Blindman’s Bluff

THIRTY-SEVEN

HARRIMAN COULD HEAR the banging at his back door. His heart, already galloping, almost flew out of his chest. If he yelled from under the bed, could they even hear him? Would he give himself away to the intruder?

Wait until they were closer.

Patience, patience.

Like they say, silence is golden.

WITHIN MOMENTS, BRESLAU had returned and was breathless. “I heard the call go out.”

“What call?” Marge pounded the door again.

“911 from the inside of this address.”

“Good God!” Marge exclaimed. “If Harriman called 911, someone’s inside. The door’s bolted. I don’t want a hostage situation, but I don’t want to ram the door without vest protection. Guy could have a gun.”

Her eyes made a frantic search around the yard and landed on the patio chairs. She stacked the four of them together, picked them up, and brought them to her chest, using them as a shield.

“This’ll have to do,” Marge said. “Cover me.”

“I’ll ram the door, Sarge,” Rangler said. “I got a lot more weight on me.”

“This isn’t Kevlar, Rangler. A bullet could rip through this like it was snow.”

“We all signed up for the job.” Rangler held his arms out. “I got more weight on me. Whoever can do it the easiest, you know?”

“Can’t argue with that.” Marge would remember the good attitude as she passed the chairs to Rangler. He hefted them as if they were a pile of blankets. Taking two steps backward, he rammed the door.

Once.

Twice.

By the third time, the frame splintered and the back door swung open. In the background, the three of them could hear the sounds of approaching sirens.

Marge peered inside: dark and silent.

“Harriman, are you here?” When Marge didn’t get any response, she pulled out her semiautomatic issue. “Rangler, you take the flashlights and shine the beam inside so I can see. Breslau, you’re my cover. Let’s go.”

There was not nearly enough illumination to discharge a weapon. Marge flattened herself against the wall and inched her way inside, groping for the light switch. When her fingers finally found it, she steadied her breath and lifted it up.

Nothing happened.

She did it again and again and then remembered the obvious.

The guy was blind.

Marge wondered if there were any active lights in the entire unit. She thought for a few moments.

Brett had mentioned something about a girlfriend driving him to Rina’s. She must visit sometimes at night. There had to be artificial lighting somewhere. Assessing her surroundings, Marge was standing in the laundry room, which led directly into the kitchen.

The kitchen!

Maybe there was a hood light over the cooktop with a working bulb. She said, “Throw some beams into the kitchen with your flashlights.”

The area looked unoccupied, but someone could be hiding. Slowly she moved toward the cooktop.

She reached under the hood, felt for the switch, and turned it on.

Voilà!

The illumination was better but far from adequate. She saw a duplex switch on the tiled backsplash.

The first one operated the garbage disposal, but the second one turned on a system of under-the-counter lighting. They could see enough to clear the kitchen and move forward.

Harriman’s condo sported an open floor plan: living room, dining area, and kitchen bleeding into one another. The good news was that nothing appeared disturbed. There was no upended furniture or other signs of a struggle, but there was just something off about the place.

Too quiet? The smell?

Sirens continued to wail in the background.

Marge said, “Rangler, call in our position to the RTO and tell all units coming to the scene to approach with extreme caution.”

Her eyes skittered around in the dimness. Off the open public area was a hallway that probably led to the bedrooms.

“Cover me,” Marge told the officers.

She plastered herself against the wall and inched her way down the foyer until she came to the first closed door. She knocked hard on the door, announcing herself as the police, telling anyone inside to come out with their hands in the air. When the door remained shut, she threw it open and pointed a gun forward.

Nothing happened.

With caution, Rangler shined the flashlights inside the room and it appeared to be empty.

“Police!” Marge shouted again. “You’re surrounded! Come out with your hands in the air!”

They waited…one second…two seconds…three seconds.

They entered the room. The small space was set up as a gym with a stationary bicycle, a treadmill, and a weight machine. The pole lamp inside worked and bathed the area in soft light. Marge pointed to a closed door-probably a closet. Pressing herself against the wall, she turned the knob and tossed open the door.

Nothing happened, and that was just the way she wanted it.

As Breslau kept watch at the door and Rangler provided the spotlight, Marge rummaged inside the closet, pushing away clothes and weights just to make sure that no one was hiding.

She jumped when she heard a pounding at the front door. Rangler let the backup officers into the living room, turning on as many lamps as they could find. Good mood lighting but no romance was in the air. When everyone was safely inside, Marge took a head count-eight including herself.

“I want one at the front door, one at the back door, one guarding the first bedroom and two of you clearing that closed door, which is probably a bathroom.” She turned to Breslau and Rangler. “We’ll check out the last closed door, which is probably Harriman’s bedroom.”

