Chapter 3
Cutter alerted Dispatch about the possible armed robbery as he ran.
This wasn’t how he expected his Sunday morning to go.
His wife would be getting ready for church soon—if she was feeling good enough.
He and the good lord weren’t exactly on speaking terms, so he’d decided to catch up on a few cases while the office was quiet.
His best-laid plans “gang aft agley,” as his poetry-loving bride would say—after she chided him for skipping his Sabbath meetings.
Cutter nudged the wheel, floating his patrol car into the right-hand lane and giving the trooper the road. It didn’t matter who got there first.
Deputy Johnson sped by on the left, tight on the tail of the DPS black-and-white.
Weatherford PD Officer Ray Gene Bryant broke squelch over the radio.
The city officer had a place out toward Brock and was likely on his way in to work.
His voice was barely audible over the blare of Cutter’s siren.
Prolonged exposure to gunfire and the drone of military aircraft had done a number on Cutter’s hearing. He turned up the volume.
“Four-thirty-one, I’m out with that armored truck,” Bryant said.
“Roll an ambulance my way. Suspect vehicle is a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria, last seen heading eastbound on I-20. Two occupants, according to my witness. No description, but they’re well-armed and dangerous.
Have that ambulance get a move on. It’s bad. Real bad.”
Half a breath later, Cutter caught sight of a blue Crown Vic in the oncoming lane, barreling toward him.
The trooper’s brake lights flashed a quarter of a mile ahead. Lafayette Johnson kept going west.
Cutter took his foot off the gas, bleeding off speed without touching the brake—a dangerous endeavor in his ancient patrol car.
He gave his mirrors a quick check to make sure he wouldn’t get rear-ended, then cut the wheel sharply and stomped on the gas.
The rear of the big Chevy came around in a one-eighty.
Heading the right way now, Cutter accelerated through a cloud of dust and flying debris as he crossed the grass median.
He was back in the lead, with the suspect Crown Victoria in sight.
Siren waling, his left hand on the wheel, Cutter double-checked his seat belt and then reached for the radio mic hanging on his dash.
“Six-two to County,” he said.
The dispatcher, a young woman named Nikki, answered immediately. “Go ahead, 62.”
Cutter settled deeper into his seat, working the wheel gently so as not to overcorrect while he held the mic with his right.
“County, I’m eastbound on I-20 passing …
Tin Top Road … Suspect Crown Victoria is ahead of me doing well over a hundred miles an hour.
I’ll get you a plate number when I’m close enough to read it. ”
The dispatcher read back Cutter’s broadcast. Two highway patrol units chimed in, responding from the Department of Public Safety offices off Santa Fe Drive—a couple miles ahead.
Cutter glanced at the speedometer. The needle bounced erratically, bumping a hundred and five.
The Crown Vic was still pulling away. At these speeds they’d pass the Santa Fe exit before the troopers made it out of the DPS parking lot.
A dawdling panel van loomed dead ahead, camped out in the passing lane.
Cutter didn’t so much move the wheel as he thought about where he wanted the car to go.
His Caprice floated like an air hockey puck across the interstate, cutting between the van and a farm truck with a bed piled full of watermelons.
The needle passed a hundred and ten miles an hour.
Rather than gripping the wheel tighter, he loosened his hold, allowing it to dance slightly in his hands.
Even a sideways glance could bring a sudden lane change.
Every County patrol car had three radios—the good-time (music or talk shows on long nights), law enforcement, and the citizen’s band. Around the melon truck and in the clear for the moment, Cutter replaced the County radio mic only to snatch the CB.
Gut-wrenching as it was to let a fleeing felon get away, it was often more prudent than giving chase and putting innocent civilians in danger.
Not this time. Men who killed in the course of a robbery had little reason to quit a murder spree.
Texas couldn’t execute them twice. Whatever their motives, they had to be captured before they killed again.
Today, that job fell to Cutter.
He keyed the mic.
“Breaker, breaker, any big rig on one-nine. This is Parker County Deputy Sheriff D Wayne Cutter in pursuit of a blue Crown Victoria eastbound on I-20 passing …” He shot a glance to his right.
The golden arches of McDonald’s loomed across the highway “… passing FM 51 exit. Occupants are suspects in an armored car robbery west of Weatherford. Armed and extremely dangerous.”
