Police Officer Kerrie McCord attended roll call with the rest of B Shift that Sunday afternoon.  Lieutenant Norb Bensinger, North Division watch commander, recited his briefing notes, most administrative in nature: a sales rep from the department's uniform vendor was scheduled to visit Tuesday to measure anyone in need of new body armor; any officer who had yet to qualify with his or her handgun this quarter must report to the range by week's end.  He mentioned in passing a double homicide downstate reported shortly after daybreak.  No suspect info or vehicle description as yet.  State BCI promised an update within the hour.  The lieutenant concluded roll call with his customary benediction of "stay alert and watch out for each other."  Kerrie and the seven other uniforms in her platoon collected gear bags, checked their patrol rifles out of the station armory, and made their way out the back door to the parking lot.
     Stepping into the brightness of mid-afternoon, Kerrie remembered she'd left her favorite pair of Oakley sunglasses in her personal car parked on the far side of the lot.  By the time she'd located them in the center console, her brothers and sisters in blue had laid claim to the newer marked SUVs on the ready line.  Kerrie had to settle for Car 1535, a venerable Crown Victoria with frayed seat covers, creased door panels and rust around the wheel wells.  As she settled in behind the wheel, she noticed at once the dash cam was missing.  She waved over Sergeant Phil Garza.
     "There a problem, Kerrie?" he inquired genially.
     "Sarge, what happened to my in-car video?" she demanded.
     He frowned at the empty bracket on the dash where the camera had been.  "Oh, that's right.  You had Friday off.  Fleet Services came out to pull the camera and hard drive so they can install it in one of the SUVs they just took delivery on.  They're gonna retire this shit box by the end of the month, so they figured why wait?"
     "That leaves me with no video camera for the next ten hours.  What am I supposed to do if I make an arrest?"
     "With luck you won't have to," Garza said lamely.  "The lieutenant says it's been a quiet Sunday."
     "You and I both know there's no guarantee it'll stay that way."
     "Tell you what, you make a traffic stop or take someone to jail, make sure you have a second car with a working camera.  Best I can do, Kerrie."
     "Copy that," Jillian said with a resigned sigh.  She finished loading her equipment, fired up the Crown Vic and checked in on the air with Dispatch.   
     Charlie Sector, on the northern outskirts of Ravenspoint, had been farmland as recently as five years ago, small family-owned operations with their backs against the wall in an era of corporate agriculture.  They'd sold out to real estate developers who wasted no time putting up subdivisions with names like Sylvan Meadows and Foxwood Pointe.  Kerrie spent the first forty minutes of her tour showing the flag on winding residential streets lined with pricey homes she could never afford on her cop's salary.  As five o'clock neared, she stopped at the 7-11 on Remington Road to nuke a Hot Pocket in the microwave.  The high school kid at the register made fumbling attempts at small talk with the willowy, chestnut-haired policewoman as he rang up her purchase.  Kerrie chose to be flattered.  Never one for false modesty she knew damn well that she looked almost as good in her midnight blue uniform as she did in the tank tops and running shorts she wore off duty.  She favored the cashier with a smile, causing him to flush and stammer while wishing her a nice day.
     She was returning to her cruiser with a bottle of grape Propel when Dispatch called.
     "178 Charlie, report of a disabled vehicle on Ridgeline Drive, quarter mile south of Route 112.  Reporting party says it's partly blocking one lane of traffic."
     "10-4, show me enroute."  The outlying parts of Gage County had once been the jurisdiction of the sheriff's office.  Since then the voters had approved a referendum merging the sheriff with Ravenspoint Police to create Ravenspoint Gage Metro.  As a result Kerrie's sector extended four miles beyond city limits.  She drove outbound on Remington, crossing the double-track Midland Pacific mainline.  North of the railroad Charlie Sector turned semi-rural, rolling bluestem prairie interrupted by an occasional desolate farmhouse.  Jillian steered north at Ridgeline, an asphalt two-lane wending its way along a densely wooded hogback.  The road saw little traffic now that Route 112 had been widened to four lanes.  Up ahead on her left she spotted a gray GMC utility van on the gravel shoulder.  Two men knelt beside the van wrestling a flat tire off the rear axle.  Making a leisurely U-turn, Kerrie halted behind them and turned on her red and blue roof lights.
     "178 Charlie on scene with that 10-46 vehicle," she informed Dispatch.  "Copy a plate number of 318 Victor-Tango-Golf."  Kerrie heard only dead air and cursed, recalling too late that Ridgeline Drive was a notorious "dead zone," the hogback serving as a natural barrier to radio signals.  She would have been better off with a pair of Dixie cups and a string.  There had been proposals to place a repeater atop the ridge so officers working this far north could stay in contact with Dispatch, which at the moment was no help whatsoever to Officer Kerrie McCord; she was entirely on her own.  
