Cigarettes & Mirrors - Chapter Ten

After suffering far too many terrorist attacks for a solid 20 years after the events of 9/11, in 2021 the federal government decided to take the policing of the state of New Jersey into its own hands. All city, county, and state police departments were folded into the New Jersey Department of Justice. The NJDoJ enjoys an $8.83 billion per year budget, included in the federal defense budget. The department possesses drone technology, armored vehicles & tanks, chemical and biological weapons, and five Keyhole imaging satellites for space based photographic intelligence. The department boasts a force of around 187,000 uniformed officers and over 60,000 civilian personnel. Newark itself, as the relocated state capital and largest population center, had over 63,000 officers stationed in the city to police the roughly 7 million people living there.

Deputy Inspector Mark Colombo was one of those officers, stationed at the 3^rd Precinct station on Market Street. He was currently driving southbound down Broad Street, having just come on duty at 3 am. Barely half an hour after midnight, a known narcotics dealers house had blown sky high in the West Ward, and debris had killed an officer. It wasn’t his beat, but he still felt the same murderous rage when he heard the call about Officer Eric Dades death when he first walked into the station. Deputy Inspector Colombo, like every other cop on duty in Newark tonight, wanted blood. Details were sparse this early on, but early word from the forensics boys revealed thermite residue on the foundations of the house. This made it fairly obvious that it wasn’t just some two-bit hood responsible for the explosion. This reeked of organized crime flavor. Since he was assigned to the Organized Crime Unit, Colombo was the one responsible for finding him. Driving in a rage, it didn’t matter who he found.

Someone was going to receive punishment tonight.

Colombo took a left and stopped at the light at the intersection of E. Kinney and Mulberry Street. Looking to his left, he saw the streets were mostly empty, except for a solitary individual in a camouflage jacket, smoking a cigarette. The man was walking towards him, looking slightly harried as he sucked his cigarette down quickly. Inspector Colombos brow furrowed as he lifted his radio from the dash. “Dispatch, 10-21 Charlie.” A few seconds later, the radio squawked back. 

“!0-21 Charlie, Dispatch, go ahead.”

“Dispatch, I have a suspicious individual on Mulberry Street, headed southbound. Caucasian male, mid 20s, maybe 6 feet, 220 pounds, shaved head, wearing dark jeans and a camouflage jacket.” 

“10-4 Charlie, do you require assistance?” 

“Negative dispatch, will question individual and advise. Out.”

“10-4 Charlie.” 

He placed the radio back on the dash, turning left onto Mulberry Street as the light turned green. He was watching the man in his rear-view mirror as he drove slowly up the street. The man had turned to look at the car, smoking his cigarette. He tossed it into the gutter and went back to walking down the street, as Inspector Colombo drove up the street. He quickly made a right onto Cottage Street and flipped his car around quickly in a 180 turn, pulling back out onto Mulberry, facing south this time.

Fucking pig, what are you looking at? Cops tend to make me nervous, especially tonight. The Mex-amphetamine isn’t helping matters. It has me on edge, my heart pounding its way out of my chest at a million miles an hour. Sweat is running down my lower back in sheets. The cruiser went up the street, but I heard it turn around at the corner behind me. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Okay, just be cool kid. Kool and the Gang, you’re okay. Relax.

Inspector Colombo was about 200 feet behind the the man, creeping slowly down the street. The man on the sidewalk didn’t turn around, but kept walking southbound, hands in his pockets. I don’t like this guy… 

“Dispatch, 10-21 Charlie. Request another officer to my location, Mulberry and Kinney.”

“10-4 Charlie, additional unit en-route. ETA 10 minutes.” 

Fuck, he thought. Hope this punk isn’t armed…

He flipped his lights on and squawked the siren twice as he pulled closer to the man. He stopped walking, an inquisitive look on his face as the police cruiser came to a stop at the curb, right at the opposite corner that Inspector Colombo had first seen him at. Colombo set the parking brake and stepped out of his car, putting his duty cap on, and keeping his left hand close to his service pistol.

“Evening sir. May I see your ID please?”

Ah, shit. Here we go.

“Of course, it’s in my left pocket.”

I know cops get jumpy when people make sudden moves. I’d prefer not to get a couple hollow points through my chest tonight. I pulled my wallet out slowly and slipped out my license, handing it over to the cop.

“Here you go.” Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…

“Dispatch, 10-21 Charlie, requesting name search. First name Erich, Echo-Romeo-India-Charlie-Hotel. Last name Black, Bravo-Lima-Alpha-Charlie-Kilo. Criminal search and service check.”

