and spoke into the radio. “We’ve got lots of brass from the shooters at the scene, 9mm. Could be a compact tactical weapon, like an Uzi or Tec-9.” He didn’t need to say the rest, because the other police officers knew the implications—that the weapon might be hidden under a coat, or that the suspects might be at a distance aiming at them right now.
The sergeant’s radio squawked a rapid series of short messages, units in the search conveying their locations and directions. After a few seconds there were some overriding instructions from an unseen supervisor to redirect a couple of units. The sergeant turned to the Abels. “Is there a chance they got into your house?”
“It’s possible,” Sid said. “We didn’t see them leave. We reopened the front gate so they might leave if we returned fire, but they didn’t go that way.”
“All right,” said the sergeant. “Can you lend me the keys?”
“They’re on the keychain in the car ignition.”
“Sit tight.” He took the keys from the car, assembled six men, and sent them to take positions around the house. An assault group of another six appeared, three of them carrying shotguns.
In a moment they were in the front door, and as they cleared each room they turned the lights on and moved to the next. The sergeant kept silent as the team reported their progress.
Five minutes later the team declared all the rooms cleared, and began to leave the house. The sergeant said to the Abels, “They didn’t get into your house.”
“Cops!” said Sid.
“What do you mean?” the sergeant said.
“The only people we’ve seen are cops. That’s how the shooters got off the property,” he said. “They must have been dressed as cops.”
“Sid’s right,” said Ronnie. “They knew that if they fired rifles in the middle of a residential neighborhood, police would be arriving in serious numbers in a few minutes. After a couple more, there would be officers going in every direction. All they had to do was wait until then and walk out after them.”
The sergeant said into his radio, “The shooters may have left the yard dressed as police officers. Look at faces. Look at badges and equipment. Ask yourself all the questions when you approach another team. I repeat. The suspects might be wearing police uniforms.”
Three miles away, Ed and Nicole Hoyt sat in the alley behind a row of closed restaurants and stores on Nordham Street in Northridge. Nicole pulled a gray sweatshirt down over her black, short-sleeved police uniform shirt and handed Ed his plaid flannel shirt. He pulled it over his head, and then buttoned the top two buttons. Nicole adjusted the radio scanner beside her to 506.975. It clicked and then a male voice said, “One zebra twenty-six. We went on a burglary at the Springfield Cleaners yesterday morning. They thought a few uniforms might have been part of the missing property.”
“Copy,” said another voice. “Any security video?”
“Negative,” the cop said. “The detectives were planning to check the cameras on other businesses that might have picked something up.”
“We know they won’t find any pictures of us,” Nicole said. “It was as dark as the inside of your pocket that night, and we had ski masks on.”
Ed started the engine and the car crawled down the alley toward the next street. “Even if they don’t catch us, tonight was crap.”
“I know,” said Nicole. “I still don’t know why they’re alive. I’ll bet we put sixty rounds each into that car.”
“We broke a lot of glass, but the shots didn’t go through the doors.”
“Why not?”
“I’m guessing Abel put steel plates in the door panels. That’s when they should have died—right away, when they were still strapped in their seats and ducking their heads.”
“But are you sure there were steel plates?”
“Pretty sure. They should have tried to run. Instead they stayed behind the car, because they knew the doors were armored. We should
The sergeant’s radio squawked a rapid series of short messages, units in the search conveying their locations and directions. After a few seconds there were some overriding instructions from an unseen supervisor to redirect a couple of units. The sergeant turned to the Abels. “Is there a chance they got into your house?”
“It’s possible,” Sid said. “We didn’t see them leave. We reopened the front gate so they might leave if we returned fire, but they didn’t go that way.”
“All right,” said the sergeant. “Can you lend me the keys?”
“They’re on the keychain in the car ignition.”
“Sit tight.” He took the keys from the car, assembled six men, and sent them to take positions around the house. An assault group of another six appeared, three of them carrying shotguns.
In a moment they were in the front door, and as they cleared each room they turned the lights on and moved to the next. The sergeant kept silent as the team reported their progress.
Five minutes later the team declared all the rooms cleared, and began to leave the house. The sergeant said to the Abels, “They didn’t get into your house.”
“Cops!” said Sid.
“What do you mean?” the sergeant said.
“The only people we’ve seen are cops. That’s how the shooters got off the property,” he said. “They must have been dressed as cops.”
“Sid’s right,” said Ronnie. “They knew that if they fired rifles in the middle of a residential neighborhood, police would be arriving in serious numbers in a few minutes. After a couple more, there would be officers going in every direction. All they had to do was wait until then and walk out after them.”
The sergeant said into his radio, “The shooters may have left the yard dressed as police officers. Look at faces. Look at badges and equipment. Ask yourself all the questions when you approach another team. I repeat. The suspects might be wearing police uniforms.”
Three miles away, Ed and Nicole Hoyt sat in the alley behind a row of closed restaurants and stores on Nordham Street in Northridge. Nicole pulled a gray sweatshirt down over her black, short-sleeved police uniform shirt and handed Ed his plaid flannel shirt. He pulled it over his head, and then buttoned the top two buttons. Nicole adjusted the radio scanner beside her to 506.975. It clicked and then a male voice said, “One zebra twenty-six. We went on a burglary at the Springfield Cleaners yesterday morning. They thought a few uniforms might have been part of the missing property.”
“Copy,” said another voice. “Any security video?”
“Negative,” the cop said. “The detectives were planning to check the cameras on other businesses that might have picked something up.”
“We know they won’t find any pictures of us,” Nicole said. “It was as dark as the inside of your pocket that night, and we had ski masks on.”
Ed started the engine and the car crawled down the alley toward the next street. “Even if they don’t catch us, tonight was crap.”
“I know,” said Nicole. “I still don’t know why they’re alive. I’ll bet we put sixty rounds each into that car.”
“We broke a lot of glass, but the shots didn’t go through the doors.”
“Why not?”
“I’m guessing Abel put steel plates in the door panels. That’s when they should have died—right away, when they were still strapped in their seats and ducking their heads.”
“But are you sure there were steel plates?”
“Pretty sure. They should have tried to run. Instead they stayed behind the car, because they knew the doors were armored. We should
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