Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (10 page)

“How many?”

“Twelve victims so far. Three are still in the hospital with broken ribs. Four got concussions when they hit the pavement.”

Smitty raised an eyebrow. “Not from getting punched?”

The Sarge shook his head. “No, the perps knocked them to the ground so hard, the women got concussions.”

Smitty tapped his index finger at the now blank television screen. “Anything else for surveillance?”

Sarge shook his head. “No.”

“Only two tapes?”

“For now. More are coming. Our lab guys are—hacking or whatever they call it—at police headquarters. We should have more in a couple of hours.”

“Until then,” Smitty pulled out a chair and settled in, “I’ll rewatch what we have.”

“Then I’ll leave you be. I know you like to study tape alone. I’ll check with the other squads too. You’ll let me know if you get anything.”

Smitty waved Sarge off without taking his gaze from the screen. “Sure,” he said absently. “And don’t forget the original reports…and backgrounds of the victims.”

“Vic—?” Sarge caught himself short. If Smitty wanted backgrounds on the victims, Smitty would get backgrounds on the victims. “Whatever you need,” Sarge said and closed the door behind him.

CLUBBA SIGHED AND CLOSED HIS EYES. HIS COMFORT level with the many prison groups hit its zenith. They talked about girls, other inmates, life in prison, and what they were and did in their individual gangs, and then the talk turned to how they’d gotten caught.

“Urine?” LaTrey, a banger from Sydney, Nebraska, all but retched at Clubba’s recitation. “Two old guys threw a bag of urine. At you?”

The entire table roared with laughter. Some made explosive gestures with their hands complete with a splashing sound. The laughing went on for what seemed like eternity to Clubba. Before he had a rational thought, he punched his thigh with his fist. Thud…thud…thud.

Chrisz nudged LaTrey. “What he doin’?”

“Don’t know,” Trey said, “but he does it whenever he talk about gettin’ caught.”

“Your new name should be Clubba-Pee,” the youngest of the crew, Pypa, said. “Get it?”

The table shook with renewed laughter.

Clubba glared down the row of inmates. If he didn’t need these punks, they wouldn’t ever see the light of day again. He held his temper and his tongue. Revenge was best served ice cold.

Two days later, Smitty pushed back from his viewing. “Hah!” he said and jutted his finger at the screen. “Again with the four-door escape vehicle.”

The lab boys had successfully hacked copies of all videos from headquarters. The additional five clips could be played repeatedly giving Smitty a bigger picture of the ongoing chaos of the different crime scenes. After an hour of comparison, he pushed the call button and paged Sarge.

The Sarge stalked into the office. “The gang unit can’t place any of these goofs. They’re trying to isolate footage of each suspect to identify and place them in their various gangs across town. What a pain. Now the media’s pressuring the Chief, and he’s leaning on the gang unit for answers.”

“And how are they doing with the matchups?” Smitty asked.

“Terrible—”

“Because those aren’t gangs,” Smitty said matter-of-factly.

The Sarge stopped midsentence and slowly turned to Smitty. “What? They’re all young, male, use the same MO, and they love to hurt their victims. It’s their own gang calling card.” He cocked his head as though he knew there must be more. “And the Chief, the media, and the guys in the gang unit all say it’s a gang. But you look at the video and say they aren’t?”

“You know I hate it when cops jump to conclusions,” Smitty said. “Especially the young know-it-alls.”

“Like the ones that called you ‘just another Old Blue’?” Sarge asked. “Someone who was just playing cop until he can retire?”

“I hate that phrase,” Smitty said. “Can’t wait to prove the little buggers wrong.”

“Okay, you worthless Ol’ Blue geezer,” the Sarge said with a big smile that grew even bigger. “I knew you could crack this case.” The Sarge pulled the chewed cigar out of his mouth. “So why do you say they’re all wrong?”

Smitty turned back to the television screen. “Watch this,” he said with a smirk. He showed the getaway vehicles of each crime. “Do you see it?”

