Just a Matter of Luck

Just a Matter of Luck


Police Detective Jack Larson was one of the four 3rd Precinct detectives working the last 52 straight hours, trying to find any information about the killing of fellow officer Gary Krendall.  So far all they had was the convenience store videos, four fibers and the recovered 38 slugs, one from Krendall’s neck and the other from the left shoulder of the convenience store clerk.  The clerk would live.  Krendall died within minutes.

Two days before, at 6:02 pm, Officer Krendall was dispatched to Four Corners Market where a possible armed robbery was in progress.  By the time backup arrived, thirty seconds later, Krendall lay dying by his cruiser.  The killer was nowhere to be found.  It was assumed he had fled on foot.

Three shots were heard in the surveillance tapes.  Krendall’s weapon had not been discharged.  Two slugs had been recovered.  One had not been found.

The perp’s face wasn’t clearly visible in the videos.  Krendall’s killer was a white male, five foot eight to six feet, 140 to 175 pounds and apparently left-handed.  Not much to go on; the description could fit a quarter of the male population.  The fibers were secured from the doorjamb after the perp was seen bouncing off it in one of the store’s videos.  The fibers were of no use unless they had something to match them to.  Forensics said the slugs came from the same 38 Special.  There were a lot of 38’s in the city.  Finding the right one was only one of the problems.  52 hours of beating on doors and interviewing hundreds of people had not turned up a clue as to the identity of the killer.  Uniformed officers were leaning on known gang members and the dealers who plied their trade day and night in a six-block radius of the killing.  Nothing.  After 52 hours everyone was in the foulest of moods, the mayor, the chief of police, the captain, all of the 3rd Precinct actually, but no one was in a fouler mood than Detective Larson.

*

Lenny’s luck was always bad.  At 25 years of age he had bounced around the city, occasionally working at, most times, menial jobs here and there.  Lenny didn’t need much, just a little money to buy some pot every once in a while.  No neckties or business suits for Lenny, no learning a trade, no conforming for Lenny.  That was for suckers.  Lenny knew the real value of life.  Hanging out with his buddies, being cool, was what Lenny was about.  He just couldn’t get past the bad luck that followed him.

His last bout of bad luck was just three days ago.  He had been tending bar at the Wild Rooster, a notorious gay bar.  Lenny wasn’t even remotely gay, but by playing up to those queers he managed to finagle some pretty good tips.  After 3 weeks he was fired for boosting a case of Coors.  It wasn’t like the other bartenders weren’t doing the same thing.  Just his luck, he was the one that got caught.  Lenny’s luck was always bad.

Lenny was a sharp guy.  He knew how to take advantage in those situations where someone carelessly left something of value unattended.  He made a few bucks, knowing the right individuals where he could get rid of this thing or that.  It was simply his bad luck that, for reasons beyond his control, he had wound up standing before a judge on six or eight occasions.  It was just his unfortunate luck that put him in lockup on four occasions.  It was actually his good luck that the jails were so overcrowded that he would spend only a few days confined before he was released to the streets once again.  Lenny never looked at it this way.  He was tired of being hassled by the cops every time someone decided to break one of their laws.  Just the day before yesterday a couple of the “city’s finest” had pushed him around.  “No, he hadn’t read the newspapers.  No, he hadn’t seen the news on TV.  No, he didn’t know nothin’ about a police officer being shot.”  It wasn’t none of his business that some dumb-ass cop got himself killed.  He decided it was time to move on, find another city where he could put his skills to work.  He just wanted what he was entitled to.  He needed only a little money to get to some place where he wasn’t so well known.

*

The four detectives were called to the 3rd Precinct Captain’s office.  It was 10:00 pm.  The Captain said, “You’re off duty as of now.  I don’t want to see any of your sorry faces back here for at least 12 hours.  I’ve got a couple of the 5th’s guys here and up to speed.  They’ll fill in till you’re back.”

Detective Larson started to protest.  The captain raised his hand, “Before you start, that wasn’t a request.”

Larson thought about it; the captain was right.  After two days of caffeine, and some maybe not so acceptable stimulants, he was running on empty.  That was probably a good idea.  Just go to his apartment, get good and drunk then sleep for 12 hours.  Maybe when he got back he could think of something he had missed.

