He let back on the throttle of the unmarked car as he came up upon a slightly slower car in the right hand lane. Glancing down at the speedometer, he noted the guy ahead was at 40 mph on the 45 mph section of the expressway. Ahead, the cross street light was green, and Billy wondered if there was a reason for the less than speed limit travel. Normally people were blasting the main road running logical north and south across the border of the two suburbs.
In fact this was his specialty. Once a month, he did the cruise. Not just any old cruise, mind you, but the Billy McAdams drunk cruise. His Lt. had made it a regular affair cuz in one night, Billy could spot more drunks then all the patrol cars over the weekend. And since most of the traffic guys hated their jobs, none of them had ever taken the time to sit in court and listen to Billy explain how he was first drawn to the perps. If they had, they would have heard how really simple his technique was. Anyone ten miles per hour under the limit was either asleep at the wheel, extremely cautious by nature, or extremely cautious by needs of survival.
The last category matched the mindset of most drunks. When you had too much to drink, and the rods and cones shifted green to red, the lights on the street became foreign, and the intersections became a place of danger. A survivor, and most drunks somehow always seemed to be survivors or they would have been caught before now, knew that they needed to be extra cautious. What happened was there was a dual incapacitation working against them that they couldn't realize. As they became more cautious, their inhebriated state caused them to overreact. This overreaction resulted in a slower speed. The realization that they weren't going fast enough came very slowly. Then when they figured it out, their decreased reaction time meant they would edge back up to the speed limit. Then, as they approached the speed limit, their loss in vision accuracy and responsiveness meant the speeding images began to blur and become confusing. Thus their survivor instinct forced their foot back off the throttle. This slow speed dance resulted in a vehicle that stuck out in traffic.
Billy's secret was simply to look for them. The fact that his Lt. was a good enough cop to realize the expense of putting a Detective Seargeant out on the street was matched by the number of killer drunks taken off the streets, made his job even more rewarding. Not only was he catching the slime, but he was recognized for it. And recognition was more than just a kind word in his review. An occasional perk of plainsclothes work were those jobs that were considered milk runs, easy time consumers that let an active cop take time off while on the job.
Noticing the fellow in the red Montego ahead looking for a street sign, Billy kept back and followed the guy as he turned right onto Homestead. In a moment the fellow ahead obviously had regained his bearings and pulled away at 40 on the 35 marked road, probably headed for 50. A speeder of some degree, but certainly stable and not a slow mover. He took the intersection at the Chevron, turned right and rolled into the Lucky Store parking lot, adding a patrol-like cruise by just to see if any bad guys were holding up the 24 hour store. No problems there. As if there would be in this neighborhood. His thoughts returned to the milk runs.
Last week for instance, he had been assigned to check out the reports of an irregular gang (that was a new kind of gang which didn't have colors or territories, rather seemed to pop out of nowhere, do their dirty deed, then vanish) frequenting several local movie houses. The Saratoga Six had been hit last night, and so he drew the job of hanging around watching movies all night along with three other off duty vice guys, getting $75 per hour. All courtesy of the Lt. who passed the names of those willing to work to the theatre management, a pass made under the counter since the county had a rule against moonlighting. Most every department in the county ignored it, but many Lieutenants were too worried about their promotions to take the chance.
Fortunately, Billy's Lt. Vance was not inclined to worry about promotion, and used the choice opportunities in and out of the department as bonuses for his best guys. And that, of course, was why Billy was out crusing this Saturday night.
It was a boring duty in many respects, the lights of cars, street lights, store signs and traffic lights all taking on different hues to his weary eyes after the first hour. Everything looked different to a cops eyes. He knew the drill. The eyes took in everything, seeing what the average citizen never even glimpsed. The shadow at the side of the 7-11 hid shapes and darker shadows. A drunk leaning against the building out of the light. Usually he would call those into to one of the other patrol units by using TAC-2. He knew the traffic guys on all the shifts, so all he had to do was listen to the radio for awhile and he'd pick up on the night's crew. A quick call like,
"Mary 5, Mary 16"
"Go 16"
"Mary 5, meet 16 on TAC-2"
"TAC-2, 10-4"
"Mary 5, 16 on TAC-2"
"Go 16"
"Hey Jim. I'm crusin' up Lawrence. Back on Homestead, I thought a saw a bottle baby over by the 7-11 near the Chevron. Wanna' handle?"
