Authors: Diane Kelly
Two screams sounded in stereo. “Aaaah!”
The first scream came from an elderly man who was having trouble opening the door from his electric scooter. The second came from me as I tripped over the scooter and rolled in an inadvertent somersault over the tile floor of the foyer, through the open inner door, and into the main room of the bank, praying all the while that my gun would not accidentally discharge, especially since the barrel was now shoved up under my left boob.
When I stopped rolling, I sat where I'd landed on my ass, pulled my gun up to sight, and scanned the room over it. Everyone I could see had bewildered expressions on their faces and their hands in the air. None wore pantyhose over their heads or held a weapon.
“Where are the robbers?” I hollered as Brigit trotted up next to me.
“They left,” said the old man, backing up with a
beep-beep-beep
and pulling his scooter up next to me with a
zzzzzip.
“They ran out the door right after they caught a teller on her phone with 9-1-1. They slapped the phone out of her hand and took off.”
He pointed across the space. I followed his gnarled finger to a young, fair-haired teller who'd gone hysterical, shrieking and crying despite her coworkers' best attempts to quiet her down.
I looked back to the man. “Did you see which way they went?”
“Sure did.” This time he pointed out the door and to the right. “They ran off that way.”
“How many were there?”
“Three.”
“Were all of them armed?”
“I'm not sure. One of the men stood outside the front doors so I didn't get a good look at him. The man who waited inside the doors had a rifle. The one who gave the note to the teller never pulled out a weapon as far as I could tell. He had his hand in his pocket, though, and there was something in the shape of a pistol in it.”
I pulled myself off the floor and addressed the startled crowd. “Everyone stay put for now. We'll need to get your statements.”
Giving Brigit the command to follow me once more, I headed back outside and told Spalding what was going on. “I'm going to see if my partner can track the robbers.”
Spalding nodded. As he walked toward the building, I instructed Brigit to follow the robbers' trail. She put her nose to the ground and began to sniff and snuffle her way across the lot in the direction the man had pointed. While Brigit was not trained to track a particular person, she was trained to detect where an area had been recently disturbed and to follow that path to the culprits.
Snuffle-snuffle. Snuffle-snuffle.
While she advanced across the lot and onto the sidewalk with her head down, I trailed along directly behind her, acting as her eyes, watching for cars or people who might get in her way or pose a risk. I ordered her to halt at a corner, raised my hand to stop an approaching minivan, then gave my partner the signal to continue tracking.
A block down, the large group of people I'd noticed on my drive to the bank milled about at the bus stop. One of them, a short, skinny thirtyish man, wore a city of Fort Worth bus driver uniform. When he spotted me and Brigit approaching, he waved to get our attention and hollered, “Three men with a rifle just done hijacked my bus!”
Gone with the Wind
Brigit
When the trail on the ground ran cold, Brigit stopped and raised her snout in the air.
Sniff-sniff.
She'd been following three male scents, each with a distinctive aroma. One smelled like some type of adhesive. The second smelled of mentholated shaving cream. The third reeked of gasoline and bananas and marijuana. All of the scents dissipated at this spot. Either the men had climbed into a vehicle or Scotty had beamed them up to the starship
Enterprise
. Regardless, there was nothing more the dog could do.
She plopped her butt down on the ground and stared straight ahead, giving her passive alert as she'd been trained to do. She also curled her tail tightly against her body. With all these people milling about willy-nilly, there was a good chance one of them might step on her tail if she wasn't careful. Brigit knew from experience that people often didn't look where they were walking. If they didn't step on a dog's tail, they stepped in its poop. Really, humans could be so stupid sometimes. You wouldn't catch a dog doing something so dumb. But, then again, the species
Canis familiaris
was superior in so many ways to mere
Homo sapiens
. The poor things sported only patchy hair, requiring them to augment with clothing. Their teeth were incapable of ripping through thick meat, requiring them to use forks and knives. Their vision and hearing were vastly subpar, too. Brigit pitied the lowly creatures.