Heart hammering in her chest, Marge pounded on the door and yelled, “Police. Come out with your hands up.”

The response was a male voice that screamed out a “Help!”

“Harriman?”

“Yes! Help me! I’m under the bed.”

“Don’t move. Are you alone?”

“I have no idea.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Don’t move!” Marge repeated. “We’ll come in and get you.” Speaking loudly, she said, “We found the occupant. We’re going in. I need a couple more bodies.”

The two officers who had cleared the hallway bathroom came to help. Marge said, “This could be a setup. Everyone take a position of safety, and I’ll open the door when we’re all ready.”

When she got the nods, she flattened herself against the wall, turned the knob, and flung open the door.

Flashlights lit up the dark room, darting around the blackness like giant fireflies on a moonless night.

“We’re inside, Brett,” Marge said. “Stay put. We’re going to clear the room. Are there any lights that work in this room?”

“Try the bed lamp on the nightstand. I think that’s what my girlfriend uses.”

Marge worked her way to the nightstand lamp and turned it on. The space was a decent size with a king bed and two flanking nightstands. Across from the bed was a dresser. One wall had a closet with sliding mirrored doors and opposite that was a closed door, which Marge guessed opened to the bathroom.

Using standard procedure, she opened the bathroom door. Empty but the shower curtains were drawn.

“Police!” Marge screamed, pointing the gun at the tub enclosure. “Come out with your hands in the air!”

The shower curtains didn’t appear to hear because they didn’t even ripple. With great care, she pulled them back and revealed an empty tub.

“Clear!” She went back to the bedroom. “What about the closet?”

“Clear,” Rangler told her.

“Harriman?”

“Still here.”

“You can come out now.”

“I’m naked.”

“Somebody get a robe or something.”

Harriman crept out from under the bed and stood on shaky legs. He was trembling all over as they handed him a terry cloth robe. He was breathing as shallowly as a panting dog. “Did you find him?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m not crazy!” Harriman said. “I swear I heard something.”

“We’re not done searching, Brett. We’ve got the place surrounded. As soon as we get you out of here, we’ll finish up.” Marge offered him her arm. “I’ll guide you out.”

When they reached the front door, Harriman started shivering. “He’s here!” he whispered to Marge.

“I can smell him!”

“Then we’ll find him.”

“Please don’t leave until you do. I know he’s here!”

“Officer Fetterling is going to escort you to a police car. He’ll wait with you until we’ve cleared the area.”

He grabbed Marge’s arm. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. That’s what we’re paid to do.” When he was gone and safely ensconced inside one of the cruisers, Marge looked around.

“We’ve cleared everything but the hall closet.” Standing off to the side, she pounded on the door.

“Police! Come out with your hands in the air!”

Nothing. What was the likelihood that this last search would yield anyone?

The door had been locked from the inside. Was Harriman putting everyone on? Was he a drama king? But then how did the back porch light become unscrewed unless the blind man did it himself.

She thought about all the possibilities as she flattened herself against the wall. Then her brain shifted into pure focused energy. Hand on the knob, she shouted, “Take positions!”

Throwing open the door.

Nothing happened.

“Hold your positions!” Marge was still squashed against the wall, and something told her not to move. It was the smell of sweat…the smell of fear.

The air became very quiet. Her breathing was amplified in her brain, as if listening through a stethoscope. Heart pounding in her chest.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Slow it down, Marge.

“Hold your positions!” she repeated.

Listening carefully, she finally heard it; inhalations and exhalations that didn’t match her own breathing rate.

Someone was definitely inside, hiding.

“Police!” she shouted. “You’re surrounded! Come out with your hands in the air!”

Again, no one stirred.

“I’m giving you to the count of three and then we’re going to shoot-”

“No, don’t do that!” a voice pleaded.

“Get out, get out, get out,” Marge ordered.

Something rose from the corner, and Marge caught a glint of metal. “Drop the gun! Drop it! Drop it! Drop it!” When she heard something hard fall with a thud, she said, “Hands up, hands up, hands up!”

As the creature from the black lagoon emerged, Marge told him to hit the ground. As soon as he did, he was pounced on by four officers while two others searched the closet. The gun was a.32 Smith and Wesson, one of the weapons used in the Kaffey shootings.

What were the chances that it matched anything? She supposed it depended on who was lying spread-eagle on the floor. She shined a light on the face, seeing if he looked familiar while Rangler rifled through the man’s back pockets. He pulled out a wallet and then a driver’s license and showed it to the sarge.

Marge grinned. “Well, hello, Joe. Welcome back to the USA.”