The dream returned later that evening.
I didn’t know what time it was. They had taken my watch along with my keys, my wallet, the cash in my pockets, my cell phone, my belt, and the laces to my Nikes. What they didn’t do was book me. They didn’t take my fingerprints or photograph; I couldn’t even testify that they ran my name through CJIS or the NICS to check for wants and warrants, to learn if I had a record. This was payback, pure and simple. Supposedly, they’re only allowed to imprison a suspect in a holding cell for up to four hours before transferring him to the county jail. When those ticked by, I figured I was in for the entire thirty-six—in Minnesota you can hold a suspect for thirty-six hours before you have to charge or release him.
Payback is a bitch, and I was plotting my own as I rested uncomfortably on a one-inch-thick blue mat stretched over a two-foot high concrete bed in an eight-by-six concrete room, my fingers locked behind my head, drifting in and out of sleep . . .
Twelve-fifteen P.M. I received the call. The two-second alert tone preceding the call told me it was trouble.
“Four forty.”
“Four forty, go.”
“Four forty, possible robbery in progress at the Food & Fuel convenience store.”
The dispatcher gave the address at the same time as the information appeared on the squad’s MDT screen, along with RE-MARKS: alarm tripped, attempting callback at store.
I fingered the button on my shoulder microphone. “Four forty, copy.”
Eighty seconds later I slowly drove past the store, lights and siren off, hoping my arrival had gone undetected. I could see no one through the store windows. The parking lot was deserted. My own windows were rolled down, yet I heard nothing. I drove another fifty yards and parked where I could see both the store and the lot without being clearly visible myself, taking up a position of observance, just like I had been taught at the skills academy.
“Four forty, arriving.” I spoke softly.
“Four fourty, copy,” the receiver crackled.
I slipped out of the car, surprised by how quiet it was. The Food & Fuel was located kitty-corner to the campus of the College of St. Catherine, yet there was no traffic, no pedestrians, no music or TV sounds coming from the houses and apartment buildings. I could hear crickets, and in the distance a dog barked twice and then was silent. It was as if they were whispering to me.
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Now it was just a matter of staying put and watching until dispatch found a sergeant to call the store and determine if there was a robbery in progress or if some clumsy cashier had tripped the alarm with his knee, which happened only once a day and twice on Sundays. True, I could have ridden the hammer into the lot and kicked open the door, gun drawn, but then I would have been stupid. Probably dead, too. Always better to wait. Always better to take the bad guys outside instead of forcing a possible hostage situation inside. If there were bad guys.
“Four forty, the parking lot is empty, I see no movement inside the store.”
“Four forty, copy.”
I unholstered my nine-millimeter Glock, then thought better of it—I was never comfortable with the grip. Instead, I opened the door and leaned back inside the squad, hitting the button that released the standard-issue Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun from its rack. I liked the heft of it. That and its eight rounds of double-aught buck, four in the magazine. After activating the shotgun, I set it on the trunk lid of the car, the barrel pointing away from me, and waited some more.
Moments later, a late-model sedan turned into the parking lot of the convenience store, heading into harm’s way.
“Oh, no.” I lifted the shotgun from the trunk lid. “No, no, no.”
I activated the radio.
“Four forty, we have a car heading into the lot. I’m moving up on the scene.”
I jogged down the street and into the parking lot, carrying the shotgun in the port position.
The car stopped to the left of the entrance. Two doors opened. A couple emerged—a black man, maybe thirty, from the driver’s side and a black woman, same age, from the passenger’s side.
“Police. Get back in the car.” My grip tightened on the shotgun. “Get back in the car.”
The couple froze, deer in the headlights.
“Get back in the car.”
The glass door of the convenience store swung open. A man was backing out fast, butt first, holding the door with his hip. His eyes were fixed on something inside the store, and he didn’t see me. I pivoted toward him as he cleared the doorway. I was shouting before he could turn.
“Police. Police.”
I braced the stock of the shotgun against my shoulder and sighted down the barrel. “Police. Drop the gun. Put your hands in the air.”
The suspect turned his head just so. Then his body. He was facing me now, and for the first time I noted the caramel color of his skin. I guessed his age at around twenty.