Her partner Megan reached down and gave her a scratch on that sweet spot on the back of her neck. “Good girl.”
Brigit risked a quick tail thump of appreciation and took the liver treat Megan held clenched between her index finger and thumb.
My kingdom for an opposable thumb.
It was the only thing about humans the dog envied.
Like Candy from a Baby
The Switchman
Hot damn
, this feels good!
All his life he'd done the right things. He'd told the truth. Worked hard. Ate his vegetablesâeven those disgusting, squishy, boiled Brussel sprouts his mother had foisted on him.
And where had being a good person gotten him?
Nowhere.
But he'd changed all that today. In just a matter of minutes he'd gone from
nowhere
to
on his way
. Hell, he'd never even held a gun before today. What a rush! He'd felt powerful. In control. But most of all, he felt
vindicated
.
Smokestack might have cajoled him into the bank heist, but he'd been right. Only a wimp would accept being tossed out on his ass without fighting back.
Nice guys finish last.
No more Mr. Nice Guy.
The Switchman sat back in his seat on the front row of the bus and slapped his knee. “Who knew robbing a bank and hijacking a bus would be so easy?”
Smokestack, who sat directly across the aisle, sniggered. “Told ya.”
Smokestack had also claimed that ninety percent of crimes went unsolved. The Switchman figured his partner had pulled that number either out of the air or out of his ass. He hadn't called the guy on it, though. It didn't matter what the odds were of getting caught. Once he'd decided to go through with this plan of retribution, there was no way he'd turn back. He'd laid out a whole new course for himself and he couldn't wait to see where it would take him.
The Buck Might Stop Here but the Bus Doesn't
Megan
The bus driver squinted, as if doing so would somehow help him better see the mental vision of the bus-jackers in his mind. “All three wore sunglasses and hats with ear flaps. The taller white guy wore a plaid flannel one with button-down flaps. The black man wore a tan one with fleece on the edges. The shorter white guy wore a knit one with those yarn braids hanging down the sides. His hat was green with big eyes on top.”
“Una rana,”
clarified a Latina woman who stood at the front of the crowd that had gathered around me.
“A frog?” I'd learned some basic Spanish, and obtained my Spanish surname, from my father. From my red-haired Irish American mother, I'd inherited a tendency to freckle and that quick temper I mentioned.
“SÃ,”
the woman replied.
I jotted some notes on my pad and looked up again. “What about the rest of their clothes?”
The people exchanged uncertain glances.
“Loose windbreakers, I think,” said the bus driver.
“No,” insisted a blonde woman with a chubby-cheeked toddler on her hip. “They were wearing oversize sweatshirts.”
“No no no.” A gray-haired man raised a palm. “I'm sure they were in sports jerseys.”
“Which teams?”
The man who'd been so sure only a second ago now seemed uncertain, offering only a shrug in response.
I sighed inwardly. “Can we at least agree on a color?”
No consensus there, either. The responses ranged from dark green to navy blue to black. It wasn't surprising that the witnesses had different takes. Eyewitness testimony tended to be unreliable. Memories malfunctioned under surprising or stressful situations. People tended to be more concerned about saving their own lives than making mental notes of the criminals' fashion choices.
The only thing the crowd agreed on was which direction the bus had gone.
“That way,” they said in unison, pointing off to the east.
“What was the bus number?” I asked the driver.
“Five ninety-three.”
“Do the buses have LoJack?” I asked. “Or some other kind of tracking device?”
“Not that I'm aware of,” the man said. “I mean, who'd steal a city bus?”
Who, indeed?
A bus wasn't exactly the typical getaway vehicle. Robbers usually tried to make a quick and subtle exit. Riding off in a large, lumbering vehicle was a bold move. And the bolder a criminal was, the more likely it was that things would not end well.
“You said the men had a rifle,” I noted. “Which one of them was carrying it?”
“The black man in the tan hat.”
