Duplicity, page 15
Brick was grateful Officer Clarke had briefed her supervisor so there was no confusion as to who he and Ron were and why they were there. But for now, their priority had shifted. They needed to attend to Clarke who was lying motionless in front of the steps to the porch. Knowing there was an active shooter in the house meant timing was critical. They quickly strategized how to rescue Officer Clarke. Considering her petite size, Brick was confident he could drag her away from where she was lying, and at the same time, stay low to the ground to minimize being a target. Sergeant Doyle drove his vehicle onto the lawn and positioned it to provide as much coverage for Brick and Ron as possible. Using his opened car door for some protection, he trained his service revolver on the front door of the bungalow. It was easy to see that, if necessary, he was prepared to engage with the shooter.
The threat of more shots being fired was all the motivation Brick needed to move with warp speed. As he stayed crouched down, he got behind Officer Clarke and grabbed her under the arms.
Officer Clarke’s eyes fluttered. “What happened?”
Brick was thrilled to hear her speak but didn’t answer her question. He managed to drag her back to the side of the cruiser where Ron was waiting by the open back door. Together, they lifted her onto the back seat.
“My head hurts.”
Again, Officer Clarke asked what happened as Brick checked her over for any injuries she may have sustained. Aside from a bump on the back of her head, nothing was evident. He checked both of her ears and was relieved not to see any bleeding. Although she looked okay, he suspected she may have a concussion. Given that her pulse was already rapid, he figured this wasn’t the ideal time to tell her that her Kevlar vest had stopped a bullet that may have killed her.
“You fell and hit your head.” Brick patted Officer Clarke’s hand. “You’re going to be fine. Help’s on the way.”
In response to Sergeant Doyle’s 10-999 call, available units from Maryland State Police and Baltimore County responded with lights flashing and sirens blaring. A fire truck and two ambulances joined the assembled vehicles turning the dead-end road into a staging area. While EMTs transferred Officer Clarke to one of the ambulances, Sergeant Doyle used a bullhorn to announce the house was surrounded. He encouraged the occupants to come out with their hands up.
No response.
Again, Doyle raised the bullhorn and this time it sounded to Brick as though he was attempting to de-escalate the situation by reassuring the shooter that the officer was okay. In a calm voice, Doyle explained that turning herself in now would prevent anyone else getting hurt.
No response.
Brick knew from experience that a standoff like this could go on for hours or end quickly in a hail of gunfire. Suicide by cop. Despite the impressive police response, he was worried it wasn’t enough. Was shooting Officer Clarke an act of desperation? If so, what else was the shooter capable of doing? Sergeant Doyle’s cruiser had become a makeshift command center and he motioned for Brick to join him.
“She’s not responding and I’m worried time’s not on our side. I’ve got to get some eyes on what’s going on inside that house. What can you tell me about the layout?” Sergeant Doyle asked as he wiped sweat from his face.
“Not a whole lot.” Brick pointed to the window where he had observed Jasmine. “That’s the kitchen and around the back, there’s a small bedroom. I didn’t make it to the other side.”
“Did you see a back door?”
“No.”
“Fuck … I was afraid of that.”
Brick stepped aside as Doyle signaled to a couple of SWAT officers. After being briefed, the two officers made their way along the outside perimeter of the house while Doyle continued encouraging the shooter to come out. Brick wasn’t surprised the message didn’t work, but it may distract the shooter and that, at least, could provide protection for the officers as they crouched near the windows. He watched as the officers, with their guns drawn, slowly worked in tandem to provide coverage for each other as they made their way around the side of the house. Temporarily, one of the officers disappeared from view.
Being a bystander was another source of frustration for Brick, and not being able to see the officer behind the house raised his anxiety level. The look on Ron’s face told him he was feeling the same. Slowly, the minutes ticked by, and finally, the officer rounded the corner of the porch and made his way back to the sergeant’s vehicle. Brick and Ron moved close enough to hear what he was saying.
