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The Plaid Golf Pants
Apparently, when the police first
arrived, the standoff was already intense. Mr. Duffy, the drycleaner, was out
in the backyard yelling up at the second story window.
A half hour
earlier, he was dropping off shirts and pants to Mrs. Rosewood’s preferred
delivery spot just inside the garage when little Margaret snuck out to his
truck. She grabbed a pile of clothing and ran inside the house locking the door
behind her. Duffy figured it was simply a juvenile prank and ran to the back
door and started pressing on the doorbell incessantly. He continued until he
heard pounding on the second-story window and discovered Mrs. Rosewood holding
the clothes and waving down at him. Assuming that she would now run downstairs
and deliver the clothing back to him, he sighed.
“Oh, thank God,”
he said.
To his surprise,
Mrs. Rosewood held up a can of lighter fluid and a torch, threatening to burn
all the items (including a plush mink stole) unless Mr. Duffy returned a pair
of her husband’s golf pants that he claimed he never received. She mimed the
words, “I WANT THE GOLF PANTS” in a clear and exaggerated manner so he would
know exactly what she was talking about.
Duffy reported all
this to Inspector Roland McDermott who was dispatched to the scene because he
was the town’s lone hostage negotiator and this was the closest they had ever
come to a hostage situation.
McDermott’s
captain thought McDermott would be delighted to finally get some work in his
trained field, but Roland was less than thrilled.
“I didn’t sign up
for shit like this,” he told the captain as he grabbed his jacket and walked
out the door of the police station.
When Roland
arrived, two uniformed officers were standing on the back gravel driveway with
Styrofoam coffee cups in their hands. Steam was rising from the cups as one of
them took a sip after nodding at McDermott. Mr. Duffy was still standing
looking up to the second floor window where Mrs. Rosewood had her arms folded
around the clothes as she smiled down on him in smug confidence. Duffy looked back
at the two cops and pleaded.
“Do something!
This is my business she’s messing with!”
“Are you insured,
Mr. Duffy,” one of the cops asked.
“Well, yeah, but
this kind of thing’s still bad for business.”
The officer
pointed at Roland who was approaching them and said, “Well, McDermott here is a
hostage negotiator. If he can’t bring her down, then we’re gonna have to storm
the place and take her by force. Quite frankly, I doubt she’s gonna set the
clothes on fire because it would probably burn her house down.”
McDermott stepped
up to one of the cops, the taller of the two.
“So who reported
this thing?” he asked. He then pointed at Duffy like he was answering his own
question.
The cop shook his
head. “The next-door neighbors did, but we’ve ordered them to stay inside. They
heard the screaming and apparently thought Duffy here was a rapist trying to
get at the occupant.”
“That’s a damn
lie!” Duffy said. “Her little girl stole my clothes. You’ve got to do something
about this.”
“Calm down, sir,”
Roland said. “What’s the woman upset about, anyway?”
“She bought some
stupid golf pants,” Duffy said. “They were apparently for her husband’s
birthday. She claims she needed to get them fitted properly; he’s one of those
weird sizes between full and obese. I never saw the goddamn things, I swear,
but she says she dropped them off at my shop. The lady’s bonkers, officer.”
“Detective,” said McDermott.
“Ok, detective. Now get those clothes back
before she ruins them.”
“Tell me exactly
what happened here.”
Duffy proceeded to
explain the business about the girl sneaking into his vehicle and grabbing the
stack of clothes.
“Where’s the
daughter in all of this?” Roland asked.
“Fuck if I know.
She’s probably tied up downstairs until the crazy bat needs her for her next
psychotic mission.”
“Mr. Duffy, an
attitude like this doesn’t help the situation at all.”
“I’m not the one
holding a stack of clothes hostage, Detective.”
“Does she have a
phone number I can call?”
Duffy pulled out
his cell phone from his pocket and began scrolling through his customer contact
list until he found her name and handed the phone to McDermott. Roland held
Duffy’s phone up in front of his face with his left hand while he began
punching out the numbers on his own phone with the thumb of his right. He then
handed Duffy’s phone back to him.
The number rang a
couple of times as he looked up at Mrs. Rosewood. He could see her lay the
clothing down in front of her against the windowsill, reach into her pants
pocket sheepishly and pull out her phone.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Mrs.
Rosewood?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Hi, I’m detective
McDermott.”
“Oh hi! How are
you?”
“I’m fine thanks,
Mrs. Rosewood. How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“It seems we have
a bit of disagreement here.”
“Yes.”
“Would you be
willing to come down here and talk with us?”
“No.”
“You’ll be
perfectly safe, I promise. We are, after all, the police department.”
“I know what’s
going on, Detective. Mr. Duffy has you all in his back pocket.”
“Actually, ma’am
I’ve never met Mr. Duffy before. I don’t think anybody here has.”
“It doesn’t
matter. People like him have connections to City Hall. If I turn over these
clothes he’ll just deny his guilt and skate by and I’ll lose Ronnie’s new golf
pants. I paid good money for them at Macy’s.”
While Roland was
talking, Duffy seemed to awaken and called out to the cops.
