A detective tracks a serial killer.
William E. Lopez
HC-66, Box 11014
Pahrump, NV 89060
Approx. 1,971 words
Cooling Off
©2003 by W. E. Lopez
Eight police units, lights flashing and uniformed officers with guns drawn taking cover behind the cruisers, blocked access to or from the quiet home on Via La Posada. Detective Charles Stanley followed the black utility truck carrying the SWAT team as it approached the site of the stand-off. The truck braked to a stop twenty-five yards from the patrol cars and six men with bullet proof vests, helmets, and serious firepower unloaded from the back. As five of the men deployed to positions in front and back of the house, Lieutenant Ciznowski, commander of the SWAT unit approached the patrol cars and shouted, “Who’s the OIC here?”
Sergeant Rudy Carver, six-foot-seven, looked silly as he crouched behind the right rear of a patrol car, but took no notice of the incongruity of his situation. He raised his hand and shouted, “Over here, Ski!” Ciznowski quickly closed the distance between himself and Carver to get an update on the situation. Detective Stanley exited his unmarked unit and joined them with his partner, Detective Diana Lynd. He listened to the exchange between Ciznowski and Carver.
“You sure it’s him?” the SWAT commander asked.
“Yes, sir,” Carver answered. “Two eye witnesses ID’d him leaving the convenience store. Daniel Holcomb, no question about it. Charlie-27 spotted his vehicle fleeing on Sutter Avenue and gave chase. Charlie-36 and Baker-12 joined in the pursuit and followed the suspect vehicle to this address. I cordoned off the block as soon as additional backup arrived. We all saw Holcomb enter the residence and no one has come out.”
“Any idea who lives there?” Ciznowski asked.
“I had four men canvas the area to get civilians out of the way in case this turns sour, Ski. The house belongs to a Professor Stephens from Cal-Tech. Judging from the two cars in the drive way, I’d assume his wife is home also. The professor has two children, a boy six and a girl nine. At this time of the evening, they are probably home also.”
“I wonder what Holcomb wants here,” Ciznowski asked?
Diana answered the question for him. “Holcomb was a research assistant for Professor Stephens,” she said. “Either he figures he’ll get help here, or the professor and his family might be pretty important hostages.”
“I don’t know much about Stephens,” Detective Stanley said, “but I can’t imagine any responsible citizen helping a serial killer. We’ve linked Holcomb to six killings in the past twelve weeks, but we haven’t been able to track him. This is our first break. I want him bad, Ski. How soon can you get us in the house?”
The SWAT commander looked thoughtful for a moment. “I dunno, Charlie. I’d say that’s up to Holcomb. Does he want to surrender peaceably, or does he want to do it the hard way? With four potential hostages in the house, we’ve got to walk on egg-shells.” Ski turned to Carver again, “Have you been able to establish contact with the suspect yet? Or anyone in the house?”
“We haven’t tried, Ski. Central is supposed to send a hostage negotiator chop-chop. I’m happy to wait for him and let someone else take responsibility for this kettle of worms.”
“Right, Carver,” Ciznowski said. “The Chief gets paid the big bucks for this kind of work, so let one of his hand-picked troops take the heat if anything goes wrong.”
“Aww, c’mon, Ski. You know I ain’t afraid of a little fire-fight, but if the shit hits the fan and heads are gonna roll later, I want to be out of the line of fire.”
Stanley didn’t want to wait. “Let me have a chance at him, Ski. I’ve been doing nothing but eating and sleeping with Holcomb on my mind. He wounded my partner when we got close to nabbing him last month, and I want him in the worst way now.” He turned to Diana by way of explanation. “No criticism of your performance or qualifications, Diana, but Roy Mitchell has been my partner for six years and I feel I owe it to him to put the cuffs on Holcomb.”
“Thanks, Chuck,” the brunette said. “For a moment I thought you had something against women in uniform, or thought I’d let you down when the going gets tough.”
“No way, Diana. I’ve seen your targets when you’ve finished on the qualification range. I want to stay on your good side.” He said with a smile.
“You will, Chuck, as long as you don’t patronize me. But Ski is in charge of kicking down doors when he’s on the scene, so let him do his job. We’ll get this creep; I just hope we get him before he kills again.”
“Amen to that,” Lieutenant Ciznowski said. A flutter of white at the front door of the house caught his attention. “Look! Someone’s signaling with a white flag! Gimme that bullhorn, Carver!”
The tall sergeant handed over the electronic megaphone. “You, at the door!” Ciznowski said. “Come out slowly, hands in the air and don’t make any sudden moves!”
A trembling voice replied, “We’re coming. Don’t shoot! It’s all over, he’s gone.” Slowly a man in his mid-forties came out the door, followed by a woman and two young ones.
“Must be the professor and his family,” Diana said. “But what did he mean, Holcomb’s gone. Any way he could have escaped, Carver?”
“Not a chance, detective. There are six men covering the sides and back. Ain’t no one getting out of there unless we want them to.”
Ciznowski keyed the headset he was wearing, “Flannery, anything out back.”
