Chicago Rules

If you want a tough cop you don’t have to look any further than Moe Landowski, a 30+ year veteran of the Chicago streets. Landowski is what some call a “dinosaur”. Others refer to him as “old school.” He still carries a wooden night stick, a Billy club, instead of one of the collapsible batons and it’s as scarred and battered he is.

I just call him Moe. I’ve known him for years. You can find him at the Chicago Police Department 2nd Wentworth District third shift roll call almost any night. I’m in and out of there often enough myself. I’m Laurie Sweet, CPD homicide detective. I’ve been around the block a time or two, as well. A lady doesn’t tell her age but I’ll give you a hint. I’m no rookie.

His partner Michael Campbell is, though. He’s also more squared away than most of the others in the squad room. His steel-toed work boots are polished to a high sheen and meet the standards for prescribed footwear. If you look closely he wears an authorized military service pin on the lower right corner of his left pocket flap indicating 10 years in the U. S. Marines. His USMC and Semper Fi tattoos are covered by his long sleeves during roll call but on the street he rolls the sleeves up to show them off along with his biceps and powerful forearms. You can’t see the tattoo on his chest but he’s permanently marked with the Marine’s Combat Action Ribbon above his heart as well. I’ve seen him with his shirt off in the weight room.

Moe Landowski will knock you down; Michael Campbell will stomp on you, or vice-versa. Despite their 30+ year difference in time on the job they’re like two wolves from the same pack. There aren’t too many like them.

Captain Garret read off the squad car pairings for the night. At the very end he said, “Landowski and Campbell you’re on special assignment. Use car #0298. You’ll go with Detectives Collins and Sweet to pick up a fugitive. They’ve got the details. All right everybody, stay safe out there.”

We had requested them by name. The fugitive we were tasked with picking up had been arrested in Detroit. It had taken six officers to bring him in. We requested four and were told the precinct was short-staffed. That wouldn’t be possible. Two was all they could spare. We figured we could do it if they were the right two.

The four of us met at the back of the squad room. My partner, John W. Collins, as senior detective, gave the two patrol officers the details. “Orestes Timmons, also known as “Sweet Baby” is wanted on a fugitive warrant in Detroit. It stems from a traffic accident with resulting injuries. He was charged with Operating While Intoxicated when he crashed his Z06 Chevrolet Corvette into a Toyota and then a bakery at 140 mph. Now, Orestes plays in the Canadian Football League and is what you might call a high-profile personality so he was released on bail.”

I knew all this but Landowski and Campbell listened.

John continued. “He was belligerent as well as intoxicated at the scene. It took six Detroit officers to subdue him. The driver of the Toyota subsequently died in the hospital. Charges were enhanced to OWI causing injury/death. The Wayne County states’ attorney is considering manslaughter charges. In the meantime Orestes missed his court date and is now a fugitive.” John looked at Moe. “He’s six feet five inches tall and weighs three hundred and five pounds.”

Moe Landowski said, “The bigger they are.”

Mike Campbell finished, “The harder they are to carry out afterwards.” We all laughed, cop humor. We had the right two officers.

“We have credible information he is at his mother’s apartment off of Cottage Grove Avenue. This could go either way, maybe he’ll give himself up peacefully, and maybe he won’t.”

“Let’s go get him,” Moe responded.

“One way or another,” Mike added. Both of them displayed pride and confidence at being able to do the job.

I carried an OC device, just in case. That’s Oleoresin Capsicum, commonly known as pepper spray. I’m not certified for a Taser. In order to carry one you have to go through a training course and then be certified. That’s a point of contention in the department, there’s a big jump from the non-lethal baton that we can carry to our side arms. It would be nice to have something in between. Chicago police officers are not allowed to carry blackjacks but I know some of them do. I knew Landowski carried a weighted flashlight, which required his supervisor’s approval. I wasn’t sure about Campbell. He looked like the kind of man who might have a blackjack; he was a black glove cop all the way.

