One Department

By Thomas A. Young

"When police are killing people at will, and the courts and the politicians and their own peers will not hold them into account, what is our recourse? Is war not the appropriate remedy?" --Randy Gustin

Randy Gustin lives in a town in Washington State where the police are out of control. They run roughshod over the citizens of Randy's town with impunity, and even have a highly questionable shooting or two to their credit. But unlike the other citizens who have learned to put up with it, Randy is taking political action to rein them in, and in doing so he has incurred their anger.

That anger comes to a head one evening when an officer from this department does what many other cops have done in the past, and tries to set him up for a "justifiable homicide." But Randy fights back, and before he knows it, two cops are dead at his hands.

He knows it was self-defense, but the trouble is that when you challenge authority in any fashion, let alone with a weapon, justifications don’t mean a lot. The same system that lets cops off the hook no matter what they do will pull out the stops to ensure that your life is as good as over. Randy considers that unfortunate fact and decides that rather than spend what remains of his life in a cage, he’s going to go out making a statement. Then he picks up a police radio and declares war on this department, a war that will end either when he is dead, or this entire one department has been exterminated, to serve as an example to other departments like it.

Set against the backdrop of real shootings committed both by and against police, One Department is a novel about the convoluted and ever-escalating conflicts between citizen and cop, and tells a story of just how bad things could get.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas A. Young
• Release date: Nov 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452452609

Book preview

One Department

By

Thomas A. Young

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011, Day Of Racknin’ Publications. All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The city of Forest Hill, Washington is entirely fictitious. All the characters who reside in that town are likewise fictitious, and any resemblance to any real persons, living or dead, is not intentional. The case described herein of Arnold McCaslin is likewise entirely fictitious, though it has elements in common with many real cases.

With few exceptions however, the persons and events in this book from outside of Forest Hill are real. Numerous cases in which people were killed or otherwise harmed by police are detailed. Those descriptions are based upon news accounts, witness interviews, or both.

At first, it felt like any other emergency. I mean, we all have emergencies, and when they happen, we deal with them and then life goes on. But then it started sinking in that this emergency was different. This was the end of everything.

--Elena Morales Gustin

Table of Contents

Prologue – 1977

Chapter 1 – The Project Man

Chapter 2 – Initiative Is A Wonderful Thing

Chapter 3 – Crackdowns

Chapter 4 – Elena

Chapter 5 – Backlash

Chapter 6 – Takin’ Care Of Business

Chapter 7 – Complications

Chapter 8 – Special Attention

Chapter 9 – A Very Bad Time For The Law

Chapter 10 – Shots Fired

Chapter 11 – Choices Are Made

Chapter 12 – Viral Video

Chapter 13 – The Doctor’s House

Chapter 14 – Back To Business

Chapter 15 – Escalation

Chapter 16 – Just When You Thought It Was Safe

Chapter 17 – The Settling Of Dust

Chapter 18 – Trial Of The Millennium

Chapter 19 – Of Endings And New Beginnings

Chapter 20 – Last Words

Epilogue

Afterword

Prologue

1977

A young mind is fond of being able to trust, and 11-year-old Randoph Gustin was no different than any other youngster in that regard. Trust was something he felt coursing through him as he sat in the passenger seat of his father’s old white International, both of them cruising toward home after a day spent running errands in town.

Spring is a nice time of year in most places, but typically not so much in western Washington State. Every now and then the bright, hot sun would peek out from behind the clouds, but behind the clouds was mostly where it stayed. It wasn’t raining per se, but every now and then the windshield would gather some sprinkles that his dad would clear with one stroke of the wiper. Off to the right of the road was a river that seemed to beckon swimmers, if only they could get a little of the toasty weather that the rest of the country seemed to be sweltering through. They had the occasional hot summer, but that was the exception rather than the rule around there. Randy sometimes wondered if there was a way to file an official complaint with God over that.

Randy had short dark hair and a face that made people think of Beaver Cleaver, which was a hard distinction to miss since the show was still running on daytime television. This was the subject of quite a bit of ribbing at school. Mostly it was of a harmless nature, but school is a tough place at times, and there had been one time that one of the junior high bullies took it to a level that required intervention from his teacher Mr. Davis.

