Mind Switch (4 page)

As his mind started communicating the command,
RUN, RUN,
thru neural pathways to his extremities, he now heard the distinct sound of multiple bullets striking the thick Plexiglas surrounding the teller cages. His body, in one last vain effort to preserve life, released copious amounts of adrenaline and cortisol which were now cursing through his veins. Another hormone, norepinephrine was freed, kicking the body’s autonomic nervous system into full speed; muscles tensed, his heart beat faster, his respiration quickened.

In the interim he had successfully taken one step forward; he smiled, he could see in the distance light streaming through the bank’s glass door. But suddenly a bullet penetrated his upper leg bone, immediately snapping it in two, sending bone fragments throughout the fleshy part of his leg. Alfred dropped down to one knee. He was experiencing severe pain but his mind continued to say
RUN
, whatever you do,
RUN
! His body tried to obey but an instant later five more bullets struck their mark; one destroyed his left kidney, four more shredded his lower intestine.
 

Alfred’s vain effort was too late and too little; he would never enjoy another innocent rendezvous with Betty again.

The last word he would utter on earth was, “Damn!”

Chapter 8

Fred was a recently promoted lieutenant in the Sarasota Police Department; the new shiny silver bars he wore proudly seemed to still hold residual heat from the Chinese foundry where they were molded. Everything he had worked for in the department had finally crystallized. Just yesterday he had earned his bars.

Although he had finished last in a class of fifteen at the police academy, he was positive that he came out first in the votes of the board members for this very significant promotion. His new boss had given him the day off and told him, “Make sure you enjoy it while you can, it may be your last for a long, long time.”

To the untrained eye, Fred should not even have been a contender. He was small for a policeman, only 5’7”, and weighing in at 150 pounds soaking wet, he was dwarfed by all his competitors. Reinforcing his small appearance was a voice that was a perfect blend between the comic Jerry Lewis and Deputy Barney Fife, of Mayberry fame. But what he lacked in size and demeanor, he more than made up for in discipline and gut intuition. His dedicated work ethic had helped him solve numerous criminal cases in the department, a fact that came to the attention of his superiors from the inception of his career

His outstanding crime solving record had led to what he perceived to be unanimous support from the police board as he progressed rapidly through the ranks. Fred, however, had never mustered the confidence that should have coincided with his superior success in crime solving. He was concerned that his run of luck in solving cases might soon run out. As a student of the stock market, he felt that all good “runs” were bounded by the principle of reversion to the mean. The worst mutual funds would someday hit the top and the best plummet to the cellar; it was just a matter of time, the only question was when and how.

With the exception of one of his competitors, all his former peers deeply resented his promotion. Topping the list of his detractors was Sergeant Paul Lewis. Lewis was a large, physically fit man of 38. Years ago, he had conceded the few remaining chestnut brown hairs on his dark sun tanned head, and now religiously shaved his head on a daily basis. No magic potion or hair transplant for him, if this was what nature intended, so be it.

Paul had the most seniority of all those competing for the coveted promotion to lieutenant. Extremely ambitious as well as egoistic, he was consistently the first to arrive and the last to leave the station, a tradition that he had followed since he graduated from the academy. To Paul, the lieutenant’s badge was something he rightfully deserved, and which was, without question, owed to him. What Paul lacked, however, was an intellectual approach to the job. In the eyes of most of the department he was, in all ways, an “old think.” His crime solving ideas were ossified and fallow, lacking an understanding of the criminal mind. He relied on surface logic and brute force alone. Finesse was not his strong point; his theories were generally wrong. Behind his back his fellow officers referred to him as Sherlock Holmes on a very bad hair day. Fred felt if personalities were colors, Paul would be colored some shade of bland gray.