“There’s two bedrooms on the back side of the house. In one, I saw a crib with two babies, both about the same size. They were crying but otherwise looked okay. In the kitchen, there was a black woman seated at the table. She appeared out of it, drunk or on drugs. She put her head down on the table and looked like she passed out.” The officer paused long enough to catch his breath. “The window to the other bedroom was wide open and the screen had been knocked to the ground.”
Sergeant Doyle turned toward Brick and Ron. “You heard what he said?”
Ron nodded vigorously but seemed to be struggling to put words together. “That’s my …” Brick placed his hand on Ron’s shoulder. “That’s my wife and kids. I’ve got to … got to get to them.”
“Don’t worry,” Sergeant Doyle said. “We’re going to bring them out. It’s possible the woman you said was the shooter escaped out the window.”
“Or she wants us to think she did,” Brick said. “She could be hiding in a closet or under a bed, just waiting to ambush anyone who goes into the house.”
“You’re right and that’s—” Sergeant Doyle stopped to listen to the dispatcher’s call. Despite some static, Brick was able to understand the message.
“Any units in the area, respond to the 7-Eleven on Jessup Road. Possible carjacking in progress.”
Even before the dispatcher went on to describe the alleged carjacker as a white woman, mid-thirties, wearing jeans and a green tee shirt, Brick and Ron exchanged a knowing look with Sergeant Doyle.
“Be advised, suspect is believed to be armed and dangerous.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AT SERGEANT DOYLE’S direction, two officers returned to their cars and headed to the 7-Eleven. With the threat from the shooter removed, Doyle determined it was safe for other members of the SWAT team to enter the house. Removing Jasmine and the twins was now the highest priority but not without challenges. The officers had to ensure the house hadn’t been booby-trapped in some way and considering Jasmine’s presumed drugged condition, her reaction could be unpredictable and potentially violent.
After days of stress from not knowing if Jasmine and the twins were alive or dead, it all came down to this. Relief, for sure, but so many unanswered questions. Brick understood the need for caution and taking it slow, although for Ron more waiting was probably bordering on the unbearable.
“How are you doing, partner?” Brick asked.
“I don’t know, man.” Ron stopped pacing in front of Sergeant Doyle’s cruiser and ran his hand through his dreads as he stood next to Brick. “I mean, it’s what I was praying for … still, it feels surreal.”
“I know, Ron, just hang on a little longer.” Brick barely got the words out of his mouth when an EMT came out of the house carrying a baby. From a distance, it was impossible to tell if it was Jayla or Jamal. Ron bolted in their direction and may well have set a new track record. Although not moving as fast, Brick followed and got there just as Sergeant Doyle told the EMT it was okay to hand the baby to Ron. Even though he only got to hold Jayla for a couple of minutes before he was handed Jamal, the unmistakable joy on Ron’s face brought smiles to everyone involved in their rescue. Both babies appeared healthy but would be transported to the hospital and checked out.
On a made-for-TV drama, the happy reunion scenario would probably continue when Jasmine was removed from the house. But this was real life and unscripted. She was flanked by two officers and her hands were cuffed in front. Brick wasn’t sure why that was necessary but wouldn’t be surprised if she had struggled with the officers who confronted her. On the porch, she was placed on a stretcher and strapped down. No longer a threat, the handcuffs were removed. Brick was close enough to see the blank expression on her face that didn’t change when Ron approached, bent down, and touched her hand. It was as if he was a complete stranger. Brick turned away and tried to swallow past the lump in his throat as Jasmine was loaded into the ambulance with the twins. He needed a minute to compose himself and figured Ron could use the same.
“Bittersweet, man. Bittersweet.” Ron wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
Brick had lost track of time. He glanced at his watch and saw it was after ten. Crime scene tape was being unrolled to cordon off the area. A forensic team had arrived and was deployed to go through the house. No doubt they would be there for hours cataloging evidence. If they found any drugs Jasmine may have taken, reporting that information to the hospital would help in treating her. There was nothing more for Brick and Ron to do but three good reasons to go to Johns Hopkins. Aware of its stellar reputation, Brick was pleased when an EMT said that’s where they were taking Jasmine and the twins. He waited for Sergeant Doyle to get off the phone.