“10-4 Charlie, checking. Will advise.”

Okay punk, are you free and clear, or are you some hood?

“10-21 Charlie, subject Erich Black is clear, no record.”

“10-4 dispatch. Out.” You might have a clear record punk, but you sure as hell aren’t free…

“Been to the West Ward tonight sir?”

“No sir, just been around here tonight. Just on a walk to clear my head.”

Inspector Colombo took out his flashlight and shined it into Erich’s face, looking at his eyes. “Been drinking tonight? Using maybe?”

“No sir.”

“Uh huh. Put your hands on top of your head sir, I’m going to search you.” Inspector Colombo stepped behind Erich and brought out a pair of handcuffs, readying to snap the cold steel bracelets on the punks wrists.

Fuck this. 

Before the cop could snap the pair of cuffs on me, I mule kicked him in his shin and felt it splinter underneath my boot. As I turned around, he fell to the ground yelling, trying to get his hand on his gun. I reared back and kicked him full force in the forehead with my steel capped boot. His forehead split open and blood poured down his face, his head falling back on the pavement, either unconscious or on his way to death. Makes no difference to me.

I pulled my jacket closer and ran back up the block to my apartment, bounding inside. The cabbage ass smell didn’t even faze me as I ran up the stairs two at a time and almost went through my door in my haste. Fucking locks, you’re just in my way! I pulled my keys out and unlocked the door, wrenching it open and slamming it shut just as quickly. My chest was ballooning up and down as I gulped down air, nuclear fire coursing through my veins.

“10-7 Romeo, officer requires assistance at Mulberry and E. Kinney.”

“10-4 dispatch, I’m en-route. 10 minutes.”

Officer Salvatore Riccio turned his car around on Market Street, flipped his lights on and went east down Market Street, towards Broad Street. Riccio was barely 2 months out of the police academy, still fresh faced and eager. He came from a family of police officers, except for his cousin Rocco, who had gotten involved with organized crime. No saving that boy, sadly. He stopped at the red light at Market & Broad, and lifted his radio off the dash.

“Dispatch, 10-7 Romeo. 5 minutes away from 10-21 Charlie.”

“10-4 Romeo, 10-21 Charlie is not responding to radio calls. Proceed immediately to his location.”

Oh fuck, not another one…

Officer Riccio flipped his siren on and floored it around the corner onto Broad Street, screaming down towards Kinney Street. He saw Inspector Colombos car at the end of the street, lights still on, and a dark shape on the curb. Riccio slammed on his brakes and jumped out of the car, pulling his service pistol immediately. He ran up the unmoving form of Inspector Colombo, and felt his neck for a pulse. It was still there. Weak, but there.

Motherfuckers!

“Dispatch, 10-7 Romeo! Officer down, repeat, officer down! Mulberry and Kinney! Request backup, supervisors and fire rescue to my location, right fucking now!”

I was sprawled out on my couch, chest still rising up and down rapidly. I was still utterly geeked off my nutsack on the super pure methamphetamine. My chest was starting to hurt, maybe I shouldn’t have taken this shit… I jumped up off the couch, sweat pouring off my body in sheets, pouring down my forehead into my eyes. “Holy shit am I fucking spun out.” I said out loud to myself. I even sounded high, my words compressed into almost a single short bark. Too high. Need to come down.

I practically ran to the bathroom and flipped the light on, the fluorescent demon stabbing my eyes with its familiar syringes of pain. I pulled open the door of the medicine cabinet and grabbed the bottle of Xanax, popping it open and shaking 4 bars out. I turn the faucet on and take a swig of water and pop the bars and chew them up, swallowing everything. My mouth is already bone dry, and I’m still sweating like a whore in church. I turn the faucet on again and swig down mouthfuls of water until my stomach is full. I wiped my mouth on a towel and went back out to my couch, collapsing into it. The Xanax and methamphetamine are battling for control of my nervous system, but after a few minutes I can feel the Xanax winning. My muscles relax and I sink farther down into the couch, my eyes growing heavy. Sleep, I need sleep… I can feel myself almost fade away.

Until there comes a slamming in the hallway and a loud noise at my door. Who the fuck is knocking? I sit up, still sweat soaked. More pounding at the door, loud, rapid pounding. Who the fuck? I get up and stumble to the door, glancing through my peephole to see who keeps pounding. 

I feel my veins turn to ice, and my stomach drops.

4 uniformed cops are in the hallway, guns out, staring right at my door.

Oh, fuck me.