Senile Squad: Adventures of the Old Blues (2 page)

William “Tiny” Thomas resided in a studio apartment, one of many nondescript dwellings in downtown Omaha. No spectacular views of the skyline for him though. Retirement wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The meager pension he lived on didn’t go as far as he’d thought. College tuition for kids, alimony to ex-wives and his own medical expenses ate every bit the state didn’t take for taxes. Tiny shined a flashlight on the back of his television. “Now where does this dang coaxial thing go?” He twisted it repeatedly only to have it fall out yet again. “Ah nuts.” He’d probably have to Google the instructions, and he wasn’t up to another hassle at the moment.

He turned the TV off and gazed out his small living room window overlooking Heartland of America Park. He gazed through the floor fan he’d placed in the window that leaned against the screen. It wasn’t much, but it kept fresh air circulating in the place. It also provided a more important tactical role. When the fan was on, he could observe the activities across the street through the rotating blades. Those in the park didn’t know he was monitoring them.

With over thirty-five years on Omaha streets as a uniformed cop and as a plainclothes detective, old habits were hard to kick. In Tiny’s mind, he wasn’t simply watching folks in the park, he conducted surveillance.

“There you are again,” Tiny mumbled to himself. A tall, dark Sudanese man stood in the middle of the park. He’d caught Tiny’s attention weeks earlier. He didn’t walk around and talk to people; they approached him. He’d listen and say a few words as though giving instructions. There was something suspicious about those he spoke with. They left in a way that told Tiny they were intent on carrying out information given. The area around the park housed many Sudanese refugees and immigrants. Not a problem in and of itself in Tiny’s book, but this guy was special. There was definitely more to him than met the eye. Tiny watched another interaction.

“You’re definitely the man in charge,” Tiny said aloud.

The drama across the street was about all that brought Tiny out of bed in the mornings. All those years as a cop gave him a constant sense of curiosity that never went away. Anytime he found something suspicious, he had to check it out. He hated that in the blink of an eye, he’d gotten old. His body betrayed him at every turn especially recently. There was, however, one advantage that came with advancing age. It gave him an edge he had never possessed before.

Tiny turned away from the window and grabbed his gray sweater. Stuffing one arm and then another into the sleeves, he straightened the front and checked his reflection in the mirror. “Nobody ever sees a little old man.”

Tiny locked his front door and set off across the street to check things out. He strolled leisurely around the young man and his companions. Sitting on a bench a few feet away, he stared at the pigeons waddling at his feet and tossed them breadcrumbs he kept in his pockets. He learned loads by simply being an old man in the park. “This tall Sudanese man is definitely the leader,” Tiny said to himself as he worked his way back to his apartment.

Tiny returned home and hung up his cardigan. Catching a glimpse of his mirrored image, he shook his head. “If I was back on the street, I’d ride that guy’s butt straight out of town.”

Tiny knew trouble when he saw it. This guy had it written all over him. Every time he tried to express his concerns to a police officer, the officer listened politely for a few minutes then found an excuse to leave.

Helplessness overwhelmed him. He despised the sensation of worthlessness that weighed on his shoulders daily. Old, tired, and sick, there wasn’t much use for him anymore. Tiny turned to the doppelganger in the mirror. “Why bother?”

Pulling open the dresser drawer, he stared at his .38-caliber revolver. He could end it right now. He doubted anyone would even notice his absence. “Maybe I should…”

A knock drew his attention. With a long look at his weapon, Tiny closed the drawer and strode to the door. He expected some neighborhood kid selling cupcakes for his school band, but when he opened the door, he froze. For the first time in many years, he was genuinely surprised. “Sarge?” Tiny said to the man he’d known when he was a cop and his life had meaning. The Sarge smiled, took his chewed cigar out of his mouth and said, “How’d you like a job?”

