Down the Road: The Fall of Austin (2 page)

“
Oye. Puedo ayudar, amigo
,” Hector
whispered, weaving a web, tempting the fly. “
Oyiste
.” It was
a measured offer for help. Hector was always very intuitive, and he
somehow sensed Nick’s need. The perpetual frown Nick wore from the
moment they met. The slumped shoulders. The sadness in his eyes.
Hector had found a possible mark, and he wanted to make sure his
seed of trust, his vie for an inside alliance, was planted.

As the guards walked away, Deputy Officer
Coleman turned to Nick

and asked, “What did he say?”

Nick felt a bit nervous at the query, mostly
because he had quickly considered the offer in his mind. He felt
caught, exposed as the prison inside man he was. Perhaps that was
why the thug nicknamed ‘Sleepy’ had singled him out, took the
chance to offer an alliance even in front of Nick’s boss.

But it was clear Deputy Officer Coleman did
not know Spanish. So Nick responded, nonchalantly, “He asked when
chow is.”

5:31 PM

Disturbance Call at Riverside Apartments

“I’m still tired,” Derek said, sitting
weary-eyed in the passenger seat of the white and blue Austin
Police Department cruiser. The passing scenery went by almost
completely unnoticed.

“Didn’t you have a Red Bull before we came
in?” Mike asked, behind the wheel.

“I did, but then the wings fell off. They
never tell you that part in the commercials.”

“You should know that already; just like how
McDonalds doesn’t tell you Big Macs make you fat, but everybody
knows anyway.”

“Its more the fries than the burgers.”

“Well, a combination, you know?”

“I swear they put MSG on those damn fries. I
can’t stop eating them.”

“The point is, who would actually put ‘
our
stuff is bad for you
’ in their marketing campaign?”

“Probably you, Mr. Honest Abe.”

Mike chuckled. “Shut up, dude.”

Officer Mike Runyard and his partner Derek
Tucker had been on the clock for only thirty-one minutes, and
already Mike knew it was going to be a long night. He knew Derek
was going to evade as many calls as he could—maybe even try to
convince Mike to cover for him while he slept.

Their adrenaline from the big bust the night
before hadn’t worn off all through the day, making it very
difficult to catch any sleep. Now they wished they had used some
pharmaceutical sleeping aids. The duo was in line for
commendations, as well as several other privileges from
administration, but Mike didn’t dare ask for the day off. He felt
it would make him look like a pansy, requesting someone to take his
shift just because he had exerted himself the night before.

Oh, poor baby, he mused, did you actually
have to do your job last night? Does that make you think you
deserve a day off?

The bust turned out to be the biggest bust in
the history of Austin, which also made it the biggest in Travis
county. It was actually on par with many of the large busts on the
border. It was quite a boost for the department’s morale. The
Austin American Statesman
had interviewed Mike and Derek
briefly before they hit the beat. It was nice for the department to
have such positive exposure compared to the highly visible lawsuits
by the ACLU, LULAC, and other alphabet soup organizations fighting
for citizen’s rights against alleged violations by the Austin
Police Department.

Mike turned the cruiser onto Riverside.

“Did you ask for nights?” he asked.

“We always work nights,” Derek replied.

“I could do for a day shift myself.”

“Nothing happens during the day but car
wrecks.”

“People get murdered during the day,
too.”

“You mean they
find
murders during the
day.”

Mike passed the Taqueria Vallarta #3. Derek
licked his lips and said, “Hey, we should eat there for dinner
break.”

Mike didn’t answer right away. He was
preoccupied trying to make sense of the night and day shift
differences. Further, he realized his previous assumption had been
correct—that Derek was going to be useless today. Hell, he was
already thinking about food and was coming across as edgier

than usual.

“I mean, I guess those bank robberies count
for something,” Mike finally said. “But there’s no high speed
chases at night.”

“There are high speed chases at night. I’ve
seen them on Fox’s
World’s Craziest Car Crashes
.”

“I’ve never had one at night.”

“You’ve never been in a high speed chase
ever
,” Derek jabbed.

