Here’s an extract from a crime novela I wrote around the time the last Blockbuster Video closed. Darryl lives with his aunt Sophie Westburne. Darryl and Dodge, both in their early twenties, work for Dodge’s uncle Stan McKay at Stan’s video store, Video Vampire. Stan has become the chief suspect in a series of murders in Vancouver.
This extract details Stan’s arrest at Video Vampire.
by Jerry Donaldson
about 2,000 words
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“Darryl,” Dodge said, “oh, man I’m glad to hear from you.”
Dodge never phoned Darryl at home, because he was terrified of Aunt Sophie. On the rare occasion that Dodge needed Darryl to cover a shift for him or whatever, Dodge had Stan make the call. Stan seemed to take a perverse delight in being as rude as possible to her during these and other video business-related calls to the Westburne residence. Small wonder Sophie had a low opinion of Stan, Darryl reflected. But then again, Stan did not really have to take any unusual steps to upset and alienate people. That was just his nature; bellicose, foul-mouthed, smelly, weird.
“I saw the news, Dodge. What’s going on?”
“Stan did it, Darryl, he told me he did it, did it again. He murdered a second pair of people yesterday or the day before, whenever it was. He told me about it last night. Just like the first murders. The woman was in the store computer, he showed me, man! And the murders were in the news yesterday. Didn’t you see the news?
“I don’t like the news much, Dodge, but Aunt Sophie just showed me the television news about what’s going on down at V.V. So Stan’s in the store?
“I don’t know, man. I’m here at the cop shop. After Stan told me the second murder story last night I didn’t sleep at all, man, so about 5 I got up and came here and told them what I heard from Stan. A lady detective talked to me and then she said ‘go sit in that room for a while,’ so that’s what I did. I’m in here now and there’s a television and I’m looking at this thing at VV going on right in front of me.”
“I wonder if the police will want to speak with me?” Darryl said, more to himself than to Dodge.
“Jesus, Darryl, who knows?” Dodge said. His voice had a strangled quality. “I gotta phone my ma sometime and I don’t want to think about that. But, she’s probably watching the news so I guess she knows everything already. Oh, man I think . . . hang on a sec Darryl, someone just came in here. Maybe they got more questions. . . aw shit. Listen, I gotta go Darryl, stay cool man.” And then Dodge was gone; the line was dead.
Darryl stared at the receiver for a minute and then he put it back in the cradle and sat down at his computer. He turned the television to the news and switched to the channel Aunt Sophie was watching upstairs. A blonde reporter with a microphone was explaining that a SWAT team had kicked down front door of Video Vampire at 8:15 that morning.
Stan was in the back room watching a pornographic video when the police burst in shouting, “Police! On the floor! Down, down, down!” Dodge had told the detectives that Stan owned a gun, so police on the scene were prepared when Stan appeared from the back room with a small revolver in his fist. Stan was holding the gun beside his leg. His arm was straight and the revolver was pointing at the floor.
“Drop it, drop it, drop it! Drop the weapon!” police officers shouted at him. Stan did not raise the gun; he stood there rooted to the spot, while the shouting continued.
”Drop it, drop it! Get down, down, down, on the floor, down, now!” The level of intensity in the front of Video Vampire was as high as could get. Everyone was shouting. Stan just stood there. Something had to give, and give now. Otherwise Stan McKay would be shot. Why couldn’t he seem to get that? Why did he just stand there, the gun in his hand pointing down and a gob-smacked look on his face?
Finally Stan began to move. Slowly he began to bend at the knees, began to move his body toward the floor as he had been directed. He was getting ready to place the gun on the worn linoleum, and then to put his hands over his head and go quietly.
“That’s right, McKay,” said SWAT team leader Rick Swartz, his tone smooth and even. “Put it down, put the gun down. That’s right, now, McKay. Do it now.”
Stan’s greasy hair hung in his face and his piggy little eyes darted here and there around the room. Slowly he went lower and lower. He was going to put it down. Everyone began to relax just a little. It was going to end peacefully. But McKay suddenly plunged back through the door into the back room. Swartz was standing 20 feet away from Stan at that moment. His service Glock spat once and the slug hit Stan in the left thigh, but Stan kept moving, disappearing into the back room and slamming the door shut behind him.
The cops in the front all scrambled for cover. They could hear Stan in the back room swearing and raising hell. After a bit he calmed down and there was only low moaning.
“You coming out, Mckay?” shouted Swartz.
“Fuck you,” said Stan. “Come in and get me.”
Swartz slid quietly across the store to speak to the next in command on the Swat team, a young officer named Harbinder Bains.
“Bains,” Swartz whispered, “go outside and call for a negotiator. We’re going to have to talk him out of there.”
“Gotcha,” said Bains. He slid away, out of video Vampire and into the passenger’s side of one of the police cruisers idling out front. Swartz watched through the plate glass storefront window as Bains spoke into the radio mike clipped to his lapel. Then he returned his attention to the situation inside the store. Stan could be heard groaning and swearing, but he seemed to be running out of gas. In the back room, Stan was in pain and bleeding. Now the trick was to get him out without anyone else taking a bullet.
Swartz nodded to each of the four other cops in the store and renewed his grip on the ugly black pistol in his hand. He shouted at Stan through the door.
