Special Forces - 20. Chapter 20

Suzanne looked to be in her fifties. Trim with short gray hair. Pleasant looking. To her request that we attend a Neighborhood Watch meeting I responded, “I’ll talk to Sam, and let you know if we can make it. I’m Nick, by the way.”

“Hello, Nick. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Sam, I take it, is that big, yummy guy?”

I laughed. “Uh...yes, big and yummy would be an accurate description of Sam.”

“Well, you’re no slouch yourself. Are you by any chance a model?”

“No. I’m an artist.”

“Well, you and your partner are the talk of the neighborhood ladies. Nice to have a little eye candy around! I sure hope you can make it to our meeting.”

Sam thought the Neighborhood Watch idea was worth checking out, and we showed up for the inaugural meeting. Suzanne had it well organized. She was sitting at a card table, and as each person entered she gave them a stick-on nametag and a sharpie to write their name. There was another table set up where people could help themselves to juice, coffee or cookies. Our neighbors, I noticed, weren’t wallflowers. Most were mingling and introducing themselves. Thank goodness for the nametags; it would have been impossible to remember everybody’s name. Altogether there were about two dozen people.

Several ladies made a point of introducing themselves to Sam and me. Some reached out to touch our arms as they talked. Others eyed us like hungry wolves. Both of us flirted with them eliciting blushes and giggles. One woman put her hand on her chest and declared, “Oh my heart!” If we weren’t already the talk of the neighborhood, we would be after tonight.

One guy in particular stood out in the crowd. Mostly because he was wearing a diarrhea colored security guard uniform. He was average height but carried too many pounds around his waist. With his receding chin, pug nose and dark wide-set, hyperthyroid eyes he had the look of an unfriendly Chihuahua. He had a 38 in a leather holster clipped to his belt on the right side, and handcuffs clipped on the other side. His nametag read ‘CYRIL.’

Sam gave him the once over with narrowed eyes. I thought, “Uh-oh.”

The furniture had been pushed to the walls to make room for the crowd, and from somewhere came about a dozen folding chairs which, together with the regular furniture and dining chairs, provided enough seating for everyone. Suzanne clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention and asked us to take seats so the meeting could begin. He husband produced a flip chart at the front of the room.

“Thank you all for coming! I guess you’ve all met each other. Cyril has kindly offered to chair the meeting tonight, so I’ll turn the floor over to him.”

Cyril swaggered to the front, stood with a wide stance, hooked his thumbs in belt and tipped forward putting weight on the balls of his feet. He tried unsuccessfully to suck in his gut and puff out his chest—which unfortunately only drew attention to his man boobs. He was doing damndest to imitate a police officer, but it wasn’t coming off very well.

His pants were a little too small, and a little too tight. Naturally, as a gay man, I checked out his package, and immediately regretted having done so. All those lumpy bits made me shudder in disgust.

He surveyed the room slowly (trying to spot the bad guys?) then began his spiel. “As many of you know, I’m in law enforcement, so I know a little about the kind of scumbags who go around robbing innocent people. Anybody breaks into my home and tries to steel my possessions is gonna find themselves on the receiving end of a 38 Special.” He patted his gun.

He flipped the top page of the chart revealing a rough map of our neighborhood with red X’s drawn in the locations of the homes that had been burgled. He tapped the paper with a wooden pointer. Tap. Tap. Tap. Once on each X.

“What we got here is an organized gang. Probably undocumented Mexicans.”

I felt Sam stiffen beside me. I was utterly shocked because there were at least four or five Hispanic people in the room. I saw one of the Hispanic men shake his head. But Cyril didn’t seem to notice his faux pas and was no doubt forming his next vitriolic thought when a lady lifted her hand.

“Um...can I ask a question? What was stolen from each of the houses?”

Cyril frowned, not liking the interruption, but even he could see it was a good question, so he asked the victims to tell us what they lost.

“They took my portable stereo,” said one lady.

“My MacBook Air,” said a man.

“My kids’ PlayStation,” said another man.

“All easy stuff to fence!” declared Cyril. “These scumbags know what they’re lookin’ for. And the police ain’t doin’ a darn thing about it! The good citizens of this neighborhood are gonna have to patrol their own streets. We got the right to bear arms in this country! We’ll show these vermin what’s what!”

“If I may say something!” a petite redhead interjected. Cyril scowled at the interruption. “My name is Maggie Langston, and I’m from the Community Police Liaison office.”

“Are you police?” demanded Cyril.

“No, I’m a volunteer coordinator for the Neighborhood Watch program.”

