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Blogs by Michael Phelps
THE EXECUTION OF JUSTICE 8/12/2008 9:05:00 PM
JUSTICE WILL SOON BE SERVED. I AM PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE MY NOVEL, "THE EXECUTION OF JUSTICE" IS FINALLY COMPLETE. I EXPECT IT TO BE AVAILABLE DURING THE FIRST WEEK OF NOVEMBER, 2008. A QUICK PREVIEW:
CHAPTER ONE:
"HEADQUARTERS TO B-5 . . . 10-26 at 811 Linwood Drive . . . Response is Code 2". The police radio cackled.
I made a right turn onto East Tenth Street from North Sherman Drive as my partner flicked on the overhead emergency lights.
We were dispatche to a domestic dispute, just forty-five minutes before our shift was to end at three o'clock. Sad, this was Christmas Eve.
As I negotiated the snow-covered streets, clogged with traffic, we received another call over the radio.
"HEADQUARTERS TO B-3 . . . Second caller reporting shots fired, respond Code 3 . . . B-2 and B-5, respond".
We were about five minutes from the location as Brad flicked the toggle switch for the siren. Code 2 is for emergency lights only, Code 3 means we proceed with emergency lights and siren as rapidly as can safely be accomplished.
Brad cut the siren three blocks from the location, leaving the overhead lights on.
This is a neighborhood quite similar to mine. Modest tract ranch-style homes, well maintained. There are a few moderate-income apartment complexes.
I eased the car to the curb in front of 811 Linwood Drive. As I shifted the car into park, Brad radioed our arrival at 2:21 PM. From the car I saw a brightly decorated Christmas tree in the bay window of the living room of the home, its' multi-colored lights blinking on and off. A naked Oak tree stood a few feet in front of the bay window. A late model red Chevrolet pick-up truck parked in the driveway.
The house was painted white with a brick facade front. The entry door painted red with a green Christmas wreath hanging below the small rectangle window.
From our vantage point, we could not see nor hear any signs of trouble croming from the home.
Brad exited the passenger side as I flipped off the emergency lights off. I was reaching for my Rabbit fur lined gloves, I heard our back-up units radio they were about four minutes away.
Domestic disputes are at the top of the list of most dangerous calls for police officers to handle. They are even more dangerous when alcohol, drugs, or weapons were involved, as they most often are. In the three years Brad and I worked together, we have handled at least a couple hundred such calls.
Our first tactic is standard police procedure; separate the combatants.
I could hear our back-up units cutting their sirens off, indicating they were close by.
Suddenly, the front door was pulled wide open; three shots shattered the frigid, still air. I literally felt a bullet whiz past my hear and, heard it shatter what I could only assume was a window of our patrol car.
Brad fell to the ground. I dove into the snow, pulling my .357 Smith & Wesson Magnum from its holster, droipping my right hand glove as I did. I grabbed my portable radio with my left hand. I was inching myself up on my stomach towards Brad, he was about ten feet in front of me. He had not made a sound as he went down. I could not tell if he had been shot, or had acted in reflex to the gunfire, seeking some type of cover.
I saw the gunman standing in the doorway, dressed in a white T-shirt, with what appeared to be massive blood splatters, navy blue work pants, and black boots.
He had his left arm around the throat and across the chest of a small girl with curly blonde hair.
She was wearing what appeared to be pink legging and a yellow top.
As I got closer to Brad, I could see the snow around his midsection turning a dark pink color.
"B-3 to Headquarters . . . CODE ONE . . . SHOTS FIRED, OFFICER DOWN . . . WE NEED FIRE-RESCUE . . . BACK-UP . . . WE HAVE A CHILD GHOSTAGE SITUATION!" I yelled into the police radio.
As I crawled on my belly the remaining couple of feet to where I was almost at Brad's feet, I kept my eyes on the man in the doorway.
He held his arm tightly around the little girl's throat and across hewr chest. She was maybe five or six years old. Her expression was of sheer terror.
He was holding an Army issue .45 caliber automatic in his right hand. He appeared to be in his late twenties, bushy dark hair, a coupole days beard growth. No doubt in my mind it was blood on his shirt.
"Headquarters to all units . . . clear channel one . . . shots fired, officer down . . . B-3, eight hundred block of North Linwood Drive, all available units respond". I heard the calm voice of one of our dispatchers come through the radio.
"GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE . . . I'M LEAVING, I'M TAKING HER WITH ME . . . GET OUTTA HERE OR I'LL KILL YA' BOTH!" He yelled.
"He raised his gun and fired. It was noit aimed at Brad or me. I had no idea where the bullet went.
