The Fence - Dick Lehr [67]
Caisey leaned down. “Have you been shot?”
Mike heard the question, but no longer knew up from down. “I don’t know.”
Thomas, meanwhile, was making his way through the hole in the fence to gain access to the dead end. The shining cruiser lights made it hard to see. But once he adjusted his eyes he noticed the empty Lexus and three black men in handcuffs on the ground by the curb. Then he recognized Ian Daley walking quickly in his direction. Thomas and Daley knew each other pretty well; earlier in their careers they’d worked together in Dorchester at the C–11 station. They’d socialized on occasion and played basketball. But it had been a few years since they’d hung out.
Daley motioned at Thomas. “Ike, Ike,” he said.
“What’s up, Ian?”
“Ike, you guys really ought to wear jackets.”
Thomas was thrown. Jackets? It was like a non sequitur. He’d just arrived and was quickly trying to take stock of all the activity and figure out who was hurt—and Daley was in his face animatedly insisting the gang unit’s sartorial choices were lacking.
“I’m like, ‘Okay, What are you talking about?’”
Daley could have given Thomas some context—told Thomas that for a few scary moments he’d had his handgun trained on Mike Cox, admitted he’d tried to arrest Mike. But Daley didn’t do that. “You guys really ought to wear jackets because some people don’t know who you are.”
Thomas didn’t have time for guessing games. He spotted Teahan and Ryan kneeling behind a cruiser and went over. That’s when he saw Mike. From the vague radio transmissions, the sergeant had not gotten the sense an officer was badly injured. But Mike looked seriously hurt. Thomas asked Mike what happened. “He tried to talk,” Thomas said later, “but he couldn’t. Nothing was coming out.” Richie Walker then came over and stood behind Thomas. Walker had himself just returned to the dead end. From his car, he’d run through the hole in the fence, banged up his knee after slipping, and then hustled after the suspect later identified as Smut Brown. He was the officer who retrieved Conley’s flashlight. Walker asked how Mike was doing, but Thomas waved him off. The supervisor stood up and was asking out loud: What happened? What happened?
“We found him like this,” said Ryan and Teahan.
Their response didn’t answer the question.
Seconds later, Craig Jones was also hovering over his battered partner, a sight that took his breath away. From the point where he’d knocked down Tiny Evans on the left side of the cul-de-sac, Craig had run to the front of the cars and followed Richie Walker through the hole in the fence. “I assumed he was chasing somebody.” Craig tripped going through the hole and slipped on the hill. Instead of joining the foot chase, he’d turned around and gone back to the dead end. He saw that Tiny, Marquis, and Boogie-Down were on the ground in handcuffs in front of the Lexus. To Craig, this was great news. Craig saw Dave Williams at the front of the Lexus. Excited by the successful climax to the long chase, Craig raised his hand and slapped Williams’s—a congratulatory high-five between two towering black cops.
Craig had then noticed Tiny was yelling for him, squirming and trying to get to his knees. Craig went over and pushed Tiny down. He ordered Tiny to stay put. When Tiny didn’t and said he needed to talk to him, Craig leaned down and punched him hard in the face. “He fell on the ground,” Craig said. Tiny stayed put this time.
Craig was charged up. Cops and cruisers were everywhere, the sirens and lights a kind of sound and light show providing an exclamation point to the capture of shooting suspects. “My adrenaline was going.” But the satisfied feeling was short-lived. Gary Ryan came over and told him, “Your partner is hurt.” Craig followed