Fred thought of Paul as “the disconfirmation one,” a term used by social scientists when predictions do not occur as stated, and new creeds spring from the ashes of non-events. Fred remembered a recent cartoon in a local newspaper that showed a man holding a poster proclaiming, “THE WORLD WILL END TUESDAY.” Over time, the day of the week had been crossed out, and the next day added. Hope springs eternal, and there were at least five crossed-out lines above the current line, which affirmed anew the conviction in the steadfast mind of its author. To Fred, Paul was like the street corner prophet, often wrong but never, never in doubt.
 

Fred realized he would not have an easy job of supervising those who just two days earlier had been his senior peers. He knew instinctively that Paul would rapidly become his most difficult staff problem.

Offsetting Paul was Jim Hebert, highly competent and, fortunately, Fred’s best friend in the department. Although Jim also had competed aggressively for the lieutenant’s badge, he openly and without apparent qualification, supported Fred’s promotion. They had been friends since the academy and had remained so ever since. In fact, Jim was the only fellow officer to openly congratulate Fred on the day of his promotion. All the non-selects issued a half hearted round of applause upon the chief’s announcement.

Today, for the first time in his career, Paul had not even showed up for work. His wife had called in for him reporting that he was sick, but assured the voice on the other end of the line that he would be sure to return to work the next day.

As Fred continued his walk down Main Street, he noticed a man directly across the street leaning against the front pillar of Phil’s Pharmacy. Fred noted that the man closely resembled Paul but wasn’t sure, as his vision was impaired by the blinding rays of the sinking December sun. Fred realized whoever it was seemed to have been staring directly at him, observing his every movement.

In an instant Fred’s reaction changed from curiosity to one of physical survival. As he was shielding his eyes to gain a better look at the man, he was struck by a severe crushing blow from his right. His back hit the cement sidewalk violently; immediately thereafter he heard a cracking sound as an unbelievably heavy foot settled firmly on his chest. Excruciating pain traversed his body, as blackness started to blanket his consciousness. His final clear vision was that of the man across the street, who now appeared to be smiling. The last sound he heard was that of Judy screaming.

Chapter 9

Fred gradually emerged from unconsciousness with a searing pain that radiated throughout his body. As he desperately attempted to regain focus, he saw the blurred image of a burly man, weighing easily over 300 pounds, running down Main Street at a pace that seemed to defy the laws of physics. As Fred started to get up, waves of dizziness and severe pain overtook him. He rested briefly in a standing position, hands on knees, waiting for his stupor to clear. Fortunately, he thought, I am still alive—at least partially.

As his head started to clear he was jarred by a new force. Fred went down again, but this time with a fraction of the trauma he experienced seconds before. From his prone position he saw a smaller man also running at a brisk pace, moving away in the same direction as the burly assailant whom he had been unfortunate enough to encounter a few seconds earlier. “What the hell!” Fred cried out in total frustration to no one in particular.

Judy was immediately at his side asking, “Should I call the police?”

 
Still unable to inflate his lungs adequately, Fred could only whisper, “Judy, I
am
the police.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot.”

“Judy, please hail a taxi and go home.”

Judy had no desire to argue, she was already moving to the center of Main Street, frantically signaling the closest passing cab.

Fred realized in his present state he could not begin to catch up to either of the two men. Severe pain continued to radiate in his chest. He had never experienced broken ribs before; but he was sure that had to be contributing to his intense pain and impaired medical condition.

His gaze automatically shifted to his right in an attempt to determine where the two men had emerged from. The modern multi-story silver and glass building directly to his right was the County Bank. As he attempted to peer inside, mirrored plate glass sides reflected back his own bruised image. Fred gradually stood up; moving to his right, he cautiously opened the bank door and slowly limped into the cavernous lobby. His hand grasped tightly around his revolver; he had no idea what to expect.

As his eyes slowly adjusted to the bright fluorescent lighting above, he became shocked at the macabre scene in front of him. Two men directly in front of him lay motionless on the ebony, marble tile floor. Bright red blood had migrated from one of the victims to the recessed grouted areas in the tile below him. Large globules of blood, which had earlier gushed from a second victim, were just starting to coagulate. Their color was still in the process of transforming into a deepening maroon.