Sarge glanced between the screens. “A different vehicle each time?”

“Yes.” Smitty blew out a breath. “But what’s the same about each car?”

Brows knit together, the Sarge shook his head. “Don’t know,” he answered. “All I see are different cars in each incident.”

“You got the first point right, but,” Smitty continued, “gangs don’t have five or six vehicles…newer vehicles. Drive it around once and trade it off to commit another robbery? Maybe they could steal one every time they pull off a robbery, but their chances of getting caught increase exponentially. Even if they bought or rented cars, there’s still a high probability of discovery.”

Sarge folded his arms across his chest. “Not to mention expensive too.”

“Exactly, and where’s the money in that?” Smitty walked to a whiteboard and picked up a marker to pull it all together. “Each time we thought we got a license plate number, it was wrong or we couldn’t connect it to any suspects. Nothing fit. The family that owned the vehicle were law-abiding folks, and we chalked it up to a bad lead.” Smitty crossed to the video screen and pointed. “Each vehicle was a late model with four doors.”

Sarge nodded. “Easier to jump into after robbing the ladies.”

“And,” Smitty continued, “most gangs here in Omaha are divided on neighborhood boundaries meaning they have the same racial makeup for the most part; each group is nothing but black, white, Hispanic, or Asian.”

“And the Sudanese,” the Sarge said. “Who don’t connect with the ‘African’ American groups.”

“They consider themselves Africans, not Americans I heard,” Smitty said.

“So all these robberies had a mix of Hispanic, black, and whites.” The Sarge frowned. “Not what we usually see in Omaha.”

“No.” Smitty paused. “It’s not.”

“Hmmm,” replied the Sarge.

“Our average banger gets angry if the woman puts up a fight and punches her in the face, maybe kicks her for good measure,” Smitty said and punched the DVD play button again. “Look at these guys. They work in twos. One grabs the purse while the other lays the woman out by getting a couple of steps ahead and shoulder checking her. Some of them whacked the ground so hard their heads snapped back on the cement. These aren’t your average gang thugs. These are athletes.”

“And you got all that from watching them knock the ladies on their heads?”

“Look at this, oh, dearest sergeant of mine.” Smitty clicked through a video frame by frame. “Here,” he pointed at the TV, “they have the purse.” He zoomed in closer. “Look how they hold it.”

The Sarge leaned in for a closer read. “He tucks it like a football.”

“Exactly.” Smitty pushed back into his chair. “Excellent observation, Sergeant.” Smitty swiveled back around. “Now look how they run toward the escape vehicle, how they approach it.”

“What the—” The Sarge jerked back. “These guys are…what do they call it…um…high-stepping. Like when they approach the goal line untouched.”

“But wait. There’s more,” Smitty said. “Can you see in the car?”

He zoomed in closer, but even with the fuzziness of the closeup, the Sarge could see the antics. “They’re high five’n!”

With a nod, Smitty relaxed into his chair. “Kind of what you’d see football players do after a touchdown. Yes?” Smitty said with a note of sarcasm. “Never saw bangers do that. My guess is they’re local football players. That would explain the different races…playing on the same team but living in different neighborhoods. They’re all athletes and work as a team. One’s a blocker who knocks the sense out of their victims by hitting her like a linebacker. Then the speedy running back takes the ball—or purse in these cases—and darts for the end zone: the waiting vehicle.”

Smitty pointed at the vehicle driving away. “I’ll also bet that these vehicles are from the players’ girlfriends. If we get a license plate, it comes back to a family that doesn’t fit the profile, and the detectives just move on. Another bad lead.”

“Okay,” the Sarge said slowly. “So they’re athletes. Between the metro and surrounding areas, there are lots of schools. How do we figure out which one they all attend?”

“If it were me, I’d run the plates again. Give another look at the families of the owners. I’d bet the mortgage most of them have daughters who attend the same school as our perps.”