The Sarge explained what was going to be a special retirement home for old police officers, and when he told Tiny that the officers were actually going to be fighting crime without anyone knowing about it, Tiny grinned, stood up and walked to the window of his apartment.

Tiny pointed to a Sudanese man in the park that he had determined was some sort of kingpin and said, “I want to start with him.”

TO PEOPLE ON ALL COASTS OF THE UNITED STATES, THE quiet city of Omaha, Nebraska, nestled up against the mighty Missouri River, is out in the middle of nowhere. But looks can be deceiving. The city popped up repeatedly in newspaper and television articles because it consistently ranked eighth among the fifty largest cities in the country for per-capita billionaires and
Fortune
500 companies. San Francisco might be the leader in billionaires per million people and Atlanta led the way in
Fortune
500 companies, but no city—including the major coastal giants—could claim a ranking as high as Omaha on both lists.

In a specially remodeled top floor, downtown apartment at Eleventh and Douglas, Ben Mitchell tapped a spoon against his water glass. Ten of Omaha’s wealthiest business owners, CFOs, CEOs, and COOs turned to him.

“Welcome everyone,” he said. “I’d like to veer a little off our usual course of business,” he said referring to their periodic meetings to discuss world conditions and political happenings.

Though varied in ages, they remained friends outside the group sharing similar core values: none of them liked attention, media or otherwise, and they knew how to get things done. They all respected integrity and dedication, and each cherished a solid work ethic. No dotcom Silicon Valley types here, no East or West Coast big money types. They were strictly Midwestern, proud of the “fly-over” designation derogatorily attached to their state on more than one occasion. They all loved the term
The Heartland
. The words encapsulated everything about the area they held dear. They’d built their empires on the principles embodied in the indomitable history of the plains and respected others who did the same. They called themselves The Bureau.

“What’s up?” Steve DeGoff, president and CEO of two multibillion-dollar military defense corporations, reached for the packet Ben handed him. “This is quite the place,” Steve said with an admiring glance around the room. “You acquire a new company?”

Ben glanced at the modern art decorating the walls that wasn’t quite his taste. “Nah. I had the place soundproofed, which meant a new paint job. It’s called surf and sand.”

“Surf and sand?” Steve asked. “Beige is beige. I don’t know where they come up with that stuff.”

Ben laughed and finished handing out his proposal. “You sound like you’re seventy—not fifty-one.”

“Sounds like somebody else I know,” Frieda Williams said and shot her husband, Bud, a knowing glance.

“What?” Bud asked. “I haven’t done anything yet.” The Williamses were pioneers of the insurance industry in Omaha. From their home city, they’d branched out not only nationally but internationally. Bud took early—very early—retirement at age fifty, and although they’d turned the day-to-day operations over to their children, they still kept their fingers in the pie and wielded considerable influence in the community and state politics.

Ben handed a spiral-bound report to Dan Roberts seated on his right. “I’m going to need your support every step of the way,” Ben whispered.

Dan, who started from a home office and built the largest architectural firm west of the Missouri River, nodded. “Let me know what you need.”

“What about the Platts?” Frieda asked. “Aren’t they coming today?”

The door opened and two women entered. Ben handed each the same portfolio he’d prepared. The two younger women hurried to take a seat. “Sorry we’re late,” Pamela Platt said.

“You know how parking is around here.” Bonnie Platt rolled her eyes. “There’s never enough.”

“Oh, please,” Pamela said. “She’s a lot like Dad—refuses to plug the meter and ends up driving around waiting for a free spot to open up.”

Bonnie stuck her tongue out at her sister who shook her head and laughed.

“You two certainly liven the place up,” Al Long said. “Tyler and I balance you out, I think.” He nodded at his brother, Tyler. Al and Tyler owned and operated the largest heavy machinery construction company in the region.

Tyler shrugged and gave a small smile.

“You always monopolize the conversation?” Pamela asked the quiet brother, earning her a bit wider smile.

“Ladies, shall we begin?” Ben asked.