     One of the men got slowly to his feet and sauntered toward her cruiser.  Medium height, athletic build, crookedly handsome features and tousled hair, clad in a waist-length jacket and boot-cut jeans.  "Hey there, Officer," he greeted with a faint but discernible Southern drawl.  "Bet some Good Samaritan called in on us."
     "They did," said Kerrie, typing the plate number into her mobile computer terminal.  She tapped ENTER and waited in vain for a response.  Evidently the hogback blocked both voice and data transmissions.  "Have you been here long?"
     "Twenty minutes or so.  We had a hell of a time with that last lug nut."  As he spoke his burly bearded companion hefted a spare tire from the van's payload bay and set it on the pavement, where he began checking for punctures.
     "I can stand by until you're on your way," Kerrie offered.
     "Mighty nice of you, Officer..." Stud Puppy squinted at the nameplate pinned over her right breast.  "McCord.  Any relation to Kent McCord the actor?  I'm dating myself here, but he played---"
     "Jim Reed on Adam-12.  With Martin Milner as Pete Malloy.  Kent McCord's still with us but Marty Milner died a few years back.  He was buried with full LAPD honors."  She laughed self-consciously.  "I know, too much information."
     "On the contrary, I'm impressed with the depth of your knowledge about old television shows."
     "You should see me on Tuesday Trivia Night at Madigan's Pub." 
     "I'd like to," purred Stud Puppy.  "See you, that is."  Kerrie flushed prettily.  Christ, was he hitting on her?  Her breath hitched in her throat as she waited for him to ask if she was free for dinner some night.  No reason not to say yes.  He was good-looking in an off-center way and besides, she'd always had a weakness for Southern accents.
     "You gonna give me a hand with the fuckin' tire?" roared the bearded man.  He reminded her of Bluto from the old Popeye cartoons. Stud Puppy winced.  "Ma'am, I apologize for my friend's language."
     "I'm a cop, nothing I haven't heard before.  Go help your friend."              
     Watching him return to the van Kerrie was captivated by the lazy sway of his hips.  She felt all warm and melty inside and wondered idly what he was like between the sheets.  Her erotic reverie was broken by an alert tone from the radio.  She boosted the volume, relieved that even if she couldn't transmit she was at least able to receive.         
     "Ravenspoint Gage Metro units prepare to copy an APB on two homicide suspects," began the dispatcher.  "BCI has issued a regional alert for Grady Lee Stack and Wayne Earl Jessup, wanted in connection with two homicides in Decatur County believed to have occurred at 5:40 AM this date.  Subject Stack is five-eight, one-seventy-five, brown over blue and clean-shaven.  DOB 3-11 of 1979.  Subject Jessup is six-two, two-twenty, heavy build.  Black over brown with a full beard.  DOB 11-4 of 1975.  Last seen operating a gray GMC van, 2013 model, bearing plates 731 Bravo-Hotel-November.  Both subjects are considered armed and dangerous, do not approach without backup."   
     Kerrie felt her heart clench.  "Oh, fuck," she said in a stricken whisper.  Different plate number, but the van before here was inarguably a gray GMC and the suspect descriptions matched Stud Puppy and Bluto in every respect.  Before she could put the Crown Vic in reverse and retreat to a safe distance, Grady Lee Stack thrust the muzzle of a .357 Magnum through her open window and pressed it to her temple.
     "Both hands on the wheel and keep 'em there," he commanded.  The steely undertone in his voice was at odds with the easygoing drawl.  "You're a lot more valuable to us as a hostage than a corpse."  Kerrie obeyed in numb silence, acutely aware of the depth of shit she was in.  "Good girl," Stack said.  "That police scanner app on my smartphone was money was spent.  Wayne, reach inside and relieve Officer Kensett of her duty weapon, why don't you?"
     "Pleasure," rumbled Jessup.  Opening the passenger side door he wrested Kerrie's sidearm from its Level III retention holster with no discernible effort, which told her he'd rehearsed disarming cops in prison.  He admired the Model 23 Glock before thrusting it into his waistband.  "Always wanted me one of these."
     "You shitheads had better think this through," said Kerrie in brittle tones.  She was grimly determined not to betray any sign of fear or weakness.  "You're already guilty of Reckless Endangerment and Disarming a Law Enforcement Officer.  Take this any farther and I promise you'll spend the rest of your lives in prison."
     Jessup reacted with guttural laughter.  "Stupid cunt.  We just blew away two meth dealers who didn't wanna part with their Mason jars full of cash, plus some pig farmer outside Dillon Corners who didn't wanna part with his license plates.  What's a couple more chickenshit felonies?"
