Operation Bob Dylan’s Belt. Linn Wyllie
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cemetery. Not good.
That cemetery dates back to the very beginning of Clearwater, and it was nearly full. Had been for decades. It’s what you’d think an old cemetery should be. A whole city block, with large oak trees, paved walkways, ancient marble and granite painstakingly carved headstones dating back a century and a half. A couple of huge ornate mausoleums. A perfect setting for a scary Halloween movie. Names on the headstones were founders and early movers and shakers in Clearwater. Some of my kin are buried there, and my family still had a plot. And unless you’ve got flowers for a grave or a prayer for friends or relatives residing therein, there’s not a lot of good reasons to be there. Especially so in the wee early-morning hours.
I just hoped there wouldn’t be a Halloween-style movie being shown here tonight.
I hoped wrong.
I killed the headlights on the Jeep when the van turned into the main cemetery driveway. Slowed down and crawled to the curb and watched. They were just about in the very center of the relatively small cemetery. The van had stopped next to an ancient grandfather oak. They thought it might provide some cover, I suspect. Perp two was pulling the still hooded and slightly more subdued young thing out of the van’s cargo area. They were near an old mausoleum, and I could guess what they were up to. I left the Jeep on the street and stealthily headed in their general direction. There are no lights in the cemetery, and the street lights on its perimeter cast scant, faint illumination there in the interior. I made my way over to one of the oak trees, maybe twenty-five feet away from the side of the mausoleum. Perp one had pulled the girl’s top off and had his pants down around his ankles. He was trying to flip her over. She was having none of it. They were clearly about to take turns on her. I watched for a moment to see how far they were going to go. Mr. Brain was deciding how to handle it. If it became a worst-case scenario. Then I heard them speaking a foreign language. It sounded like Arabic or Farsi maybe. I dunno. Guttural. Hard consonants. Just great. What the hell had I wandered into?
I carry a Kimber Ultra Carry chambered in .45 ACP. Always. As I watched the scene unfold before me, I pulled Mr. Kimber from my holster. Kept it pointed down with my arm straight along my right side. Finger off the trigger. Thumb on the safety. I stepped into the gravel driveway behind and slightly to the side of the van. Its engine was still hot and making little clinking noises as it cooled in the night air. My alligator boots made a crunching noise on the gravel alongside the paved drive as I walked up. Perp two saw me first and immediately pulled a pistol from his waistband and aimed it at me.
“Hey! Who the fuck are you? What you want?”
His English was passable, but noticeably accented. Even in the dim light, I could see him clearly. Definitely not a native son.
“Evening, gentlemen.”
I nodded in the direction of the now topless girl.
“It’s OK. Y’all go ahead. I’ll go last. I’ll just wait over here until it’s my turn.”
“What? Your turn? You get no turn! You got no business here. You get out of here.”
His pistol came up higher. Face high. My face. Nine millimeter, I guessed. I’d had guns pointed at me before. Lots of times. But I don’t intimidate easily. I scanned the scenario. Perp one was trying to get his schlong back in his pants and grappling to reach his own pistol.
Perp two was nervously glancing around. Looking at perp one, then back at the girl, then back at me. The girl looked dazed. Out of it. She was pushed back on the steps of the mausoleum, her top still off. She didn’t even try to cover herself up. Dazed. She looked to be of a lighter complexion than these two.
“Sorry, boys. I can’t do that. I need you to put down your weapons. Raise your hands so I can see them, and step over here with me. Leave the girl alone.”
Perp two was the excitable type. He was starting to jitter around erratically. Waving his pistol at me. Saying something unintelligible under his breath. Amateurs do that when they’re rattled. And scared. I knew he would fire at me any second.
My arm came up with Mr. Kimber. I always carry in condition one, which means I’m cocked and locked with a round in the chamber. It’s how you carry single-action autos.
My thumb clicked the slide safety off. It made an audible click. Perp one got his pants up and came up with his own pistol.
Pointed at me.
“Put your weapons down, and step away. Last chance.”
“Who the fuck are you? What are you doing here?”
Perp one made that demand. And perp two had asked the same questions. Asked and answered. Amateurs.
Perp two fired first, but he was unfocused and the shot went wild. I hoped it hadn’t hit anybody’s house in the neighborhood. I went into a crouched Weaver stance and double tapped him center of mass. He dropped like a stone.
Perp one fired a half beat later, and he was wide. His second shot just grazed my left shoulder. I swiveled and fired at him. Two rounds of .45 ACP slammed into his open polo shirt, and he dropped.
The girl was wide-eyed and panting. Hyperventilating. The gunshots echoed in the still night air. Lights began to come on in the surrounding neighborhood.
I walked over with Mr. Kimber’s sights still trained on the bodies that now lay on the ground. No one was moving. I kicked the guns away from dead hands. The girl’s head was lolling, her eyes distant and unfocused. She seemed fine for the moment, just dazed. Probably drugged her. She barely knew what happened.
I holstered Mr. Kimber and picked up the blouse that lay next to her on the mausoleum steps. Draped it over her shoulders. She looked up at me uncomprehendingly but pulled the blouse around her.
“You’re gonna be OK now. It’s over. Help is on the way.”
I dialed 911.
Dispatch answered on the second ring. I gave her the scenario.
“Shots fired. Casualties. Two shooters down and neutralized. Officer, uh, no, make that one good-guy civilian is armed but unhurt. One female abduction, possible rape victim. Incapacitated. Probably drugged. West driveway entrance, Clearwater Municipal Cemetery. Need ambulance and paramedics.”
It was second nature for me to call 911 or backup in a shooting, but Mr. Brain had to remind me that I wasn’t a police officer any more.
He was right.
I gave my name and phone number. Left the Jeep out on the street so it wouldn’t be in the way.
Several minutes later it looked like a midnight parade on Myrtle Avenue. Blue and red and white lights everywhere. Clearwater PD and EMTs, Fire Rescue, several ambulances. And a couple reporters who had been monitoring the police radio frequencies.
Lights started to come on in neighboring houses. People still in sleepwear were wandering out.
Exciting night.
A few minutes later I was giving Detective Ralph Hamilton, Clearwater PD, my story. We have known each other for years, and we’ve even solved a couple of cases together. He took my statement. It was pretty straightforward. I witnessed the abduction in the apartment building parking lot, followed them to the cemetery. Caught these morons literally with their pants down. About to have non-consensual carnal knowledge with the obviously unwilling female. They wanted to shoot me for interrupting them, but that didn’t work out too well. There wasn’t much in the way of conflict of fact. Several witnesses in the neighboring houses were already outside and were more than happy to give statements. They all verified my account.
Sometime later two gurneys, with dead bodies strapped to them, were rolled into back of ambulances. The girl was treated at the scene, then she too was on a gurney and loaded into an ambulance. But she’d go to the Morton Plant Hospital ER. The two perps were headed for the city morgue.
Then it was all over. The EMTs, fire rescue guys, and cops all finally drove away, leaving the neighborhood to gossip and recount the night’s excitement. And then ultimately