"No sweat, Billy. We'll roll by there."
"Thanks. 16 back to TAC-1"
And with that, he had stopped crime just a tad more with a tiny bit of effort, and still was in his cruise mode.
Turning right onto Lawrence, he slowly weaved through the pulsing Saturday night traffic and headed again toward El Camino. Just as he was about to call it quits and prepare to make his turn back onto Benton and back into mid-town, he spotted a slow mover in the left lane. Usually that was a guy getting ready to hit the left hand turn lane, but something made him notice. He couldn't pin it down, nor would he try. He just went on instinct.
Checking the left side, he gently rolled over into the lane behind the guy and almost had to slam on the brakes as he misjudged the difference in speed. He had been rolling along at about 50, traffic blasting by on the 45mph road as if he was sitting still. The fellow ahead in the white pickup had slowed to maybe 25. Not a dangerous speed for the right lane near an intersection, but pretty damned silly in the left hand lane of Lawrence. Still there was the left hand turn lane.
In any case, he decided to go with it. They waited together for the left arrow, Billy idly typing in the license plate number into the computer terminal that had just been fitted into the aging old Dodge. He didn't mind the old horses. The big V-8s gave them lots of power, and he knew the regular traffic guys really needed the comfort and technology of the new Chevrolet Caprices. It was cool of the department to resist selling off the computer equipment that two years ago had been the latest stuff. It was a sad testimony to shrinking police budgets throughout the nations, that Departments like Santa Clara P.D. could sell off their old car interiors to Departments all over the country who were thrilled to get 'em. Some bright minds in SCPD had decided to keep a few of the cars intact however, for the odd man out on a Saturday night. So it was with little effort that Billy was able to verify the truck was not on the hot sheet both in California and in the FBI's CIC database in D.C.
The green arrow flashed to green, and Billy's friend ahead waited a few seconds, then as the traffic from the other direction made their turn across the expressway, the fellow finally decided to move across himself. Checkmark #2. Slow reaction to green arrow. This happened sometimes cuz the perp couldn't tell green from red, and it took a second to realize that it was an arrow, it was on the bottom, and the opposite left turn traffic was moving.
The fellow crawled through the intersection, bisected the two lanes for about 50 feet, then finally moesied over into the right lane. Billy hung back just a tad, not wanting to attract too much attention. The headlights on the Dodge, while set a little high to illuminate most passenger cars interiors a bit, were not high enough to reach into the cab of the Ranger pickup truck. He could just make out the head rests, but couldn't tell if there was another head in the passenger side.
As the fellow rolled up to the stop sign, Billy noticed checkmark #3. The fellow stopped well behind the line, inched forward, then jabbed the brakes right on top of the white strip. Then a long wait at the line before moving. Very cautious. Probably not a bad idea, but then it could be an important clue to the state of mind.
Rolling through the stop, Billy now came up close to the back bumper of the truck to see if the guy would react. No reaction. No head movement, no throttle changes, nothing. He could just make out hands on the wheel as a car came by from the other direction. Locked in the 10 and 2 position, staring straight ahead, oblivious to the traffic behind him. Checkmark #4. He was now two checkmarks away, at least in his mind, from probable cause.
