Take Out The Gunman

1

The ringing of a cell phone cut through the dregs of sleep, pulling Detective Dean Winchester into consciousness. He shot a quick glance at the clock – 5:23 a.m. – as he reached for the mobile. He hit the answer button and spoke into the device, voice gruff, "Yeah?"

"Detective Winchester, we've got a location." The voice at the other end was a combination of exhausted and elated, "546 Ohio Avenue."

"On my way," he slid out of the bed and strode to his closet, "I'll be there in twenty." He ended the call and, grabbing clothing from his closet, started pulling it on in the semi-dark room.

Seventeen minutes later, Dean was parking his black, 1967 Impala several blocks from the address he had been given earlier. He climbed out of his car and was met by several officers of the local police department and two other detectives. "What do we have?" he asked, accepting the Styrofoam cup of coffee which was handed to him by his current partner, Detective Garth Fitzgerald.

"The suspect we took in custody last night for meth gave up his dealer's address when Detective Harville told him about the DA's deal," one of the senior officers informed him, "This was the address he gave us. Property belongs to John Winchester. He's been on our radar for a while."

Dean nodded; he recognized the name. The officer smiled as Dean reminded him, "He's no relation." The man, John Winchester, was a suspected dealer, and they had been trying to find a reason to question him for months.

"SWAT is about to go in right now," Garth informed, "Just waiting for the word."

Dean nodded again and instructed, "Send them in."

The SWAT team was fast and efficient: twenty minutes later, they were inside the house and had the suspect, John Winchester, in cuffs. Dean entered the house, following the local officers and followed by Garth, once SWAT had given the all-clear. He entered the kitchen, where Winchester was kneeling between two officers, hands cuffed behind his back. The man was tall with dark hair and a slight beard. He looked a combination of tired and crazy: the smile on his face unsettled Dean. The Detective shook his head and moved through the house as one of the officers called for him. He joined the man in the doorway of a bedroom and peered inside.

"This guy isn't subtle, is he?" he commented, eyes taking in the scene. The bed was covered with a patterned bedspread – it looked like something his grandmother would have made. The bedspread was covered with dozens of plastic baggies, filled with powder. A duffel bag of money was sitting at the head of the bed, as was a half-packed suitcase. There was a handgun laying next to the suitcase.

"Looks like he was planning a trip," the officer next to him commented.

Dean nodded and instructed, "Bag and tag it."

Dean moved through the house, taking in the furnishings. The furniture was older but in good shape, and the place was clean. There were several framed art pieces on the walls, and several pictures. Television set, set, books on the bookshelf: in appearance, it was your average, everyday home. One wouldn't suspect that the owner was rumoured to be one of the most prominent drug dealers in the city.

Dean moved into the kitchen, and his gaze fell on the man in custody. Winchester was on his feet now, an armed officer standing on either side of him. "John Winchester," Dean addressed the man, whose eyes flicked to him, "I'm Detective – " He paused for a fraction of a second, "Detective Winchester. That's quite a collection you have in the bedroom."

"I like to collect things," the older man's voice was calm, deep, as if he hadn't a care in the world, "Winchester, huh? Maybe we're related."

"Doubt it," Dean returned immediately. He was about to speak again, when he heard his name called from another room. He shot another glance at their suspect and moved out of the kitchen.