Teachers were sometimes excruciating to deal with, like many people were, and Randy had been surprised at how happy he was to see Mr. Davis show up when he did. Davis had never exactly been Randy’s favorite teacher, but in that instance the man had done his job and resolved things like a pro. Randy’s esteem for him had gone way up after that. One of his mottos for a long time afterward was, say what you will about the grownups, they’re there for you when it counts.

In fact when you got down to it, (though he would never admit it out loud), they were pretty great. They got you through school and the tribulations that go along with it. They got you safely home afterward, and generally kept you out of trouble. They burdened you with rules, but more often than not those rules turned out to have a real purpose. They came loaded with advice, especially the older grandparent-category folks. Some of that advice was great, and some of it was well-meaning if not actually all that helpful, but they were always willing to try. When Randy had problems he needed help with, he always started with someone at least ten years older than him, and it usually worked out all right.

But his biggest hero was the man in the driver seat next to him. George Gustin was the role model most kids dream of. He was a classically tough-as-nails Marine, but he also had a gentle side and a true sense of justice. In Vietnam, he had once engaged and then spared the life of a North Vietnamese soldier who had ferociously attacked his unit. After his return from the war, a very young Randy had at first been stunned to hear that story, but George explained to him that a lot of the time they were fighting some real decent human beings. This had been a man who volunteered to lay down his own life to protect his comrades from George’s pursuing unit. After the man had been wounded, George had passed up the chance to finish him off. He had instead talked him into surrendering and becoming a POW. As George’s prisoner for several days, they had spoken a great deal. And after the war they had stayed in touch. His name was Dat Trang.

Thinking about that reminded Randy that he needed to ask again. Dad, is Dan still coming to visit soon?

George smiled. For the millionth time kid, it’s Dat, with a ‘t’. And yes he is, he just doesn’t know exactly when. The answer did little to appease Randy’s curiosity about meeting this man. The idea that an enemy could also be your friend was beyond fascinating to him. It had always seemed to him that such issues should be a little more black-and-white. One side good, one side evil. How in the world could somebody try to kill you and then call themselves your friend later? It made no sense.

He’s just as anxious to make it here as you are for him to, but he’s got his own family to look after too, George went on. Including a daughter who thinks you’re pretty cute.

Randy put his hand to his head and laughed with embarrassment. Dad, please swear to me you’ll never say that in front of people.

You’ve seen her picture. She’s cute, ain’t she? George replied.

You know what I’d have to put up with at school if they knew I had a girl for a pen pal?

George turned to give his son a smile, as Randy looked ahead. Girls don’t come with cooties in his country. Get used to it.

Lookout, Dad.

George raised an eyebrow. Kid, don’t tell me to –

"LOOKOUT!"

George looked ahead and saw a deer right in front of them. He swerved hard into the other lane and just missed it, but before he could breathe a sigh of relief, a Sheriff’s patrol car rounded the next corner coming straight at them. He swerved back into his own lane with plenty of room to spare, but as he watched in his rear-view mirror the cruiser drove past the deer in the road, then stopped to pull a U-turn. He shook his head. Some days nothing goes right.

Randy looked back toward the cruiser with curiosity as his dad found a spot to pull over. He’ll understand, right? he asked.

His dad gritted his teeth and sighed. Maybe he will and maybe he won’t, he replied, and moments later the car with the flashing red and blue lights was parked behind them.

The cop got out with a pleasant enough smile on his face, walked to the driver’s window. He was about six foot two, moderately built, with black rim glasses, and his nametag read B. Grandstone. Randy felt reassured that everything was fine. Everyone knew that the man in blue was who you called for help when you needed it. How could someone who was trusted with that kind of responsibility not understand a thing like collision avoidance?

Good day, sir, he said. License and registration please. Randy’s old man produced the papers for him. You know why I stopped you, right?

That I do, George replied. I’m sure you saw the deer in the road.

One corner of the deputy’s mouth curled up just a little. I’m afraid I didn’t. What I did see was you almost completely in the wrong lane and coming straight at me.

Randy spent a moment trying to figure out how the cop could really have missed something as obvious as that deer. It was standing right in the road, how could you miss it? he said, and his father gave him a stern glance.

Now, I’m not calling anyone a liar, Deputy Grandstone went on. It could easily have run away before I saw it. Just as Randy was getting his first sense that something wasn’t right, the cop addressed him for the first time. On the other hand, it almost sounds as if your dad is telling you what to say. What’s your name, young fella?