“She dropped the
clothes! You’ve got a clear shot. Shoot her!”
Roland turned to
Duffy and shouted, “Shut the fuck up!”
As he was yelling,
Mrs. Rosewood grabbed the clothes with her right hand and pulled them in front
of her while she cradled the cell phone between her ear and shoulder. She
picked up the lighter fluid and began to lift the spout with her left thumb in
a slow, deliberate manner.
“No. Please Mrs.
Rosewood, you don’t want to do that. Let’s see if we can find a way out of
this.”
“I’m not gonna be
target practice for those kill-happy cops!”
“Nobody’s shooting
at anybody, ma’am. Mr. Duffy lost his head. We’re mature and trained policemen.
We don’t take orders from an agitated bystander.”
“Bystander?” Duffy said. “My livelihood’s
at stake. She might as well be squirting that lighter fluid on me. This is a
form of assassination. Hell, it’s character
assassination.”
McDermott looked
over at the two uniformed officers. “Could one of you get this man out of
here.”
“I’m being held
hostage! You can’t do this!”
One of the cops
stepped over to him and put his left hand on Duffy’s upper arm and started
tugging. Duffy tried to shake him off.
“You don’t want to
get into it with us, sir,” the cop said.
“Believe me. It‘ll go badly for you.”
Duffy grumbled but
acquiesced to the policeman’s grasp and was escorted down the driveway to a
squad car, which was parked on the curb of the street. Meanwhile the sound of
fire truck sirens could be heard ringing through the neighborhood. In the
distance, Roland could see neighbors approaching Mrs. Rosewood’s property. He
turned to the other officer.
“Rusty, I need you
to do crowd control; I’ll take it from here.”
The cop sighed.
“Anything you say, Detective.”
McDermott looked
back up at Mrs. Rosewood.
“It’s all settled,
ma’am. It’s just you and me. Let’s talk about this like friends, okay?”
“I don’t know
you.”
“Well this is a
good time to get acquainted. But first, I need to know your daughter’s safe.”
“She’s safe unless
Duffy gets his grubby hands on her.”
“Well, can I see
her?”
“She’s not here.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s on an
errand.”
“You swear she’s
not in the house with you?”
“Yes, I swear. Why
would I lie?”
“No reason. So
tell me, do you like golf, Mrs. Rosewood?”
“My husband likes
golf. Anything that’s good for Ronnie is good for me.”
“I bet he’s a nice
man.”
“He’s a wonderful
man; a good husband; a good father.”
“How would he feel
if he was here right now witnessing this, Mrs. Rosewood?”
“He wouldn’t
understand, but that’s besides the point.”
“Is it Mrs.
Rosewood?”
“Yes. He’s a
modest man who could never admit his own worth. But I know it; and Margaret
knows it too. That’s why we have to do this.”
“Is Margaret your
daughter?”
“Yes. Look,
there’s no way to prove Duffy took the pants, but I remember placing them in
the pile with a note and little markings on the waist and cuffs. I’ve never
trusted the man anyway, but he’s the only tailor in town.”
“They must be
mighty fine pants then, huh?”
Mrs. Rosewood put
the lighter fluid down and grabbed the phone from out of the crook in her neck.
“Oh you’ve never
seen anything like them – Scottish plaid on a soft cotton fabric. They’re the
only ones I’ve ever seen like that. And the only ones on the rack.”
“You like plaid,
do you?”
“Yes. Ronnie and I
went to Scotland on our honeymoon. It was the only cruise we could afford that
September.”
“Sounds like a
memorable trip.”
“We spent our
first night in a real-life castle near Edinburgh. Oh, and you know, in Scotland
they don’t pronounce the ‘burgh’; they say ‘burrow.’
Anyway, the next morning we were awakened to the sound of bagpipes. It was the
most exotic experience.”
“Wow, that sounds
very nice, Mrs. Rosewood. And I didn’t know that thing about the ‘burrow’.”
Roland could hear
the roar of a fire truck as it rolled up out front. He looked down the driveway
as one of the cops, the taller one, Henry, waved the truck to a stop and a
couple of fireman jumped off the side. He watched the fire chief screech up in
a red Crown Victoria.
“What’s all the
fuss?” Mrs. Rosewood said.
“Oh it’s the fire
department. We have to call them just in case. We wouldn’t want you to catch
fire or burn down your nice home.”
“Oh no, it’s okay.
I’ve got this all figured out. I have a pale of water here by my foot to throw
on the clothes as soon as they’re ruined.”
“You know water
can spread lighter fluid and make the fire expand out of control.” Roland
didn’t know why he said that. He guessed maybe it would make her realize she’d
gone a little overboard and surrender.
“You’re making
that up,” she said.
“I wish.”
“Well, I’ve
committed myself to this. If I back out now I’ll look like a fool.”
“Mrs. Rosewood, in
all sincerity, if you set your house on fire, you stand a much better chance of
looking like a fool. Believe me, I’m a hostage negotiator and I’m not supposed
to be talking like this, but we’re friends now, aren’t we? I can tell you the
truth.”
“If we were
friends then you’d believe me about the golf pants.”
