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We moved in closer to the doggie door. Both of us were big men. This was not something I wanted to do. Not something I normally would do. But this was the asshole who had turned my son into a drug dealer. I had to take the risk.
Even as I crouched down, I heard Tim say, “No. Wait, Mike.” I ignored him as I poked my head through the door flap and saw that the adjacent apartment was dark. I crawled on through the door, then put my back against the wall. To my surprise, Tim squeezed through the doggie door as well, cursing under his breath the whole time.
I took a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dark. Then we moved through the apartment.
Tim said “Holy crap” as we passed a table stacked with plastic bags of methamphetamine and three pistols sitting casually on the end. Clearly Albert Stass could’ve armed himself while running through this room. We paused at the door that led into the living room.
I stayed behind the cover of the wall and peeked around quickly and saw nothing. Then Tim and I entered. It was empty except for a table with a stack of cash on it.
Tim looked at me and said, “This guy is a magician.”
A voice came over the radio and said, “Sarge, are you looking for a skinny Latin man in his underwear running through the snow?”
Cops and their sarcasm. It’s what kept us sane.
We raced out the front door and down the hallway, then down a flight of stairs. The others had positioned themselves on the far side of a snow-covered baseball field. They understood how important it was for me to be in on this arrest. I appreciated their discretion.
It wasn’t hard to sprint along the sidewalk and then cut into the field not far from the running man. He looked shocked to see me when he turned his head.
I shouted, “Keep running. It only means you’ll be more tired when I arrest you.”
He had a small automatic pistol in his right hand, but he showed no interest in using it as his pace slowed. He tossed it to the side and kept running in his bare feet, wearing nothing but his tighty-whities. It had to be uncomfortable in the cold.
I could’ve shouted for him to stop. Tim was right next to me now, jogging along at a comfortable clip. But as the man started to slide to a stop so he could turn and run between some bleachers, I launched myself.
My shoulder struck his ribs and banged him hard against the bleachers. We both crashed on the frozen ground. He was facedown and didn’t struggle as I twisted his arm behind his back. In a single fluid motion—one I had practiced over the course of a long career and hundreds of hours of training sessions—I holstered my pistol and pulled my handcuffs from my belt.
After I had him cuffed, I left him lying on the icy ground. When I stood up, Tim said, “Nicely done. All by the book. This is a good arrest no matter how you look at it.”
I saw the irony: this hard-core drug dealer would be housed in relative comfort while the legal system slowly churned; meanwhile, the kids he had working for him killed and were killed every day.
Life plays mean tricks. If you’re a cop, you see a lot more of them than most people.
Chapter 30
It wasn’t until I was in the elevator in my apartment building that I realized how tricky it might be to explain what happened to Mary Catherine. She didn’t want me to go on the arrest in the first place and had told my friend Tim Marcia to keep an eye on me. I decided to leave out the details, including crawling through the doggie door and chasing an armed, desperate man on foot. Instead I was just going to say, “We made the arrest without incident.” Almost the same thing the official report would say.
But I felt lighter. I thought we might have some ammunition when it came to Brian’s sentencing. If anyone could persuade this guy to talk it was Tim Marcia. Besides, between the drugs, guns, and money in his apartment, he had to realize that we could bury him under the jail.
As I slipped my key into the door I was looking forward to telling Mary Catherine about the arrest. It came from information she had found. She would be happy that she had given us what we needed to make the bust.
That plan changed when I opened the door to a scene of absolute chaos inside. Kids were screaming and crowded in the dining room. Shawna was weeping on the couch, and Juliana was on the wall phone in the kitchen.
Before I could ask what was wrong, I heard Juliana say on the phone, “This is Juliana Bennett. My grandfather is having a heart attack, and we need an ambulance right now.” She gave our address and answered a couple of questions from the dispatcher.
Even in the immediate crisis, I recognized how calm her voice was and how quickly she had gotten out the important information.
I rushed to the spot where Mary Catherine and a couple of the children were crouched around Seamus. He was propped up against the wall and had an odd, waxy complexion as he gasped for breath. He started to pant like a dog.
I felt a stab of terror at the sight of the man who had been a rock for me my entire life. He had suffered heart issues before, but nothing that ever looked like this. I dropped to one knee, shooing Trent away from his great-grandfather, and felt Seamus’s neck to get an idea of his pulse. I could barely feel his heartbeat as it erratically shifted and paused.
He turned his pale eyes up to me and tried to say something.
“Just keep quiet, Seamus. It’s going to be all right. Help is on the way.”
He tried to speak again and made a feeble attempt to motion me closer with his right hand. I leaned in with my ear right next to his mouth. I could hear his ragged breathing as he tried to gather the strength to speak.
I caught a few words, including “love” and “proud of you.”
