The Archangel Drones (19 page)

Using the childhood deception of pushing his food from side to side on his plate, complete with the charade of an empty fork occasionally traveling to his mouth, Kirkpatrick used the time to digest the words he’d just heard.

Here was Big Jim Marwick, field supervisor, veteran officer… well known for several high-profile felony arrests. He was a cop’s cop, aggressive, unafraid, and always supporting the men and women of the department. When Kirkpatrick had first begun patrolling, Marwick was one of the names flaunted in front of the rookies. “You need to watch men like Big Jim – they know how to establish command of a situation.”

Some role model
, the young cop thought.
More like a megalomaniac. God, do I regret playing a role in that kid’s arrest.

But the sergeant wasn’t finished.

With his dark, menacing eyes boring into Kirkpatrick, Marwick managed to degrade an already uncomfortable situation. “You guys want to know the real irony of that arrest? I wasn’t in on what happened to the kid’s leg. Somebody muscled up that little shit’s ankle without my consent. You’ll never hear me saying that in court, or in front of the press, but I had nothing to do with it. They say it’s lonely at the top, and I’ll take my lumps like any good leader, but my life sure would be a hell of a lot easier if some of our guys could keep their shit under control.”

Kirkpatrick was stunned.

Without thinking, the young officer’s spine stiffened, his body coming upright at the accusation that had just been aired. Big Jim was spouting bullshit, trying to cover his own ass at the expense of others. A rebuttal formed in Dole’s throat, all courtesy and respect for the ranking officer pushed aside. But he held it, some instinct telling him that the restaurant surrounded by a table full of cops wasn’t the time or place.

Stewing quietly while he toyed with his food, it occurred to Dole that his repulsion went further than just the smug cop’s attitude, or weak attempt to shift the blame. Marwick had lied.

The brotherhood of the badge didn’t begrudge any officer for spinning the truth in front of the press, a lawyer, or even a judge and jury. After only a few months on the job, that word “truth” began to take on a new reality, somehow becoming distorted with right versus wrong, and “the way things really are.”

But not to other cops. That wasn’t done. The unspoken code of honor was absolute honesty with partners, supervisors, and other members of the department. You either spoke the truth, or didn’t speak.

Kirkpatrick’s mood remained foul as the meal continued, the cocktail of emotions filling his mouth with a bitter taste, completely overriding the flavors from his plate. Above all else, he felt betrayal. Jimmy Marwick was a traitor, violating the code by lying to his fellow officers. The duplicity was sickening.

Peelian Principle

Police use physical force to the extent necessary to secure observance of the law or to restore order only when the exercise of persuasion, advice and warning is found to be insufficient.

The bile rose in Gabe’s throat, a reaction born of both fear and of spying the man he loathed more than any other on earth.

During the few months that followed laying his son to rest, he’d become consumed with making Jacob’s death count for some higher cause. And it had been frustrating. He studied police techniques, examined officer complaint statistics, and read every article and book relating to the subject he could get his hands on. He was a man on a mission, fueled by a seemingly empty home, growing divide with his spouse, and an unending carousel of mental images from Jacob’s abruptly shortened life.

In the course of his research, he’d run across several references to a British politician named Sir Robert Peel.

Credited with having developed the foundation for all modern police forces back in the early 1800s, Peel had created what was now known as “The Peelian Principles,” a simple list of nine items that were still held in high esteem today, hundreds of years after being penned.

The long-deceased man’s work resonated with Gabe. Its timeless wisdom offered a guiding light as the desolate father struggled to define his own boundaries of what law enforcement should be and how the people should be policed.

The principles were simple, straightforward statements that reassured the grieving man that his outrage was warranted, his position reasonable and sane. In Jacob’s case, the cops had violated practically every one of Peel’s highly regarded guidelines.

Principle number one indicated, “The mission of police should be to prevent crime rather than suppress and punish crime,” yet Jacob had been punished.

The next two rules specified that law enforcement required the support and cooperation of law-abiding citizens in order to accomplish this mission. Reiterating and expanding on the earlier tenets, Peel continued, “The more police are able to secure this cooperation, the less force and coercion will be needed.”

By Gabe’s way of thinking, the cops had done just the opposite. He no longer supported them, nor did Chip and Amanda. After eroding a strong base of public backing, apparently violence was the officers’ only remaining pillar of authority. Jacob had found that out the hard way.

