Sweet Spot

by Gary Clifton

“Listen up,” McCoy rasped. He motioned for help in holding the sketch he’d spread on the hood of the unmarked Dodge. They’d gathered just before midnight on the back parking lot of the church of something or other on Skillman. The sharp December north wind relentlessly found any leak in the clothing of the half-dozen plainclothes cops huddled around.

“Ya know Thompkin’s a shooter. Snitch just reported the punk is stoned and conked out in this rear room.” He pointed to the crude map. “That don’t mean he’ll stay that way. Like to have SWAT out here, but as y’all heard, they’re tied up on a barricaded nutcase. Got a couple uniforms comin’ out, instead.”

“McCoy, we can handle this guy,” declared a detective.

McCoy turned his back partly to the wind. “Don’t forget, this guy beat his mother to death with a ball peen hammer when he was thirteen, over money to buy a fudgesicle. Parole system keeps turnin’ him loose.”

Bennie Ray Thompkins, twenty-four, with a three-page sheet and two trips inside had gunned down the Vietnamese owner of a convenience store eight blocks away the previous evening. Security cameras had been his undoing. Identification was positive.

A marked squad car rolled up. Two officers got out, zipping their jackets. Instead of the usual one-cop, one-car policy, a training officer with a rank rookie aboard had been assigned. Manpower shortages often resulted in T.O.’s as young as their early twenties monitoring a twenty-year old.

McCoy and Detective Maggs Williams both recognized the pair. They had watched several games of the police league autumn basketball tournament a month before. The two young officers were big, black, and outstanding athletes.

The driver recognized both Homicide detectives. “Hey, folks, ya’ll gettin’ off the desk for a little real police work?” He laughed. “I’m Willie Jackson, and this mope is my hopeless trainee, Darius Washington.”

In standard Southern police etiquette, they shook hands all around. Washington, robust and good-natured, flashed a toothy grin. “Glad to make the varsity.”

McCoy said, “Jackson, you cover the back. No door, only windows, but he could jump. Washington, you come with us to the front. We need a uniform present so this redneck toad can’t claim he didn’t know we were cops.”

Jackson disappeared around a corner.

* * *

They mounted the apartment stairs as quietly as possible. McCoy kicked the door. In the flickering illumination of flashlights, Bennie Ray Thompkins, far from asleep, rushed down a hallway waving a .22 revolver. He head-butted butted McCoy to the floor, then fired a shot which, incredibly, hit no one. Washington bear-hugged the fugitive and tossed him into a corner. As Thompkins landed, he fired another wild shot. The glut of cops instantly had Thompkins disarmed and facedown in handcuffs.

“Anybody hurt?” McCoy barked. Mumbled negative replies from around the room followed.

Suddenly, Washington gasped, “All the excitement is making me sick. I’m gonna barf or something. I gotta sit down.” He flopped on a battered sofa, his head lolling backward awkwardly.

Flashlight examination showed his left low topped boot was quickly filling with deeply crimson blood. Someone slit his trousers. They rolled him on his stomach. The last tiny, errant .22 round had found the artery in the back of his knee. Washington was already unconscious. Maggs called for an ambulance.

Cold, blind panic followed as belts, a necktie, and a curtain cord were attempted as tourniquets accompanied by mouth to mouth, profanity, prayer, and death threats against Thompkins.

Washington, big and full of life, was dead in less than three minutes. Jackson rushed in and instantly burst into tears. He sat beside Washington, holding his cold hand briefly, then stumbled out.

EMTs rolled up. Maggs watched them crawl past Jackson, slumped on the lower steps.

The lieutenant arrived, following the EMTs past Jackson without speaking.

The lieutenant caught McCoy’s eye and pointed his chin.

McCoy and the lieutenant spoke quietly in the john for several minutes before the Lieutenant turned away. “Shooting team is on the way,” he said softly.

Thompkins, handcuffed on the floor, sneered, “Offed me a cop. Gimme a chance, and I’ll do some more of you sumbitches.”

A detective kicked Thompkins in his ribs, eliciting a grunt of pain. McCoy glanced at the lieutenant and raised a hand, signaling enough. Thompkins gasped for air.

The lieutenant looked away. Knowing what he didn’t see he couldn’t report, he walked back out onto the landing.

Maggs stepped out to hold the door as EMT’s manhandled Washington’s big frame out on a gurney. Protocol required that Washington be transported to Parkland to allow a physician to declare the official cause of death.

She squeezed past the gurney, coming down ahead of the sad procession to where Jackson sat sobbing. The freezing wind seemed to increase as she picked her way through trash debris on the steps. “Jackson, you gotta scoot over, buddy.”

An EMT said, “He’s fine, we got this.”

Maggs put a hand on Jackson’s shoulder as two straining men boosted the gurney over him. “Jackson, is there anything...?” She hesitated in hopeless fury.

“Good God,” Jackson sobbed, “we were gonna go Christmas shoppin’ when we got off in the morning. Darius and his wife have a new baby. Mother of God, I gotta go talk to her.”

The lieutenant had just come down the stairs and squeezed past Jackson. A veteran in delivering bad news, he’d been out in “the mud, the blood, and the beer” as the saying goes, for over half his lifetime.

“Jackson, it’s me gotta notify his wife. Son, maybe just leave your car here and ride over to Washington’s place with me. Maggs, wait here for the lab squints.”

Lost in tears, Maggs started back up the stairs.

Jackson didn’t look up.

An icy blast fluttered the lieutenant’s coattail. A journeyman in a patient trade, he stood in the cold and waited.