Cops and Robbers

A Story by 01morepage

Part two of our eerie series. I hope you enjoy!

Hello, my friend, and welcome. I was afraid you couldn’t stay away. Your curiosity got the best of you, didn’t it? Don’t worry, I’m not here to judge. I’m only here to guide the tour. If you’re ready, then, we'll be off. Where? Yes. I do apologize. In my excitement I nearly neglected the where and the why. If you would, I’d like you to accompany me to the Big Apple. There’s something happening there that may intrigue you as much as it does me.

The last time we spoke it was about pretending. Have you done any since? Tell me, did you play cops and robbers as a child? Did you always want to be the cop when you played? So did Frank. In a way, he never stopped. It turned into a twenty one year career for him and he currently owns the title of Officer Frank Oakley NYPD. Think Frank is living his dream? Let’s check in on him and see. Shall we? Do you remember how to fly?

Good old Manhattan. Frank has found himself sitting at a bar many times in his life. Those were different times, a different Frank, and different bars. This one is at a diner and coffee is the only thing in his cup these days. In fact, he hasn’t had a drink in two years. It was the job that drove him to drinking and it was the combination of the two that drove his wife and daughter away. Things are finally looking up for him. He’s retiring in a month, he’s sober and he has a date tonight.

Finishing his coffee and folding the newspaper, Frank stands to leave. “Off to it then, are ya, Frank?” For some reason, its nearly always a different waitress. She's a pretty little blonde in a stained apron and she smiled at him genuinely. Jessica something or other according to her nametag. Soft spoken with a pleasant southern accent that she couldn't help. She must be new in the city. “Yes ma'am, someone's gotta do it.” “Have a good night Frank, you stay safe out there.” That smile again. “You too, honey, straight home after your shift.” He tipped her a five, then tipped his hat and walked out into the night. Let’s see what he’s up to.

He barely got the seat warm in his car before the call came in. Indecipherable babble came over the radio. His very long career had him accustomed to it as if it were his native tongue. There had been a 911 call about a suspicious vehicle in an alley just a few streets from where he was. He radioed back in the same broken language of codes and numbers that indicated he was in the area and in route to the scene. No need to try and keep up, I know where he’s headed.

More than half a pack of cigarette butts were piled outside the drivers door of a black Chevy cargo van. One is still smoldering. The call came in only minutes ago saying that there was some suspicious activity taking place in an alley off of 101st street. The anonymous caller had hung up immediately. He parked roughly ten feet from the vehicle and lit it up with his spotlight.

Through the drizzle accumulating on the windshield he saw that there were no plates to run. After a long sigh and a few more strokes of the wiper blades he exited his cruiser and made his cautious approach. Donning his hat and placing his hand on his gun, he walked slowly toward the back doors. It was idling in park with the lights off. “Driver! Show me your hands,” he shouted from the back drivers quarter panel. There was no response. He drew his service pistol and proceeded around to the passenger side rear and peeked his head around.

“F*****g thirty minutes to go,” he muttered to himself. Standing in the plume of warm exhaust and clutching his pistol, he thought that he might miss this job. His title, the prestige and excitement. Then he commended himself on his superb sarcasm. He swung around and began walking in a defensive crouch down the length of the full size van.

He got close enough to the passenger door to see into the side mirror and there was, in fact, a person seated behind the wheel. “Driver! Show me your hands!” There was still no response. He swung himself out parallel to the passenger door while simultaneously raising his pistol.

The man behind the wheel had succumbed to a single gunshot wound to the head. Judging by the exit wound he was staring into, it appeared that he was approached from the driver side and shot through his left temple. It’s gruesome scenes such as this that chiseled away at him early in his career. Frank has truly seen it all and has taken a shot or two at most of it.

Officer Oakley looked around, checking his surroundings, getting a visual on the fire escapes, the roof line, the dumpsters. All clear to the right, can't really see past his cruisers headlights to the left. “Why did I leave the damn car running?” He walked around the front of the van to the driver door. Having quickly assessed the situation, determining he was alone and that whatever happened here was said and done before he arrived on the scene, he holstered his pistol and reached up to his radio, holstered at his shoulder, to report. “This is officer Frank Oak�".” The bullet tearing through his skull and brain tissue, smashing it’s way out of his forehead, cut him off mid sentence.

As we watch Frank's last thought trail it’s way down the driver’s side of the cargo van and drip off of the chrome side mirror, I’d like to mention that this is something I’ve seen happen for eight nights in a row. The man that shot him walks away rather calmly while whistling something in the tune of You Are My Sunshine. Call after him if you’d like. He won’t hear. Say, do you remember that date that Frank was supposed to go on tonight? If you have the time, we should check in on her. Yes, I concur. I’d hoped you’d want to. Off we go then, not far from here…