But it was the seventh principle that struck at the core of what needled Gabe the most. It included the words, “… the police are the public, and the public are the police….”

“How have we gotten away from this?” he asked aloud. “Any one of those cops would feel exactly the same way that I do if it had been their son being abused. Why can’t they see that? Why can’t they see we’re all the same public? How can they perpetrate an ‘us’ versus ‘them’ attitude?”

Sir Peel had authored his principles at a time when the military was the primary enforcer of London’s laws. The British Army acted like any other military unit of the era, policing the public as an occupational force, treating the citizens more like a battlefield enemy than fellow countrymen.

Upheaval and revolution were realistic possibilities in those days, and Peel’s contemporaries knew it. The French Revolution had occurred not so long before, the ramifications of that uprising not lost on the British rulers.

Peel’s epiphany was that every civilian instinctively desired rule of law, but concerned citizens didn’t have the time or training to enforce rules and regulations. The police, in his view, were nothing more than common people who were paid a salary so they could be dedicated to the task. They weren’t special, above the law, or granted excessive authority. Just plain, old, ordinary folks who maintained order for their livelihood, instead of running an inn or spending the day hammering on horseshoes.

Peel understood that force begat force, that resorting to violence was eventually answered with the same.

And it was violence that began to govern Gabe’s thoughts. He joined a gym, visited a gun store, and had visions of leading an uprising against tyranny. But his internal voice of reason peppered him daily with logic, and reality soon overrode the violent rationale as a workable plan. After resolving his mental volley, he found himself exasperated and irritated with an undeniable revelation. The general public, with the exception of certain minority groups, didn’t perceive the scale of the problem. Other than the occasional headline-making incident, he didn’t sense a boiling rage just below the surface of the totality of America. Society was not uniting against what Gabe perceived as a common foe. There simply wasn’t any revolutionary fire to ignite.

Those realizations served to deepen his anger and resolve, believing himself the lone, enlightened wolf on a campaign against injustice. It was new territory for a man with his background and views. He was a middle-aged engineer, never exceptional in physical pursuits, and far from fighting fit. His options were few, but more than zero.

He’d been stalking Officer Marwick for almost 10 days, listening to the now-familiar voice on the police scanner, waiting for just the right opportunity. It had finally come.

A domestic disturbance, shots fired, would surely bring the shift supervisor. It did.

The location was perfect, less than three miles from Gabe’s home, the light fading into a clear dusk. Sandy was napping, the Remington 700 rifle and expensive scope sitting clean and ready in the closet. He’d practiced and drilled for weeks, finally able to strike a man-sized target at over 700 yards with a cold barrel.

A few quick buttons on his computer keyboard pulled up the satellite view of the crime scene’s address. His printer was spitting out the remarkably detailed overhead image a few moments later.

Three more minutes passed before the rifle case and accessories were in the car, covered on the back floorboard with a blanket. He switched off his cell phone, removing the battery as an extra precaution. “I’m going to the market,” his note to Sandy explained.

He’d had to orbit the apartment complex three times to identify a suitable spot. A drainage bayou ran alongside the main cluster of buildings, its parking lot packed with squad cars. A nature preserve, the dead end road of a never-finished development, and a backdrop of thick pine trees contributed to the perfect setting to implement his plot.

He exited the car, lugging out the large surveyor’s case and tri-pod. The broken-down rifle laid discreetly inside what seemed to be an oversized briefcase. On the slim chance anyone happened to be watching, he didn’t appear to be toting a weapon, but instead looked like some poor fellow trying to get his job done before capitulating to the Houston heat.

It was a 50-yard trek through the woods, his heart pounding harder with every step. Finally, at a great distance, he could identify the ant-like, cobalt blue uniforms scattered around the toy-sized police cars. He unfolded the tri-pod on the protected side of a thick bush and opened the case.

The bolt-action hunting rifle had been a bargain by all internet accounts. The middle-aged man walking around the gun show had fallen on hard times and was reluctantly selling his “baby.”

“She’s taken game in four states,” the seller boasted. “I hate to see her go, but keeping the electricity on is more important than my annual hunting excursions.”

Gabe had counted out a wad of hundred dollar bills and exited the convention center without anyone knowing his name.

Chambered in .308 Winchester, the rifle was a magnificent tool. Gabe had begun practice at 100 yards, not having fired a gun since hunting with an uncle as a teen. Within three days, he was striking targets at the 300 line. Another month and dozens of trips to a friend’s farm later, he could ping a cast iron frying pan at 700 yards with practically every shot.

