Read Online Over Tumbled Graves by Jess Walter - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jess Walter
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seemed to be the only person with any sort of quantity.
“No shit, huh?” Jay’s voice came over the radio, “I told you, that’s primo stuff, man. Fuck you up, yeah?”
In the background, Caroline heard the hoarse whimpering of a dog. Crouched on the floor of the van, she shifted her weight, wishing this would go faster, so they could get in the house and cuff these idiots, and she could get back to the hospital to see her mother. What had the nurse said? A body has a way of shutting down.
“So you got anything else?”
Listening to wires drove Sergeant Lane almost as crazy as not listening. Caroline wished, for his sake, that this would go faster. After each exchange Lane looked around the van, trying to gauge their reaction, to figure out how it was going.
“Damn, man! You a fuckin’ smokestack!”
The other suspect, for whom Gerraghty had only gotten a first name, Chase, laughed appreciatively and repeated the line. “…fuckin’ smokestack.”
In the van, they waited impatiently, every scrape and cough that came over the wire putting them more on edge, punctuated by the faint, rhythmic whimpering.
“Christ,” said Solaita, who sat in the front seat of the van with binoculars, watching the house, “would someone let the fuckin’ dog out.”
They heard the screen door open. From the front seat, Solaita held up one finger and touched his chest, the sign that the woman who’d left earlier had returned.
“What’s goin’ on, Jay?” the woman asked.
“What do you think is goin’ on? A little commerce.”
It was quiet in the house for a moment and then the woman laughed nervously. “So can I talk to you a minute, Jay?”
Inside the van, they recognized the tone, and Sergeant Lane ran his eyes across the other SIU detectives, dressed all in black and body armor. Four cars of patrol officers were on standby, and Lane spoke quietly into his headset to move them into place.
“I wish you could talk for only a minute,” Jay was saying.
The girl was losing her temper. “ You’re so fuckin’ stupid, Jay. He’s a cop.”
“Shit!” Sergeant Lane stood in a crouch and pointed at the driver, who shifted into gear and ripped across the parking lot.
Going by the book, Gerraghty tried incredulity. “You think I’m a fuckin’ cop?”
The girl laughed. “You arrested me six months ago. What, you quit since then?”
“Get down!” Gerraghty yelled. “Get on the ground!”
The van veered down an alley, turned, and jumped onto the dead grass in front of the house, a house that Caroline saw and knew immediately with a precision drawn from so many other busts: They would find a couch on the porch, bedsheets on the windows, chipped-paint and primer-shake walls, gray roof shingles dissolving into dirt.
The back door of the van flew open and the detectives burst out, spreading across the lawn and up the porch. Caroline took the porch steps two at a time and was the third cop in the house, Gerraghty already having wrestled Jay to his substantial stomach, a knee in his back, screaming at him—“Hands out at your sides! Hands at your sides!”—as Solaita began the same process with Chase, who had the dumbest look Caroline had ever seen, as if he were contemplating his first tool.
A veteran of this kind of raid, the woman was on the floor with her hands on the back of her head, so Caroline passed her on to one of the other detectives and kept moving through the disgusting house, stepping around garbage into a hallway and then a bathroom in which the water apparently had been turned off. Caroline had seen bathrooms like this before, the occupants taking to shitting in the bathtub when the toilet was full. She covered her mouth and backed out of the room. “Bathroom’s clear,” she said into her microphone and kept moving through the house.
Beneath the yelling and wrestling from the living room, Caroline could hear the whimpering more clearly. The dog was in a back bedroom.
Caroline moved
“No shit, huh?” Jay’s voice came over the radio, “I told you, that’s primo stuff, man. Fuck you up, yeah?”
In the background, Caroline heard the hoarse whimpering of a dog. Crouched on the floor of the van, she shifted her weight, wishing this would go faster, so they could get in the house and cuff these idiots, and she could get back to the hospital to see her mother. What had the nurse said? A body has a way of shutting down.
“So you got anything else?”
Listening to wires drove Sergeant Lane almost as crazy as not listening. Caroline wished, for his sake, that this would go faster. After each exchange Lane looked around the van, trying to gauge their reaction, to figure out how it was going.
“Damn, man! You a fuckin’ smokestack!”
The other suspect, for whom Gerraghty had only gotten a first name, Chase, laughed appreciatively and repeated the line. “…fuckin’ smokestack.”
In the van, they waited impatiently, every scrape and cough that came over the wire putting them more on edge, punctuated by the faint, rhythmic whimpering.
“Christ,” said Solaita, who sat in the front seat of the van with binoculars, watching the house, “would someone let the fuckin’ dog out.”
They heard the screen door open. From the front seat, Solaita held up one finger and touched his chest, the sign that the woman who’d left earlier had returned.
“What’s goin’ on, Jay?” the woman asked.
“What do you think is goin’ on? A little commerce.”
It was quiet in the house for a moment and then the woman laughed nervously. “So can I talk to you a minute, Jay?”
Inside the van, they recognized the tone, and Sergeant Lane ran his eyes across the other SIU detectives, dressed all in black and body armor. Four cars of patrol officers were on standby, and Lane spoke quietly into his headset to move them into place.
“I wish you could talk for only a minute,” Jay was saying.
The girl was losing her temper. “ You’re so fuckin’ stupid, Jay. He’s a cop.”
“Shit!” Sergeant Lane stood in a crouch and pointed at the driver, who shifted into gear and ripped across the parking lot.
Going by the book, Gerraghty tried incredulity. “You think I’m a fuckin’ cop?”
The girl laughed. “You arrested me six months ago. What, you quit since then?”
“Get down!” Gerraghty yelled. “Get on the ground!”
The van veered down an alley, turned, and jumped onto the dead grass in front of the house, a house that Caroline saw and knew immediately with a precision drawn from so many other busts: They would find a couch on the porch, bedsheets on the windows, chipped-paint and primer-shake walls, gray roof shingles dissolving into dirt.
The back door of the van flew open and the detectives burst out, spreading across the lawn and up the porch. Caroline took the porch steps two at a time and was the third cop in the house, Gerraghty already having wrestled Jay to his substantial stomach, a knee in his back, screaming at him—“Hands out at your sides! Hands at your sides!”—as Solaita began the same process with Chase, who had the dumbest look Caroline had ever seen, as if he were contemplating his first tool.
A veteran of this kind of raid, the woman was on the floor with her hands on the back of her head, so Caroline passed her on to one of the other detectives and kept moving through the disgusting house, stepping around garbage into a hallway and then a bathroom in which the water apparently had been turned off. Caroline had seen bathrooms like this before, the occupants taking to shitting in the bathtub when the toilet was full. She covered her mouth and backed out of the room. “Bathroom’s clear,” she said into her microphone and kept moving through the house.
Beneath the yelling and wrestling from the living room, Caroline could hear the whimpering more clearly. The dog was in a back bedroom.
Caroline moved
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