“Quiet as Disneyland at three in the morning, Ski,” came a reply only the SWAT commander could hear.
“Nothing moving in the rear,” Ciznowski said to the other officers. “Blue Team,” he said, “hit the door. Stay sharp and don’t let anyone get behind you. This guy’s real mean.”
Three men in black moved from the perimeter and approached the front door, zigzagging as they ran. Two men flanked the door and a third ran inside, crouching low. Immediately the other two followed. For a time measured in heartbeats, the officers outside waited, expecting to hear the bellow of a shotgun or the rapid brrrp! of an automatic weapon any moment. They held their breath until one of the figures in black stood in the door and waved outside. “Clear!” he shouted.
Detective Stanley couldn’t wait another second. How could Holcomb have gotten away, he wondered? He entered the home to be sure Holcomb could not be hiding, under a bed, in a closet, somewhere overlooked by the cowboy squad. His partner was momentarily surprised at his sudden departure but quickly caught up with him, covering his back as he poked into every possible hiding place. Five minutes later, Stanley and Lynd had to admit the members of the SWAT team had not missed a thing.
“Where the fuck did that little shit disappear to?” Stanley said out loud. “Excuse my French, Diana,” he said politely.
“Wrong adjective,” his partner said. “How the double-fuck did he get out of here?”
A voice behind them said, “I refrigerated him.”
The two police officers swung their weapons in the direction of the voice, and then quickly aimed then at the ceiling when they saw the professor. “You refrigerated him?” Detective Stanley asked.
“Sorry, just a figure of speech from my undergraduate days,” the professor said. “I worked my way through college as a repairman for a local refrigeration and air-conditioning company.”
“So,” Diana Lynd asked with a raised eyebrow.
“The book definition of refrigeration, miss, is the process by which heat is moved from a place it is not wanted to a place where it is less objectionable. When Holcomb came in here, he was like a madman. He was aware of my experiments with a distorter of space and time, and knew he could not run from the police and their helicopters, so he wanted me to get him away from here. He threatened to murder my wife and children if I didn’t help him.”
“So you helped him escape,” Detective Stanley asked as he replaced his pistol in his holster. “You don’t consider that ‘aiding and abetting’ a wanted fugitive?”
“I was just trying to protect my family, officer. I had no choice.”
“Relax, Chuck,” Diana said. “You or I would have done the same thing under the circumstances, no matter how badly we wanted the creep. How did you do it?” she asked Professor Stephens.
“Follow me, please.” He led them into another room at the rear of the house. The room was laboratory sterile with an anteroom the three had to pass through before gaining access. “A necessary precaution, the professor said. Remember The Fly with David Hedison and Vincent Price, or the newer version with Jeff Goldblum?”
“Sure,” Stanley said. “What’s that got to do with Holcomb?”
“That,” Stephens said, pointing to a curious looking telephone booth, “is my transporter. I’ve had a few successful experiments with solid objects and even laboratory animals, but I’ve never risked it with a human before; until tonight.
“Holcomb had a gun pointed at my family. I figured the only way to protect them was to send him to a place less objectionable.”
“You mean that thing actually works,” Diana asked.
“It has, in all the experiments I’ve tried,” the professor said, but I repeat that I’ve never attempted to use it with a human before.”
“If you were successful this time,” Stanley commented, “I hope you sent him to the far side of the moon!”
“That would be the same as flipping the switch on him while he sat in the electric chair, officer. I am not a violent man and I do not believe in capital punishment. But I do agree this anti-social creature could not be allowed to exist in our society, so I sent him to a destination where I suppose he will fit in better.”
“The only place I want to see him,” Chuck Stanley said, “is in a maximum security cell-block at San Quentin.”
“And support him at taxpayer expense for the rest of his life?” Stephens remarked. “This state has enough of a budget problem, I know because my research budget has been cut six times in as many years.”
“So, where did you send him, professor?”
“I thought he might be well off in Rome, officer. That’s where I sent him.” Professor Stephens looked happy in a smug sort of way.
“Italy,” Diana asked? “Christ, my boy friend and I vacationed there just last year. We had a wonderful time! What on Earth made you think that would be sufficient punishment for Holcomb?”
“Yeah,” Stanley said. “All you did was dump the problem off on some one else. Holcomb has already killed six Americans and wounded a police officer, so you send him on a Roman holiday?”
“Not exactly, officer. Where I sent him, there will be no ACLU to spare him the fate he so richly deserves. I doubt very much if he will last long in his new surroundings.”
“And just where would that be, if you don’t mind my asking?” Detective Diana Lynd asked.
“Rome, The Eternal City,” Professor Stephens answered, “at the peak of its bloody history and violence in the Coliseum, when hundreds, even thousands of individuals were slaughtered for sport. I sent my former lab assistant to Rome during the Flavian Dynasty at the end of the First Century. I doubt if he will enjoy his holiday very much. On one occasion, as many as 5,000 pairs of trained gladiators fought to the death as entertainment for the populace. Holcomb may have an opportunity to kill many times without fear of punishment, but I wonder how he will like it if his victim can fight back?”