* * *
Other than a clear disrespect of his boss, Brown was a consummate professional, and he took his job seriously, perhaps a bit too seriously. When a report of a crime reached his patrol vehicle’s radio, his mind immediately went into law enforcement mode. On the night of the John Doe incident, he received the call from 9-1-1 dispatch reporting a possible hit-and-run victim. He immediately radioed another deputy, the only one that he could still boss around, and told him to hit the area hotel, motel, restaurant, rest stop, and service station parking lots and inspect vehicles for telltale signs of vehicle-on-pedestrian collisions—blood, flesh, deep bumper indentions, etcetera. There were only two highway exits that qualified, with several such parking lots to inspect. The practical side of him knew that the perpetrator was unlikely to be anywhere within a 120-mile radius by then, but the remote possibility that the punk had realized he was in no condition to drive and therefore pulled over to rest, or perhaps rented a motel room to “sleep it off,” was there, so they had to try.
“I’ll show them,” he said to himself as he slammed the steering column gearshift of his Ford Crown Victoria police cruiser into drive and jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. “They think they can suck the life out of me and force me to retire early, but I still have a little law enforcement left in me.”
Brown wasn’t sure how long he could put up with the current state of things; he seemed forever destined to do the hard work while others took the credit for his brilliant crime scene investigating. As a detective he had busted his butt to solve crimes, from simple hit-and-runs not too dissimilar from the current one to homicides, which occurred about once every five-to-ten years in Darkwell County. Usually, his duties involved busting drug dealers or methamphetamine manufacturing operations; the more petty offenses, such as accidents, were handled by uniformed deputies. Indeed, even now, after being busted down to uniformed status, he was the go-to guy on high profile incidents. The latter fact made his position even more humiliating. Let Smitty do it, he often thought when dispatched to crime scenes that had befuddled his younger brothers in blue.
Every time Brown got back into his police cruiser or even just put on his uniform, his angry, jealous thoughts nearly overwhelmed his mind, but the job often gave him the distractions he needed to make it through yet another humiliating day of doing other people’s work.
“Unit 5,” chirped the dispatch operator. “Unit 5, you there?”
Brown pulled the microphone off its latch on the dashboard as he glanced at the radio’s clock. It was 1:00 A.M.
Third shift, he thought with a frown on his face. This crap’s for rookies.
“Yeah,” he replied. “Just left the hospital.”
“Get to the Happy Days Motel. Deputy Lind may have the perp.”
“On my way,” he answered, a smile replacing the frown. He jammed the mike back on its latch, slammed on his brakes—the location of the perp was in the opposite direction—and drove over the curbless median of the four-lane thoroughfare. He then floored the gas pedal, causing the tires to squeal violently as the V-8 Interceptor engine’s guttural roar shattered the peace and quiet of the night. He waited until the rear tires ceased squealing before he turned on his emergency equipment, the lights and siren demanding that all in his path get out of the way or suffer the consequences.
The 60-plus miles per hour he drove on the city streets, followed by 100-plus on the interstate highway for a grand total of five miles from the hospital to the motel, took just under three minutes. Brown laughed after the speedometer topped 120 and said, “I love this job!”
A half-mile from the exit that led to the motel, Brown slowed down and killed his lights and siren. He took the exit and drove under the underpass that led to the motel parking lot, which was right off the interstate. He then pulled into the lot, which was deathly quiet and rather dark at this time of night. He parked his patrol vehicle next to Lind’s, which was in front of the motel office, and hopped out, careful not to make too much noise as he gently pushed the car door shut. Lind was waiting patiently inside the office.
“So what do you have?” he asked Lind as he walked into the office.
“We got a Chevy Caprice Classic with a bloody mess on the grill, and a dented front bumper,” Lind answered as he pointed to the car just a few stalls away. “Stuff’s dried up, but there’s no hair and there appears to be cloth mixed with it. It’s not a deer, that’s for sure.”
“Let’s take a look.”
Both turned down the volume of their walkie-talkies so no one would hear their approach and walked out of the office toward the suspect vehicle. Brown pulled a flashlight out of his holster and squatted in front of the vehicle, shining the light up, down, and across the bumper and grill. Placing his light on the hood of the car to free his hands, he removed a baggie and tweezers from his utility belt.
“Grab the light and shine it over here,” he commanded his associate in a voice just above a whisper.
Lind was used to taking commands since he was the junior officer to everyone in the department, so he willingly did what was asked and picked up the light.
Brown pointed at what he wanted illuminated. “Look at that,” he whispered. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks it’s the swatch of cloth that kid’s shirt sleeve is missing.” He picked the cloth off the bumper with his tweezers and placed it, untouched by human hands, into the zip-lock baggie.
Brown stood up and they gravitated to the rear of what the district attorney office’s Criminal Complaint would soon classify as “a deadly weapon,” and Brown turned up his radio slightly to call dispatch, making sure his earpiece was in place so as to prevent anyone nearby from hearing the dispatcher’s reply. “Unit 5 to dispatch,” he said quietly.
“This is dispatch.”
“We need forensics out here. We got blood and evidence. Tell the Sheriff we need a warrant to search the motel room and car.”
He gave the dispatcher the car’s description and license plate number, as well as instructions to name the owner of the vehicle in the affidavit of probable cause for the search. “I’ll call back with the hotel guest’s name.”
Brown motioned Lind to follow him as he walked back to the office, entered, and rang the bell to get the receptionist’s attention; he assumed she was sleeping in the back room at that time of night, which was a surprise since she had unlocked the door in the first place when Lind first notified her of their activities.
She better not have warned the perp, Brown instinctively thought. She was at the desk in an instant.