*

While the robbery and subsequent murder of Officer Krendall was taking place, Lenny was two blocks away, prowling the isles at Super Video.  During a 15-minute shopping spree he lifted a half dozen first run videos, then headed for the restroom.  He had done this numerous times before.  This time he wore his Reds baseball cap and, as always, avoided looking directly into a camera.  Stuffed in his pants pocket was a Cubs cap, just in case he might need to change his appearance a little.  In the restroom he intended to remove the DVDs from the packaging, hide them in the waste can, return the empty packages to their original location, then leave.  He knew store security would be following his every move from the time he entered until he left.  Twice he had been stopped and searched when leaving.  Of course he was outraged at being accused of shoplifting and, when nothing was found, the embarrassed security people would apologize.  In an hour or two he would return, retrieve his property and leave, unimpeded.

On the street Lenny knew he would quickly find one of those upstanding citizens willing to listen to whatever sad story he chose to tell.  They would be more than willing to pay him a third of what his merchandise was worth, of course fully aware, but not admitting, that they were buying stolen goods.  It wouldn’t be much, but he could at least buy a couple joints.

Everything was going normally, until he entered the restroom.  Lenny stepped into one of the stalls to remove the disks from their packaging.  There, hanging on a hook, was a lime green sweatshirt, one of those pullovers with a hood.  If someone was stupid enough to leave it then they deserved to lose it.  Something heavy was dragging at the sweatshirt’s single front pocket.  There were two somethings, as it turned out, a pair of sunglasses and…a gun, a revolver.  Maybe his luck was changing.  Suddenly his plan changed.  He knew a guy that would pay for that gun, maybe a hundred bucks.  Lenny put on the sweatshirt and stuffed the gun in the waistband of his trousers.  He then did something completely contrary to his nature.  He returned the unopened videos to their proper places.  Who needed the hassle of trying to sell them when he could make an easy $100 without having to make up a story?  “Decided I didn’t want them after all,” he said to the man who was obviously a little too interested in what Lenny was doing.  Store security, Lenny could spot ‘em a mile away.  “Dumb-ass,” he thought.  “Let ‘em watch all they want, ain’t gonna get nothin’ on me today.”

Lenny went to his cousin Bobby’s grimy little apartment.  Lenny usually slept at Bobby’s when he didn’t have the cash to rent a room, which was most of the time.  He hadn’t seen Bobby for almost a week.  He hoped he’d show up soon, before Lenny found himself thrown out into the street.

Lenny pulled out the gun.  He looked it over and after a few minutes figured out how to remove the bullets.  Of the six in the revolver, three had been fired.  He reloaded the gun.  Lenny looked into the spider web cracked mirror hanging on the wall, raised the handgun and pointed it at his reflection.  “This is a stickup.  Give me all your money or I’ll pop a cap in your ass.”  Lenny grinned.  “This is a holdup.  Put the money in a bag and hand it over.”  That didn’t have much style either.  No, the gun could do most of the talking.  “Empty the register.”  Yeah, that was better.

Lenny pulled the hood over his head and put on the sunglasses.  He studied his reflection.  He wondered why he had never worn a hoodie before.  He looked good in it.  He kind of had that unibomber look.  “Cool.”  There were a couple tiny little stains on the left sleeve, maybe chocolate.  They might come out if he ever washed it.  You couldn’t really see them unless you looked really close.

He figured the gun would bring maybe a $100, if he found the right guy.  He liked that reflection in the mirror though.  Lenny had never before contemplated such a thing as bold as armed robbery, but he now thought about all the money he could make in just a few minutes.  All he had to do was pick the right place and the right time.  Liquor stores ought to have plenty of money.  Why else would they get robbed so often?  Smart robbers always got away clean.  He certainly wouldn’t shoot anyone.  Smart robbers never had to shoot anybody.  Pointing a gun at people would scare them enough to just hand over the money.  Lenny was a sharp guy.  Sure he could pull it off.  Lenny in that moment made the decision.  No more nickel and dime stuff for Lenny; from now on he was going big time, not today, but soon, real soon.  Lenny again pointed the 38 at his reflection.  “Yeah, real soon.”

