Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

Before going into the bunker, he put on his own protective gear: gloves, old fatigue jacket, a thin vest that covered his back and front, and a foam-lined plastic helmet with a clear plastic front. It was hard to talk with the helmet on, and when he and Sarah got into the bunker, he lifted up the helmet and said, “You want to have the gun first?”

Sarah was small and thin, with brown hair and big brown eyes. Earlier he had learned she had been a dispatcher with the department for only six months. She lifted her own helmet and grinned. “Really?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve done this before. You go ahead and have fun.”

She took the large revolver in her small hands and said, “Oh, you know it. Lots of these guys love to give me crap on the job. It’s gonna be fun to get some payback.”

He smiled back. “I know the feeling.”

So a month after their marriage, she had come to him and said that as much as she hated to do it, it was time to close the hair shop. And he had said, Not a problem, you can work at the store. As assistant manager. Not a problem. Which was true. Stacy’s Hair Design had gone out of business, his new wife had moved six feet over to her new job, and then, well, it began to crumble.

Simple things at first. Working with the spouse, the whole day long, just a few feet away from each other, meant no quiet time, no alone time. Little quirks of hers that earlier had been fun and amusing started to grate on him. Her humming. The way she picked at her fingernails. And the way she always seemed to dress with her cleavage exposed. And there was more to follow. She didn’t like the way he arranged the shelves, he didn’t like the way she’d chat away with a customer while a line formed. She thought he was too bossy, he thought she took too much time on breaks.

Their life revolved around the store, the store, all glory to the store, and lots of times, at the end of the day, they would both fall into bed, speak only a few words to each other, and then fall asleep. The only difference in the days of the week was that on Sunday, the newspapers for sale in the store were fatter.

That’s when he started to become frightened that everything was beginning to fall away with his life and marriage. Sacrifices, he thought, when do the damn sacrifices stop?

But then hope came, from a most unlikely source: the federal government.

SCENARIO ONE:

The SWAT team was breaking into a house with two known drug dealers, one of whom was believed to be armed. Craig’s role was to be the first drug dealer spotted, and he was sitting in a plastic chair, hands in his lap. The training officer said he was to cooperate and not put up any fuss, which was fine. There would be plenty of time for fuss later. Young and eager Sarah was somewhere deeper into the rooms, and he had wished her good luck and good aim.

Sounds. Booted feet tromping on the floor, low whispers, and then, like some nightmare vision from an Orwell book, the armed and well-equipped police came through the door. Even though he was expecting it and had done this several times before, his heart raced at the sight of these bulky armed men coming right at him. They had on goggles and helmets and protective vests and black fatigues and gloves and military boots, and some were holding out 9mm. pistols while others were carrying 9mm. submachine guns, and the moment Craig was spotted the screaming started, words tumbling over one another, echoing in the confines of the bunker.

“Police!”

“Search warrant!”

“Down on the ground!”

“Down on the ground, now!”

“Show us your hands!”

“Now!”

“Now!”

“Now!”

Craig’s heart was really thumping and he held out his hands and dropped to his knees on the concrete floor, and then stretched out. Hands expertly searched him, looking for any weapons — and a horrid thought suddenly came to him: Suppose the real round of 9mm. ammunition was found? — and when somebody yelled, “Hands to your back!” he moved his hands to his back and crossed his wrists. There was a squeeze at the wrists and another voice said, “Secure!” and he turned his head, seeing the booted feet fly by. Another part of the training. No handcuffs, no plastic restraints. He was now a prisoner, and he played along and waited.

Some other noises, of voices, as the police moved into the other rooms.

“Clear!”

“Okay.”

“Checking...”

“Hold on...”

“Gun!”

“Gun!”

And the gunfire erupted into the short and ferocious pop-pop-pop of practice rounds being expended, and more yells, more shouts, and then a whistle was blown by the training officer. Scenario completed.

Craig rolled over and sat up, removed his helmet. The SWAT members came back in as he stood up, some laughing, a couple of them looking embarrassed, with splotches of red paint smeared across their black fatigues. One guy said, “Hah, look at that, you got nailed by a girl,” and the other cop responded, with some bravado, “Man, the number of times I’ve nailed girls, I just decided it was time to let one of ’em have some payback.”