Chapter 18: A Tyrant at Home

When the members of the Detective Division, the Safe Streets Task Force, and the Wage Theft Special Unit arrived, Ossi exchanged information with them and then left. The follow-up would be handled by them, but according to Wally, it was little more than a formality; there was almost no hope of recovering the stolen money or property.

Professional theft rings have stable fencing channels—once the goods are sold and the money divided and spent, even if you catch the thief, how do you prove that this particular dollar was the one he stole? Judging by the expressions of the victims, this wasn’t their first time experiencing such things; they all seemed quite composed.

Ossi had nothing to offer in this situation. Even for a professional police officer in China, breaking up a theft ring wasn’t easy—the odds were rarely in their favor.

After bidding farewell to Wally, Ossi continued his patrol. He had to admit, driving a government vehicle, not paying for gas, and cruising the streets was a genuine pleasure.

“Adam388, there’s a knife threat on Brock Avenue. The caller reports his son is holding a knife and threatening to harm him and his wife. Please check it out.”

“Adam388, received.”

Someone holding a knife, threatening to stab his own parents—how could such people exist in America? Unforgivable!

Ossi sped to the address. As soon as he entered the yard, he could hear profanities being shouted from inside—Motherf**ker, stupid cunt, and so on.

“Los Angeles County Sheriff, open the door.”

“Oh God, you finally arrived!” A white man in his sixties opened the door. “Thank heavens, my son has gone mad. He keeps insulting me, waving a knife, and threatening to kill me and my wife!”

“All right, sir, let me go in and talk to him.”

“Of course.”

His permission gave Ossi the authority to enter—a minor detail, but one that mattered if anyone ever questioned the procedure. Out in the field, you needed to protect yourself.

As he entered, Ossi saw a white man in his twenties, a gray indicator of criminality above his head, holding a Western-style kitchen knife in the living room, staring coldly at him. Ossi instinctively gripped his pistol. “Hello, sir—”

“Go look in the mirror, stupid cunt.”

“Do you want to be killed by a real bastard?”

“Get out of my house!”

“You’re nothing but a taxpayer money-wasting idiot!”

A barrage of insults left Ossi stunned. He genuinely wanted to retort, but remembering the body camera on his chest, he could only swallow it. Truthfully, he didn’t really know how to curse in English; his language skills were only level one.

“Calm down. Let’s talk about this.”

“Talk about what, you son of a bitch!”

“Put the knife down. This is too dangerous.”

“I won’t. I just won’t, you—” The man brandished the knife, making as if to charge Ossi.

Ossi didn’t even flinch; the indicator above the man’s head was still gray, so he was certain the guy was bluffing.

Sure enough, he moved a bit, then immediately pulled back, never actually raising the knife.

Well, now Ossi knew he was dealing with a cowardly bully, tough only at home.

Ossi grew irritated. If the guy really rushed him, the system would mark him red, giving Ossi justification to shoot. But this coward was just posturing, making things difficult—no grounds to open fire.

He thought for a moment, then said to the old man, “Can you reason with your son? If not, I’ll have to take action.”

The old man hesitated. “Are you going to kill him, officer?”

“No, just wake him up a bit.”

“Then go ahead.”

Father and son, in their own way, were reconciled.

Ossi nodded, and while the young man was distracted, he drew his taser behind his back and slowly approached. “Sir, stay calm; we can talk things through.”

“No talking! You and your—”

Zap! Zap!

There was no time to listen to his nonsense. Ossi, taking advantage of the distraction, fired the taser. High voltage crackled, and the man dropped immediately, convulsing on the floor, froth at his lips.

So much for physical resilience—wasn’t it said some people can take several taser shots? This was Ossi’s first time witnessing someone get tased; during training, he learned how to use it, but there were no volunteers to test it out.

In practice, the effect was decent, but he couldn’t empty the magazine—poor rating.

He walked over, kicked the kitchen knife aside, flipped the man over, and pressed his knee against the man’s neck and back, applying deliberate force until the man could barely breathe—a bit of payback.

After patting the man down and finding no other weapons, Ossi cuffed him.

If it hadn’t been his first time restraining someone like this, afraid he might suffocate the man, he would’ve made him suffer longer.

“I’ll take him to the station. He’ll likely be charged with threatening others with a knife, verbal abuse, and threatening an officer with a weapon. If you want to get him a lawyer, do it soon.”

The old man hesitated, then said, “Forget it. Let him spend some time in jail—it’ll do him good.”

Ossi could hardly comment on this family. He nodded, loaded the man into the cruiser, and discovered another advantage of the new patrol cars: the standard rear seats had been replaced with smooth plastic ones, impossible to sit comfortably, with cramped legroom—ensuring detainees suffered.

He took the man to the station, locked him in the holding cell, submitted the video evidence, and left it to others. When the holding period ended, someone would transfer him to the county’s eastern detention center to await prosecution.

Two cases in one morning—by the time he finished, it was past noon. Ossi considered grabbing a burger somewhere; after lunch, he had to continue patrolling. No wonder so many American cops are overweight—eat this stuff every day and you’re bound to get fat.

“Emergency! A four-year-old child has been kidnapped at the Panda Express at the intersection of Pico and Lincoln Boulevards in Temple City. Officers nearby, please respond immediately!”

So much for lunch. Ossi floored the accelerator and sped over.

Along the way, other officers joined in; soon a convoy of seven or eight patrol cars formed. When they arrived, Ossi counted at least twenty cars and over thirty officers—not just from the Temple City precinct, but others as well. He even saw several LAPD vehicles.

All police, all disciplined forces. Soon a Temple City sergeant took charge on the scene.

On the American police force, frontline officers are ranked: patrol officer, senior patrol officer, sergeant; the sergeant typically leads one or more patrol teams, serving as the immediate supervisor, usually someone with years of field and leadership experience. Above that is management—a different track.

Ossi, the invisible newcomer, stood among the crowd, watching as the sergeant questioned the complainant—a seventy-something Chinese American grandmother. She had taken her four-year-old grandchild out for Chinese food, and while they were eating, a burly black woman, about thirty years old, approached.

Before the grandmother could say anything, the woman grabbed the child and ran. The grandmother and restaurant staff chased after her, but she had already sped off in her car.

After hearing the account, Ossi was itching to act—kidnapping a child! Unacceptable! Such criminals must be punished.

The on-scene commander nodded and ordered, “Pull footage from the surrounding cameras. See if we can catch the license plate.”

His officers obeyed; shortly, the radio crackled with a report—one business’s camera had caught the woman's license plate.

The sergeant grabbed the radio. “Dispatch, this is Sergeant Cooper. Requesting technical support from the Data Systems Bureau for the Panda Express child abduction case. Suspect driving a pickup truck, license plate number xxxxxxx.”

The process was routine, but what astonished Ossi was how quickly things moved—less than ten minutes later, dispatch called back; they had located the vehicle driven by the suspect, the black woman.

“Move out for the arrest!” the sergeant shouted.

Ossi followed the commotion, jumping into his car and joining the lead vehicle. Within minutes, they arrived at a nearby motel.

A dozen patrol cars surrounded the motel, terrifying the owner, who dove to the ground in panic.

The sergeant and his team, guns drawn, rushed into a room on the second floor. Moments later, the sergeant emerged carrying the child, his officers escorting a large, heavyset black woman.

Ossi glanced at his watch. From the time dispatch reported the vehicle to the rescue and arrest, only twenty-six minutes had passed.