At midnight, any knock on your door can be unsettling for most people. When Moe Landowski hammers on it and announces, “Police department, open up. We’ve got a warrant for the arrest of Orestes Timmons,” in a gruff, loud voice, you can pretty much be assured it isn’t good.

A mild looking woman wearing a housecoat eventually came to the door. “Trouble just seems to follow that boy,” she remarked to us. She closed the door and undid the security chain and opened it again. “He’s asleep in his bedroom.” She pointed the way and then followed us.

Sweet Baby was asleep in his bed. He made a sizeable hump under the covers. The room was still decorated the way you would expect a college boy to adorn his. It had posters pinned to the walls and a couple of album covers, 40 Glocc and B-Tight. Orestes was apparently into Gangster Rap and Southern hip-hop. Overall what I’d seen of the apartment it was a nice middle-class place. Mrs. Timmons had what looked like photos of her son framed and hanging in the hallway. The subject was wearing various football uniforms in all of them.

Landowski and Campbell moved to positions on either side of the bed. John W. Collins stood at its foot. “Wake up, Orestes,” John said, and then he repeated it a little louder. “We’ve got a warrant for your arrest.” I stayed in the doorway. Mrs. Timmons was behind me. John shook his foot. “Wake up.”

Sweet Baby’s eyes fluttered a couple of times. “Whuh?” he said, and then his eyes opened and focused all the way, looking at John standing there. He took in the two cops looming over his bedside.

“Get out of bed,” John told him. “We’ve got a warrant for your arrest.”

“Aw man,” Sweet Baby protested. He swung his legs slowly over the side of the bed, clear of the covers and placed his hands at his sides. He was wearing a pair of striped boxer shorts and he shook his head as he pushed himself to his feet. Moe Landowski stepped back a step, giving him room to get to his feet. It looked to me as if he was going to come peacefully.

“Turn around with your hands behind your back,” Moe told him.

Sweet Baby bull rushed him. The impact of the attack drove Moe back against the bedroom wall. The whole apartment shook as the two men collided with it. I was amazed at how quick he was. It’s one thing to see football players explode off of the line when the ball is snapped, on television. It’s another thing entirely to see it happen in person, ten feet away from you.

“Rafer! Rafer! Help me!” he called out. He had Moe by the upper arms, the biceps, and banged him off of the wall again. Mike Campbell jumped onto the bed in a flash, coming to the aid of his partner.

The bed collapsed. Mike went down in a tangle of sheets, on his knees. Sweet Baby swung Moe around in a half circle, still holding him by the upper arms, and he used his weight and his momentum to push the old cop backwards onto his partner. All three of them went down onto the bed, grunting and struggling.

John W. reached into the tangle, grasping one of Sweet Baby’s legs. He kicked several times, still grappling with Moe. I stayed back, in the doorway, and reached for the OC canister, alert for an opportunity to use it without also spraying someone other than Sweet Baby. That was when another young man pushed past me.

“I’m coming!” he shouted. Then he clasped his arms around John W. from behind, encircling his chest. He was almost as big as Sweet Baby, maybe even a little bit taller. Nobody had said anything about a brother. No wonder there were so many photos of uniformed athletes in the hallway.

I bounced off of the doorjamb and stumbled into the bedroom. Mrs. Timmons was nowhere to be seen. She had apparently wisely retreated back down the hallway when the melee began. Sweet Baby, Moe and Mike grappled on top of the tilted mattress. John W. had lost his grip on Sweet Baby’s leg and was engulfed in Little Brother’s bulk. He had been driven into one corner of the bedroom. I rushed toward my partner and the new assailant.

I placed the OC canister right up against his ear and activated it. The pepper spray hissed outward just the way it was supposed to. Little Brother made the mistake of turning his head and he got a face full of the spray. Immediately he screamed. He also let go of John W. I knew better than to try grappling with a man as big as that one so I stepped back out of reach and gave him another shot of it in the face. He already had his hands up, rubbing his eyes. The gas causes temporary blindness as well as stinging and itching. I know, I’d experienced the sensation in training. We’re told not to rub our eyes, which just makes it worse. Little Brother hadn’t learned that in football practice.