“Sorry,” Bonnie said.

“If you’ll direct your attention to the most current homicide report I handed out,” Ben said, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

“Omaha made the list.” DeGoff tossed his copy of the Violence Policy Center’s article in front of him.

“Yes, it did unfortunately.” Ben nodded solemnly. “Proportionally more people of color died at someone else’s hand in Nebraska than anywhere in the country.”

“The report only points out those killed. If you add to it the number wounded,” Frieda said, “and the homes that were shot up, vehicles hit, I can’t imagine how high the number would be.”

Ben steepled his fingers in front of his lips in contemplation. “I’ve been talking to some friends in OPD command. The department is doing everything they can to rein it in, but they’re in a lousy position. When they respond, community leaders say they aren’t doing enough; if they send in a large response, they’re excoriated for excessive force and racism. Command is ready to throw up their hands and say, ‘Damned if we do; damned if we don’t.’”

Murmurs of assent waffled through the assemblage.

“Also,” Ben continued, “when cops are called to the scene of a shooting, they know gang members are mingling in the crowd, looking for people who cooperate.”

“The public is terrified,” Steve said.

“Who wouldn’t be?” Pamela asked. “You talk to the cops, your house gets shot up and somebody dies.”

“The collateral damage is getting out of hand,” Dan said. “No one can live like that.”

“No one should have to,” Pam said.

“And it’s the rookies that get assigned to those areas,” Ben said. “Have you seen some of them?” he asked. “They look like they’re seventeen.”

“Something wrong with being young?” Bonnie asked with a wink.

“No,” Ben said, “not at all. Just an observation.”

“So what’s this all got to do with us?” DeGoff asked.

“We’ve got a lot of experienced officers in some stage of retirement,” Ben said. “The young ones coming in think they know everything about police work, when the reality is that they watch too much TV.”

“Wait a minute,” Frieda said. “Why are we discussing this?” She speared Ben with a direct gaze. “Why is this our issue?” All of the members of The Bureau looked to Ben for an answer.

Ben paused until he was sure all eyes were on him. He was confident that what he was about to say would convince the others of the value of his plan.

Two years ago, I met up with a college roommate of mine, Captain Christopher Ross. We have a monthly lunch date. He was in a meeting, so I waited for him in the Criminal Investigations Bureau.

While I was waiting, the outer doors burst open drawing my attention while two uniformed officers burst through. Caught up in an intense conversation, they didn’t spare me a second glance. I could tell the younger man was a rookie still on probationary status. His demeanor gave him away, and I figured he couldn’t have been on the job too long. The second, more arrogant one had to be his FTO—field training officer—even though he too looked to be under thirty.

“A felony domestic violence incident,” the FTO was explaining to the rookie, “goes to CIB—the Criminal Investigations Bureau. Most of them on this shift are the freaking Ol’ Blues.”

“Ol’ Blues?” The rookie shook his head like he was confused, and I certainly was.

“Yeah,” his trainer said. “Guys so old they’re practically worthless. They can’t back us up on the streets cuz they can’t run worth beans. They carry the old .38 revolvers with six shots—a lot of good that’ll do in a firefight,” he told the rookie.

“Better than nothing,” the rookie had said.

“Not by much. They’re old school, can’t work our computers and always want us to do it for them. One has reading glasses hanging on his raid jacket next to his badge. Can’t read the freaking ID of suspects without ’em,” the trainer had said.

“Raid jacket?” the rookie asked.

“Oh yeah—you haven’t used those yet. When you work plainclothes, raid jackets are the black vests with
POLICE
written between the shoulders.”

So the trainer says, “Anyway, I saw an Ol’ Blue put his readers on to Mirandize a suspect. Looked like a grandpa trying to read a children’s book to a bunch of kids. Made us all look stupid.”