“That was an update on Officer Clarke.” Doyle smiled. “She’s awake and alert. Has a few bruises and a concussion and the mother of all headaches, but otherwise she’s okay.”
“Thank God for Kevlar vests and that she was wearing one,” Brick said.
“You’re right about that. They’re keeping her at Hopkins overnight for observation, but barring any complications, she’ll be good to go tomorrow.”
“Speaking of Hopkins, Ron needs to go there to check on his family, but we’ve got a problem—a car with an empty gas tank.”
Doyle laughed. “With all the shit that’s gone down tonight, that’s an easy problem to fix.” He opened the door to his cruiser. “The report I need to write up can wait. I’ll drive you guys to the gas station.” Doyle backed up from where he had parked on the lawn and maneuvered around several vehicles as the dispatcher’s urgent message filled the silence.
“Carjacking suspect has abandoned her car. Threatening to jump from Bay Bridge. Proceed with caution, armed and dangerous.”
“Ten-four.” Doyle hit the siren and lights. “Sorry, guys, but as a trained negotiator—”
“It’s okay, you got to do what you got to do.” Ron’s voice sounded calmer than Brick had heard in some time.
Brick was riding shotgun as Doyle turned onto Old Jessup Road. “It’s what, about forty miles from here to the Bay Bridge?”
“Yup, forty miles, give or take.”
Doyle slowed as he approached the ramp to Route 175. After merging onto the highway, he moved to the far-left lane and accelerated. Brick didn’t need to see the speedometer to know they were traveling over ninety miles an hour. It seemed Doyle was skilled at high-speed driving. Still, Brick would have preferred to be behind the wheel than in the front passenger seat. He tightened his seat belt and reluctantly resigned himself to not being in control. At the speed they were traveling, at least it wouldn’t take long to reach the bridge.
Flashing red and blue lights and a loud, high-pitched siren cleared the path for Sergeant Doyle. They had the left lane to themselves or so it seemed to Brick when, without warning, Doyle swerved onto the grassy median separating the east-and westbound lanes. Gravel flew, pinging off the side of the cruiser and hitting the windshield. It felt as though Doyle had eased off the gas as he yelled for Brick and Ron to hang on. Brick could see Doyle was struggling to steer the cruiser back onto the highway. It all happened so fast and unexpectedly. At first, Brick thought a tire had blown, but then he saw the flick of a deer’s white tail. Buck or doe, he couldn’t tell and didn’t care. It crossed over to the shoulder of the road and disappeared into the woods.
“Motherfucking Bambi! They’re usually out around dusk, not this late. Son of a bitch! You guys okay?” Sergeant Doyle asked as he continued driving in the left lane but at a much lower speed. Both Brick and Ron confirmed that they were. “Glad to hear it, ’cause I came dangerously close to browning my shorts.”
From the back seat, Brick heard laughing. Nervous laughter, no doubt, but it sounded good, and he joined in.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
SEEING A SIGN indicating five miles to the Bay Bridge triggered feelings of relief and dread for Brick. Relief that the high-speed ride was about to end, but dread for what may take place at the bridge.
Like many who have crossed the Bay Bridge, Brick was aware of the reasons why it was considered one of the most dangerous bridges in the world. Its height, lack of hard shoulders along the spans, and the frequency of strong winds made for his own white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel whenever he drove across it. And with its low guardrails and lack of suicide barriers, it was a chosen site for men and women determined to end their lives.
As they approached the entrance to the bridge, Brick heard a helicopter and saw it circling overhead. The assembled police and emergency vehicles resembled the earlier scene on Old Jessup Road with one major addition—a news crew from WMAR-TV, the Baltimore ABC affiliate.
Sergeant Doyle parked behind a police car from Anne Arundel County. “If you guys want to stretch your legs, feel free. Just try to avoid getting into the middle of this clusterfuck.” He put on his hat and opened his car door. “It’s showtime.”
