March 29, 2011; 5:45 PM:

“Ten-ninety at Citizens on West Main, ten-forty. Ten-ninety at Citizens on West Main, ten-forty. Ten-ninety at Citizens on West Main, ten-forty.” started blaring over the police radio just as Bill and I turned onto West Main from South Ninth West. We had been on regular patrol for the downtown area since early morning and all had been quiet until now. A “ten-ninety” is police code for a bank alarm, a “ten-forty” means respond quickly. Citizens Bank was the most major bank in town, seated at the corner opposite the courthouse at First and Main.

I picked up the radio and hit the speaker. “Ten-four. This is O’Meara. Ten-sixty-one.” I said as I simultaneously hit the lights and siren and Bill sped up to quickly get to the most major bank in town. A “ten-four” means message received, and “ten-sixty-one” means that personnel are in the vicinity. In other words, I was letting dispatch know we were already basically there.

Shortly after I released the radio, it squawked again, “Ten-four. This is O’Reilly. Ten-sixty-one.” O’Reilly and her partner were patrolling the Old West End; our patrols met but didn’t cross. Where our patrol ended at Ninth West, theirs started at Tenth West.

“Ten-four. This is dispatch. O’Meara, O’Reilly, ten-seventy-seven.” squawked the radio. Dispatch just asked us our estimated time to arrival at the scene.

“Ten-four. This is O’Meara. About one minute.” I responded.

“Ten-four. This is O’Reilly. About two minutes.” squawked the radio. I could hear O’Reilly’s sirens approaching as we pulled into the bank’s lot and blocked one of the exits.

“Ten-four. This is dispatch. O’Reilly and O’Meara you are to block the exits from the bank parking lot. Ten-twelve. Ten-nine. This is dispatch. O’Reilly and O’Meara you are to block the exits from the bank parking lot. Ten-twelve. SWAT is en route. Ten-seventy-seven ten minutes. Ten-nine. SWAT is en route. Ten-seventy-seven ten minutes.” began blaring from the police radio as O’Reilly’s patrol car took the other exit.

The time was now six pm. The bank had closed two hours ago, and there was only one vehicle in the parking lot. A white van with the emblem of the arch-angel Michael holding a glass vial in one hand and a perfume bottle in the other; “Michael’s Scents and Potions”, it proudly proclaimed. It had New York plates.

“Gofigga! One’o dem’ Yankee thieves turnin’ ta bank robbery!” Bill said, following my train of vision. “I always say dem’ Yanks’re bad folk.” We were small town cops in a town up north of Idaho Falls, in eastern Idaho. I was born and raised in the town, but Bill, he’d come up from the deep south, went to school in Idaho Falls for a little while, then dropped out and decided to go into law enforcement. He didn’t have enough to make it back home, and saw that we had openings on our force. He and I attended the academy together; I was just graduating when he joined up. I was his first training partner. Somehow, after he graduated, he conspired to be my rookie partner when it came time for trained officers to take the new crop under our collective wings. My old senior partner, Katrina O’Reilly, took on a new rookie, and I became senior partner to Bill Wilson. Called "Black Billy" by the few punk thugs we had in town, me, of course, they'd picked up on the other officer's calling me "Mara" and changed it to "Miss Mara" to be extra derogatory.

“Ten-nine. This is dispatch. O’Reilly and O’Meara you are to block the exits from the bank parking lot. Ten-twelve. Ten-nine. This is dispatch. SWAT is en route. Ten-seventy-seven five minutes.” blared again from the radio as a scrawny Caucasian male of indeterminate age led a group of bruisers carrying heavy bags out to the van.

“Mara, yuh seein’ wut I be seein’?” Bill asked. “I ain’t nevuh seen no big men listen ta no scrawny shit like da.” He was right. The bruisers were acting more like automatons than grown men.

“Ten-eighteen. This is O’Meara. Suspects left the building, loading into a white van. Scrawny Caucasian male, age unknown. Four heavyset men, thirties. Acting strange. New York plates Michael Irene Katherine Andrew Larry Eighty-Eight. The van appears to belong to a ‘Michael’s Scents and Potions.’”

“Ten-four. This is dispatch. O’Meara you are to continue to block the exit, do not attempt to engage suspects.”

“Why all ta fuss over a scrawny Yank’n a few bruisers?” Bill asked. “Mara, I got some bad vibes goin’ on tis’un.” As I mentioned in my foreword, Mara was a nickname all the other police officers used for me. They thought it was funny, and nothing I did was going to change that. Bill was right though... Something about this whole thing was completely off.

“Ten-nine. This is dispatch. O’Reilly and O’Meara you are to block the exits...” began blaring from the police radio again as simultaneously we began to hear the sirens of the approaching SWAT and a strange noxious looking green and brown gas began emanating from the Van. “...from the bank parking lot. Ten-twelve. Ten-nine. This is dispatch.” and then the world went dark.

This story naturally seems to want really short episodes. The knock-out gas has claimed our brave officers, what will happen to them while unconscious? SWAT is still five minutes away. Will the villains stick around to add insult to injury, or run while they can?