Next Billy moved to the left a bit, putting his abnormally bright low beams into the driver's side mirror of the truck. This usually got a reaction, since the normal driver had his mirror adusted to see out the left side of vehicle. Billy's maneuver usually resulted in a bright rectangle appearing on the forehead of the driver, the light being reflected from the side view mirror onto the face inside the vehicle. In this case however, he could see the reflection light up the right side of the cab's interior. The mirror was no where close to being set for viewing backwards. This might be normal in lots of traffic, so he didn't count it. If he had hit the driver with light, he would have expected a reaction of some sort, but in this case, he had nothing to go on.
Now the fellow ahead slowed for the intersection a little early. Then making the same inching stop, the truck pulled left, no signal again. In a moment, the truck was at a street that could have been reached much more easier by a different, more common route. This was suspicious, but certainly not any evidence. Nothing to go on here.
After three right hand turns at various places, they were now heading back towards another minor street that would carry them back out to El Camino. Billy was intrigued. This kind of caravan usually wound up at someone's driveway, the driver just being extra cautious in his own neighborhood. But tonight, he was being led a merry chase.
Sure enough the fellow made a quick left turn heading off to the street one block off El Camino. Thinking that maybe he was influencing the guy, Billy took a chance. Knowing the streets quite well, he knew where the truck would wind up. With a quick jab on the throttle, he blipped down to the next intersection, pulled two lefts, and managed to emerge two blocks behind the truck as it slowly navigated to the intersection of Henderson and El Camino. Sunnyvale jurisdiction. If he had to pull the drunk, he'd be obligated to call Sunnyvale Public Safety just to keep the paperwork straight. There was a cooperation rule setup, but they still were required to "seek aid in arrests" in the surrounding Department's jurisdiction.
Billy now pulled one his classic tailing tricks. The old Dodge had an additional set of driving lights attached, and he usually drove with them on. He reached to the panel near the bottom edge of the dash and flicked them off. This way, when he pulled up behind the truck, it would be a different set of lights the suspected drunk would see. Just another way to keep the chase on the QT.
Instead of turning right, as Billy expected the guy to do, the truck crawled across the intersection as the light changed. Billy let a merging car get between them, now really intrigued as to where the fellow was heading. In a minute, they were stopped at an intersection north of El Camino, and the truck, now signaling, waiting for a left turn back onto Lawrence.
Billy was thinking that this had gone on long enough. He hadn't got his probable cause, and wandering around the housing area was only slightly suspicous. He had drunks to catch. But again his instincts kept his eyes peeled on the vehicle. Okay, then he'd cruise by the guy and take a quick look. If nothing struck him, he'd continue up Lawrence on his search. Otherwise...well whatever. He'd take the otherwises as they came.
As the light changed, he stuck on the bumper of the truck, then as the driver pulled the truck slowly into the right hand lane, Billy gunned it and went around on the "inside" navigating the unmarked car into the center lane of the six lane expressway. Glancing over, he was able to catch a fair glimpse of the driver in the lights of oncoming traffic. A wiry older Mexican American, wearing a plaid farmer shirt. Out for the night, just crusing by the look of it. Alone in the truck, paying no attention to anyone else. If it had been younger kids, they would be looking back right at him, checkin' out the other rides in their vicinity. But not the old man. No place to go, no care about the rest of the world. Maybe the old guy was just getting away from the old lady's bitchin' tonight.
Billy continued to accelerate and decided he'd pop up to Monroe, pull into the Shell station and take a short break. Doing just that, he pulled ahead of a Gas truck in the station and positioned the unit, lights off, in a spot where he could watch Lawrence for a high speeder while he rested his eyes. This was a different mode. The eyes no longer looked intensely, rather just took in out of focus traffic patterns. A high roller would stand out, jarring the senses and "waking" the driver up.
But just as he was about to assume that mode, he realized he was looking right at the license plate of the white Ranger truck again. It had pulled up to the light in the right turn lane and stopped. Now this lane was usually a roll-through...in fact Billy himself had done that just moments ago. But our erstwhile farmer in his white truck had stopped. And not just for a moment. It was sitting there. No cross traffic, no left hand turners from the opposite direction. In fact, no reason not to proceed. In a moment, the light turned green, and as the other lanes of traffic moved off, Billy said "Shit".