After glancing around to make sure no one was in the area, Gabe began pulling out the disassembled weapon. Although he’d practiced a hundred times, his shaking hands made snapping the components together difficult. “Taking another human life isn’t a natural act,” he whispered. “Settle down, old boy… you’ll be fine.”

And then the rifle was on the tri-pod, his fingers adjusting the scope. Officer Marwick appeared in the reticle less than a minute later.

Another mouthful of stomach acid came welling up as Gabe studied the overweight man. A walrus-like mustache, coal black hair, and a broad-shouldered girth left no doubt he had identified the desired target. Staring at the cop’s pictures for countless hours no doubt had packed the father’s heart with abhorrence, but it also insured accurate target acquisition of the scum.

The wind was calm, humidity average. Gabe adjusted the distance focus on the optic, bringing the man he loathed into a crisp, detailed view. “Only 590 yards,” he whispered. “Cake.”

Next, he attached the homemade noise cancelation device, the illegal tube of welded metal screwing onto the end of the rifle’s barrel. He’d studied commercial designs on the internet and built his own model in the garage workshop.

Gabe pulled out a small notebook, scanning information about taking shots from this same distance. The table of numbers was written in his own hand, gleaned from his own Intel. The days at the ranch had provided his DOPE, or data on previous engagements. He knew exactly how much his bullet would drop.

The sub-sonic ammunition was specially made for hog hunters. It wouldn’t provide a telltale crack as the bullet broke the sound barrier. He only needed a few minutes to escape, and his setup would make it extremely difficult for anyone to determine from whence the assassin’s shot had come.

Marwick was still there, bent over the hood of his police cruiser, scribbling notes on some sort of form. Gabe clicked the scope’s elevation knob, adjusting for the exact range and loft that would be required by his rapidly dropping projectile.

The image of the officer was perfectly centered in his field of view, the now-adjusted crosshairs residing directly on top of the man’s head. Gabe waited patiently, giving some of the other policemen in the area a chance to clear out, hoping to catch his target alone.

The ideal situation finally presented itself, Marwick signaling one of his subordinates with a hand gesture, the other cop scurrying off to heed the command. “You’re all alone,” Gabe whispered, his finger moving to the trigger.

The metal felt icy against his digit, sending a slight shiver through Gabe’s frame. He re-centered, and sent the command to squeeze. Gently, gradually, squeeze so that the shot would be a surprise.

But his finger wouldn’t cooperate, his muscles seemingly too weak to manage the pull.

Gabe cursed himself, wiping the beads of sweat from his brow, forcing his breathing to slow down. “Kill the bastard!” he hissed. “Put that animal down. He tortured and murdered your son.”

Again, his cheek welded against the rifle’s stock, Marwick’s despised image coming into focus, now leaning against the fender. “Kill him!” Gabe’s mind screamed. “Think of Jacob.”

But he couldn’t… wouldn’t pull the trigger.

Self-directed anger competed with embarrassment as he disassembled his weapon, Gabe calling himself every derogatory name he could muster on the walk back to his car. “You’re a pussy… wimp… coward… gutless wrench,” he continued, throwing the case in the backseat.

By the time he pulled back into his driveway, his mental state had deteriorated to the point where he was considering using the weapon on himself. “You can’t even defend your own family,” he chided. “You’re not a real man. What use are you? You deserve to die.”

Mulling over the decision to take his own life, Gabe decided to leave a note for Sandy, but there wasn’t any pen or paper in the car, and he was afraid to enter the house, worried his wife would
know
.

It then occurred to him to make a recording of his last words. He found the cellphone, reinserted the battery, and rebooted the device.

He was searching for the recording app when the device rang, its unexpected, blaring tone causing his already stressed frame to nearly bounce off the seat. After recovering from the start, he glared down to see Adam’s caller ID. “More bad karma, no doubt,” he thought. “Might as well say goodbye to him as well.”

“Good news!” Adam’s cheery voice sounded across the airwaves. “The grand jury has concluded Marwick should stand trial on criminal charges. The DA doesn’t have much option now… she has to bring him in front of a judge and jury.”

After ending the call a short time later, the gravity of what he had almost done hit him. The weight was incredible, the sedan’s glass and metal closing in on all sides. He threw open the door and rushed for the backyard where he wretched uncontrollably before collapsing on the manicured lawn, laying there until he regained his composure.