The Police

The police cars parked outside the weather-beaten old house indicated that something funny was going on in the home of Mrs. Dorothy Jansen. A pool of water had formed under her locked bathroom door and in a moment of panic, Mrs. Jansen had called in the police. The lock on the bathroom door was substantial, and the police were having a devil of a time getting it open.

"Be careful of the finish! I just had this door redone and it cost a pretty penny!" Mrs. Jansen reminded.

"Take a break, lady," said the burly officer, "I've opened better doors and locks than this,"

The police continued prodding and fiddling with the lock with no results. Mrs. Jansen had stuffed an old towel under the door to sop up the water that kept flowing. "When are you going to get that door open?" she asked with some urgency.

"Look lady, we're doing what we can. If it doesn't give pretty soon, I'm afraid we'll have to break it down,”

"Over my dead body you will!" she insisted.

The cop just grunted. He was getting nowhere with the lock; the towel was now saturated. "I think we need another towel, lady," he was pleased to announce.

She was taking the dripping towel to the kitchen sink when in walked two homicide detectives.

"What the hell are you doing with that door?" demanded Detective Steele.

"I'm trying to open it without marring the beautiful finish," the uniformed officer replied with sarcasm.

"Get out of my way," Steele replied, as he threw himself against the door. He bounced off the door like a rag doll being thrown against a bank vault. "Ow! Man that hurts!" he shouted as he fell to his knees in agony. He had dislocated his shoulder. In one moment of childish zeal, Detective Steele was reduced to a mere bystander, a taker of space, and an embarrassment.

His partner, Sgt. Jeffery Lewis, rolled his eyes, and said, "Here, let me," and raised his leg and kicked straight at the door. His foot came down like a hammer on cold steel, but the door didn't budge.

"Stop that! You'll ruin the door!" cried Mrs. Jansen.

Lewis dropped to the floor. He had broken his ankle. In a childish display of pent-up machismo (equal, if not surpassing Detective Steele’s performance) Sgt. Lewis had allowed his foot to turn slightly as it hit the door’s surface.

Something wasn’t right.

The beat cop threw down his tools, and pulled out his service revolver. "No! No!" Mrs. Jansen begged.

"Shut up, lady. We've got two men down on account of that door, and I'm gonna open it, now.” He aimed the gun directly at the lock, and fired four times. He pushed against the door but it still wouldn't budge. He aimed again and emptied the gun; the lock held tight.

He got on his police phone, explained the situation and requested assistance. Something was out of whack.

A few minutes later a SWAT team pulled up and seven riot-trained men stormed the house. They opened fire on the bathroom door. The barrage lasted three and half minutes. The door still would not open. They reloaded and continued until there was no wood left in the doorway. The lock was still intact, but the police were now able to simply walk through the jagged opening.

Mrs. Jansen had to be sedated, and was removed from the building.

Something funny was going on.

The SWAT team opened fire on the entire house. Bullets tore through walls and brick.

The load bearing walls of the structure had been riddled with bullets, and the Jansen house collapsed just as an ambulance pulled up. The situation was getting out of control.

A television news crew appeared on the scene. They raced over to the sedated Mrs. Jansen and asked her, “Mrs. Jansen, with everything you’ve worked for, now destroyed and in ruins, can you tell us how you feel?”

Before she could say “lousy,” more gunfire broke out as another SWAT team arrived along with a National Guard convoy and a fire truck.

A demolition squad was summoned to the scene. Dynamite was strategically placed around the sight, and was detonated. Windows shattered from the concussion for miles around.

Something had gone wrong.

© 2010 Tom Roy