The tide had shifted in the battle on the mattress. Sweet Baby was still making some wordless cry as he overpowered Moe with his bulk and weight. He had trained and practiced for years to bring his opponents to the ground and control them on the gridiron. The thing is, in football, it stops there. Mike Campbell wasn’t intimidated by the animalistic cry. He’d been taught to hurt his enemy and hurt them bad. He had one of Sweet Baby’s arms in some kind of a hold. It was extended outward and twisted. Sweet Baby’s fierce sounds changed to those of pain as Mike continued, maneuvering to get behind him. Moe struggled beneath the other men, at the bottom of the pile.

John W. Collins is an old guy. He’s older than me. His assailant outweighed him by a good hundred pounds, too. Even so, somehow he had managed to get his handcuffs off the back of his belt. He snapped one of the steel bracelets around Little Brother’s left wrist. When he pulled his arm roughly around behind his back, I stepped forward and gave him another squirt of pepper spray in the face. Some of it went into his open mouth. You don’t want to get sprayed with that stuff in your mouth. That gives you the opportunity to experience a whole new level of sensation. Trust me on that. There wasn’t any resistance when John pulled his second arm behind his back. He fumbled while trying to handcuff that one but he eventually got it done. By that time Little Brother was crying.

Sweet Baby had stopped making his own wordless cry. Actually he had stopped making any noise at all. Mike Campbell was behind him. His right arm was wrapped around Sweet Baby’s neck and his left elbow rested on his shoulder, hand on top of his head. He was still applying pressure in a classic choke or stranglehold. Mike’s face was filled with concentration and determination. Sweet Baby’s face was filled with panic for a few seconds more as he struggled futilely to breathe.

“You’re under arrest,” John gasped, getting to his feet. Little Brother remained on his knees, crying and spasming. My partner was about out of breath but he was still game.

I took over from there. “You have the right to remain silent,” I began. John’s eyes met mine gratefully. Usually I read that off a card I carry but I’ve got it memorized, too.

Mike horsed the inert body of Sweet Baby off of his partner. Moe slid off of the bed as Mike applied the handcuffs to our fugitive. Moe shakily leaned forward with his hands on his knees, breathing deeply for what seemed like a long time.

I looked on with concern and thought back to the days when I was a snot-nosed rookie myself in a blue uniform. I had been paired with Moe Landowski on my first few months in the Chicago streets. He hasn’t advanced very far in rank although there are a few more hash marks on his sleeves indicating years of service but his reputation is legendary. There are probably quite a few complaints in his personnel file. Maybe even as many as there are commendations.

Mike is his new partner, a rookie who came to the force after ten years in the Marines. He’s still learning some things they don’t teach in the Academy. Like I say, Moe Landowski will knock you down; Michael Campbell will stomp on you, or vice-versa. They’re partners in the truest sense of the word.

Mike got off of the bed, still controlling Sweet Baby from behind. When they were both clear of the bed and Sweet Baby began to regain consciousness Moe walked around the bed and stood in front of him.

“You never should have tried to run,” he told Sweet Baby in a calm conversational voice.

“Huh?” the big man managed. “I didn’t try to run,” he protested. He thought it was over. He thought that the referee had blown the whistle and play was stopped.

“Halt,” Moe told him, continuing in the conversational tone. Mike held him securely by the upper arms. “Halt or necessary force will be used against you. Last warning,” he said. If asked in court he could honestly say he had administered a warning. Then that old wooden Billy club went to work. After Sweet Baby had been battered to his knees Moe leaned down close to his face. “We play by Chicago rules here.”

BIO: C. Inanen lives in the Midwest USA. His work has been most recently published in Straylight Literary Magazine and can be found in other fine magazines. It will also be featured in the "Black Hare Press Year Eight Anthology."

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