Cutter released the mic, pausing a beat. He didn’t have long to wait. The truckers knew exactly what to do.
Gravel voices filled the CB airwaves as eastbound 18-wheelers coordinated a rolling roadblock.
“Got your blue Ford in sight, County Mountie,” one of the truckers said. “We’ll make a wall before the Bankhead exit.”
“I owe you one,” Cutter said.
“Tell that to the highway patrol.” The trucker chuckled. “Good hunting.”
As promised, the tractor-trailer rigs lined up five abreast and rolled to a stop a hundred yards before the Bankhead exit.
The old Bankhead highway crossed the interstate on a diagonal, going generally west back toward Weatherford proper, and east into Bermuda grass fields and thick woods of oak and elm.
Cutter killed his siren and let off the gas, putting gentle but steady pressure on the brakes.
The smell of superheated fiberglass filled the car as he slowed.
Traffic was sparse this early on a Sunday morning, but three other vehicles were caught with the Crown Victoria immediately behind the trucker’s rolling roadblock—a beat-up Toyota Corolla, a Pontiac Firebird convertible driven by what looked like a mother and a teenage daughter, and a red 1971 Chevrolet El Camino nearly identical to Cutter’s pride and joy.
Cutter felt a fleeting moment of panic when he saw the El Camino, fearing his wife might have driven it into town. He shook off the worry. She’d be getting ready for church about now—if she felt up to getting out of bed.
A sunburned arm snaked out of the El Camino’s driver’s side window, followed by a crumpled straw cowboy hat. The man waved at the truckers to move out of the way—but ducked quickly back inside when he noticed the patrol car’s flashing lights.
Cutter scanned for threats. There was always the possibility of more than one vehicle full of killers. Seeing nothing else that looked suspicious, his attention settled on the Crown Victoria idling behind the big rigs, penned in by the El Camino and the Pontiac convertible.
Trooper Teague skidded to a stop on Cutter’s right, directly behind the Crown Vic. He notified Dispatch of their location.
First on the scene, Cutter took tactical control.
He opened his door and stood behind the V formed by his doorpost and windshield, aiming his Smith and Wesson Model 27 revolver at the Ford while he stretched the radio mic across his body and held it with his left hand.
He’d turned the knob to public-address mode before he bailed out of the Caprice.
“Sheriff’s Office!” he boomed. “Everyone, stay in your vehicle! Driver of the Blue Crown Victoria! Turn off your engine and lower your window! Do not exit until I tell you!”
The Ford continued to idle sullenly. The sun was still low in the East, putting it in the shadow of the looming tractor trailers. Cutter could make out movement inside the vehicle, but the glare made it impossible to get a clear look on how many people he was dealing with.
Two more highway patrol black-and-whites and a Weatherford PD Dodge Diplomat screamed onto the scene code 3 behind Cutter and Teague.
They killed their sirens. Cutter lifted the mic to speak again, but another County Caprice roared up from behind, sliding through the gravel before coming to a stop just inches from the WPD unit.
Lafayette Johnson. The kid had his siren set to Hi-Lo, like the German polizei.
The newbies never were content with normal siren tones.
Cutter barked at him to turn it off. The PA system gave a resounding click as he keyed the mic to give another command, but the Ford’s driver’s side door flew open.
A gaunt man with long hair pulled back in a ponytail bailed out of the vehicle.
Stooping, he made a break for the Pontiac convertible and flung open the passenger door, grabbing the terrified girl by the hair to use as a human shield.
Half in, half out of the Pontiac, his back to the windshield, Ponytail hid behind the screaming teenager, gun to her head.
The girl’s mother threw herself toward him, but he barked something Cutter couldn’t make out.
Mollified, for the moment at least, the mother resumed her place in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel with both hands and sobbing openly.
Cutter spoke over the PA again, his voice steady but firm. “Drop the gun and let the girl go! Do it now.”
This was no carrot-or-stick offer on the lawman’s part. Cutter did not plead. He gave orders. A man who’d murder another human being for money knew what was in store if he didn’t comply. This guy had enough sense to see he was bought and paid for—leaving him to hide behind a terrified girl.
“Tell the trucks to clear out!” Ponytail’s head bobbed as if he had palsy, but the revolver stayed aimed in. “I mean business!”
“Put down the gun,” Cutter said again.