Cyril snorted rudely.

“The Neighborhood Watch program is designed for neighbors to be vigilant, not vigilantes, Mr. uh...Cyril. We encourage people to be aware and call 911 if they spot something out-of-the-ordinary or a crime being committed. It is not, and was never, designed for people to take the law into their own hands.”

“We wouldn’t have to,” interjected Cyril, “If the police would do their job!”

“The police do the best they can with limited resources. Unfortunately they can’t investigate carefully every property crime in the city, of which there are thousands annually. That’s why Neighborhood Watch can be so powerful. An eyewitness or a good solid lead can go a long ways to catching a criminal. And when criminals know that the neighbors are looking out for each other that goes a long ways to prevention.

“Also, there are many ways individuals and families can protect themselves. Good locks, alarm systems and even careful of landscaping can all be good deterrents. I have a brochure explaining all this that I’d like everyone to take. If anyone has any questions they can call the number on the brochure. She also handed out the iconic ‘Boris the Burgler’ stickers for our windows.

That started a general discussion and Maggie fielded several astute questions.

Cyril, having lost control of the meeting, silently glowered at the group.

As we were walking home, Sam said, “That guy, Cyril, is bad news. Armed. Bigoted. Egotistical. He’s planning to patrol in his car. There’s gonna be trouble, Nicky, I can feel it. And did you notice what was stolen? Small electronics. This isn’t some gang, it’s just some local kids. God I hope Cyril doesn’t shoot one of them!”

“Did you happen to check out his crotch?”

“God that was gross. Don’t remind me!”

I laughed. “All joking aside, I think you need to check this guy out.”

“Yeah. But I can’t ask Bugs to do it. We’ve already asked him for too many favors. But I know a guy, a free-lancer, who can run a check. If Cyril has so much as spit on the sidewalk this guy will find it. It might cost a couple hundred bucks. Do you mind?”

“No. If it can save some innocent kid from getting shot it’ll be worth it.”

The very next day, Cyril began ‘patrolling’ the neighborhood. Several times we spotted his nondescript little brown Saturn slowly cruising our street. I don’t think it was my imagination that he took particular interest in our house. He always went by at a crawl, craning his neck and focussing his buggy eyes on our windows.

Creepy.

Sam’s free-lancer found Cyril’s general background and arrest reports. Currently 28 years old, he’d been in trouble, on and off, since he was a kid. His juvy record, which the guy managed to crack, showed a conviction for assaulting a younger kid. He’d received probation and community service for that. Subsequently, there’d been two arrests. One for shoplifting and one for assault. Neither had resulted in a conviction. He had several parking tickets, unpaid, and a brake light warning on his car. He was unmarried and currently lived in a rented in-law suite two blocks over from us. He had been in his current job with General Security for just over six months. Prior to that he’d been employed, in various positions, in the fast food industry. No one job had lasted for more than about eight months. He’d completed a correspondence security guard training program prior to getting hired by General. His 38 Special was a personal gun for which he had a carry permit.

Hacking Cyril’s employment record revealed that he was on-call, usually performing night watchman duties at construction sites; sometimes event security. He was not firearms certified and therefore not permitted to carry a firearm while working. Sam and I suspected he surreptitiously carried his gun anyway.

Short of beating the crap out of Cyril, Sam suggested the best way to get him off the street was to solve the local crimes. His hope was that once that was done, Cyril would lose interest and go back to his sedentary life of potato chips, Coke and porn movies.

Our first step would be to interview the victims. With luck, the thief or thieves would be known to them, or they could provide a good description. I’d take my sketch pad and, with their permission, work up a sketch of any proposed suspects.

We contacted each of them and set up appointments for interviews at their homes. Luckily, with our minor celebrity status in the neighborhood, we had no trouble with that. Sam made the phone calls, and explained he’d been in ‘security’ in the military and would like to see if he might be of assistance solving the crimes and prevent future incidents. The victims were only too happy to cooperate.

We had a neighbor boy that we used to babysit occasionally come in to watch Jorge. This kid was a whiz at building Lego creations and Jorge was always up for a good Lego build.

First up was the lady whose stereo had been stolen. He name was Gretchen Luandrau, and her husband was named Terrence.

“Do you know how the thief gained entry? asked Sam.

“Well, it’s a little embarrassing,” said Gretchen. “Because our back yard is fenced, sometimes I’m a little lax about locking the back door when I pop to the store.”

“No forced entry, then?”

“Afraid not.”

“Do you have any idea who it might have been?”