It’s Randy. And nobody –

Randy, is everything all right at home?

As Randy looked to his dad for help, George turned and stared the man in the eye. Mister, you’ll want to leave my boy out of this.

That’s a fair enough request, he replied, seemingly acquiescent. But because of the way you’re acting, I’ll need to ask if there are any weapons in your vehicle.

What’s in this truck does not concern you.

Anything that threatens the safety of an officer of the law concerns me. Please step out of the vehicle, both of you. With little choice, Randy and his dad got out. Stand at the front of the vehicle. They stepped to the front and watched while the cop began to lean inside the driver’s door.

Nobody gave you any permission to search, George said.

The way you’re reacting to the subject of weapons gives me cause for concern about safety. That gives me the right to check to see if any weapons are in your immediate reach. The cop leaned inside, rummaged for a moment, then spotted what he was looking for. It was the barrel of a Ruger 10/22 poking out from beneath the bags of camping and hunting gear in the rear. He pulled it out, removed the 10 round rotary magazine, and checked the chamber. The chamber was empty, but the magazine had two rounds of .22 long rifle in it. He held it up. This is a loaded long arm in a vehicle. You know that’s illegal under state law, right?

George stared with incredulity. Even you can’t be serious about that.

The deputy set the rifle down on the driver seat and closed the driver’s door. Come to the back please. George and Randy walked around to the rear, the cop pointed at the back door. Is there anything else I should know about?

George replied, Since you don’t have permission to search it doesn’t much matter, does it?

The cop pointed at the piles of bags and hunting gear in the back. You’ve just been found in possession of one illegally carried weapon. And there’s a lot of room in there for concealing more weapons or other contraband, which you’ve already demonstrated a willingness to do.

George looked down, shook his head and laughed. You know, the sheriff you work for used to be a straight shooter. In times past he’d have never stood for one of his guys making up shit like this.

I do as I’ve been trained to do. If you have an issue with our training, you need to take that up with our department at the appropriate time.

You figure that being trained to do wrong makes doing wrong okay?

Deputy Grandstone started showing his first signs of anger. Mister, my job is protecting the public. People like your boy, for example.

You mean the same boy you just tried to use as an excuse to intrude in our lives? George shot back. I can remember a time when a lawman wouldn’t do something like that without a real reason. But my boy here never will, because more and more, what we have is government by excuse. You might think that badge you’re wearing makes you right all the time, but it doesn’t, and that back door to my vehicle is staying shut.

It wouldn’t be for several years that the term contempt of cop would be coined, but every cop knew what it was already, and Randy saw for the first time the kind of response it can elicit. Mister Gustin, you can spout your conspiracy theories on your own time, the cop began. The I-know-my-rights speech doesn’t work for the pot-smoking hippies and it won’t work for you either, because we are the ones who are entrusted with this authority, and the power to use it if need be. For your sake and your boy’s, you need to wise up to that fact right now. The cop patted his Smith and Wesson revolver to illustrate his point. You have driven recklessly and carried a weapon in an illegal manner, and I could arrest you for either or both of those offenses right now. You have further caused me to have concern for my safety and the safety of others, and now I intend to insure that safety.

Do you seriously believe that simply saying you don’t feel safe gives you a right to violate people?

I think that you have a right to bring it up later with a judge and jury if you disagree, the cop replied as he waved a finger at the back of the International. But as for right now, open that door.

There are certain moments that stay with us all our lives, and Randy would remember this one every time he saw it repeated. His father George was his greatest hero, the man who never backed down, the man who stood tall in the face of anything. But this was the moment when young Randy learned what a man will do when confronted by someone in authority who is doing something that everyone knows to be wrong, with scarcely even an excuse to hide behind. It was the moment that eventually led him to conclude that there is no one you can call whom you can count on to do the right thing. The moment that made, for young Randolph Gustin, his unwavering trust of grownups and people in authority a thing of the past.

George took out his key, put it in the back door to his old white International and unlocked it.