The truck now moved into his right turn and followed by another impatient driver on his rear bumper, rolled off out of Billy's field of view, hidden by the huge gas truck. The truck had just given him checkmark #5. One more to go.
Slipping the old Dodge back into drive, he pulled out onto the Monroe exit lane, made the right and sped up trying to catch up. He had lost sight of the truck momentarily, so when a car started to pull out from the Stop-N-Go, he juiced it around him. No truck.
"Double Shit". As he rolled up to one of the suburban streets, he flashed through the intersection. A quick look down the street showed him the now familiar taillights of the truck some block and a half down. Rather than pulling a u turn and heading back, he sped up more, and squealed through the next right hand turn. In several blocks he would be at Calabasis, the street they had originally re-entered Lawrence from the Sunnyvale side.
In half a minute, he squealed through the stop sign at Calabasis, and powered back toward Lawrence. In just a few seconds he was at the long street that extended south from Munroe, making one jog, then on to El Camino. Peering down the street, he saw lights dissappear through the jog.
Taking a chance, and since he could see no other likely targets, he gunned through the left hand turn and sped down toward the jog. In little time he flashed through the jog. Ahead, the truck was just pulling through the light, heading toward the interection, a Jack-In- The-Box drive thru restaurant perched on the left hand side of the controlled intersection.
Still clipping right along, Billy now was catching up fast. Just as the slow moving truck made the light and turned right, Billy was just reaching the stop sign. With a rather fast, but very head turning look at all sides, Billy rolled the stop sign, then screeched to a stop at the Intersection of El Camino. They had come just about 360 degrees now, painting a broad circle around the intersection of Lawrence Expressway and El Camino. In fact, this was the first time the truck had actually made it onto El Camino, and was heading toward the spot where they had crossed it while in Sunnyvale. That was on Henderson, just a mile ahead.
As Billy sped up to catch the guy, they were all luck as the lights somehow were in their favor. Billy thought that an odd coincidence...he couldn't recall ever getting through that section without catching at least one red on the Santa Clara or Sunnyvale side. But never- the-less, they proceeded in caravan form under the Lawrence overpass, and through the Henderson and El Camino intersection. Bingo
That was nearly a number six. A 360 was probable cause in a security area...an area like a school or high value neighborhood. Especially when there was plenty of parking and places to go. Making circles in this particular case was not all that suspicous, but such a long, round about path was odd. And now as Billy drew up close, staying in the center lane as opposed to the truck's right lane, he realized that he was moving at the same speed as other cars in traffic and was about to pass by the suspicious truck. Chancing a glance, he saw the same stoic old guy, able now to see he had darker hair. Wondering if it was indeed the same truck, he signaled for a right, and slowed down as if to make a turn. Pulling behind the truck again, he saw the 3871 on the license plate again, and knew he had refound his man. What a drawn out affair this was turning out to be.
Now had to make a decision. Did he pull the guy and do the field sobriety test, or did he wait for a solid checkmark number six. His guts said go, but logically, and perhaps legally, he was on the line. Especially when you consider that travelling side by side to the truck was an late model maroon Caprice. The other car was matching the old man's speed nearly exactly, some 15 mph below the limit.
"So Billy" he spoke outloud to himself. "Who's the bad guys here. You got joy oriental in the Caprice, cutting along at an amazing 25 mph in the center lane, and Jose mexican in the right hand lane, matching him foot by foot. Is this a slow race to the finish or are these guys in cahoots."
Realizing it was all too ridiculous, this little chase, he decided to head back as soon as they got to Wolfe Rd. Let the two turtles accompany themselves all the way Redwood City for all he cared.
Then something happened he really hadn't expected to happen. The truck slowed down even more, forcing Billy to close up the space considerably, something he was not wanting to do. Then the left hand signal came on, and then as the Caprice moved ahead of them, the truck crossed over the center lane, into the left hand lane, and then into the turn lane. It happened slowly, and with considerable caution. It was just such a surprise, that Billy poked right on by, his mouth hanging open.