“Mrs. Rosewood,
the cost of a burnt-down house has got to be more than a stolen pair of
trousers don’t you think.”
“The house won’t
burn down, Detective. I’ve got control of the situation.”
“Maybe, maybe not.
And what about all those clothes? Should you put other people’s property at
risk because of the behavior of one man?”
“He’s got
insurance. He can reimburse them.”
“Mrs. Rosewood, I
beg of you to please come down here and let’s talk this thing out face to
face.”
“Not on your life!
Your marksmen will have to shoot me out of here. Then we’ll see how Duffy
feels. That son of a bitch will probably relish in my death. There’ll be nobody
around to make him feel guilty about his new pants. He can wear them freely out
on the golf course whenever he pleases.”
As she was
finishing her sentence the shorter cop, Rusty walked up the driveway and got
McDermott’s attention. He pointed to his watch and mouthed “times up!”
“Oh for God
sakes,” McDermott said.
“What?” Mrs.
Rosewood said.
“Not you ma’am, I
was talking to one of the officers.”
Roland looked over
Rusty’s shoulders and saw three additional police officers wearing flap
jackets; one had a crowbar.
He shook his head
forcefully, but Rusty ignored him and turned back to the three SWAT team
members and pointed to the front door.
McDermott turned
and looked up at Mrs. Rosewood. “They say I can’t negotiate with you anymore.
You’ve got to come down.”
“They’ll have to
drag me out through the fire, Detective. I’m sorry. In this story, the underdog
wins.” She shut off her phone and put it in her pocket.
McDermott waved to
get her back, but she ignored him and picked up the clothing and the lighter
fluid.
Roland turned to
Rusty, “Get in there fast!”
Rusty gave the
order and McDermott could hear the front door being cracked open. He ran down
the driveway and around to the front door. He followed the men as they raced up
the stairs just across from the entryway. Mrs. Rosewood was standing at the top
of the staircase on a landing in front of the window. She had just set the
torch to the clothing and a little flame burst up from the pile on the floor.
One of the officers pulled her away as the other one looked into the bucket. He
picked it up to pour onto the fire, but Mrs. Rosewood screamed. “No, no! It’ll
spread the lighter fluid.”
The officer
stopped just before the first drops of water sprinkled out. “What the hell is
in this?”
“Water,” she
yelled.
He shook his head
and proceeded to pour it on the clothes and the flame quickly sizzled out as
McDermott reached the top of the stairs. Three firemen in full gear, one with
an axe and two with extinguishers, came charging up the stairs behind him and
began foaming the burnt pile of clothes. The hallway smelt of steamy smoke and
there was a black carbon stain on the ceiling above Mrs. Rosewood who stood
with a police officer holding her.
“We need to check
the house out just to make sure everything’s okay,” a fireman said.
“Do what you have
to,” said Roland. He turned to Mrs. Rosewood. “Ma’am, we need to take you
downtown, I hope you understand.”
“Yes, I
understand. And it was worth it.”
The officer who
had been holding her back started to reach for his handcuffs, but McDermott
stopped him.
“That won’t be
necessary, will it Mrs. Rosewood?”
“Oh my, no.”
She and the group
of policemen proceeded down the stairs and out the front door. As they were
stepping outside, Roland heard a cry from the front sidewalk by the
street. “Mommy, Mommy, I found
them!”
Little Margaret
was running to the door with a pair of plaid golf pants. Suddenly, Duffy broke
away from the policeman who was holding him by the squad car.
“Why you little
brat! Give those back to me.”
He started chasing
after her as she ran up to the door and pulled herself behind Detective
McDermott. Duffy tried to reach for her, but Roland grabbed him and then one of
the uniform officers pulled Duffy back while reaching for his baton.
“Mommy, they were
in his office,” Margaret said pointing at Duffy. “One of the workers there took
me right in and pulled them out from under a stack of newspapers. He had them
hidden away.”
“Who took you into my office?” Duffy
said.
“I don’t know, but
she said she was from Asia.”
“Leta – that
whore. I’ll deport her so fast!”
“What about the
pants,” Mrs. Rosewater said. “What were you doing with my pants?”
“Those are my pants, goddamn it. I paid for ‘em!”
“Then how come
they were hidden under a bunch of newspapers?” Margaret asked.
“It’s none of your
bratty little business where I keep my clothing.”
Mrs. Rosewood
lunged toward Duffy and had to be restrained by one of the officers.
“Look,” Roland
said. “We can work this stuff out at the station. Rusty, handcuff Mr. Duffy
here.”
“Handcuff me? I was the goddamn hostage. On what
charge are you dragging me down to the station?”
“Sir, you’re
disrupting a police investigation.”
Mrs. Rosewood
smiled. “I knew it would all work out! Oh Detective, you are a friend after all. Let me introduce you to my daughter
Margaret.”
“Hello, Margaret.”
“Hello, sir,”
Margaret said. “You’re my hero! Will you come over for a barbecue when my dad
gets back?”
“That sounds very
nice, dear. Let’s talk about it down at the station. We’ve got some business to
take care of.”
“That sounds fun!”
“It’s a lot of
fun. It’s what I live for.”
