| From: | Frank Pelletier (Trinity) fpelletier@******.usherb.ca |
|---|---|
| Subject: | WYSI (not) WYG |
| Date: | Wed, 8 Dec 1999 02:55:51 -0500 |
>>>>>[
A crisp, clear night surrounds Seattle. Thin shreds of clouds race like
purple needles across the deep blue sky. Frost chills on Officer Phllip
Johns' mustache as he waits outside, a paper cup full of java dispersing
itself in a smoky plume.
Across the street, a woman nods at him, then quickly enters the Skypoint
bar, in the Downtown district. He nods back, a small tilt of his chin, his
head barely moving. Turning, he opens the door of a beige Americar, and
steps in.
"That's a fuckin' freezy night... you want some?", he says quietly, handing
his cup to another man sitting in the passenger seat.
"Nah, I'm okay... so what's Julianne doing out so late?". If you could
check his ID stick, or his LS badge, you would know this was Javier
Hernandez, another officer with Homicide.
"Meeting someone...". He sips from the cup, a few beads of clear brown
coffee dripping off his beard, quickly wiped with his hand. "Informants...
fuckin' squeals...".
Hernandez nods in agreement. "Leeches... Anyways, what are we doing here
again?".
Johns breathes in deeply, adjusting himself in the Americar's cheap
upholstery seating, as he turns his head away, looking over his shoulder.
"We get the squeal's ID. Get a picture, as much roll as we can. And cover
the Lieutenant's ass if there's something."
Hernandez nods once, then slips down into his seat, closing his eyes. "It
doesn't take two men to operate that camera, and I had a twelve hour shift.
Wake me if there's something...". His head digging into his chest,
shuffling in his seat, Hernandez turns away.
"Lousy bum..." mumbles Johns. But he knows how the job is, how it works.
You cover each other's back on the force, and Hernandez was right. This job
could easily be done by one guy. He pulls out a small plastic casing, not
bigger than a pack of smokes, from a leatherette carry-all. He pulls the
cap off to reveal a small lens, and plugs a thin wire dangling from the case
into his dashboard computer.
Static breaks the silence, as Johns aims the camera down the street.
"Johns, we're in position inside. Subjects should be in view ETA one
minute."
"Copy that. We're in position.". Johns knew the drill. Take as much film
as you can, run it into the Star's database and see if you get anything. Of
course, the system seldom worked, and every damn 'hood in Seattle knew to
wear sunglasses to defeat it, but it was procedure, and besides, you could
get something after the fact, when human eyes could process the pictures. A
brain can make connections that a machine would miss.
He slides into this seat, trying to keep a low profile. He hums a gentle
tune to himself as his eyes lock unto the sidewalk. A man, average, with a
dark hat and a tweed overcoat walks down the street. He's looking around,
his steps accelerating as he turns into the Skypoint. Johns is aiming the
lens at him, looking at the digital screenout on his onboard monitor.
"Lieutenant, he's coming in..."
Then, something. His fingers drumming up on the screen. Something. He
wipes the fine fog off the monitor, his eyes squinting. Something.
"This ain't right..." .Hernandez glances back, and shuffles besides him.
Johns looks down at the monitor, his nose almost touching the screen. "This
can't be right..."
He looks at one frozen frame. You can see the man's back as he's entering
the Skypoint. At first glance, nothing's wrong, if not for a slight fuzzy
edge around the man himself.
Digital cameras are very, very precise objects, with resolutions in the
thousands of pixels. Unless the optics catch an image that is naturaly
imprecise, it won't blur by itself. But the air is cool tonight. No fog,
no rain. A clean, dark night. That can't be right.
That can't be. John's training kicks into gear. All those hours of job
update classes, of SOTA learning, on-site training. All those late-night
hours learning about new techniques. Everybody hates them.
But you still listen, because that's your job. And somewhere in the back of
Johns' mind, something clicks.
"ABORT! ABORT! POLYMER CAMO! ENTERING THE BAR! ABORT! IT'S A SETUP!"
The front of the bar explodes in an array of bright lights, the deafening
thuds of heavy ammo blasting through the peaceful night. As Johns turns
around, his instinct is to duck, and lay low. The windows all around him
start to crack as heavy slugs rams into them. Then they give, showering
Johns and Hernandez in glass fragments. The sounds die down, and Johns can
only catch a glimpse of the informant, stumbling away supported by a tall
shape in a skin-tight black outfit.
"OFFICER DOWN! OFFICER DOWN! GET BACKUP!"
Johns knows that's not the Lieutenant's voice.]<<<<<
-- Officer Phillip Johns <02:05:12/12-06-60>
Homicide Division
Lone Star (Tacoma)