With a quick jab at the wheel and throttle, he swung right onto a minor street, flashed down about 100 feet and popped a u turn. Quickly accelerating back to El Camino, he checked both ways. No worry, at half the speed of the normal flow of traffic, everybody had long ago passed the little caravan by. He ran the light, swung left and was in time to see the truck make a right at the Burger King, now once again on Henderson, but now heading south.
"Shit". Well he now had a locus for the truck. This was a retrack of the previous diversion from El Camino, the path that began back when he first noticed the truck. The truck signaled a left and went right. Then failed to signal and took a left. Then took another left leading eventually back to Benton. This was making a nice criss-cross pattern. Now Billy was REALLY intrigued. A criss-cross. What was in this area that would lead a guy at ten p.m. to cruise around. Why not cruise up and down El Camino. What was so special about this neighborhood.
He racked his memory. Laurelwood School just a few blocks to the South, the Cabana Club private swimming pool just ahead. The K-Mart back at Henderson and El Camino. That was about it. What was this guy up to? And why didn't he have probably cause yet, and why was his instincts jammering at him to pull the dude?
They stopped at the light at Benton and El Camino, having retraced to the starting point of this little adventure.
Now Billy was worried. He had been on this guys tail for far too long now. If the fellow was even the least bit concious, he would be noticing his tail wagging along behind him. It was time to break the tail again, and hope he could pick up. When the truck signaled left, Billy smiled to himself. Back onto Lawrence. He could speed across the intersection, pop up Pomerey and pull back onto El Camino right there next to the Acapulco restuarant.
And he proceeded to do so as the truck slowly inched onto Lawrence, moving at a snail pace as usual. Billy sped across Lawrence on Benton, hung a quick left on Pomeroy, accellerated through the gauntlet of street parking around the various apartment complexes, then hung a left at the DMV complex perched on the same street that passed the Acapulco as it exited onto Lawrence.
Accelerating again, he flashed by the entrance to the Acapulco, and seeing taillights and "Ford" out of the corner of his eye, he had to force himself not to tromp on the breaks. Instead, he slowed, then backed up, illegally, into the exit area of the DMV complex. He continued to back up, shutting the lights off, and then parked across three parking spots.
The truck had pulled into the Acapulco parking lot. Now we had a nexus. The old guy, perhaps, had gone out for some cigarettes, perhaps at the 7-11 on Benton. Or maybe had gone to get some gas. Had got turned around, and thinking he had gone to far on Lawrence had pulled off. Not knowing it, he had pulled off too soon, and exited Lawrence just a block down from his ultimate destination. Like a good rover, the old guy had cruised around until he finally had stumbled his way back to his old watering hole.
Now the question was, how long would it take for the old guy to come back out. Any time was probably too long, and Billy cursed himself for wasting so much of his patrol time following the old fool. On the other hand, the old guy was probably going to go back in, have some more drinks, and come out stinking. It wasn't too cool to hang around bars, preying on their customers, even if it did mean busting bad news drunks. And in fact Billy wasn't above doing that kind of thing. But usually he bagged ten to fifteen guys, and he hadn't his first yet tonight. He could call a SCPD unit over and have them stake out the old guy, then bounce him. But if the old guy called foul, some Judge might question the traffic unit's probable cause...
"You mean Officer Kelly, that your probably cause consists of your Seargeant saying 'watch that guy'? Too flimsy for me. Case Dismissed!" Boom. And another taxpayers $500 in court costs down the drain. He would hear about that one for awhile. His choices were simple. Pop the guy now, wait and pop him later...his personal probable cause was much better), or just forget it. And again events made up his mind for him.