Brick watched as Doyle joined a couple of officers from the Maryland Transportation Authority. He lost track of them as they gathered with a group of first responders approaching the westbound span.
“I need some air, Ron. How about you?”
“Yeah.”
Brick got out of the car and opened the back door, freeing Ron from the back seat usually reserved for someone under arrest.
“Thanks.” Ron leaned against the cruiser. “At least it’s happening at this end of the bridge. Driving across that thing gives me the heebie jeebies.”
Brick had never heard Ron use that phrase, but it was an accurate description of the anxiety lots of people experienced on this span across Chesapeake Bay. Men and women of all ages and occupations routinely pay a fee and become a passenger while a professional bridge-crosser drives their car the four miles to the other side. Before Brick had a chance to respond, he felt his phone vibrate.
“Hey, Ron. I’ve got cell service. Check your phone.”
The text message was a weather alert, which he deleted. He didn’t need to be told it was windy and that the temperature had dropped into the forties. Even though it was close to midnight, he immediately called Lieutenant Hughes. He figured she’d rather be awakened and hear the news from him and Ron than be caught off-guard by a reporter asking for a comment. She answered on the third ring, sounding groggy, but quickly recovered when Brick started telling her all that had happened. When he finished with his update, he overheard Ron talking to Jasmine’s sister. Mid-sentence, Ron asked her to hold on as Sergeant Doyle returned.
“Ten minutes too late. I’ll never know if I could have talked her down, but I would have liked a chance to try.”
“Have they recovered her body?” Brick asked.
“No, but they saw where she went in and it’s at least thirty feet deep. Not survivable.” Doyle cleared his throat as he opened the door to his cruiser and got in. “They’re setting up lights, but it might be morning before they pull her out.” Doyle adjusted his seat belt. “Ten goddamned minutes.”
Even though arriving too late to prevent a bad ending was something most cops would experience at some point in their career, it was hard to accept. Brick heard the defeat in Doyle’s voice and knew the hollow feeling he most likely felt. But it wasn’t only Doyle who sounded defeated. Ron did, too, although understandably his concern was for questions that would probably go unanswered. Considering Jasmine’s condition, there was no guarantee she would be able to fill in the blanks.
The uneventful drive back to Jessup took twice as long, for which Brick was grateful. It was after one thirty when Sergeant Doyle pulled into the Shell station on Old Jessup Road. Ron got out of the car and headed inside to purchase a gas can.
“I don’t know how he’s keeping it together,” Doyle said. “I’ve got two boys. You got kids?”
“No.”
“Mine are grown now, but just the thought of them going missing makes me weak in the knees.”
“It’s been rough, and Ron’s had his moments, but somehow he’s managed.”
“I get the sense that you guys are close. How long were you partners?”
“Just over a year. He’s a good cop and a good man.”
“But he’s the husband. Did you ever—”
“I know what you’re going to ask. Yes, I always considered he might be responsible, but at the same time, I also considered he might not be.”
“I hear ya. Let’s face it, we’re all capable of doing things we never would imagine doing. And it doesn’t matter how long you’ve known someone; you never really know them. At least, that’s been my experience.”
Brick agreed but was too spent to get into a philosophical discussion. He was relieved to see Ron returning to the car.
“Okay, guys, we’ll head back to your car and then you can follow me to Hopkins. My wife has worked there for years so I know the place like the back of my hand. I’ll get you where you need to go with a lot less hassle.”
That was an offer too good to pass up and Doyle delivered. Having him run interference proved to be invaluable. Brick and Ron were quickly led to a waiting lounge and told someone would speak with them as soon as possible.
“Okay, guys, guess this is it. At least for now.” Sergeant Doyle extended his hand in Ron’s direction. “I know you’ve been through a lot; I wish you the best, buddy. And if there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate.”
Ron shook hands with Doyle. “Thanks, I really appreciate that.”