Chapter 1

The Project Man

September, 2005

Sitting in the driver seat of a Grove 80 foot tall crane, Randy tuned out the noise of the engine as he bumped the lever. His eyes were fixed firmly on Scott, his lead rigger who stood in front of the crane, watching the load while directing Randy with hand signals. It was the rigger’s job to keep his eye on the load, and Randy’s job to keep his eye on the rigger, but Randy managed to steal quick glances at the load high above, because this was one of his favorite parts of the job.

He was setting the last piece of the frame of a new building. To him, this was the point where the project stopped looking like a mess created by some kid with an erector set and began to look like a newly created building.

This came with no small amount of satisfaction, because the outer frame had to be perfect. The corner beams had to be perfectly plum, the girders all level, the corners square, the top pieces all on the same plane. Every component was tied into the next, which meant that if just one of those items was out of whack, you could easily spend several days getting everything right again. Luckily, Randy was certain that wouldn’t be an issue this time.

He bumped the hoist lever and gradually lowered the piece until Scott signaled him to stop. The piece was a 36 foot long I-beam that sat horizontally across the top and completed the southwest corner. Randy climbed out onto the crane deck to watch while the two welders who were positioned on top of the adjacent beams hammered the ends of the beam perfectly into position, then lowered their welding hoods to tack weld the beam into place.

There was still several months of work remaining on this project, but with the most critical part done, the rest of the pieces would go in smoothly. Randy smiled with the kind of satisfaction that only a real project man gets to feel.

* * *

Summer was on its way out, but not yet gone. The sky was almost universally clear, and it made for long gorgeous sunsets. While the weather was slowly cooling, all of the concrete and asphalt that surrounded their job site in downtown Seattle had a way of collecting heat from the sun and radiating it back onto them. The work here was hard and the commute to and from downtown was brutal, but there were perks to this job too. The girl watching from here was incredible. The female Seattleite population was clinging to summer too, in the form of the outfits they picked to wear.

After the last girder had been welded in place, and the measurements and positioning had been double-checked, Randy called lunch. Everyone who was up on the structure climbed down, and the ten-man crew headed into the job shack.

The shack was a mobile trailer with a pair of long tables inside, surrounded by metal folding chairs. At one end of the trailer was a small office, at the other end a slanted table was attached to the wall, where the blueprints for the project were kept for review when needed.

They all took their customary seats, with Randy sitting toward the right-hand end of the tables. Scott sat across from him, and Eric sat next to Scott. Eric was a sandy-haired kid who was barely twenty, but was a hell of a good welder. They all broke open their lunch boxes. Randy favored old-fashioned sandwiches, while Scott preferred something he could microwave. Eric went for sweet stuff. He was too young to have learned yet about the horrors that kind of food can wreak upon a body with slowing metabolism.

What sort of time are we making? Scott asked, as his Ravioli turned in the microwave.

Almost two days ahead of schedule, Randy responded.

I bet Henry comes to give you that lecture again, Scott said, as the microwave dinged and he took his food out.

Henry knows where to kiss me, Randy replied. The man they were talking about was the project superintendent for the company. He liked things to be right on schedule, and he wasn’t any happier when a project ran ahead of schedule than he was when it ran behind. But, you couldn’t make everyone happy all the time, could you?

Henry The Superintendent was indeed on his way to pay a visit that day, and there was more on his mind than just the issue of Randy working them out of a job. During the spring of that year there had been an episode of an aggressive panhandler wandering onto the construction site. Aggressive being defined as reaching-in-his-pockets-for-sharp-bladed-objects-when-told-to-leave. The police had been called, and it had all been handled without bloodshed, but it was looking pretty dicey for a few minutes and Scott had reached for his own weapon. His weapon was a Kel-Tec P3AT, which was one of the new breed of micro-sized .380 caliber pocket pistols, that he kept in a wallet holster. He never even pointed it at Senor Panhandler, he merely held it half-hidden behind his leg. But its presence had quieted things until police arrived to cart the man away.

That had only been the beginning of the issue though. The subject of firearms on the job site had never come up before, but upon hearing about this incident some of the company heads had thrown a fit. Some of them wanted to fire Scott, but they ran into trouble when it was pointed out there was no company policy on the issue. Then they hired a safety analysis outfit to make a recommendation, and their recommendation of course had been a complete firearm ban on company premises. Randy was fighting this change every step of the way. And when the higher-ups had told him to make sure no one carried a weapon on the job in the meantime, he had told them he wasn’t enforcing a company policy that didn’t exist. It was still up in the air who was going to come out on top of this, but in the meantime, Scott’s little pistol remained in his back pocket.

