Shooting at Trucks

Shooting at Trucks

By: Bikerider



The tires on my patrol car hummed along highway 64, lulling me away from vigilance. The shimmering road ahead stretched straight and level for miles. I paid little attention to the briefing I received when I reported for shift this morning. Two men, wanted for shooting at tractor-trailers, were seen in Celera, the small town in Alabama that I patrolled.

I wrote down the description of their car, including the tag. A yellow Chevrolet compact. I thought, They’re probably long gone by now. But two hours into my shift, my eyes jerked from the clipboard on the seat next to me to the car ahead. A yellow Chevrolet compact. The car ahead of me sped toward Exit 228…Celera.

The tag matched.



I grabbed the microphone dangling over the rear view mirror. “Dispatch, shooting suspect car in sight.” After giving the dispatcher my location and receiving her acknowledgement, I flipped the switch to activate the emergency blue lights.

“Zone 2, this is the supervisor,” crackled over the speaker hidden under the dashboard.

“Go ahead.” The driver looked over his right shoulder, but because I straddled both lanes he couldn’t see me.

“Don’t stop the vehicle until you have back-up.” Department procedure requires two cars for a Felony stop. Too late, the driver was already pulling onto the shoulder.

“Roger, we’re stopping.” Then to dispatch, I said, “Vehicle stopping, Exit 228, Celera.”

The voices of other responding officers filled the speaker, and by the time the speaker was only an electric hum again, the car ahead was stopped along the road.



I released the door lock and pushed it open with my left foot, never letting my eyes leave the back of the driver’s head. Exiting the car, I unholstered my weapon. Holding the 9 .mm in my outstretched hands over the car door I called to the driver.

“Turn off your engine and throw the keys onto the road.” When I approach his car I don’t want him to drive off. The driver put his head out of the window and looked back at me, his dark eyes and black hair reflected the early morning sun.

He was smiling at me.

“Throw the car keys out onto the road!” I shouted. He turned back into the car. The car’s muffler fell silent. A flash of light arced from the window and dragged along the road next to the car. The door slowly opened.

“Step out slowly.” I watched him through the gun sights, keeping his silhouette between the rear blocks, the red front sight on his chest. “Put your hands on top of the car.”

Keeping his hands in front of him, he unfolded to stand, I saw the black grip of his gun tucked into his waistband. “Turn around and put your hands on top of the car.” Standing there, fully exposed, his mouth slowly curled into a wide smile. What are you smiling at?

With his hands on the roof of the car I began a slow approach, making a wide arc until I was out of his line of view. If he wanted to shoot he would have to turn completely around. He wouldn’t make it.

“You’re under arrest.” His head began turning to the right. “Stand still,” I ordered. His head continued to turn.

All police officers have learned about it…Suicide by cop. A suspect places a police officer in a position where he has no choice but to shoot. Is that what I was seeing? His hands remained in place, his head continued its slow swivel. His smile came into view, wider than before, it now revealed even, white teeth. I stood still and sighted, slowly increasing pressure on the trigger. I waited.

Suddenly his head turned back to the front and he shouted, “No problem, officer, no problem.”

Walking slowly toward him I watched the car. There were two men reported to be running together. Was the other man in the car, waiting? Carelessness could get me killed.

“Where’s your friend?” I was close to him now, another two feet and my hand would be on him.

“I’m alone, he’s back at the motel.”

Is he? he wondered.

I grabbed the suspect’s belt. Reaching around his waist I felt the gun lodged against his stomach. My fingers curled around the knurled grip. I was close enough to smell his sweat. I threw his gun back behind me into the tall grass, then spoke to him as I pushed the barrel of my gun to the back of his neck.

“Put your left hand behind you. I locked his wrist in one side of the cuff, then ordered him to put his other hand behind his back. He complied, I quickly had him secured. The danger was over as long as there wasn’t anyone in the car. Holding his secured wrists I backed away from the car with him in front of me. His friend wouldn’t shoot him just to get at me.

“There’s no one in the car,” he said over his shoulder.

“Just making sure.” The sounds of sirens in the distance grew louder, back-ups units were arriving on the scene.



Later, at the police station where I booked in the suspect, I asked him about the smile.

“I was trying to decide.” He looked at me through clear, dark eyes.

“Decide what?”

“Whether I wanted to go to jail, or go to hell.” He smiled again.

“What’s the difference?” I asked.





Writer's Cramp entry for 9/9/11



Word Count 914