To Fred’s left and right were men and women stretched out in various prone positions, all apparently frozen in place just as they had fallen. Those that were struck first, appeared to have dropped in place, unaware that their lives were about to end. Others who had an instant to recognize the horrible fate that was about to prematurely shut down their lives, had started to run and had been mowed down in mid flight. Fred could not tell if some of the victims were dead or just pretending, seeking to escape the tragic fate that had befallen the others.

Then Fred spotted his obese neighbor and fellow poker player, Ernest James, lying on the floor. James was still, the fingers of his right hand grasped tightly around the leg of a bank desk. Fred yelled to him; getting no response, he checked for a pulse, hoping beyond hope that he could observe even a flicker of life. But he knew from the start that Ernest was gone. There was a single wound in Ernest’s chest and one in his abdomen. James’ left hand covered his left eyebrow. I guess he’s not bluffing this time, Fred thought.

Very little blood had escaped from the body; Fred knew that Ernest must have been killed instantly, most likely from the single bullet that had pierced his heart.

He was a great guy, but a lousy poker player, Fred thought. Hell, now I have to tell Bernice, his wife. This job sucks.

Fred pulled out his revolver and peered over the Plexiglas above the tellers’ cages. More bodies were scattered on the floor; he heard an almost inaudible weeping from a woman dressed in a well tailored dark green plaid suit, clutching her knees.

This had to be an attempted robbery, Fred thought. But if so, who and where are the robbers?
 

The two men that emerged from the bank weren’t carrying weapons, the best he could determine, and they certainly didn’t have a getaway vehicle nearby. Very few bank robbers use their feet as an escape vehicle. On the other hand, no one in the bank appeared to be an assailant.

As Fred continued to glance throughout the lobby, he noticed a male about forty years old, well dressed in a neatly pressed cotton tan summer suit, weeping uncontrollably. Fred had spotted him as he first entered the bank but passed him by since he had no weapon in his hand, was obviously not a threat, and seemed to be experiencing the same strong emotions as the bank employees and customers who had been caught in the cycle of extreme violence. Fred felt he knew this man and had seen him in the community numerous times; but he could neither place the face or location. As he continued to focus on the man, he noticed that slightly to the man’s left foot laid an assault weapon of an unknown caliber. At first glance, Fred thought that the weapon must have been thrown there by someone else, because this individual certainly didn’t exhibit the demeanor of a bank robber or anyone that could remotely produce fear in others.

Fred went to the man, revolver in hand, and pushed the weapon away. He carefully picked up the weapon with his handkerchief, so as not to obliterate any possible fingerprints. Fred showed the weapon to the man and asked him directly if it was his. The man stopped crying for an instant; and when he saw the weapon he erupted with even greater emotion and said, “No. Take it away, please—take it away from me!”

Fred was still not sure if this man was the shooter; but not wanting to take any chances and unable to spot any other suspects, he forcefully handcuffed him and nudged him into a prone position. His next instinct was to call the investigating lieutenant to sort this out. Then Fred painfully realized that he was now the investigating lieutenant.

From somewhere behind him a penetrating voice rang out, “Put the weapon down immediately, or you’re a dead man!”

Damn it! Fred realized that he had totally forgotten to canvass the entire bank for other bank robbers and this was the high price he was now paying for his neglect. Apparently, while Fred had been screening the lobby, the partner of the captured man had hid out of sight somewhere in the back of the bank near the vault area. Fred continued to hold his weapon, not sure what to do. In the cavernous lobby voices bounced off the walls from all angles. Fred could not be sure where the voice behind him was coming from. Should he drop the weapon? These people had been willing to kill innocent people without any conscience, so what chance did he possibly have if he gave up? He could make an educated guess at the location of the man and turn around firing; but at best he felt he could only get one shot off before he became the next bank victim. He looked vainly in front of him for a mirror, a reflector of some type . . . but nothing . . . nothing to help him get a bead on the man who lurked somewhere behind him. He was paralyzed with indecision.