When he had first parked there, the truck had pulled into a parking spot, and turned off its lights. But no driver appeared. And then...interestingly enough...no driver appeared. So what was the old snot doing now? Taking a hit on a bottle? This was damned odd. Picking his lip where his mustache used to be, Billy fidgeted in the old Dodge.
Out of reflex, he ran the license plate again, and then popped the switch killing the compressor on the air conditioner. This way he could idle for sometime without overheating the aging car. He turned down the radio volume, and rolled down the window. Just like slipping on a working harness, he fell into his well worn stakeout procedure, only this time with the unit running so he could wait for the computer to come back with the negative report on the license plate.
When it did come back, he was dissappointed to see it was still negative. So how did this fit. The old guy either hadn't stolen the truck, the truck WAS stolen but not yet reported, or the license plates were stolen and not reported-then laid onto a stolen truck.
He futzed with the keyboard somemore, refining a better retrieval on info. Just before the "Searching" flag came up, he saw the lights on the truck pop back on as it began to back out of the spot again. Weird. Definitely Weird.
Billy confimed his foot was off the break, and self-conciously inspected the area out the front of his windshield. He was definitely in the dark and it would have been impossible for the truck to see him. The only chance of his car showing up was if the fellow swung back onto El Camino, and the lights would only illuminate him for a second. He scrunched down in seat a little, but then realized the top of the computer was probably a dead giveaway anyway so relaxed.
Fortunately, the truck turned right, Billy's left, and proceeded toward Pomerey. Billy decided he was confused again. He really didn't understand any of this, and he decided he'd keep a little more distance. He waited for the truck to get up to Pomeroy, and only when it turned right and pass out of sight, did Billy finally pop the lights on and race out of the DMV parking lot. With a cautious inch up to the Pomeroy intersection, he was able to peer down the slightly curved road to see that the taillights of the truck were getting small in the distance. Time to move.
He glided away from the stop sign, and with moderate accelleration, moved back into convoy with the truck.
As the truck began to make the bend to the right and go out of sight, Billy evenly applied throttle so as not to raise the headlight beams like a beacon, another trick learned in long tails. He slowly accellerated, up to about 60, eating up the distance between himself and the other vehicle which was still out of sight. He knew it was a bad tailing technique to do this maneuver, since the target might wind up being stopped or too close when you caught sight of 'em again, but Billy had one of those feelings. There were just too many places for the guy to go once he got back to Benton. Benton again.
"Let's see" he said, speaking out loud again, as was his nature when faced with a troubling problem. "Gas station, 7-11, Lawrence. Not much to go on. Why Benton?"
He just avoided a door opening from one of the cars, swerving and shouting "Hey" as he squealed by, half prompted to go back and read the riot act to the lady. But the other matter pressed on him, his instincts in full alarm now, bells, whistles, fireworks, all proclaiming something stunk with high degrees of fishiness. Just too damned odd.
Just managing not to squeal up to the corner of Pomeroy and Benton. He stopped hard. Looking toward Lawrence, no truck. He couldn't see around the corner to the left as it was tree covered and the Fire Station down the street made it impossible to "peer through". With that direction the only way left to check, he cautiously pulled out trying to see around the corner. By the time he could see, he was well away from the intersection and proceeding down Benton. No lights. Nothing. This didn't feel right. Cold. Wrong direction.
Obeying his instincts, which now had, for some unknown reason, added a new sense of urgency to their demands, he pulled a "uuie" and sped back towards Lawrence. Running the possiblities through his head again, he figured the old guy could have done another complete circle and head out to the North on Lawrence again, or maybe got lucky and made the green for a left hand turn to head south down that same expressway. Or maybe he had the green and proceeded across tracing his old route again. Maybe the old guy was cruising by his house to see if the mother-in-law had left yet. No, whatever it was, his instincts were reading either drunk or sinister. Either way, he was sufficiently challenged now that he needed to know who that guy was and where he was going. If nothing more than just a routine stop, it mattered now. The guy was going to get looked at. Looked at hard if necessary, but looked at for sure.