When the call came in, Sheriff Bart Motherwell was doing his level best to flirt with the cute girl behind the counter at the Bean Factory – what passed for the local coffeeshop since the diner finally closed a few months back. It didn’t matter to him that the girl wasn’t much older than his daughter Eunice, or that the just the thought of being underneath the fleshy, beer gutted lawman with garlic breathe and more hair growing out of his nose than on the top of his head made the girl puke a little in the back of her mouth. The Sheriff came in everyday for his free coffee and spent a good forty-five minutes to an hour trying to get his stumpy fingers down her pants.
He was using his best line – talking about how secluded his fishing cabin was. How romantic it was when the moonlight splashed off the lake. How he was thinking seriously about retiring there (if he didn’t get killed in the line of duty, he’d joke). How it needed a woman’s touch.
The girl behind the counter said nothing and handed him his coffee. She smiled to be polite because the Sheriff’s Department patrolled their lot a few extra times so long as the coffee was free. Besides, she really needed the job; and while she didn’t feel like she ought to put up with bullshit, making an enemy out of a small town cop was never a good idea. “Don’t you think you should answer that?” She asked him after his police radio went off for the third time.
“Huh? Oh, shit. I guess.” He fumbled a bit with the speaker attached to his shoulder, and found the button. “What’s the problem Glenn?” He hoped his voice sounded annoyed and impatient. He wanted to make sure the coffee girl knew he’d rather be talking to her. Women like being the center of attention.
“Bank Robbery, Bart…”
“When you’re speaking on official channels, Glenn, you address me in the correct manner.” He beamed a little. It was also good to show that you’re in charge. Women were also drawn to power and authority.
“Sorry, Bart. I mean… SHERIFF. The First National Bank is getting robbed.”
“Main and Third?”
“Yes, Sir. I’ve already called for the ambulance and called in Lamont from the speed trap on Route 157…”
“It’s not a speed trap, Deputy.” He rolled his eyes and looked to see if the girl was impressed.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, Sheriff. I’m just here outside the bank. He’s holed up in there with all the people. Says he won’t come out until you get here.”
“Just one?”
“Yes, Sheriff. Sounds like a kid, too.”
“Armed?”
“Yes sir.”
The Sheriff pushed out a long, annoyed sigh and shook his enormous head. “10-4.” He looked up at the girl. “Have to go, honey. That’s the life of a police officer.” He waited a couple of seconds to let it sink in; it would be important, after all, for her to understand how dangerous the life was. None of his other three wives seemed to have understood it; but Bart Motherwell saw himself as a romantic figure. He picked up his coffee and walked out the door.
The bank wasn’t that far from the coffeeshop. It was a small town, so nothing was that far away from anything. Over the three block drive, he mentally went over the short list of criminals and lowlifes who might be dumb enough to pull a daytime bank robbery in his town. Bunch of dumbass kids, he thought, born of dumbass parents who had just enough sense to know how to breed. As he pulled up across the street the bank, behind Deputy Glenn Pursett’s patrol car, he narrowed the list down to two or three possibilities.
He got out of the car. Glenn was standing there, holding his pump shot gun like a teddy bear and trying to keep the gathering crowd from getting too close. Why did I ever hired that kid? he thought. Shouldn’t matter a tinker’s damn if your Dad’s on the Village Council. “Ok, Glenn, what do we got?”
“Just like I said, Sheriff,” Glenn answered. “He’s got them all in there as hostages and he said he wouldn’t release anyone until he talked to you.”
“Well, I’m here,” Bart said. “Let’s get this show on the road. And Glenn,” he reached for the shotgun and took it out of the Deputy’s hands. “You need to stop waving this thing around. You’re liable to hurt somebody.” He took the gun and tossed it in the front seat of Glenn’s car. Just then, Lamont pulled up like he was going to church. Shit, Bart thought. How do I get anything done with these idiots? “You two try and maintain the parameter. I’ll talk to the suspect.” He held the bullhorn up to his mouth and began to speak.
“Alright, now,” he began. “You wanted me here and now I’m here. “The first thing you need to do, son, is release those hostages. Then you need to surrender peacefully. Before this gets out of hand.”
“Is that the Sheriff?” The voice sounded almost squeaky.
Is this kid old enough to even have hair on his balls? “This IS the Sheriff. You’re in a whole lotta trouble, son.”
“Son? I’m not your son, fat man!”
“Jimmy Bresden? Is that you? You better come out here before I come up there and turn you over my knee. Goddamn punk.”
“I don’t know who that is, but you’re too fat to catch me. You sure you’re the Sheriff? There ain’t a weight requirement?”
“Billy Rice,” Bart called out through the bullhorn. Get your ass out here and release those hostages.”
“Don’t know that name, either, fat man. But I’m coming out. And if you try anything, I’ve got a bomb set to go off in here that’ll blow this town off the map.”
The crowd began to murmur, and Bart ordered his useless deputies too push everyone back and call the state bomb squad. “Why you want to come out, then? Scared of your own handiwork?”
“I want to talk to you, Sheriff. That’s all. Let me talk and everyone goes free.”
Bart didn’t like letting his suspect take control of the situation, but at least if he’s outside the bank, there a chance. Clearly the kid’s in over his head and is looking for a way out. “Fine. You come on out and we’ll have us a nice little talk, ok?” He started to get the sense that Glenn could’ve handled this without him – if Glenn wasn’t such a useless tool. At least Lamont was a good hunting buddy. Glenn – the college boy – was damned useless. Bart told himself that after this was finished, he was going to get that useless little pussy kicked out of the Sheriff’s Department and sent somewhere he couldn’t do any harm. Like the DMV.