Taking a deep breath and ignoring the subtle
cutdown, Mike turned the cruiser onto Willow Lake Drive.

Something caught Mike’s attention as they
turned the corner. “Oh, Taco Bell. Let’s eat there instead.”

“You’d eat corporate Mexican food over
authentic Mexican food?” Derek challenged.

“It can’t be authentic unless we’re in
Mexico.”

“You don’t have to be in Mexico for it to be
authentic.”

“You’re loony.”

“I’m just tired,” Derek repeated, as the
cruiser pulled into the apartment complex. He grumbled, “I swear,
if these people, whoever the hell they are, if these people fuck
around, I’m kicking their ass.”

“Don’t talk like that, man,” Mike said,
switching the ignition off before stepping out of the vehicle. He
clicked the CB on his shoulder. “864 to dispatch. We’ve arrived at
Riverside Apartments. Over.”

The CB quickly buzzed its response. “10-4.
Proceed with caution. Over.”

“I’m going to proceed with a boot up
someone’s ass.
That’s
how I’m going to proceed,” Derek said.
He was like a grumpy old man. The canned caffeine overdose was
doing him no favors. Mike could see Derek shaking a bit. Not from
fear. Derek had a handle on that. But from a caffeine high. It was
easy for Mike to see that Derek was on a hair trigger. He only
hoped the coming situation would not set him off too bad.

“Would you cool it?” Mike asked.

“I’m cool. I’m cool.”

The two walked past the F building. The
apartment complex wasn’t sprawling by any means, but it felt
cluttered. The buildings were in line, but set up at odd angles,
creating a kind of disjointed landscape of curves and sharp angles.
A feng-shui master would have a fit at the “secret arrows” and
“negative energy” created by the random placement of the
structures. They were old buildings, probably built in the early
eighties, and had seen better days. Off-white paint was chipped
from the stucco and the roof tile was old and worn. Apartment
windows were covered in a thin white crust from years of spray
washing with hard water.

In the distance, small groups of people from
various cultural backgrounds were gathered, both on the ground and
on balconies around one of the buildings.

“That’s the H building,” Mike said.

“Someone’s definitely going to get their ass
whipped,” Derek said, lacing the comment with a sprinkle of
bigotry. Mike wasn’t sure which situation would be the hardest to
handle: the domestic disturbance or his own high-strung
partner.

He was currently most concerned at the
potential riot in front of the H building. It was easy to see and
even easier to hear that the group was riled up. It was a veritable
Texas potpourri of people: some white, some black, some Hispanic,
even a couple of Asians. Some were dressed very casually while
others had on their best urban clothes, complete with baseball caps
and sports jerseys with complementary colors. Several people were
already eyeballing Mike and Derek as they approached, and an
audible “five-oh” could be heard, warning everyone of the
approaching policemen.

Realizing the potential that things could get
out of hand very quickly, and with the numbers obviously in favor
of the potential rioters, Mike erred on the side of safety and
wisdom. He reached for his CB and called back to command: “864 to
dispatch. Large gathering of people at address of disturbance.
Request assistance.”

As Mike and Derek edged closer, screams
became audible. At first they thought it came from the gathering,
but when the muffled scream sounded again, they determined it was
coming from within the building.

Derek dashed forward. For a moment Mike
feared he was going to bash his way through the crowd and set them
off, but Derek remained professional, at least for the moment,
sternly asking the crowd to get out of the way. A civilian
grumbled, “Get
this
out of your way,” and Mike was sure
Derek was going to pepper spray the crowd.

But as Derek edged closer, the crowd
contemptuously cleared a path.

Dispatch held Mike back a moment. “Dispatch
to 864. What’s your 20? Over.”

Mike stopped in his tracks and replied to
dispatch, skipping protocol. “1700 Willow Lake Drive. Building H.
Over.” He immediately ran to join Derek. The path that had cleared
for Derek was now shut, and Mike found himself having to nudge two
large men out of the way. It was done with enough authority for
them to move, but not enough to be a challenge. It didn’t stop the
guys from cussing at Mike when he passed.

