Chapter 2
The newly promoted Detective Max Myers, and Senior Detective Alan Winter, step out of a lift with four uniformed police following behind. They're in a hotel but the lift lobby is hospital-like with its sterile decor. Mirrored panels frame the two lifts which service the floors and meet with a horrible brown paint covering the walls. The awful dark brown colour reaches all the way along each of the four hallways which stretch out in the four directions of the compass.
Opposite the lifts in the lobby is the main staircase with the windows surrounding it providing the sole source of natural light to each floor as it ascends the side of the building. Further along, the hallways, with rooms on each side and a fire escape at the far end, have no natural light other than what bounces off the highly polished lift lobby and finds its way from the stairwell. The sole piece of furniture to be seen, a couch, sits opposite the lifts.
Having never been here before, Max pauses and turns back to his older and more experienced colleague. Detective Winter though, turns to a security guard standing behind the four uniformed police officers. Max wipes a drip of sweat from his cheek as he compresses each knuckle under his thumb, one after the other, in an effort to crack them. He was successful in producing a crack the first time he did it back in the car on their drive in but now it's just a tic he does subconsciously.
Despite his nerves Max projects an intimidating figure purely from his size, close cropped hair and clean shaven face wearing a t-shirt and jeans. If it weren’t for the badge around his neck and the gun on his belt he’d just look like anyone enjoying a day off. The grey bearded Alan Winter, in contrast, is almost - but not quite yet thank you - sixty and barely hits Max's shoulder while three of the four uniformed police aren't even as tall as Alan. He wears business pants and a clean pressed shirt with a tie and a gun on his belt.
The hotel security guard stands at the back of the group. The young man is barely even twenty, dressed in a suit which looks like he slept in it. He squeezes past everyone and points down a hall to his right, “This way”. They all walk in the direction indicated.
Halfway down the hall, to the right of the lifts, the young guard stops and hands Max an electronic room swipe key, then points down the hall, saying, “Second last door on the right”.
The guard is asked to keep back while, Max, Alan and the four police step forward. Max becomes aware of his finger cracking tic and consciously forces himself to stop. He wipes another drip of sweat from his cheek. He’s been a detective for three months after acing the tests his first time through. He joined the police at twenty-one after dreaming of being a cop when he was a teenager. To the surprise of his parents, not only did he get in but he graduated the Academy at the top of the class and took his job extremely seriously - too seriously for some of his less dedicated colleagues.
He requested to be appointed to one of the busiest stations in the State with the purpose of learning as much as he could. He wanted to avoid the quiet stations in case he got into the habit of not working as hard as he could. The real world of policing in the lowest socio-economic suburbs opened his eyes, bringing the realisation that in spite of his success at the Academy he had a lot to learn. The ego he graduated with crashed down to earth in his first month when a forty year old lady slapped him hard enough to knock him to the ground. He just didn’t see it coming.
Alan, aware of his young colleague’s nervous tic, glances at him as they walk toward the second last door on the right and says, “I'm talking.” It was more of a question, really.
“No, no. It’s cool. I got this,” is Max's quiet response. This will be his first arrest as a detective.
Before Alan has time to respond, the second last door on the right opens and out steps a mountain of tattoos and a whole lot of hate with some skin wrapped around it. Ugly. The tattooed and hate-filled man from the room freezes at the sight of two detectives and four uniformed cops in his hallway; clearly he didn't expect these visitors.
He’s not particularly tall, but the skin tight muscle top and the massive arms, chest and shoulders sticking out of it, show the effects of years of steroid abuse. The odious tattoos cover his bare arms and overflow up his neck - they complete a not so pretty picture. He’s the type of person people avoiding making eye contact with for fear he’ll just kill them.
“Steven Cooper?” Max puts on his most authoritarian voice complete with low rumble.
This is indeed Steven Christopher Cooper. Gangland murderer suspected of close to twenty murders of underworld figures with only two directly linked to him. That’s what they’re here for today. Steven slowly reaches behind his back until he sees each of his six opponents reach for their guns and draw them. Six barrels aimed at him, he's not stupid. He knows three things right now. First, he's actually unarmed. Second, there's a fire escape behind him and third, if he runs they can't shoot him. Or, rather, they're unlikely to.
He slowly brings out the empty hand he moved behind his back to show he’s not holding anything then he turns and runs.
Use of Force laws, and guidelines around escalation of force, mean that only if someone reasonably believes their life or the life of someone else is in jeopardy can they use lethal force. In this instance, a retreating and unarmed individual does not constitute a threat to someone's life. Max would love to put a bullet in him though. Front, back, side it doesn't matter as long as he shoots him. But that won't be happening.
Before Steven can reach the door to the fire escape Max engages the safety on his gun and returns it to his hip mounted holster. Before the door to the fire escape closes behind the escaping target, Max is running through it and bounding down multiple stairs at a time. If it weren't for the handrail twisting down the centre of the stairwell he'd have tripped over and rolled.
The concrete walls and stairs surrounding them amplify every sound. Each footstep plays like it belongs to a giant as it echoes up and down the seven flights of stairs. The abuse and colourful language from Max's target echoes louder still. Max keeps running downward because Steven keeps running downward and the four uniformed police are close behind the pursuing detective.
Back up the stairs in the hallway however, Alan turns back to the sleepy looking security guard and smiles. “We'll take the lift”.
Max hits the ground floor running and bursts through a door into the bright and burning midday sun, covers his eyes stinging from the sudden change and quickly picks out his target through the blur. Steven is running across the hotel parking lot but he's not built for speed and before long Max's taller frame is very close behind with the uniforms catching up as quickly as they can.
They sprint through the parking lot and Max looks to his left just as a yellow taxi screeches to a halt in front of him with brakes locked. He leaps from his right foot and lifts his left leg over the bonnet. He lands on the now stationary taxi and momentum takes him across the bonnet before he's back on both feet on the other side - only a couple of metres behind his target. He lost ground but begins the chase again.
Max's concern actually becomes whether Steven will turn and fight. He knows his target has checked the distance with a glance over his shoulder and he knows that Steven knows he's losing ground, fast. But it's too late because Max leaps and wraps both arms around Steven's upper torso. With one hand, Max grabs Steven's face and puts most of his body weight into pulling backward until even the massive steroid driven muscles Steven holds himself up with can't take the weight and he collapses backward.
Max is on top with a death grip around his target’s head and shoulders. Steven Cooper fights back but the four uniforms also jump on top of him and before long he’s cuffed and sitting in the back of a police wagon with his upper lip curled in anger. He stares at the floor, still breathing deeply to catch his breath. His face is flushed red.
Max stands at the open door and looks at Steven sitting there, out of breath and submissive. He smiles, “So, Steven Christopher Cooper. You are under arrest for the murders of Gregory St Luke a
nd Harry Forde. You don’t have to say or do anything but anything you say may be given in evidence.” Max smiles as he closes and locks the wagon door.
The small army of police packs up and leaves before it creates even more of a scene as a large number of hotel guests have crowded around to watch. The police manage to get away before the first TV News trucks arrive but plenty of observers had their mobiles up to film the excitement.
Max and Alan search through Steven's hotel room which won't provide much since, despite living there for the last two months, the room contains nothing but clothing and food. The vials of horse steroids and related boxes of syringes and needle tips Alan found at the bottom of the wardrobe are illegal but aren't his concern.
“You did well,” Alan says with a quick look to his young colleague.
“Cheers, I noticed you weren't around for the chase.” Max says with a quick glance and smile.
“I thought I found a short cut.” Alan pauses briefly for effect. “Not so much.”
Max offers mocking concern, “Is it Alzheimer's?”