“Baker-123, a traffic stop.” Stefan Kopriva called over the radio.
“Go ahead, — 123.”
“Eight eight one, Frank George Adam is the plate. We’ll be at Perry and Fairview.”
Chisolm liked Kopriva, one of the few younger officers who seemed to naturally buy into the old school philosophy of police work. He rode with Chisolm for about a week during his training phase when his regular FTO had been sick. Kopriva learned his lessons well. Work hard, work safe, don’t talk to the brass, and get the job done.
“Baker-123, start me backup!” Kopriva’s sounded calm but Chisolm heard tension in the timbre his voice and the speed of his speech.
Chisolm whipped his car around and shot back to Division without bothering to call radio. He heard Janice dispatching Baker units. They copied but didn’t broadcast their locations, leaving the air as open as possible for Kopriva.
Chisolm tore onto Division and buried his foot in the accelerator. Some officers requested backup even when they stopped Grandma, and they kept backup there until Grandma’s name was cleared for warrants on the data channel. Other officers almost always went code four, such as Kopriva. Especially Kopriva, who Chisolm knew had become somewhat of a code-four cowboy. If he asked for some quick backup, he wasn’t kidding around.
Chisolm activated his overhead lights, clearing intersections with his siren. He sped up Foothills, a winding road that intersected with Perry about a block south of Fairview. He approached Perry and swung left, his tires squealing. No other units had checked out on scene yet.
“Adam-112, on scene at Perry,” he told radio, rolling up next to Kopriva’s patrol car. The driver’s door stood wide open. Mid-way between the patrol car and a brown Chevy, Kopriva knelt on top of a black male sprawled on the ground. Kopriva held the suspect’s hands clasped behind his neck. Two other black males sat in the car, one in the front seat, the other in the back. Kopriva leveled his gaze over the top of his gun at the suspect car. Each occupant held his hands high in the air.
“-112, advise on additional units.”
Chisolm keyed his portable as he approached Kopriva, pointing his gun at the vehicle. “Keep them coming,” he said simply. Then, to Kopriva, “Any outstanding suspects?”
Kopriva shook his head. “No. Cover those two while I stuff this one.”
Chisolm drew a bead on the one in the back seat, then searched the back of the car with his eyes. The trunk appeared secure. He wondered if any other subjects were lying down in the back seat.
Kopriva holstered his gun and frisked the suspect on the ground for weapons. “Hello, Isaiah. Remember me? Your little drive-by, looky-look the other night up in Hillyard? You had me real scared.” Sarcasm dripped from his words. “By the way, you’re under arrest.” He lifted Morris to a seated position, then jerked him upright and led him back to the car.
Chisolm listened carefully, his eyes never leaving the Chevy. He knew Morris and it surprised him to see the gangster so quiet. Usually he had a lot to say. His nickname was “Cat,” taken from the personality in the cat food commercials. Chisolm mused that aside from colorful spelling such as ‘Lil Dawg or K-Illin’, gangbangers tended to lack originality.
The rear-seat passenger turned to look back and Chisolm yelled, “Turn around!” The head snapped forward again.
The patrol car door slammed shut and Chisolm heard Kopriva return to his position. “Let’s wait for one more car, Tom. Then we’ll bring them out one at a time and cuff them. I’ve got nothing on those two yet, but I want them secure when I search the car.”
Chisolm nodded. A prudent plan. There was a difference between being brash and weighing the risks.
Two more cars arrived. Kopriva advised radio code four with those units on scene. He relayed the plan to the other officers while Chisolm maintained his watch over the passengers.
In an authoritative voice, Kopriva barked orders at the passengers, while all officers moved to the position of cover offered by their cars. He brought the front seat passenger out first and directed him to walk backwards to a spot between the patrol vehicles. There, backup officers quickly cuffed him. They conducted a painstaking pat down for weapons but found none. After that, they secured him in a patrol car. The officers used the same procedure for the backseat passenger, again without incident.
Kopriva thanked the officers and asked them to stand by while he searched the car. Chisolm went forward with him. “What the hell happened?”
Kopriva opened the driver’s door and laughed. “I recognized Morris in a car going the other way on Foothills. I knew he had a warrant, so I flipped around on him. As soon as I made the stop, Morris jumped out of the car and came running back at me.”
Chisolm raised his eyebrows. “No kidding?”
“Nope.” Kopriva leaned on the open door and spoke easily. “I could see his hands were empty, so I moved forward a few steps and waited for him. He was chattering about a mile a minute, threatening me and so forth. When I told him to get back in the car, he tried to push me.”
“Tried?”
Kopriva grinned. “Morris is a sissy without a gun in his hand. I just parried his push, grabbed his wrist, and foot-swept him. He went down hard. I think it knocked the wind out of him. After that, I just got control of him, drew down on his crew in the car and waited for the cavalry to arrive. Thanks for getting here so fast, Tom.”
“Always,” Chisolm said. “You want some help with the search?”
“Sure…” Kopriva said, distracted. He leaned into the car and removed something from beneath the driver’s seat. It was a magazine, fully loaded.
Probably a.380, Chisolm figured.
“See if you can find the gun that goes with this,” Kopriva said.
Chisolm and Kopriva tore the car apart, but found no gun. At Kopriva’s direction, the other two officers pulled the suspects out of the patrol cars and searched them again. Still no gun.
Kopriva removed Morris from the back seat and searched him completely. In the process, he removed every item from the gangster’s pockets and set them on the trunk of the patrol car.
“Man, you better get up off me,” Morris told him.
“Shut up. Where’s the gun?”
Morris smiled. “What gun, cracker?”
Kopriva ignored him and completed his search. Not finding any weapons on him, he sat Morris in the back of his patrol car again.
Connor O’Sullivan approached. He tore out a page from his notebook and handed it to Kopriva. “Both these guys are clear, but neither one has a driver’s license. Here’s their info in case you need it for your report.”
“Thanks,” Kopriva said. He turned to Chisolm. “Damn,” he whispered. “No gun, no crime.”
“Is Morris a convicted felon?”
“Definitely.”
“Well, then it’s illegal for him to even have the ammo.”
Kopriva frowned. “Not sure I can pin it on him. The mag was behind the seat. He was the driver.”
“It’s weak,” Chisolm agreed. “Could they have thrown the gun out the window?”
Kopriva shook his head. “I never lost sight of them.”
Chisolm shrugged. “Then all you have is the warrant and assault on an officer.”
“Assault on an officer. That’s still a traffic infraction, right?”
Chisolm chuckled. “It will be once the prosecutor is through with it.”
“Oh, well.” Kopriva sighed. “The Kitty Kat here is still going to jail. Let’s cut his bonehead buddies loose.”
Kopriva told the two black males they were not under arrest but were not driving away in that car, as neither had a valid driver’s license. Chisolm watched as they transformed from meek to smug, rubbing their wrists were they’d been cuffed.
“What about him?” one asked.
“He’s under arrest,” Kopriva answered evenly.
“What for?”
“None of your business.”