The Sarge shoved the ragged cigar back into his mouth and stood up with a satisfied sigh. “Don’t know if it’ll fly, but I’ll call it into the crime line and let the investigators follow up.”

“One other suggestion?” Smitty added. “I’d focus my attention on schools with a large Latino population.”

A long paused passed between them.

“Okay, Smitty, I’ll bite. Why should they focus on schools with a large Latino population?”

“The victims,” Smitty said and pointed to the reports. “The classic blunder for investigators. They focus on the suspects and forget about victimology.”

“That’s why you wanted the background on ’em,” the Sarge said. “And you can wipe that gloating look off your face. What else ya got?”

“The majority of the victims were Hispanic. Most of the robberies took place during the second and fourth weeks of the month. Paydays for most people. I’m thinking our guys are familiar with that particular population. Mexican women generally carry all their cash in their purses. They don’t like banks because of language problems. And—” Smitty stood and stretched, “I’ll bet there are a bunch of other victims who haven’t reported their robberies because they are illegal. If I were to guess, I’d say that one out of three victims have reported it. They’re the perfect victims. They carry cash and won’t file a report for fear of being deported. They’re sitting ducks in this game.”

“You got it all figured out?”

“Pretty much.”

“Smitty, you’ve earned your pay.” High praise from the Sarge.

Smitty smiled, then let loose with a flatulent salute.

“Applesauce again?” The Sarge asked with a strangled laugh.

“How’d you know?”

“I’m the boss; I know everything.”

“When it’s pointed out to you,” Smitty called back.

Sarge went straight to the phone to relay the new information to investigators. If Smitty was right—and he almost always was—there were a lot of unreported victims and many more potential ones. He hated men who enjoyed hurting women. They had to be stopped, and this was the unit to do it.

“ANONYMOUS,” TIM CURTIS, A SHORT, SQUAT GANG UNIT sergeant said. “An anonymous tipster calls and specifically states that this string of robberies doesn’t belong to us?” He shook his head in disbelief and examined the transcript in hand. “It’s football players? From a local school and we should check for large Hispanic populations. Talk to owners of vehicles we’ve already determined were not involved?”

He ran his fingers through his cropped hair and frowned. “We need to find out where their daughters go to school. Good Lord, they even said we can expect the next robbery today or tomorrow!” He crumpled the paper in his fist. “Who does this guy think he is? I’ve been in this unit five years and never seen anything like this.”

“We following through with it?” Jorge Thompson, a GU officer asked.

“No clue,” Tim said, striding toward the door. “Let’s see what the brass says.”

He ended up in front of Lieutenant Jack Anderson, an African-American ex-basketball player. His buzz cut sported clean lines and right angles at the temples. He glanced over the crumbled paper Tim handed him, brows drawing together in question.

“How the devil would someone know stuff this specific?” the lieutenant asked.

“Beats me,” Jorge said. “It’s like our tipster has inside information or something. This isn’t the usual stuff.”

“I know,” Tim murmured and skimmed the notes from the hotline. “It’s usually something like, ‘This is the guy who did it or where the stolen items can be found,’ but this—this is almost a primer on how to conduct an investigation.”

“I know,” Jorge said. “Damnedest thing. It even tells us who to interview and that it’s not our case.”

Tim blew a low whistling breath.

“So what do we do?” Jorge asked. “Redirect the investigation? If the suspects aren’t gang bangers, then it’s not our case—”

Jack stopped the train of thought with a cold glare. “Is this a joke?”

“No,” Jorge said. “At least I don’t think so, but I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Me neither. A school with high Hispanic populations,” Tim mused, “football players…”

“So…” Jorge said with a shrug. “Transfer it? Give it to Officer Can?”

“No trash can…yet.” Tim twisted his lips in what looked like disgust.

“Reinterview the owners of those vehicles again,” Tim said.