Henry himself sat firmly on the fence, not caring enough one way or the other to get involved. Having to hear about it from both sides was a big source of irritation for him though. If Randy won on the issue, he was fine with that. But if Randy was ruled against, he’d enforce the company ruling.

Scott was first to bring the subject up again. What’s the latest on the gun issue?

There’s a meeting coming up with all the company heads. I’ll be there, and you should too, because it’s probably getting decided then.

Do they even give a shit about the fact we could have been stabbed? Eric inquired. He had been the first one to get the panhandler’s knife pointed in his direction, so the issue was a bit personal to him.

Randy shook his head with a bit of cynicism, the sort that develops after too many years of butting heads with people higher up the food chain than you are. What people in higher positions love most is handing down pronouncements, he replied. Our safety is on their priority list somewhere, but if we’re going to win this, we have to make them want to do their pronouncing in our direction.

Another one of the workers named Todd glanced out the window just as a white company truck pulled up. Hey, look who, he said.

* * *

A few minutes later, Randy and Henry were standing out next to the crane, surveying the project. As predicted, Henry wasn’t thrilled. This part wasn’t supposed to be done till Friday. There’s a reason we schedule things like we do.

I know there is, Randy replied. You have to burn up all the money you get so you can justify it all.

Henry had little appreciation for sarcasm, whether or not Randy considered it to be such. That’s not the only thing, he said. We won’t even have your next components ready until next week, so what are you going to do until then?

Ooh, that’s a tough one… Randy said as he put his hand to his chin and became immersed in thought. I know, how about we take a couple days off? he asked. Henry gave Randy his sarcastic smile, to again express his lack of appreciation for sarcasm. I know there’s something to be said for milking the job, Randy went on, but wasting other people’s money just isn’t something I do. And that, by the way, is why your customers keep requesting me as their project foreman.

All right, you’ve got a point there, Henry acquiesced, but we’ve got another order of business to talk about. I need to know, Randy, why this gun issue is such a bee in your bonnet.

Randy felt his temples begin to throb. He’d been having this argument with people for a very long time, and he knew all the minutia of the issue, yet it was the easy stupid questions that stumped him. It was tough explaining the issue to someone who has no handle on the issue at all. Henry, remember the Northlake Shipyard shooting? Randy was referring to a workplace office shooting that happened at a Seattle shipyard in 1999.

Sure…

Remember how two people died there?

That was unfortunate, but –

It was damned unfortunate, and damned unnecessary, Randy said. Nobody expects their office to be the target of an attack because the odds are so small. But they lost that lottery, and thanks to their company rules they had no right to be prepared.

That’s being just a little hard on their company, don’t you think?

Not at all. Safety is just the excuse that companies hide behind, and now our company is getting ready to do the same thing. What it’s really about is keeping their monopoly on power.

Henry was clearly having a hard time with this. He shook his head and looked at Randy like he was getting ready to check underneath his hardhat for tinfoil. "Come on Randy, what monopoly on power are you talking about?"

Henry, company heads are just like public officials in this regard. They don’t like to share power with the little people. If we take care of our own protection down here on the jobsite, they see it as us usurping their power, because the job got done without them. It’s the same reason that colleges won’t let their students protect themselves from people like Seung Hui Cho, even when threats are pouring in. They can’t stand the idea of something getting taken care of that either the people in charge or their agents in uniform didn’t take care of themselves.

What if the company hired a security guard?

"I’m sure they’d like that idea better, because that would involve them taking action instead of us. But let’s just say that I don’t trust an underpaid rent-a-cop to be in the right place when something happens, or to do a good enough job of keeping my ass alive even if he is. I put a lot more trust in us to keep our own asses alive."

Henry could empathize with his points, but he still had some problems with this. What if one of your guys went off the deep end with the gun you let him carry? he asked.

That’s not the way those things happen. When somebody goes postal, they don’t do it with a little pocket gun, they go home and get bigger weapons. And either way, if there’s one thing mass shooters don’t like, it’s being shot back at. That’s the reason they go for the soft targets where people can’t protect themselves. Henry nodded. A soft target is exactly what the company is trying to make this place into right now. And it’s not about our safety, it’s about their comfort level. Do you see my problem with that?

