Cop Shades
Cop Shades
By David Goldberg
He only took the call because he was in his neighborhood. Some idiot had kidnapped a girl. They were even on a street only two blocks away from where he lived. When he pulled up in his brand new-ish Ford crown vic, the other five ohs were already there, forming a ring facing the house. ”What’s going on over here?”he said to the detective in charge as he took off his helmet. ”Oh, hi Paul, some idiot is holding a hostage inside, he’s all mixed up, even called 911 on himself. Can you beat that?” “Hehe, yeah, some idiot. How old’s the girl?” “About seven I think.”
That made Paul mad. That was the same age as his kid. He got on his radio and called the 911 dispatcher for details. It had been an early call. The sun was low, the house faced west. 911 didn’t have many details. The girl had been walking to school from two blocks away with a group of friends when he snatched her up. They still didn’t have her name. He tied her up and threatened to kill her and himself. He sounded nervous on the phone.
“If he was nervous then he’s more nervous now,” thought Paul, “with all these Po-Po around.” All the officers were hiding behind their patrol cars. They knew the danger. Paul pondered a minute. It made him mad. Hell, it could be his daughter there, his daughter, tied up and scared. And the dude pulled it off in his neighborhood too! So he formulated a plan. He decided to break cover. He suddenly stood up, in full view of the house. The other officers’ eyes grew wide. ”What the hell’s he doing?” one said. He faced the house, and behind it, the sun. His dark cop shades made him look like that guy from Reno 911.
He placed his feet well apart. ”Whadda you doing Paul?” said one of them, “Where’s your Kevlar?” The sun was glinting off his badge directly through the open window where he’d seen the curtain move. Inside the room it made a hot spot on the wallpaper. He could see the hair of the girl wrapped in rope huddling against the wall. The idiot saw it too, his sweaty hand clutching the 9mm Beretta. He would pay attention now.
As Paul’s eyes got bug like in size, they turned a cruel uncaring pale blue, like sniper’s eyes. He stared directly at the window. He freed the gun from its holster. He slid the receiver back with a soft touch, cocking the weapon. He faced the house and said these words quite softly, but forming each one carefully with his mouth. ”Get ready to die,” he said, “Get ready for death right now.” The idiot watched from the window. ”What the Hell’s he doing?” said one of the others, “talking to himself? Why doesn’t he use the bullhorn? Why doesn’t he move back?”
The man watched closely from the window while the little girl he held hostage watched the gold hotspot dancing across the curtains.
At this, the idiot near the window lost his sweaty grip on his Baretta, and melted, like hot wax off a birthday candle. Like the candle, he went out cold, right there on the floor. When the reporters interviewed Paul later he proudly exclaimed, “It was the easiest arrest I ever made. Not a shot fired. Out cold when we cuffed him. No Miranda act, no hassle, out cold. But it isn’t me who’s gonna take all the credit. I give half of it to the girl down at 911. She’s the one who told me he was deaf.” Paul was stoked he came back to the station welcomed by doughnuts and coffee for doing nothing but scaring the guy into not making him do something stupid.