“No way!” Jorge said. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m not,” Tim said. “True, this isn’t a normal tip,” he continued. “It’s much more than a tip; it’s an investigative guide to breaking up this group.” He skimmed over the paper again. “The tipster seems to have an insight into investigations. I’d like to see how much.”

He caught the detective’s gaze and held it. “I’m intrigued—and curious. Talk to the vehicles’ owners again and be sure each interview is done right. I want the report tomorrow.”

“To—”

“Yeah,” Tim said. “There’s something to this, something different and I want to know what it is. That’s all, detective.”

Summarily dismissed, Jorge left, his brows furrowed together.

“Back to the drawing board then,” Jack said and turned back to his office. “Let me know how it turns out.”

The gang unit followed orders. In their absence, a hotline officer brought in a second tip. “I think it’s safe to say this is from the same guy. Note the extra instructions.”

Once you get a solid lead on which school the kids go to, bring the football coach in and have him view the videos. All of Omaha has seen them and you can’t really tell what the suspects look like. There’s got to be other video being held back so investigators have a better idea of the suspects. The football coach will be able to identify most of them—
Crime Stopper Tip 1A227.

“Whoever it is sure seems to know what he’s talking about, that’s for sure.” Tim exchanged a quizzical look with the hotline officer.

Smitty, Big Brock, and Bensen were assigned to the parking lot of the Southern Wheel Mall. Each sported a baseball cap with communication earpieces that looked like a common hearing aid. Big Brock and Bensen brandished walking canes that could shoot orange pepper spray twelve to sixteen feet. Smitty had a walker. Not that he needed it, but the little metal basket in the front was sure handy to carry the liquid surprise “piss packs” the crew loved to throw at the perps. A few hid their urine packs for four days, and the smell was nothing short of gut-wrenching. Smitty liked to think of it as twentyfirst-century street justice.

A dark four-door sedan turned into the parking lot. Exactly what he was waiting for. Smitty signaled the others. If he was right, they had their men—or boys as the case may be. Smitty watched and counted four males; he also noted that they weren’t parking, just tooling around. Reconnoitering from Smitty’s view. Looking for something. Or someone.

Of course, he thought. A very special someone.

They stopped the vehicle, faced the exit, and waited like a giant spider in a sci-fi flick for a Latina woman. Smitty turned his head and spoke in a low tone into his modified hearing aid. “These are our guys. The dark blue sedan. I’m going to mosey over and set up.”

Big Brock and Bensen had taken point at the bus stop bench and now faced the car. With all but imperceptible nods, they, too, pushed off and did their best little old man shuffle toward the mall. Their route took them right by the sedan. One ducked his head to speak to Smitty. “Don’t even see us,” he murmured.

“Perfect,” Smitty said.

In an instant, one of the boys inside jerked to attention and pointed. His companions followed his lead.

About as subtle as Machiavelli in a romance novel, Smitty thought but he, too, checked out the location indicated. As expected, there she was: a middle-aged Hispanic woman. A massive purse hung off her shoulder. It couldn’t be more perfect.

“At your twelve o’clock,” he said. “That’s their gal.”

Indicating the transmission was received, the other Blues continued their shuffle toward the car and the suspects.

The car doors opened and two boys got out. They sported the latest in banger fashion: dark hoodie and sports caps. Completely unoriginal but pulling the hoods up concealed most of their faces while the bill of their cap kept the hood from covering their eyes. They’d done their homework or else a friend had clued them in.

The boys got fifty yards south of the victim who walked in a westerly direction. They vectored to their left and zigzagged through parked vehicles on their approach. The other two occupants laughed in obvious anticipation and watched their buddies zero in on the woman.

Good, Smitty thought. Oblivious mopes missed what was happening under their noses.

Big Brock and Bensen strolled past the vehicle and kicked small triangular stop sticks in front of the tires. With their sharp embedded nails, they rendered a car undriveable after a few blocks.

Smitty smiled. There’d be some pretty pissed off parents tonight.