The bank door opened and the suspect walked out calm and cool. He didn’t look familiar. Shit, Bart spat on the street. He’s not even from here. Now I KNOW I’m dealing with a dumbass. The kid was on the tall side, a bit lanky. He had close cropped dark hair, and was wearing big sunglasses that covered most of his face.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“Why the hell would I know who you are? Am I supposed to? I know you’re not from around here.”
“That’s right,” the bank robber said. “I’m not from around here and you don’t know me. And you ain’t going to, either. But everybody else will. You can count on that.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“I’m saying, fat man,” the boy grinned, “that I intend to kill you. You’re my first one, see? And then all these people will know me. I’ll be famous.”
“That’s probably the stupidest thing I ever heard,” Bart spat. “You think killing ME is going to make you famous?”
“Not just you,” the robber grinned back. “Don’t you listen? You’re the FIRST. And by the time I’m done, everybody everywhere will know who I am.”
“Is that all this is about?” Bart asked. He’d heard a lot of dumbass things before, but this one had to take it all. Some lanky kid just rolled into some small town and decided to be famous by robbing a bank and killing a small town sheriff?
“Why, is it too complicated for you, fat man?”
The Sheriff felt himself starting to sweat. He wasn’t counting on this, and he had no protection at all. He couldn’t even fit into his bulletproof vest anymore, and the only weapon he had was his service revolver. It was inconceivable to him up to that point that he’d actually die doing his job. The most he ever put up with were speeding tickets and parking violations. The Friday night drunks. Domestic violence calls. He’d joked often that half the men in town had a reason to kill him; but it never occurred to him that someone might actually try.
“Listen here boy,” he answered. “There isn’t any big city paper here to write you up. Hell, our paper here isn’t much more than a bunch of coupons and bible verses.”
“Shut the fuck up fat man and go for your gun,” the young man leered. “I bet you’ve never had to fire that thing. I bet you only have one bullet. Am I right?” He laughed. “Barney Fucking Fife. Come on fat man. You might get a shot off.”
“What? You think this is some cowboy movie? You think you’re Doc Holiday and this is the OK Corral?” Bart shook his large head. He felt the beads of sweat running down from where his hat was squeezed down over it. “You need to let those people go and give up.” For a second, he thought he felt his knees go wobbly. That’s all I fucking need.
“Maybe I DO have a bomb and maybe I don’t. But it don’t matter none. You’re not going to be here to see how it all works out.” He reached behind him and started to pull a handgun out of the small of his back.
“Now wait a minute here, son,” Bart couldn’t disguise the quivering in his voice. He started to back away and wished again that he’d at lest tried to make the vest fit. “Don’t you do that. Don’t you…”
“Go to hell fat man,” The kid pulled his gun out, took aim and was ready to the trigger. Bart braced himself for the impact of the bullet he was sure would hit him. Every thought emptied out of his head. He closed his eyes. Then he heard the POP of a gun going off. But nothing happened. Nothing hit him. He was still breathing, his clothes soaked through with sweat. When he opened his eyes, the kid was laying in the street. Bart looked around. Lamont was taking his .22 down from his shoulder. The first thought that entered Sheriff Motherwell’s head was He must’ve been out hunting this morning. He’d talked to Lamont time and again about hunting off season and during his shift; but at that moment, Bart didn’t imagine he’d ever say another word about it. Ever.
That was when he noticed he’d pissed himself. Trying to regain his composure, he stood at his full height. Just then, one of the tellers came out of the bank; it was one of the pretty young ones who only worked during summer. The rest of the year she was off at college studying to be an accountant or veterinarian or something. Sometimes she laid out in her parents’ back yard in a skimpy little bikini, tanning herself. He used to like to try and drive by and catch her out before he turned his attention to the coffee counter girl. “Everyone in there alright?”
She shook her head. “He told us he’d shoot anybody who walked outside. He said he had people out here with guns, watching the doors.”
The Sheriff spat on the ground and shook his head. “No bomb in there?”
“No.”
“What a dipshit. You go on back in and tell everyone it’s safe. We gotta talk to everyone before they can leave, though.”
The girl nodded at him and walked back in the bank. Lamont and Glenn were standing over by the body. Well, actually, Lamont was standing by the body and Glenn was close to the sidewalk, bent over puking. “Useless little piss ant,” he muttered. He walked over and stood next to Lamont, who sniffed the air and looked at the Sheriff. Bart shot him a look. “We got an ID on Jesse James, here?” Bart asked.
“Haven’t checked yet.”
Bart kicked the body over and exerted great effort to get down on one knee to check for identification. But the kid wasn’t carrying anything. Not a wallet, or even a dollar to by a pop.
“Goddamn idiot,” Bart wheezed as he got to his feet. He looked at Lamont. “Get this mess cleaned up.” He pointed over towards Glenn, who was just finishing emptying his stomach in the municipal gutter. “Get him to interview the people in the bank. That should be lightweight enough for him.” Lamont nodded. The Sheriff walked over to his car, got in, and drove off to change his pants and call someone about getting Glenn reassigned. And after that, the Sheriff thought, I’ll go get another cup of coffee.
