A moment later bubbles boiled on the surface of the river and the guy bobbed up, emitting a cry of pain that echoed off the concrete bridge. “AAAAAHHH!”
AAAHH!
Aah!
Ah!
He turned onto his back and looked up, his eyes meeting mine.
“Swim to shore!” I hollered down to him.
“Fuck you!” he hollered back, grimacing with the effort.
Now that’s just rude.
Signaling Brigit to follow me, I raced across the bridge, turned, and headed down the brushy embankment to the river’s edge. Next to me, Brigit danced a doggy jig, ready for action.
“Go get ’im, girl.” I ordered her to round up the suspect.
She hurled herself into the water. Splash!
Bank robber number three issued another expletive as he noted Brigit furiously dog-paddling toward him, leaving a wake in the murky water.
I pulled my gun now and aimed it at the guy. “If you hurt my dog,” I hollered at the young man, “you die!”
I meant it, too. Brigit and I had gone through a series of ups and downs, and she could be a stubborn and demanding partner. But through it all, we’d had each other’s backs. We’d grown close and—dammit!—I loved that dog.
Number three frantically swam downriver, doing his best to outswim Brigit. Not gonna happen. My partner gained on him, was nearly to him now.
Evidently figuring out his only chance of besting my K-9 was an evasive maneuver, the guy took a deep breath and dove down, his black Converse fluttering on the surface before he disappeared under the water. Brigit turned her head, looking about and swimming in a circle, trying to figure out where he’d gone.
A few seconds later, a fresh round of bubbles broke the surface fifteen feet downriver and his head popped up again, his mouth gaping as he gasped for air.
“There he is!” I shouted, pointing.
Brigit must have heard his sputtering, because she turned his way and pursued him again.
He tried a second time to confuse her, this time swimming under her and popping to the surface behind her. Again she locked on, turning and paddling toward him. Again he dove beneath the surface.
Twenty seconds later, his head popped up near one of the bridge supports as he attempted to swim upstream now.
As Brigit approached, he dove one last time. This time she seemed to clue in, following the path of bubbles. When his head popped to the surface, she was ready. She opened her mouth, grabbed the back of his collar in her teeth, and began dragging him to shore.
“Let go of me!” He flailed his arms, sending up a splash, but with Brigit positioned behind him he couldn’t land a hit. Lucky for him. If he’d hit my dog, I would’ve returned the favor blow-for-blow with my baton once she’d dragged his sorry ass ashore.
A minute later they were in shallow water near the bank. Still struggling, the guy turned facedown and tried to get to his feet in the boggy muck. I was tempted to use my Taser at this point, but I wasn’t sure whether the water would conduct the current and electrocute my partner and whatever fish might be nearby. No sense taking a chance.
Holding both my gun and baton at the ready, I ordered Brigit to release him and return to my side. “Hands up!” I yelled.
He looked from me to the backup officers positioned on the bank and bridge above us, all of whom had their guns drawn and pointed at him. Finally realizing he was done for, he complied, raising his arms and stumbling forward to collapse on the bank.
In seconds, I had my cuffs around his wrists. Click-click.
“Good job, Brigit.” I ruffled her ears, retrieved three liver treats from the sack in my pocket, and fed them to her. When she was done, she gave herself a thorough shake, dousing me with dog-scented water. Not that it mattered, really, given that I was still wet from the car wash.
A voice came from the bridge. “Good job, Officer Luz!”
I looked up to see Detective Jackson standing at the railing, her right hand forming a thumb’s-up sign, the human equivalent of a liver treat.
With all of the suspects in custody, we commenced a pat-down at our cruisers. In the front pocket of number three’s jeans I found a model steam engine with a missing smokestack. Though he was being tight-lipped, Jackson and I surmised he’d used the model engine as a pretend gun in his pocket when holding up the bank. The chimney had evidently come loose and fallen out of his pocket. Looked like I’d been right about the odd piece of plastic we’d found on the bus.
Jackson opened his wallet and pulled out his driver’s license. “Ryan Benjamin Nix. Born May third, 1992.” She cut a glance his way. “A Taurus, hmm? That explains the bullshit you’ve put everyone through today.”
I whipped out my phone and ran an internet search on his name. As I’d suspected, he was also a member of the local model train group. His name popped up on a short list of people whose membership dues were delinquent. I held up my phone to show Jackson the screen. “He belongs to the model train group, too.”
Now that I had a name for the third suspect, I was able to run a criminal background check on him. For a guy who was only in his early twenties, Ryan Nix had racked up an extensive and varied rap sheet, though all of his previous charges were misdemeanors for which he’d been punished only with fines. He had two theft convictions under $1,500 each. A public intoxication and public urination charge, both on the same date. No surprise there as the two offenses often went hand in hand. You drink too much, you gotta pee and you don’t care where you do it or who might be watching. He’d been nailed for criminal mischief after setting fire to a political sign in a neighbor’s yard. He’d acquired a conviction for disturbing the peace when his parents had refused to let him use their car and he’d yelled obscenities at them from their front lawn. He also had a pending charge for possession of a small amount of marijuana.
Jackson pulled another card from his wallet, a Visa credit card in the name of Brian Hamilton. “Where’d you get this?”
Nix refused to answer.
Jackson’s gaze went from Nix to Vogel to Blakemore. “Anybody want to tell us what happened? Whose grand idea it was to rob a bank, steal a bus, and torch a convenience store?”
Though none of the men would talk, it was fairly easy to surmise that Vogel and Blakemore had lamented their job losses while at a meeting of the model train club and Nix had goaded them into an ill-conceived plan of revenge.
While we found no incriminating evidence on Vogel or Blakemore, a rifle belonging to Blakemore turned up in a gym bag inside the pickup. No doubt it was the one used in the bank holdup.
After the other officers hauled the three men off to jail, Jackson turned to me. “Want to go with me to the suspects’ homes? See what other evidence we might find that can be used in court?”
“Definitely.”
After obtaining search warrants, we were on our way.
A visit to Vogel’s apartment led us to a model train magazine from which many of the letters for the demand note, including the black R on the yellow background, had been cut. You’d think the guy would have been smart enough to destroy the evidence, or to at least toss it in the trash somewhere. Clearly he wasn’t a career criminal.
When we knocked on the door at the Nix home, Ryan’s mother answered. She looked more disappointed than surprised to see two two-legged members of law enforcement and a K-9 on her doorstep. “What did Ryan do now?”
“Started a couple of fires,” I told her. “Committed armed robberies at a bank and a convenience store. Stole a city bus and three cars. Jumped off a bridge to evade arrest.”
“When did these things happen?”
“Today.”
“Today? He did all of that today?”
“Yep.”
Mrs. Nix shook her head. “It takes him a week to get around to taking out the garbage here.” She exhaled a long, frustrated breath before returning her gaze to me and Jackson. “My husband and I took our kids to church every Sunday and encouraged them to work hard in school. Both of Ryan’s older brothers went to college and got good jobs. I don’t know where we went wrong with that boy.”