“Stan McKay, come out of there with your hands on your head!”
“Fuck you, copper. You shot me, you fuckin’ shot me in the fuckin’ leg for fuck sake,” Stan replied.
Swartz had 15 years’ service on the Vancouver force, and he had been involved in several armed stand-offs. He knew his stuff. He modulated his voice down into a conversational tone. “Come on, Stan,” he said. “We know you did these things, these murders. We need you to come out peacefully and talk about it.”
Several more minutes passed. Swartz waved two more officers into the store, indicating with a finger to his lips that they needed to be silent. There were now seven heavily armed police in Video Vampire. It was hot in the store and the only sound was fussing behind the door to the back room. Out on the street other police strung yellow tape and pushed back the growing crowd of press and curious onlookers. In the distance sirens became audible and grew steadily louder.
“Yeah, I done it,” shouted Stan finally. “Killed ‘em all! Yahoo! Boom, boom out go the lights, you know! Fuckers and bitches wanna kill me, you know, drive me outta business! They wanna see me curl up and die. But I got ‘em first! I’ll get ‘em all! Bang, bang, bang!”
“Well,” said Swartz, “we want to hear more about that. Why not just come out of there peaceful-like and let’s talk some.”
“Fuck you, I got more killin’ to do. You won’t take me alive, asshole! ‘Cept my leg hurts like a motherfucker and that’s your fault, shithead.”
Swartz silently directed two Kevlar-clad policemen to take up positions on either side of the door to the back room. He waited until they were in position and then he spoke to Stan again.
“We can get you to Vancouver General,” Swartz said. “Doctors and nurse will take care of your wound, fix you up. Then you can explain your situation to people who will listen. Someone will talk to you about the people you feel are doing you wrong.”
“Yeah, right! Sure they’ll listen! Listen, my ass!” Stan shouted back. “Ha, ha! They’ll listen like them fuckin’ la-di-da bitches what won’t gimme the time a’ day listen. They don’t listen, not at all, don’t listen, no, no, nosirree! Bitches! Sonsabitches! Assholes! Them fuckin’ bitches, they don’t know what they’re missin’, that’s what I say! I could slip ‘em the old bonaphone, let ‘em suck on my johnson, but noooooo! There’re all too good and pure for that! Hah! Well, they can listen to me now, me and this here thirty-eight. Boom, boom, boom!”
Stan’s voice dropped down into muttering. Then he resumed shouting. “And the bitches wannna starve me out! That too! They want that too, goddammit! Won’t fuck me and they wanna kill my business! Fuckin’ Netflix, fuck that! I’ll kill ‘em all! Fuckin’ bitches, fuckin’ Netflix, fuckin’ everyone! Arrghhh, shit, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
After a bit Stan stopped yelling. Swartz could hear moaning and muttering from behind the door. After a long pause Swartz spoke up again.
“Stan?” he said quietly. “McKay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m here, shithead,” Stan said, in something approaching a normal tone of voice. Stressed, but not shouting. “My leg hurts somethin’ fierce, and it’s you, man, all you. All your fault. I gotta think for a while.” Several more minutes dragged by, while Stan cursed to himself and moaned quietly. Then there was silence again.
Swartz thumbed his radio and called dispatch directly. “How about that negotiator?” he whispered into the mike, covering the mike and his mouth with his free hand. “The suspect is in the back room of the store but he doesn’t look to be coming out anytime soon. We need help, now, dammit!”
“Roger that,” replied the female dispatcher. “We’ll have someone over there pronto. Just hang tough.”
Ten minutes or so dragged by while everyone waited for the negotiator, waited for the magician whose words would coax Stan McKay out of his pornographic lair and into the sunlight of justice. Meanwhile, behind the door to the back room there was silence, punctuated by muttered oaths and moaning.
But then Stan spoke up, and now there was resignation in his voice. “You done this to Stan,” he said. “Shot me, you fuckers, and now I’m bleedin’ all over and I need help. So now I gotta come out, but just to talk, you know, nothin’ funny and if I don’t like what I’m hearin’ there’ll be fuckin’ hell to pay!”
“The gun, Stan. We need the gun,” said Swartz, his voice low and soothing. “How about you open the door a foot or so and just slide that gun out here on the floor, nice and slow, and then we’ll have a talk.”
There was another long pause, and then the doorknob began to turn. Every cop in the store stiffened, ready for action. The door creaked open a foot or so and Stan’s arm appeared in the doorway, down near the floor, with the gun in its hand. Stan put the revolver on the floor and gave it a push. It slid across the floor and came to rest against the base of a floor display of potato chips and microwave popcorn. A moment or two later Stan crept out into the store. He was greasy, bloody and disheveled, and he was clutching his left thigh in both hands.
The officers on either side of the door were on him in a heartbeat. They forced him to the floor and fastened his arms behind him with plastic wrist restraints. That got Stan going again. “Fooled me, you fuckers! You call this talkin’, shitheads? Hey, I call it fuckin’ bullshit, man! Total bullshit! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all! Cops, bitches, Netflix, everyone!”
The two policemen held Stan down behind the counter while Swartz radioed in to police dispatch. “All clear here,” he said into the microphone clipped to the lapel of his blue Kevlar vest with “Police” on the back. “The suspect is in custody. Belay that negotiator.”
* * *
On The Beach 