“Okay, Chaz. Give it to me”
Chaz recreated the event with stunning accuracy.
“So, like the van was pulled up to the door, and we were rolling the amps out over here. Then some guy in a tank top and a poser flak jacket appears out of nowhere waving a gun around.”
Gomez almost took a pinky in the eye as Chaz demonstrated.
“Easy, hombre!”
“Bro! We had no idea what to do. I think he wanted the gear. He was, like, looking around at all of it like he was trying to figure out how to get it home. Anyway, the door to the church opened, and the gun went off. He scared the be-jeepers out of himself and ran so …”
He started to jog along the fence.
“… we chased after him. Dangerous I know…pant pant…but we were…wheeze…pumped I guess.”
When he got to the far side of the neighboring property, he trotted to a stop and pointed at the fence. He was doubled over with his free hand on one knee as he struggled to both catch his breath and speak loudly enough to be heard from a distance.
“He chucked the gun…wheeze…into the river! We caught him…gulp…and pinned him…”
He stumbled over to the center of the walkway and collapsed in a seated position.
“… here. It took all four of us! Dude was jacked!”
Lynch hollered through cupped hands, while the others applauded the performance.
“How long after you caught him did you call the police?”
Chaz struggled to his feet and shuffled back towards the church.
“No call needed, bro. Geoff…I mean Officer Blakely was pulling security duty at the Battle of the Bands, same as all the other Ellisport cops.”
Lynch and Gomez took a look over the fence. The river was twenty feet below them. Anything that went over the fence would have landed in the water. Gomez felt a presence next to him. He turned his head to find Officer Blakely also looking into the river as if that’s what every cop on the walkway was supposed to be doing.
Gomez spoke.
“Did you scour the bank?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did the river get dredged?”
“There was no need. The case never went to court. The kid OD’d before the date. Besides, the bank is sheer, and the river moves pretty fast in the summer, especially last summer with all the rain. What goes in doesn’t come out.”
But it did come out. It came out, found its way into the hands of a killer, and expelled a bullet into the head of a bishop. Lynch’s brain revved up. A myriad of schemes resurrecting the murder weapon from the depths of the Schuylkill went past his eyes. All were ridiculous.
Another item for the complication list.
He was brought out of his trance by Chaz hooting “whew!”as he backed against the fence with a thump.
Gomez wanted to take him back to Potterford as the police station mascot.
“So, Chaz mi amigo. Did you win?”
The drummer looked up, finally able to speak normally.
“Win what?”
“The Battle of the Bands, hombre. How’d you do?”
“We came in third. We’re All Lazarus brought their A-game.”
“Sorry to hear that, bro. Are they local?”
The drummer wiped some sweat off of his upper lip with the cuff of his Members Only jacket.
“Maplewood Evangelical…it’s in Potterford.”
14. The Burger King Parking Lot
Bubbs was the perfect grunt. He had no delusion or pretense regarding his limited intellect. He knew he was at his best when working under orders. He knew that the world was a better place when he wasn’t thinking for himself. On occasion, however, he would act under orders that he considered implied, and that never yielded positive results.
This was one of those times. No one told him to track down, follow, and mess with Reilly’s bitch partner. No one had to.
Bubbs knew Sergeant Warner. He’d seen her and Reilly at the Iron Wall. The place was a hotbed for dealers, and Bubbs was the bouncer for the club’s rear entrance. He had neither the inclination nor the mental capacity to remember everyone that went into the club, but he did take notice when someone went out in cuffs. He’d witnessed Warner in action. She was fast and had an impressive amount of upper-body strength, but not enough to give the big-boned moron cause for concern.
Bubbs wasn’t much for concern in general. His needs were Cro-Magnon-level simple: eating, sleeping, screwing, partying, being bigger that everyone else, and riding his bike.
Bubbs had a Harley Davidson Softail. Bubbs liked his Harley Davidson Softail…a lot.
So, upon his hog, the grunt sat and waited with no specific idea what he was going to do. He was in the Burger King parking lot across the street from the Potterford Police Station. He was good at sitting and waiting…or anything that resembled sitting and waiting.
Half way through his second Double-Whopper, he spotted Warner exiting the lot in a black Ford Fusion with municipal plates. She was alone.
With an enviable belch, he fired up his bike and eased out on to Main Street. As he struggled to stay unseen, a plan-slash-fantasy started to form beneath his thick skull. He’d definitely knock her out and cut her. He wouldn’t sever anything major. He just wanted to leave a visible scar. The bridge of the nose would be good, or her ear. If he had time, maybe he’d strip her, or just yank down her grannies and write “PIG” on her ass. Then he could take a picture for Arthur and the rest of the crew. That would be cool.
He nearly missed her taking a right onto Prince Boulevard. The only thing of interest on South Prince was a ramp to the highway. His afternoon was about to get complicated.
They were both soon racing east on Route 422. When they passed the second exit, Bubbs thought about bailing. Three more, and she’d hit either Route 76 bound for Philly, Route 202 bound for Delaware, or the Pennsylvania Turnpike bound for just about anywhere. When her blinker went