“May I help you?” A short Asian woman entered the reception desk area, looking more disturbed at their interference with her quiet time than interested in helping out Darkwell’s finest.
“Yes,” he replied, his tone guarded. In spite of how small and innocent she looked, she could have been conspiring with a felon just a few doors down. “Were you here when the driver of that white Caprice checked in?”
“Yes,” she answered reluctantly. “It was a few minutes after dark, close to nine o’clock.”
Brown smiled as he pondered what this bit of evidence meant. The time was about right given what the jogger and trucker—the only witnesses so far—had told them. “What’s his name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“He’s a suspect in a crime, victim left for dead, that’s all.” He hoped telling her that the victim was left for dead might bring down her defenses, make her want to help the police and not the scumbag who was soiling her sheets and abusing her hospitality.
She typed the room number into the computer. “Michael Thomas.”
“You have his social?” he asked.
She hesitated a moment, then wrote down the nine-digit number on a piece of paper and handed it to Brown.
“Dispatch,” he said into his microphone. “The perp’s name is Michael Thomas, social is 324-54-3386. Run Spider and tell me immediately what you find.” Spider is a nationwide information database used b
y police that gives almost immediate information on prior criminal convictions. They stood in the waiting room for a minute or two, idly chit-chatting with the clerk as they waited for dispatch to respond with the suspect’s information.
“Unit 5. Thomas positive for multiple DUIs and at least one person felony conviction.”
“Roger,” Brown replied, smiling toward Lind and the clerk as he did. He turned toward the clerk and said, “Do you mind coming with us with a key to his room, just in case we need it?”
Lind winced. He nudged Brown on the side of his arm. “Can I talk to you for a second?” he asked.
“Give us a minute,” Brown told the clerk as the Deputies walked out the front door for a little privacy. “What is it?” he asked Lind.
“Shouldn’t we wait for a warrant? There might be evidence in there. If we barge in now we’ve got problems.”
“Who’s the former detective here?” Brown snapped. “Last I checked, you were the rookie and I was the veteran. We’ve got probable cause in spades, and there’s a very real risk that that scumbag is destroying evidence. You heard what dispatch said. This is the guy’s modus operandi. He gets drunk, drives and then runs over civilians. The longer we wait the more chance he has to claim he got drunk after he made it to the motel. We don’t have time. Besides,” he added as a smile crossed his lips, “he might consent to a search.”
Lind cowered back and shut his mouth reluctantly. No wonder they busted you down to street cop, he thought. He did not approve of his so-called superior’s lack of professionalism. He tried to keep his disapproval from showing on his face, and he was thankful for the darkness.
“Are we done with this conversation?” Brown rhetorically asked.
“Sure.”
They walked back into the office, where the clerk stood patiently behind the desk. “You have that key yet?” Brown asked.
She opened a drawer and removed a key. “Yes sir,” she pleasantly responded. “What did he do?” she continued as she shut the key drawer and walked around the desk to join the Deputies.
“A hit-and-run accident.”
“You sure he did it?”
“Yep, but we need to talk to him to be certain,” Brown replied, then added, “and to see if he took any of the victim’s things after he almost killed him.”
“I’m here to help.”
I doubt it, Brown thought.
All three walked out of the office and toward the suspect’s room. Brown knocked on the door. Lind’s instinct was to announce their identity, but Brown waved him off and nodded to the clerk, whispering, “Tell him you need him to open the door, something not unusual.”
“What do I say?”
“Something harmless.”
What would be harmless and not unexpected at this time of the morning? She considered. She knocked and yelled, “Mr. Thomas,” with a slight Asian accent, “your lights are on!”
They heard a stirring inside. Both Deputies unsnapped their holsters but left their side arms holstered—safe but not stupid. Brown learned from experience to expect the unexpected, and Lind was fresh out of the academy and was trained to think the same way.
“Mr. Thomas!” she yelled again. “Are you awake?”
They heard the safety chain rattle and the bolt lock click open. A young man—probably in his mid-twenties—in boxer shorts and a t-shirt opened the door. “What is it?” he asked, bleary-eyed, lingering in a state somewhere between sleep and full consciousness, a condition made worse by the lingering effects of a twelve-pack of beer he’d downed several hours before at a friend’s lake house just west of Wichita, Kansas.
“Deputies Brown and Lind of the Darkwell County Sheriff’s Department,” Brown barked. “Is that your vehicle?” Brown added, pointing toward the Caprice.
Thomas attempted to slam the door shut, but Brown jammed his foot in between the door and its threshold, toes protected by his steel-tipped shoes. With both deputies forcing their way in, Lind tackled Thomas and Brown fell on him with cuffs at the ready. After a few seconds their training enabled them to subdue the suspect with minimal damage to all, including the perp.
“Is he cuffed?” Lind asked, exasperated from the brief scuffle.
“Yeah.”
Each Deputy grabbed an elbow and sat their suspect down on the foot of the bed.
“Why so combative?” Brown asked, a little winded from the fight. “You wouldn’t be guilty of something now, would you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he slurred, partly from the blurriness that still lingered from his interrupted slumber, partly from the waning affects of alcohol intoxication.
Lind searched the room for a light switch. He walked over toward the door, the clerk standing in disbelief just outside the entrance, and flipped on the switch, illuminating the entire room.
Brown scanned the room as he did a so-called plain-view search of its contents. In the corner of the bathroom area he saw a backpack, and a wallet sat next to the sink, which was odd since he had spotted another wallet on the right nightstand. Still standing after lifting Thomas to the bed, Brown smiled and walked to the sink. “Well, what do we have here?”
He picked up the wallet and opened it. “I thought your name was Michael Thomas,” he said, smirking. “Does Robert Allen Baxter know you have his wallet?”