What Have You Done(6)
4
Sean sat in the back of an unmarked police van with the rest of the raid team and stared out the small square window, surveying his surroundings while going over the plan in his head one final time. They were parked in an alleyway across the street from a two-story row home. From what he could see, the area was quiet. The houses on the block, like many on the north side, were dilapidated and falling apart. Roofs were caving in. Foundations were crumbling. Windows were covered with sheets or trash bags instead of curtains, their glass panes little pocks of taped-up cardboard. This wasn’t supposed to be the type of neighborhood where a wealthy street king would take up residence, but what better place for such a man to keep hidden? Cutter Washington was smart and adept at hiding in plain sight. He knew all the rules and over time had learned police procedures and response times. He was a pro, and he knew every nook and cranny in the city. It was time to take him down.
It didn’t happen often, but sometimes luck took a second to smile on the Homicide Division of the Philadelphia Police Department. A couple of college kids from Penn had come to Center City earlier that night and closed a bar on Market Street. When they got outside, they had started walking around the city, randomly snapping pictures on their phones to try to take in the sights and make general asses of themselves to post to social media. One such photograph—of a young man hanging upside down off the street sign marking the way to Independence Hall—had inadvertently caught Cutter in the background, leaving out the back of the stationery store at the same time Alexander Scully was murdered. The kids didn’t think anything of it until they saw the story on the morning news and immediately called 911. Their picture, and Cutter’s partial print at the scene, was the evidence they needed to get a warrant.
Don closed the case file and tossed it to the side. “Okay, let’s go through this one last time.”
The sergeant sitting across from Sean nodded. “Right.”
“We get to the porch, knock once, then bust in. Be aware that this is the suspect’s girlfriend’s house and she has two young kids.”
“Got it,” the sergeant replied.
“Are you set with the uniformed unit out back?”
“Yeah, we’re set. He’s in position now. Anyone comes out the back door and he’s got ’em.”
“Good.”
Sean pulled himself away from the window. “This guy’s no amateur,” he said. “This isn’t the first time he’s been involved with a murder, and it isn’t the first time the police have come calling, so be careful. We might bust down that door, and he gives up without a fight, or he might try to run. Or he might try and kill us. Be open for any possibility.”
Everyone agreed.
Sean looked out onto the neighborhood one final time. He hated raids. Too many opportunities for things to go wrong. “Okay, radio the unit around back that we’re moving out. Let’s do this.”
The team opened the rear doors, hopped from the van, and scurried across the street with weapons drawn. There were six of them all together with one officer at the back of the house. A lone dog barked somewhere in the distance.
With hand signals and silent confirmations, they spread out on either side of the walkway and ran up the steps leading to the entrance. The men pressed themselves against the house, flanking the entrance, their blue Philadelphia Police Department jackets hiding bulletproof vests. Sean motioned one final time to the others, then pounded on the front door. “Police! Open up!”
He counted to three, then turned and kicked at the door, sending it flying back on its hinges as the team stormed in.
“Police!”
“Police!”
“Come out where we can see you! Come out with your hands raised in the air! We are armed! Cutter Washington, come out now!”
The men broke off in their sweep pattern. The sergeant and three of his officers shuffled through each room on the first floor while Sean and Don took the stairs, Sean first and his partner covering him in the rear.
The house was unnervingly quiet. No one stirred. No children shouted for their mother, nor were there questions as to who might be trespassing. There was no movement of any kind except for the team slipping through each room one floor below.
As Sean and Don crested the top of the stairs, they heard the sudden movement of feet thumping and scurrying about. Sean gripped his Beretta and rushed down the narrow corridor toward the closed door at the end of the hall. “Police! Come out slowly with your hands up!”
The bedroom door flew open, and a woman burst through, running full speed toward the detectives, her hands flailing about, screaming. She was large, dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, and came at them quickly, the multicolored curlers in her hair bouncing with each step she took. The detectives couldn’t tell what she was saying, but as she continued forward, Sean could see movement from inside the bedroom behind her. He raised his weapon. “Lady, get down!”
The woman ignored him and continued charging. As she got closer, they could hear what she was saying. She was screaming profanities and threats, one after the other. Don pushed Sean to the side and unholstered his Taser. When she got close enough, he shot her in the chest. In one prolonged movement, the woman stopped, grabbed at the wires that were protruding from her skin, then fell to the floor, flopping on the ground as she gasped for breath and rolled into a fetal position. Don disengaged the wires from the Taser and kept moving. “Come on,” he said. “In the bedroom.”