The two guys in the car didn’t seem to care about the two old men as one adjusted his hearing aid and the other talked to himself. In instant dismissal, they went back to watching their buddies.

“Everything’s in place and a go.”

The announcement came through Smitty’s earpiece. “Okay, you two stay in position to spray into the windows when they make their getaway. I’m gonna place myself between the two in the lot and their car with a special piss pack delivery as they run by.”

“Ten-four,” came the reply and Smitty clearly heard the excitment from the other end.

The two boys outside ducked down and waited for the woman to draw closer…closer…closer.

“Señorita!” Smitty jumped out and pointed at the two crouching teens. “Banditos!”

She screamed, turned on her heels, and ran back toward the mall. The boys who seemed rooted in place at their discovery comically glanced at one another. The bigger of the two grabbed his buddy by the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here!”

In the car, their friends waved them over and screamed to hurry. The driver started the engine, and the second boy threw open the door. Two steps from their vehicle, something hit the bigger teen in the chest, something wet. He dove in the car followed in quick succession by his co-conspirator. The driver revved the engine; burning orange liquid splashed onto the inside of the windshield, droplets exploding into the cab. With a flourish of smoking tires, they screeched off.

Bensen pulled out a cell phone and dialed 911. Another anonymous tip, Smitty thought. Whatever.

He beckoned his crew, and they quietly got into their own waiting vehicle and slowly followed behind. Three blocks away, the stop sticks did their work. The dark sedan veered off the road and hit a tree. The four occupants had opened their doors, screaming and gasping for air. They planted their faces in the freshly cut grass looking for some relief from what could only be described as having their eyes burned out of their skulls.

Police officers arrived. When they got out of their cruisers, they stopped and momentarily surveyed the scene of gagging, coughing, choking suspects. In moments, the boys were handcuffed on the ground.

One of the officers pulled the biggest one to his feet. “Jeeze!” He turned his head to the side and gagged. “You freakin’ reek, punk!”

Smitty slowed his car even more. The boy glanced up and Smitty swore he detected a moment of recognition on the kid’s face. Smitty smiled at the teenager, flipped him the bird, and drove off laughing.

The radio call of an attempted robbery at the Southern Wheel Mall had come through loud and clear. Uniformed officers had four suspects and were calling for a medical unit for decontamination.

“Yes!” Tim Curtis said and slammed his fist on his desk. “We caught a couple, and by the sounds of things they put up a fight.” He picked up the Crime Stoppers tip again and glanced it over:
….expect the next robbery to occur today or tomorrow
. He reread it a second time and for good measure a third. “Unbelievable!” he said out loud. “Freakin’ unbelievable!”

A half hour later the phone rang. “You know those kids from the mall incident today?”

“Yeah, what of ’em?”

“Two of the three families had daughters at South East High School. There’s a large Latino population, and the school is pretty integrated,” the officer on the other end reported.

“Then go to the school and ask the football coach to come in for an interview.”

“Why? We could just go to the school and start asking around.”

“Just do what I said,” Curtis barked. “Don’t talk to anyone else; bring me that coach.”

“You got it,” the investigator said, evidently knowing when to shut up.

An hour later in the conference room, Curtis, Jorge, and a very confused football coach sat around a small table. “Coach Jenson, thank you for coming down.”

“Sure,” he said. “But why am I here?”

“You’ve heard about the purse snatchings? Where those women got pretty badly injured when they were robbed?”

“Sure,” responded the coach. “Who hasn’t? What’s that got to do with me?”

“We have some video clips of the suspects. We think they may be some of your players.”

“No,” Jenson said and shook his head. “Not possible.”

“Humor us,” Curtis said and started the video.

The surveillance tape showed several different young men participating in each encounter. The coach stared at the screen. Thirty seconds into the first, he melted into his chair and covered his face with his hand. “Mitch Johnson,” he muttered. “He graduated last year and was supposed to help me with football camp this summer.”