I suppose so. It’s just hard for me to understand the need for packing guns on a jobsite like this with all the safety issues it creates.

Henry, this is downtown Seattle. Bad shit happens here. A few months ago one of our guys nearly got skewered, and it was a little pocket gun that stopped it. A knife wound in the wrong place, and you could have had a fatality here on your jobsite. Does that not sound like a safety issue to you? Henry nodded slowly. I know not everyone sees it this way, but it’s not about the numbers or the odds, it’s about our right to protect our lives. My worker’s lives are worth protecting to me, so it would really help us out a lot if you were backing us up in that meeting next month.

Henry thought it over.

* * *

Will Stendahl was a black-haired young man in his twenties, who loved being out and about with his wife and young son. That’s what he was doing when things went bad.

Will and his wife both did the 8 to 5 thing during the week, and nearly always had weekends off. That was family time. Their son was three and had yet to face the rigors of kindergarten, which made them a pretty care-free lot. At that moment they were headed into one of the city’s parks, the one that had a real kid’s playground they could turn their son loose in. His wife was on his left arm, his son being carried in his right, and his Beretta was stationed on his hip. Will was an open-carrier.

The open-carry movement had a strong presence in Washington State, which Will happened to be a member of. They were a web-based national group, and each state had its own chapter. Their motto was, A right not exercised is a right lost. And the particular right they were concerned with was, of course, the right to openly carry a pistol.

The issue raised more than a small amount of public discourse. It’s a fact of life that some people are just scared by the sight of guns, so they had that to contend with. But as time went on and awareness of the issue grew, the gaping stares of horror dwindled to almost nothing. They also had to contend with people on the pro-gun side of the debate who felt that they were antagonizing the public with their in-your-face approach, so they couldn’t always count on support from that side either. However people felt about it though, the law was on their side. One could point to dictionaries from the time periods when the Federal and State constitutions were ratified, and plainly see that the protected right to bear arms was meant in the military sense, and where sidearms were concerned, that meant a pistol carried openly in a holster.

There was one social subset however that had a bigger grudge against them than every other group combined. That’s the one that Will and his family were about to run into trouble with.

Only minutes before their arrival at the park, they had stopped into the nearby Zongo’s Ice Cream (named after their seagull mascot, which most folks found ridiculous, but it brought the kids in) and now were headed into the park with their assorted cones. It had slipped Will’s mind that this ice cream place was listed on their web forum as not being friendly to open-carriers. While making their purchases, one of the girls behind the counter had been so distracted by the visible presence of A GUN!!! (dramatic music here) that Will had to get her attention and remind her what they had ordered so she didn’t get them all wrong.

The manager, who sat back in his office observing, had elected to say nothing to Will about his policy during all of this. Instead, after they had left, he called 911 and reported a man with a gun behaving in a threatening manner.

Will and crew were still well away from the kid’s playground when the first patrol car parked on the street nearby. He didn’t think anything of it, but he kept one eye on it just in case. When three more cruisers showed up soon afterward however, that’s when he knew they were in for trouble.

Four cops exited their cars and walked toward them. Will put his arm around his wife and smiled as they approached. He said, Good day, gentlemen, and the cops responded by pulling their guns and charging them, screaming at them not to move.

As the cops moved in, Will’s frightened wife moved behind his shoulder for protection, and the cop on their right began screaming, She’s going for his weapon! He ran in close, put his gun right to her head. Hands up, get on the ground, now!

Will and his panicked wife were thrown to the ground and cuffed. Their son was seized from them, and his gun was taken from its holster and held up like a war prize. Then they were pulled up to their knees, while stunned people from around the park began to gather to see what was going on.

What in the hell is this about… Will began.

Sergeant Jack Hayward, the cop who had just stuck his gun in the face of Will’s wife’s, was the first to reply. We got a report of a man with a gun who was behaving in a manner that warranted alarm. Would that be you? Hayward was a big man, a bit soft in the middle but menacing. Will didn’t remember him right off, but he’d be quite disturbed later to be reminded that Jack Hayward already had a fatality to his credit.

You know better than to take people down like this, Will responded. Who ordered this?

I ordered this, came the reply, as a fifth cop appeared from behind the others and stepped