*

Detective Larson pulled into the liquor store parking lot at 10:30 pm.  His feet were sore.  His back hurt.  Mentally, he was spent.  A few drinks and a soft bed could do a world of good.  He got out of his car and approached the store’s entrance.

Twenty-five years on the force had honed Detective Larson’s observational skills to a razor’s edge.  He prided himself on his ability to know what was going on around him at all times.  Before entering, as was his way, he scanned the interior of the liquor store for as much information as he could see through the mostly glass exterior.  Facing the entrance from outside, the counter was on the left and almost totally hidden from view.  On the far right, Larson could see a section of the beer coolers.  He saw something else--two people, a man and a woman, crouched down at the end of one of the isles.  Their body language told Larson there was nothing to fear from these two; they were hiding.  And if they were hiding at one end, there was a high probability that they were hiding from something going on at the other end.

Larson unholstered his weapon, a police issue nine millimeter Glock, and stealthily entered the liquor store.  Staying low, he quickly and quietly made his way to the counter area.  The Glock at the ready, Larson chanced a peek at the robber.  The perp was twenty feet away and holding a revolver in his left hand, pointed only in the general direction of the clerk.  He recognized something else, the sweatshirt and dark glasses. 

As he quickly moved from his position of concealment, Larson screamed, “FREEZE,” his weapon squarely leveled at Lenny’s upper torso.

Lenny froze.  The store attendant dropped below the top of the counter.

Larson screamed, “PUT YOUR WEAPON ON THE COUNTER!”  He watched, unblinking, hoping for just the slightest turn of the hand holding the gun.  He wanted this piece of filth to supply just the slightest provocation, just enough so the Glock in his hands could spit 3 or 4 nine-millimeter nuggets of justice into this scum-ball.

Lenny gently placed the 38 on the counter.

“YOU, BEHIND THE COUNTER; come out here where I can see you.”

The clerk, visibly shaken, rose and made his way to the left end, well out of the line of fire.

Larson again yelled at Lenny, “ON THE FLOOR!  FACE DOWN!  NOW!”

Lenny instantly dropped to the floor.

Just above a whisper, Larson said, “You move and I’ll save the taxpayers a lot of money.”

Lenny wasn’t about to move.

From the corner of his eye he caught the movement of the two previously hiding customers.  They were approaching the exit.  “You two!  Stay put!”  They did as they were told.

Larson dropped down, his left knee grinding into the middle of Lenny’s lower back with quite a lot more force than was actually necessary.  Lenny let out a loud “ummph.”

Larson twisted one, then the other of Lenny’s arms behind his back and cuffed him.  He said, “Shut up.  You have the right to remain silent.  Use it.”

Larson stood up, pulled out his cell phone and punched a number.  “Larson, badge number 117.  I need four uniforms at Jake’s Liquor and Carryout, on Fourth and Cedar.  I’ve got Officer Krendall’s killer in custody.  Let me talk to the Captain.”

While waiting for the Captain, Larson picked up the daily newspaper from the stack on the counter.  He dropped it on the floor just in front of Lenny’s nose.  “You idiots always get caught.  Why do you get caught?  Just because you’re so damned stupid.”

“Yeah, Captain.  I’ve got the sleaze bag that killed Krendall.  Maybe you want to come down here yourself.”  After a short pause, Larson said, “Hell yes, I’m sure.  Right height and build, he’s still wearin’ that same hoodie.  I’ll bet my pension those fibers and the gun he had on him match.”

Sirens wailed the approach of the uniformed officers.  By the screeching of the tires Lenny thought there must be more like forty than four.

Lenny, handcuffed and still face down, raised his head enough to look at the newspaper headline.  “Manhunt continues for Cop killer.”  Below the headline was a surveillance photo of the killer, a killer in a lime green hooded sweatshirt and dark glasses.  Lenny had no doubt the gun was the same one used in the killing.  He knew the sweatshirt he wore belonged to the most wanted man in the city.  Lenny was a sharp guy.  Sure, everything would match.  No one was going to believe him.  He would get one of those court appointed ten-cent lawyers, who wouldn’t care one way or the other.  Lenny knew that he wouldn’t be back on the streets for a very long time, maybe forever.  For the first time in his life, Lenny began to wonder if maybe it was more than just his bad luck.