     Stack opened the driver side door.  "Exit the vehicle, Officer McCord.  Hands behind your head, lace your fingers.  You know the drill."  Kerrie uncoiled herself from the seat, standing motionless as Stack snaked her department issue handcuffs from the pouch on her duty belt, trying not to flinch at the sensation of forged steel snugging tight around her right wrist.  Moments later both wrists were locked together at the small of her back; she was now at the non-existent mercy of two cunning felons with nothing to lose.  Kerrie made a hasty visual sweep of her surroundings: no houses in sight, no vehicles approaching from either direction.  Barring some totally unforeseen stroke of luck she was totally fucked--and judging from the lascivious look Jessup was giving her, that was no mere figure of speech.
      Stack unsnapped the key ring from her belt.  He found the handcuff key and used it to double-lock her cuffs.  "Officer McCord, I'd prefer we were on a first-name basis," he remarked.  "You already figured out my first name's Grady, even if it was too late to do you any good.  What's yours?"
      No point in antagonizing him.  "Kerrie," she said sullenly. 
      "How come you got no dash cam in your squad car, Kerrie?  Lucky for us, not so lucky for you."
      "The car's about to be retired.  They took the camera out Friday."
      "Wayne, you grew up around these parts.  Where's a good place to lose a cop car?"
      "There's a marsh little ways up the road that's a lot deeper than it looks.  Three feet of muddy ooze on the bottom.  They'll never find it no matter how hard they look, that I guaran-fucking-tee."
      "Shit!" hissed Stack.  "Car coming from the north."  Even as he spoke Kerrie lowered her head and lunged for the roadway--or tried to.  Stack, alert to such a desperation move on her part, casually hooked his right ankle inside hers.  Unable to break her fall with hands cuffed behind her, she sprawled gracelessly on the pavement, left shoulder and hip absorbing most of the bruising impact.  Stack hauled Kerrie to her feet.  "That was stupid.  If you don't value your own life, think about the people in that car.  You do anything to try and get their attention Wayne and I will kill every person inside.  Man, woman, kids, don't matter."
       Jessup and Stack frog-marched Kerrie to the passenger side of the van.  "You worthless assholes," she sobbed, cool demeanor fraying at the edges. "I hope you burn in fucking hell for this."        
       "Shut the fuck up, bitch," snarled Jessup.  He whipped a bandanna from his back pocket, pulling it taut between Kerrie's teeth and then knotting it at the nape of her neck.  Hearing the car's approach she mewled frantically through her gag.  A red Subaru Outback sped by in the southbound lane.  Kerrie glimpsed a child's face pressed to the side window, obviously intrigued by her squad car.  She watched in despair as the automobile continued around the bend and out of sight.
      "That was too close," Jessup said.  "Best not take any more chances."  He produced a roll of duct tape--good old duct tape, a thousand and one uses--wrapping a generous strip around the lower half of Kerrie's face to seal the gag in place.  "Soon as we ditch her car we better haul ass out of here.  If that dispatcher's any good at her job, and this one sounds like she is, we got fifteen, twenty minutes at most before she wonders why Officer Kerrie here isn't answering her radio.  An hour from now every unit in a thirty-mile radius will be swarming in here searching for her."
       Stack nodded tersely.  "How far is it to the farmhouse?"
       "Two hours if we keep to the trunk roads."
       "Two hours with a kidnapped lady cop in the back is a long fucking time, partner."
       "They'll be watching the main roads for a gray van."
       "Not with these plates," Stack pointed out.
       "That buys us time, maybe not as much as we'd like.  They find that dead farmer in a burned-out pickup with no plates they'll put two and two together in a hurry."
       "Wish we'd had time to bury the motherfucker."
       "What's done is done.  My point is, before long even the back roads won't be safe for us.  Sooner we find alternate transportation the better.  Now let's get this brainless cunt in the van before someone else happens by."
        "Once we're on the road maybe we'll have a chance to get better acquainted with her," said Stack.  He dangled a bundle of braided hemp rope before Kerrie's dismayed eyes.  "After we get her stripped down and tied up, that is."
       Jessup sniggered.  "Can't wait to see what she looks like out of uniform."  He seized a fistful of Kerrie's hair.  "How good are you at giving blowjobs, Officer Kerrie?  Heh.  You'll be able to suck the chrome off a trailer hitch before I'm done with you."
      Officer Kerrie McCord's distraught cry was all but smothered by the duct tape molded to her lips.  Overwhelmed by the crushing hopelessness of her plight, she offered no more than token resistance as Stack and Jessup bundled her inside the van and slammed the door shut.


It's very gratifying to be productive again.  Daniel of created this awesome artwork for me in a matter of hours.  Hope to have Part Two of "Officer Needs Help" posted by midweek.