The Photograph 3.2: A Break  

Last one for awhile. I'll give y'all time to catch up and digest this

3.2

Remember what I said about measuring time in halves that occur before and after the particular epiphany in question?

Up until now, I always saw time in BMD and AMD: Before Mary Died and After Mary Died.

When the call went out over the dispatch radio, I began to measure time in what happened before I saw the photograph video and what happened after I saw the video.

I haven’t had a positive break in anything regarding Mary’s case in like… ever. In fact, this would be the first.

The call went out at 8:02 AM.

10-16, domestic disturbance.

Dispatch gave the residence, a Techwood Drive address over near Georgia Tech.

“Complainant reports that a subject identified as Darius Lamar Murphy is in violation of a restraining order. Complainant is Chantelle Jackson Murphy listed at the same address. Assistance is requested.”

“Let’s go get some bad guys,” Frank said and pulled out around traffic.

I snapped the emergency light on the front dash and Frank hit the siren.

“Kind out of our ball park isn’t it?”

“I was tired of sitting in traffic anyway,” he said. “Come on. It’s your birthday. Let’s have some fun this morning.”

Techwood Apartments sprouted like a thatch of weeds along Techwood Drive, just off the campus of Georgia Tech, during the regentrification movement in downtown Atlanta during the months leading up to the 1996 Olympics. Homes that pre-dated World War II were razed and replace by highrise apartment buildings and multi-unit houses and duplexes.

New buildings or old houses, it didn’t change what went on behind closed doors.

I always wondered about the eight-foot-high chain link fence erected around the high-rise building and the multi-unit duplexes. Was the fence put up to keep people out, or to keep the animals in?

In my opinion, it was a coin toss.

It didn’t take long to find the source of the trouble. Three black and whites were parked at angles across Techwood, effectively blocking all lanes of traffic. Darius Murphy, it had been determined, had more than a couple outstanding bench warrants hanging over his one, of which being a probation violation.

To make matters worse, Murphy was armed, and determined he wasn’t going to go down for this, and he barricaded himself inside his ex-wife’s home, along with his ex-wife and her two young children, one of whom belonged to Darius Murphy.

Oh yeah, and Murphy was armed and considered dangerous.

A tidbit not to be overlooked this cold and rainy Tuesday morning.

We flashed our shields at the uniforms manning the erected barriers along Techwood. He let us pass.

“You’re putting the cart before the horse aren’t you Hobbs? Nobody’s dead yet.”

Frank waved, “Not at all Bobby. Slow morning. Can’t think of a better way to spend than standing out here in the rain with you.”

“Glad to have you,” Bobby Curtis replied, he worked in domestics. “The more the merrier.”

“Who’s riding shotgun on this?” I asked trailing behind.

“Robinson.”

“Big Foot’s got shotgun?” Frank laughed. “And here I thought this was going to turn out to be another boring morning.”

Arnie “Big Foot” Robinson’s bedside manner in negotiations tactics fall somewhere between “If you don’t jump I’ll throw you off myself,” and “Go ahead, pull the trigger.”
He was a mountain of monolithic onyx with a bald mahogany head who never bought into the whole slavery restitution argument brokered by Southern blacks, of which Big Foot numbered.

“I’m not your gawt-damned slave,” he’d say and then smack you upside the head with a baseball bat.

“Why are you here, Hobbs?”

“Hey Arnie, just showing my partner a good time on his birthday.”

“Happy Birthday, John,” Arnie nodded my way. “Damn, they come faster and faster these days don’t they.”

“Tell me about it.”

“You know anything about this Murphy fella?” Big Foot asked.

“Never heard of him until now.” I replied.

“He stepped in deep kimshe’ is all I know. Seems he’s got a string of outstanding priors hanging over his head. He’s got a gun. He’s taken hostages. He’s violated his probation, a restraining order, and God knows what else. He’s up to his armpits in sh*t right now.”

“I’m glad I’m not him.”

“You and me both,” Big Foot said. “Our boy has suddenly found himself floating in the bottom of the sh*tter and I have my hand on the plunger.”

“How can we help?” I asked.

“Well,” Big Foot replied with a nod at the barricaded apartment door. “You can help by staying the hell out of my way.”