An office door opened, and an older, balding, senior officer entered the room similar to the old guy the FTO had just described. This Ol’ Blue walks up to the pair of uniforms and says, “All right. Wha’dya got, kid?” as he loudly slapped the FTO on the back.

The trainer shot the rookie a what-did-I-tell-you look, and the rookie smiled back.

“We had a domestic violence call—felony assault,” the FTO explained.

The Ol’ Blue picked up the report and glanced over it. “Well yes it’s a felony, son, or you wouldn’t be talking to the likes of me.” Before either uniform could say another word, the older detective winced. “The lady found out her husband was having an affair, flew off the handle, and stabbed her husband in the throat with a fork. Ouch.”

The rookie perked up and added, “And she hit him with his cell phone.” The trainer shot him a dark look that I thought meant don’t make this any longer than it has to be.

So the Ol’ Blue’s eyes narrowed. He asked, “What kind of fork?”

“What do you mean what kind of fork?” the trainer asked. “It was a freaking fork, all right?”

The Ol’ Blue ignored the remark and rubbed his nose. “Sterling silver or stainless steel?” he wanted to know.

I saw the trainer give a long sigh and a shrug. The rookie rifled through the report.

So then the trainer growls at the Ol’ Blue. “Look, she got pissed, she yelled at him, grabbed a fork, and jabbed it in his neck. Just your run-of-the-mill emotional, heat of passion reaction to their argument. She just snapped.”

Ben looked at his fellow members of The Bureau. All eyes were on him.

He paused. “Sterling silver,” the rookie crowed, glancing at the Ol’ Blue over the report. The discovery earned him another withering glance from his FTO.

“First of all,” the Ol’ Blue had said and turned toward the trainer as though he’d had enough, “this was no emotional reaction; she didn’t just snap. Today is Monday, and from my observation of the facts, this lady has suspected her man of seeing another woman for a while now. This weekend she decided to let him do whatever he wanted without question. This morning she decided to check his phone, and my guess is there was another woman’s number or text there—hence smacking him with it—women are like cops sometimes.” He winked at the rookie, “They always want evidence.”

“So she gave him the weekend, knowing what he was going to do, collected the evidence, and confronted him with it. Then,” he had said not waiting for either uniform to speak, “not satisfied that her stinging words and accusations had hurt him enough, she cracked him over the head with the phone. Then having prepared herself for this the entire weekend, she didn’t grab just any fork from the kitchen. Noo-noo! She grabbed the good stuff—the sterling silver from their wedding.
That
fork held special meaning, so that’s the one she stabbed him with. She didn’t go off the deep end; she planned this all weekend long!”

“That makes perfect sense,” the rookie had muttered.

I was astounded. The analysis was incredible, but without the years of service, dealing with people and understanding them, it couldn’t have happened.

Finally, the trainer wiped the
whatever
look off his face and his entire demeanor morphed into begrudging respect.

“Is the guy at the hospital having it removed?” the Ol’ Blue had asked.

Both uniforms nodded.

“If he dies from that wound, we’ll have a homicide investigation, won’t we?”

Again both officers nodded.

“And the choice of fork gives us premeditation.” The Ol’ Blue had looked directly at the rookie. “And that means the little lady goes to prison for a long time.” This time he looked at wonder boy the trainer and said, “It becomes murder one versus your measly voluntary manslaughter, heat of passion crap. My aggravating circumstance versus your mitigating one. You’d get her a lighter sentence, which is exactly what she wants. Probably how she planned it except she just couldn’t resist the hidden dig. So the type of fork plays an important role here.” The Ol’ Blue slowly turned so that his entire body faced the trainer and stared directly into his eyes. “Don’t you agree?”

The FTO gave the Ol’ Blue a reluctant nod.

So having drilled his point home, the Ol’ Blue slapped both officers on the shoulders. “Good job. The information in your reports really helped me get a clearer picture on this. Those initial reports can be really helpful if they’re done well.”

Still seated in the corner chair, I marveled at the scene I’d just witnessed.