now live in Kentucky.”

“That sounds nice. Kentucky is a beautiful state.” I’d say anything if it would help this guy relax. A few minutes later, Daryl gave me a sheet of paper with his name, address, and information about his local family. Now, I had to be careful. “Bob, if you were born near here, does that mean you still have family here? Is there anyone you’d like us to contact? Someone you’d like to speak with?”

That was the wrong thing to say because he reacted immediately and negatively. “The only one here is my fucking bitch of a mother. I don’t care if she fucking dies. I want to be the one who does it. I’d shoot that fucking cunt right in the head just like I’m going to do with this old man.” Oh, shit!

Oh, shit turned to oh, fucking shit when “Bob” pulled the hammer back and pushed the barrel into George’s head. I tried to speak—to calm him—but the look on his face told me we were done talking. I couldn’t wait even another second. His head was right in the crosshairs a millisecond later when I slowly pulled the trigger.

A .50 caliber bullet dwarfs almost every other cartridge, even the .44 Magnum shells I used in my pistol. The cartridge holds so much fuel that the round is supersonic immediately. Muzzle velocity is almost 3,000 feet per second. The speed of sound is about 1130 fps, so the heavy missile is traveling at more than 2.5 times the speed of sound. “Bob” was dead before any of us even had time to react, his head exploding from the massive kinetic energy of the heavy projectile.

Three officers ran across the street into George’s to remove him for examination by the EMTs on-site and to secure the scene. I just took several long breaths to calm myself. I was looking down when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “You had no choice, Matt, none at all. If you had waited even a few seconds, George would have been dead, and then we would have had to kill him anyway.”

“Thanks, Daryl, but that doesn’t make me feel better. I feel that I somehow failed. I had no idea that mentioning his family would set him off.”

“No, I think you handled it perfectly. Mentioning family, especially mom, usually forces the perp to think about what he is doing. None of us had any idea. I wonder if there are any records in Social Services about his family. Sounds like an abusive situation; I think I’ll check up on Monday.”

I had started to disassemble the rifle when George was led behind me by two EMTs. He was wrapped in a blanket and was hurried along the sidewalk when he suddenly stopped to hug me. “Thank God you were here, Matt. I wasn’t petrified until the end when he seemed to snap. I’d be dead now if not for you.” I returned the hug and encouraged him to follow the EMTs to their vehicle. He was an older man who had undergone an extremely traumatic experience, one that could haunt him for the rest of his life.

I returned the rifle to its case when Daryl suggested I go home. “I’ll secure the tape for the crime scene tech; we have plenty of witnesses. I’m sure George will be a good witness, too. You need to get home to that great wife of yours.” I nodded and walked away, carrying my rifle and feeling like a failure.

Lucy was up and waiting for me when I drove into the garage. She rushed out to hold me. “Daryl called. How terrible for you!” She led me into the house and up to the bedroom, where she stripped my uniform from my body and led me into the shower. I was there with her when I broke down and cried like a baby. All told, I must have cried for half an hour before Lucy’s love and tenderness helped to calm me. I had no remorse about killing the Mexican in the drug bust, but I’d had no natural choice then. He was trying to kill me, and it was self-defense. I had the highest hopes of ending this standoff, but it wasn’t.

Lucy put me to bed and then cared for Max, feeding and putting him out. He knew somehow that something was wrong—that something terrible had happened. He rushed in, placed his head onto the bed where I could reach him, and ran my fingers through the fur on his head. Soon, Lucy joined me, lying partially on my body. There was no sex tonight, but there was still plenty of loving and caring before I finally succumbed to sleep.

We didn’t do much on Saturday, but I did take two phone calls from the County. The first was from the crime techs, who told me that their report would indicate that I shot out of necessity to save a life. The second was from the medical examiner. That came in the late afternoon. He told me that analysis of Sean Dugan’s blood showed he was a chronic abuser of drugs and that he had enough meth in his blood to fry anyone’s brain. He doubted Dugan would have been able to think or reason.

Sunday morning, we were up early to drive to the AME Church. Again, we were met by Pastor Michaels, who led us to the front pew. This time, I was asked to speak during the service. “Thank you, Anthony. The last time I was here, I tried to tell you that I wanted to recruit minorities for the police force and that we—my friend Daryl Evans, my wife Lucy, and I- would hold tutoring sessions for anyone interested. Ten people showed interest and attended our sessions.

“Well, I took a call from the Chief in Memphis a few days ago, and he told me that we were great tutors or had great students because all ten of us passed both parts of the exam. All ten scored in the top fifty in the aptitude part, and all ten passed the psychological part. I have a meeting tomorrow evening to review the police department budget with the City Council, and I anticipate we will have openings for all of you. You will get a formal letter within the next two weeks about enrolling in the Memphis Police Academy. Of course, the city will pay for that. Congratulations to all of you. You certainly deserve it.” I stood back from the podium to applaud.

I was about to sit down when an older man stood to ask a question. “Did you shoot a young man Friday evening?”


To be continued