“No, not a clue.”

“Did you notice any unusual activity before the theft? Someone cruising by? Someone coming to the door selling something? Repair man?”

“Well, two of those things. About that time two young men from the high school came by selling those chocolate covered almonds. I love those! I bought six boxes. I had to write a check because I didn’t have enough cash in my purse. They came into the kitchen while I did that. That’s where the stereo was.”

“Can you describe them? Do you mind if Nick sketches a picture while you do that?”

“Yes, I remember them fairly well. In fact, I felt a little sorry for them. Except for their baseball caps they didn’t seem well dressed. And one of them had beautiful chestnut colored hair sticking out from the under the cap, but it was scraggly, and he really need a decent hair cut.”

I set to work and Gretchen proved to be a good witness. I quickly worked up two sketches. I generally tried to work quickly, because the longer you let a witness think about a description, the less reliable they become.

“You mentioned a second thing?” said Sam.

“Yes, a repairman came from the appliance store to fix the dishwasher. That was a couple of weeks before the robbery.”

“Can I get a copy of the appliance work order?” asked Sam adding, “You wouldn’t happen to have a box of those almonds left would you?”

Interestingly, the label slipped on over the box, which usually gives the name of the fundraising school, only read ‘High School Graduating Class.’ The school’s name wasn’t on it anywhere.

“Well, I think we’re narrowing the field,” remarked Sam. “If they’re not from the local high school it might be a bit harder to find those kids, but not impossible.”

A couple of days later we set out walking for the next interview, and who should we see driving slowly down the street but Cyril. Sam flagged him down.

“Hey Cyril. It’s not necessary for you to patrol the neighborhood. In fact, it’s not a good idea.”

“Yeah, well what do you know, Mr. Boat Salesman? Are you in law enforcement? Ha!”

“I may sell boats, but I’m not comfortable having an armed whack job driving up and down our streets looking for trouble.”

“Yeah, well...well, you two are just a pair of perv....”

“Don’t say it Cyril,” Sam cut in, his voice icy. “Go home!”

I couldn’t see Sam’s expression, but I knew it must be scary. Cyril cranked up his window and sped away.

“Shit!” exclaimed Sam.

The second interview with the couple who had lost a MacBook went pretty much like the first. Two kids selling almonds. The MacBook, sitting on the living room coffee table, had been visible to the kids. Entry was through a ground level basement window.

The description of the kids was similar to the one we already had. I showed them the sketches, and they said, “Yes! That’s them.” And the lady added that the one with the chestnut colored hair had a small birthmark-like stain at the edge of his left jaw.

“We’ll do our third interview,” said Sam, “But we’ve got a good lead now. If the third person had the almond kids around, and the descriptions match, we can give that Maggie lady at the Community Police office the information and let her deal with it. Like she says, we’re not vigilantes. We’ll let the cops do the rest. And I’m going to have a word with them about Cyril. Maybe they can talk some sense into him.”

We were just approaching an intersection when we heard the unmistakable crack of a gunshot up ahead.

“Fucking Cyril!” shouted Sam and he took off like a bullet himself in the direction of the sound. In a flash he was around the corner and out of my sight. I started running after him, both of us heedless of the danger. I had a vague thought that Sam must know what he’s doing, but he was unarmed and I felt a sudden chill of fear.

I heard Sam holler “NO!” a split second before a second shot rang out.

Oh fuck, oh fuck!

Rounding the corner a split second later I saw Sam in the air like a human projectile, feet first, and he slammed into Cyril who dropped like a sack of potatoes. Cryil’s gun clattered on the ground. Sam kept moving at full speed toward a figure sprawled face down on the street.

“Nicky, call 911! Kick the gun well away from Cyril, but don’t touch it!”

As I pulled my phone out of my pocket, I saw Sam reach the prone, still body. He knelt down and put his fingers to the neck and yelled, “I got a pulse! Tell them hurry up or this kid’s gonna bleed out!”

I kicked Cyril’s gun clear across the street. Cyril appeared to be unconscious.

Sam stripped off his jacket, then his shirt which he balled up and pressed to the kid’s front side.

I was madly giving information to the 911 operator when I reached Sam and the body. He yelled at me to take off my shirt, wad it up and press it to the kid’s back, over the wound.

Blood was pooling under the kid and starting to run down the slope of the road.

“Come on kid, stay with me!”

Eons later I heard sirens approaching. The cavalry was arriving. But the kid seemed lifeless as Sam pressed the wound from the bottom, and I pressed it from the top.