the neighboring lawns, armored, face shields, carrying long arms. Moved diagonally across the lawn of the target house, quietly swarming the porch, doing a peek at the window, then kicking the front door in.
Nathan Brown, as it happened, was asleep in a downstairs bedroom. His girlfriend was feeding her kids grilled-cheese sandwiches in the kitchen, and began screaming when the cops came through, had the phone in her hand screaming “Nine-one-one, nine-one-one,” and the kids were screaming, and then the cops were in the bedroom on top of Brown.
Brown was yelling, “Hey…hey…hey,” like a stuck record.
Lucas came in as they rolled him and cuffed him; his room smelled of old wallpaper, sweat, and booze. Brown was shirtless, dazed, wearing boxer shorts. He’d left a damp sweat stain on the sheet of the queen-sized bed.
After some thrashing around, the freaked-out girlfriend sat in a corner sobbing, her two children crying with her. The cops found a plastic baggie with an assortment of earrings on the floor by Brown’s pants. Asked where he got them, Brown roused himself to semicoherence, and said, “I shoulda known, there ain’t no fuckin’ toot’ fairy.”
“Where’d you get them?
He shook his head, not in refusal, but knowing the reaction he’d get: “I got them off a bus bench.”
That was stupid enough that it stopped everybody. “Off a bus bench?” Smith said.
“Off a bus bunch. Up at…up at Dale. Dale and Grand,” Brown said. His eyes tended to wander in his head. “Friday night. Midnight. Lookin’ for a bus so I don’t got to walk downtown. The box was sittin’ right there, like the toot’ fairy left it.”
“Full of jewelry,” said one of the cops.
“Not full. Only a little in there.” He craned his neck toward the door. He could hear the children, still screaming, and their mother now trying to calm them down. Cops were starting to prop themselves in the doorway, to listen to what Brown was saying. “Did you knock the door down?” Brown asked. “Why the kids crying? Are the kids okay?”
“The kids are okay…” The air was going out of the SWAT guys.
“Is the house hurt?” There was a pleading note in Brown’s voice.
Smith stepped away, put a radio to his face. Lucas asked, “Anybody see you pick this box up?”
Brown said, “Not that I seen. I just seen the box, thought somebody left it, opened it up, didn’t see no name.”
“There was a name on the bottom of the box.”
“Didn’t look on the bottom of the box,” Brown said helplessly.
Lucas didn’t take long to make up his mind. Smith was uncertain, but after talking to Brown, and then to Brown’s girlfriend, Lucas was pretty sure that Brown was telling the truth about the jewelry box.
Smith served the search warrant on the woman, who owned the house, and the cops started tearing it apart.
L UCAS WENT BACK to his car alone, rolled down Payne to the café, got a notebook from behind the car seat, took a table on the sidewalk out in front of the place, bought a beer, and started doodling his way through the killings.
The murders of Bucher and Peebles looked like a gang-related home invasion. Two or three assholes would bust a house, tape up the occupants—most often older people, scouted in advance—and then take their time cleaning the house out. Easier, safer, and often more lucrative than going into liquor or convenience stores, which had hardened themselves with cameras, safes, and even bulletproof screens.
But with Bucher and Peebles, the robbers had not taken credit cards or ATM cards. In most house invasions, those would be the first targets, because they’d yield cash. Bucher and Peebles appeared to have been killed quickly, before they could resist. Most home invaders, even if they were planning to kill the victims, would keep them alive long enough to squeeze out the PIN numbers for the ATM cards.
ATMs had cameras, but it was easy enough to put a rag over your face. They might not
Nathan Brown, as it happened, was asleep in a downstairs bedroom. His girlfriend was feeding her kids grilled-cheese sandwiches in the kitchen, and began screaming when the cops came through, had the phone in her hand screaming “Nine-one-one, nine-one-one,” and the kids were screaming, and then the cops were in the bedroom on top of Brown.
Brown was yelling, “Hey…hey…hey,” like a stuck record.
Lucas came in as they rolled him and cuffed him; his room smelled of old wallpaper, sweat, and booze. Brown was shirtless, dazed, wearing boxer shorts. He’d left a damp sweat stain on the sheet of the queen-sized bed.
After some thrashing around, the freaked-out girlfriend sat in a corner sobbing, her two children crying with her. The cops found a plastic baggie with an assortment of earrings on the floor by Brown’s pants. Asked where he got them, Brown roused himself to semicoherence, and said, “I shoulda known, there ain’t no fuckin’ toot’ fairy.”
“Where’d you get them?
He shook his head, not in refusal, but knowing the reaction he’d get: “I got them off a bus bench.”
That was stupid enough that it stopped everybody. “Off a bus bench?” Smith said.
“Off a bus bunch. Up at…up at Dale. Dale and Grand,” Brown said. His eyes tended to wander in his head. “Friday night. Midnight. Lookin’ for a bus so I don’t got to walk downtown. The box was sittin’ right there, like the toot’ fairy left it.”
“Full of jewelry,” said one of the cops.
“Not full. Only a little in there.” He craned his neck toward the door. He could hear the children, still screaming, and their mother now trying to calm them down. Cops were starting to prop themselves in the doorway, to listen to what Brown was saying. “Did you knock the door down?” Brown asked. “Why the kids crying? Are the kids okay?”
“The kids are okay…” The air was going out of the SWAT guys.
“Is the house hurt?” There was a pleading note in Brown’s voice.
Smith stepped away, put a radio to his face. Lucas asked, “Anybody see you pick this box up?”
Brown said, “Not that I seen. I just seen the box, thought somebody left it, opened it up, didn’t see no name.”
“There was a name on the bottom of the box.”
“Didn’t look on the bottom of the box,” Brown said helplessly.
Lucas didn’t take long to make up his mind. Smith was uncertain, but after talking to Brown, and then to Brown’s girlfriend, Lucas was pretty sure that Brown was telling the truth about the jewelry box.
Smith served the search warrant on the woman, who owned the house, and the cops started tearing it apart.
L UCAS WENT BACK to his car alone, rolled down Payne to the café, got a notebook from behind the car seat, took a table on the sidewalk out in front of the place, bought a beer, and started doodling his way through the killings.
The murders of Bucher and Peebles looked like a gang-related home invasion. Two or three assholes would bust a house, tape up the occupants—most often older people, scouted in advance—and then take their time cleaning the house out. Easier, safer, and often more lucrative than going into liquor or convenience stores, which had hardened themselves with cameras, safes, and even bulletproof screens.
But with Bucher and Peebles, the robbers had not taken credit cards or ATM cards. In most house invasions, those would be the first targets, because they’d yield cash. Bucher and Peebles appeared to have been killed quickly, before they could resist. Most home invaders, even if they were planning to kill the victims, would keep them alive long enough to squeeze out the PIN numbers for the ATM cards.
ATMs had cameras, but it was easy enough to put a rag over your face. They might not
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