I saw no harm in giving the man some details. “The men who took your bus robbed a bank down the street first.”
His jaw fell slack. “Holy cow!”
I squeezed the button on my shoulder mic to speak with dispatch. “Be on the lookout for city bus number five nine three. It was hijacked at the corner of Rosedale and South Henderson by the men who robbed the bank. Suspects are armed. Repeatâsuspects are armed.”
The dispatcher responded. “We'll get a chopper in the air.”
I collected contact information from the people who'd been riding the bus, thanked them for their time, and turned to the bus driver. “The detective who gets assigned to the case will want to speak with you. What's your cell number?”
“I could give it to you,” he said, “but it wouldn't do any good. I left my phone on the bus. One of the riders had to lend me her cell to call in the hijacking.”
A squad car pulled up to the curb. Officer Hinojosa sat at the wheel. He unrolled his window and cocked his head in question. “Heard someone stole a city bus?”
“Crazy, huh?”
“Must be spring fever. You need some help here?”
“Thanks,” I told him, “but I've got it.”
“All righty, then. Later.” He lifted his fingers off the steering wheel in a casual good-bye gesture, cast a glance over his shoulder, and pulled back into traffic.
I gestured for the bus driver to follow me. “Come with me to the bank. A detective should be there shortly, and I'll see that you get a ride back to the city bus depot.”
After I clipped Brigit's leash onto her collar, she stood and followed me and the bus driver back to the bank, her nails
click-click-clicking
along the pavement.
When we arrived at the bank, I found several other officers, including Mackey, working crowd control, keeping customers and looky-loos at bay until the detectives and crime scene techs could arrive and do their jobs.
“Fire cool off already?” I asked as we walked past Mackey. “What did you do, ask it on a date?” Okay, so it was a dig, and a lame one at that. But the guy never missed an opportunity to point out my shortcomings or give me crap. I was only returning the favor.
“You missed out,” he snapped, treating me to another smirk. “Turns out the fire was intentionally set.”
Arson, huh? Interesting, sure, though arson crimes fell under the jurisdiction of the fire department. They had their own team of investigators who were specially trained in fire science and could identify accelerants.
Detective Audrey Jackson pulled into the lot in her unmarked white cruiser, took the first available spot outside the perimeter of yellow tape, and climbed out of her car. Jackson was an African American woman in her forties, with short perky braids adorning a sharp, perceptive mind. She was dressed in her usual khaki pants, which she'd paired today with a white blouse and a basic navy blazer. Before closing the door, she reached into her car and retrieved her zippered laptop bag that doubled as a briefcase.
I led both Brigit and the bus driver over to her. “Detective Jackson.” I gave her a polite nod and held out a hand to indicate the man next to me. “This is the driver of the city bus the bank robbers hijacked for their getaway vehicle. I thought you might want to speak with him first.” After all, if Fort Worth PD could track down the bus soon, they might find the bank robbers still on board, and the case could be closed quickly and easily. “He says the buses don't have tracking devices, but he left his cell on board. C-Could his phone be traced?”
“Good thinking, Megan.” After setting her computer bag between her feet, Detective Jackson whipped out a notepad, jotted down the bus driver's name and cell number, and pulled out her own cell to call Melinda, her administrative assistant who also served as the office manager and receptionist for the Fort Worth Police Department W1 Division. “Get a triangulation on the cell phone ASAP,” she told Melinda. “Call me once you know something.” Jackson ended the call, slid her phone back into her pocket, and returned her focus to the bus driver, beginning with an open-ended question. “What happened?”
“I pulled up to the stop at Rosedale and South Henderson,” he said. “There were a couple of people waiting. They climbed aboard and I was just about to shut the doors when I heard someone yelling for me to wait. I looked in the side mirror and saw three men running toward the bus. I thought they wanted to get on so I left the door open and waited for 'em. When they climbed aboard, one of them raised a rifle in the air and told everyone to get off the bus.”