“Bitch better watch who he’s fuckin’ pushin’,
motherfucker.”

Stay calm
, Mike thought. Even as he
passed through the wall of people, he still could not see
Derek.

People began to scatter like frightened
pigeons; curious enough to want to know what was going on, but
smart enough to move back. Most were street smart enough to know
that cops in the apartments meant trouble, and no one wanted to be
accused or questioned for anything. The general philosophy was:
the further away from the men in blue, the better
.

Those that stuck around, however, had no
problem being loud and voicing their opinions, though some tried to
share information with the officers in their own informal
manner.

“Shoot her!”

“She’s a bitch.”

“Deb was sick last night, sir.”

Mike heard the comments, but was
concentrating so much on finding Derek (who he still could not see
through the now dispersing crowd) that the comments were not
entirely discernable. The concentration and uncertainty had given
him tunnel vision, and everything was peripheral to the apartment
and the front door which was now coming into view.

Much to Mike’s relief, Derek was at the door
and already knocking.

The screams were most certainly emanating
from right behind the door. Adrenaline coursed even faster through
Mike’s veins, charging him with energy.

The cry for help was loud and clear.

“I need you to open the door, ma’am!” Derek
yelled.

“I can’t,” came the fearful reply. Within, an
obvious struggle could be heard. Things were banging against the
wall. Several bumps and the sound of something crashing to the
floor indicated furniture, perhaps a lamp considering the splashing
sound of breaking ceramics. Yet the hollow thuds sometimes sounded
like bodies knocking against the wall.

“Let that door have it,” Mike said as both he
and Derek armed themselves with their police issue pistols.

With a measured and experienced boot to the
door, Derek kicked it open. The door splintered at the lock and the
two entered quickly.

Neither expected what they saw.

A young girl, no more than fifteen years old
and no more than a hundred pounds, was holding off a snarling and
bloody young boy. The girl was hysterical, but focused enough on
her survival to hold off the boy with shoves and primitive front
kicks. Her back was against the wall in the far corner of the room.
Whimpering in fear, she continued her defense, but she was
definitely losing steam. The desperation was so intense she seemed
moments from giving up.

“Help me!” she wailed.

“Down on the ground, now!” Derek yelled. “Get
on the ground, now!”

The boy turned around and faced the two
officers, having ignored the door being kicked open. The
policemen’s eyes widened. The boy’s face was sunken. Blood dripped
from his mouth onto his white Kenny Chesney T-shirt.

“On the ground, now!” Derek and Mike both
yelled, in unison. Though the boy looked crazed and the men were in
physical danger, they were gun shy. It had nothing to do with the
desire to fire. Derek was certainly ready for that. But Austin P.D.
had something of a publicity problem after four shooting deaths at
the hands of A.P.D. officers. Two of the victims were shot in the
back in what was described as a “struggle.” And though all four
officers were acquitted and the deaths were declared justifiable
shootings, it left a black mark on the department that locals would
not allow the cops to live down.

But Derek had a alternative he was more than
prepared to use as the boy advanced toward them. He holstered his
gun and grabbed the tazer.

“I need you to stop, now!”

The boy advanced.

“Stop, or you
will
be tazed!” There
was glee in Derek’s voice. Whether the boy backed down or not, he
was going to get zapped.

As predicted, the boy continued his advance.
Derek did not hesitate to fire the tazer. He twittered with sick
satisfaction, a testosterone-fueled feeling of superiority and
dominance. “I told him to stop, and he didn’t,” he mumbled, almost
as an afterthought. He began to briefly drift, thinking about the
power in his hand. Then he began to debate in his mind whether the
power was in his hand or in his finger. The device was held in his
hand, but the power of the device was unleashed by his finger
tugging at the trigger, embracing the switch like Medea embraced
Jason, enraptured by the ruthless display of power.

The metal hooks of the tazer pierced the
boy’s stomach, filling his belly with an intense and steady stream
of voltage set loose by the sinister device and its malevolent
master. The boy wiggled in pain and growled, saliva and blood
dripping from his mouth. He fell to the floor and was not released
from the electric bonds for several more seconds.