Blue Mage IV: Book ’em if you get ’em
Knocking a kid out on my first day back on the force wasn’t my intention. But he did take a face full of pepper spray like it was nothing. Which isn’t supposed to happen. Even with the watered-down formula mandated by the state a few years back, it was still enough to stop anyone dead in their tracks. Perhaps that’s not the best choice of words. Anyways, what happens is, the perp falls into fits of coughing. His vocal responses are strained as the larynx flares up and the eyes begin watering profusely. Blood rushes to the head. Pulse spikes. Takes about fifteen minutes to run its course. Or about two seconds for this kid. Like I said, none of this was supposed to happen.
So as soon as the kid hit the floor, I started a timer on my watch and bent down to check his breathing and pulse. Both elevated. So either the pepper spray had done something – or something else was running through his system. My bet was on the something else.
Seconds started to tick by. My own pulse elevated. Most people don’t realize it, but getting knocked out ends in a few ways. You get up quickly, or you get up with brain damage. Or you don’t get up ever again. And there’s always the chance of neck or spine injury. Not anything you want happening during an arrest, but I can happen. At 45 seconds I looked up at Robert. He frowned and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Give the kid a – “
Robert’s advice was cut short by the spurting, gurgling cough of the perp as he rolled over onto his back and lifted his hands to his eyes.
“Hold on there, that’ll just make it worse,” I said, pulling the kid’s hands away from his face. Wiping your eyes just made everything worse.
I turned to one of the bouncers who had dared to venture closer to the perp and asked him to fetch some milk. Milk was better than water for the face. He nodded and ran down the stairs to the first deck. Almost felt bad for the kid, but then I remembered the gorilla downstairs with blood all over his face and the cut on my own arm and then I didn’t feel bad for the kid anymore.
While I waited for the bouncer to return, I cuffed the kid and informed him he was under arrest. He didn’t much like that, but whatever odd mixture of strength and stupidity he exhibited before was gone. Now he was just some whiny brat. I gave him a quick pat down. He didn’t have any weapons, but he did have a fake ID that said he was twenty-three. That’d be a fun topic of conversation I’d have with the owner of the bar for later. For now, I checked the kid for a concussion. We learned basic first aid at the academy – we’re not the EMT, but we can pretty much tell if you’re gonna die on the way back to the precinct or not. Anyways, everything checked out okay, which was good. I wanted to get him booked right away instead of making a stop off at the emergency room. That would have meant a mountain of paper work. On top of the mountain of paper work I’d already created for myself. And this was my first day back, after all.
Eventually, the milk made its way back by way of the bouncer and I poured it on this kids’ face. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it a bit. Next, Robert and I took the kid by the arms and lead him back to the Interceptor, his bleached blond faux hawk bobbing gently between us. He complained about his Miranda rights, and Robert ensured him that we’d be happy to read them before questioning him. Which told us one thing – this guy wasn’t a repeat customer. Most of the people we dealt with knew the process. Unfortunately, they also knew that the overcrowded jails and laxed punitive measures in recent years meant that they’d get to go through the process many, many, many times. We dealt with a lot of semi professional law breakers.
“You’re putting me in there?” the kid said as we arrived at the suburban and opened the backdoor. Definitely a first-time customer.
“Yes, in there,” Robert replied as he shoved the perp into the backseat.
The backseat was not a comfortable place to be. The seat gave about a foot of leg room and came without seatbelts. A thick plexiglass shield allowed officers and perps to see each other and a camera let officers monitor an occupant while driving. This could be useful for seeing if the perp was pulling out a weapon you missed in a pat down. Of course, it wasn’t fool proof, and unfortunately, our first-time customer would end up being fairly adept at being sneaky.
As we turned down North LaSalle, I noticed the kid crack a smile. The kind of smiles kids make when they think they’ve done something clever. Before I could say a word, a loud, screeching crash reverberated through the suburban.
Instinctively, I covered my face with my arms as the sound shook my bones, tore at my ligaments, forced the air out of my lungs. The car was still swaying back and forth when I opened my eyes, gasping for breath. I looked behind me at the backseat. The kid was gone. I opened the door and stumbled out of the passenger seat. Across the street, a twisted, glowing piece of scrap metal had wrapped itself around a lamppost like a kid’s candy wrapper. I quickly realized it was the back passenger door to the Interceptor. I looked South along the street. No one. I looked North. I saw the kid sprinting up the street. I charged after him.
My mind was racing with possibilities – had he used a bomb to blast the car door open? If so, how did he get it passed the pat down? Or worse, could it have been magic? That wasn’t something you could confiscate off a perp, but even the best “magicians” could really only perform party tricks. Accidents involving magic were typically more dangerous. And prone to becoming a media dumpster fire. But if this was magic it wasn’t an accident – and that scared me. Thankfully, I didn’t have time to be scared. I had to run.
About a minute after extremely hard running, belly flapping, and ragged breathing, I knew I wasn’t going to catch the kid. I radioed Robert who raced past me in the Interceptor, lights blaring. Both the kid and the car dove around the curve and I lost sight of them beyond the grand, old-school styled cathedral of Moody Church. I broke into a strained jog. Robert would catch up, but he’d need assistance. As I closed the distance to Moody Church, I heard a second loud crash. And then a third.