Crown's Law

By Wolf Wootan

P.I. Sam Crown’s beat is Orange County, California. At 48, he’s an aging “dude” who lives at the beach, surfs, and birddogs the bikini crowd.
A former highly-decorated Marine, Sam had worked for the Orange County Sheriff’s Department for 17 years. He had quit after being called in and chastised for shooting a pistol-wielding junkie.
After leaving OCSD, Sam sets up shop as Mickey Malone Investigations. When a murder victim is found with a Mickey business card in his pocket, the cops start knocking on Sam’s door looking for Mickey — a man who doesn’t exist. Sam gets dragged into a murder investigation he doesn’t need, and soon finds that he — and his 16-year-old ward — are targets of the killers. He becomes entangled in espionage and smuggling and finds himself in a race to find the killers before they find him.
When Sam runs a couple of fingerprints through the national database, the FBI is on him like an old wetsuit. Beautiful FBI agent Bo Trout enters the case and sees Sam as a womanizing flirt who consorts with outlaw bikers. As the violent noose tightens, Bo witnesses Sam deliver a large dose of Crown’s Law as events race to an unexpected denouement!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolf Wootan
• Release date: Jan 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458073563

Wolf Wootan

I am the author of the Sam Crown private-eye mystery/thriller series. In order of writing: Crown's Law (top five finalist in Reader Views literary contest), Crown's Justice, and Crown's Dilemma. Crown's Jewels is due out soon. I am a member of Private Eye Writers of America (PWA). My books are for adult readers. I write character-driven action/thrillers with a dose of romance. I try to appeal to both men and women readers, and so far the critics think that I have succeeded. Try my books and make your own assessment. I am currently writing two series: One follows the Edge of Tomorrow path, a high-tech, international spy/assassin series. The other follows Crown's Law, a hardboiled private eye series. I was lucky enough to get professional reviews for some of my manuscripts. Read them at my website. You might find an interview I did with Reader Views interesting at http://www.readerviews.com/InterviewWootan.html.

Book preview

Prologue

Friday, April 14, 1995

Dana Point, CA

Orange County Sheriff’s Department (OCSD) Homicide Investigator Sergeant Sam Crown had completed a witness interview in Laguna Niguel and was on the I-5 freeway heading south toward the sheriff’s San Clemente substation when he heard the call on his radio. There was a hostage situation in a house in Dana Point and the on-scene cops were calling for SWAT. The off-ramp for Dana Point Harbor was about a mile ahead. Sam glanced at the clock on the dashboard of his department Crown Victoria and noted that it was 4:01 P.M.

This is none of my business, really. I should go type up my report, zap it to headquarters in Santa Ana, and spend the weekend at the beach house, just as I planned.

He listened to the radio chatter as he drove. It sounded like a bad one ¾ the result of a domestic disturbance call.

What the hell, he said under his breath. Wouldn’t hurt to take a look.

Had he ignored the call, his life probably would have turned out differently. Instead, he zoomed onto the off-ramp and headed down to Pacific Coast Highway—PCH to the locals and into Dana Point, heading back north toward Copper Lantern, the street where the standoff was going down. It wasn’t one of his better decisions, but it was typical. He was known as Crazy Crown by most of Orange County’s law enforcement community—the Dirty Harry of OCSD.

***

He parked behind a Sheriff’s black-and-white and stepped out onto the pavement. A uniformed deputy started walking toward him to shoo him away. Sam flashed his badge and the cop let him pass. The place was a madhouse—police cars, TV vans, rubbernecks, a paramedics vehicle. The cops were trying to establish a perimeter, pushing TV reporters and sightseers back away from the action.

Sam made his way to a police cruiser with three men standing behind it—two in uniform, one in a rumpled tan suit. The man in the suit scowled in Sam’s direction.

Crown! What the hell are you doing here? he hissed.

I could ask you the same thing, Jastro, replied Sam with a shrug. I was just passing by and heard the call for SWAT. What’s going on?

The best we can put together by talking to neighbors is that a Mrs. Culvert and her 8-year-old daughter live here. They—the neighbors—think that her ex-husband is in there causing all this hell, grumbled Jastro.

Domestic dispute, eh? How come you need SWAT? Just go knock on the door and calm the SOB down, laughed Sam.

Jastro glared at Sam and said, That’s what the first two uniforms did when they got here. The asshole shot three times through the door. They were lucky they weren’t hit!

Sam glanced around and counted at least 20 deputies—there were probably more. Dana Point contracted their policing from OCSD.

Have you talked to the fucker? asked Sam as he popped a piece of gum in his mouth. The eternal nicotine urge was upon him again, even though he hadn’t smoked in over 20 years.

No. He won’t answer the damned phone. I have a hostage negotiator on the way, but I doubt if it will help. I’ll let SWAT take care of him when they get here. I’m not risking any of these cops’ lives.

He could hurt the woman and kid badly before SWAT gets here. You’ve got enough men here to storm the friggin’ Bastille! Just go in and get the asshole! exclaimed Sam, annoyed at Jastro’s reluctance to act.

I’m in charge here, Sergeant Crown! Why don’t you just go about your business? This is not a homicide investigation! fumed Jastro.

Not yet. Wait a few more minutes and it will be.

I’m following the book on this, replied Jastro.

It’s your funeral. Probably theirs, too, murmured Sam.

Sam shrugged and turned to leave when he heard the noise from inside the house. It sounded like a child wailing.

Daddy! Stop hurting Mommy! Please! Stop!

Shut up, Sally! Get over there! A man’s bellowing voice.

Sam turned and peered intently at the house, listening, chewing his gum. There was a large picture window to the right of the front door—Sam’s right. Two smaller windows were on the other side of the door. It was a small house—most on this street were—but the yard was well cared for and the light blue paint covering the wooden exterior wasn’t peeling or faded. The white trim around the windows and white flower boxes filled with multi-colored blooms gave the house a friendly, homey look. Sam glanced at Jastro, knowing he wouldn’t do anything.

You can’t wait any longer, Jastro! Sam spat out, getting angry now. Things are getting out of hand in there!

SWAT is only ten minutes away now, shrugged Jastro as he listened to his handheld radio, not able to look Sam in the eye.

There was more screaming from the house, then a gunshot.

Mommy, Mommy! What did you do to Mommy? The child’s voice, wailing like a banshee.

Shit! That does it! I’m going in there, Jastro! yelled Sam. You’ve stood around here with your head up your ass and let that bastard kill someone!

The screaming child did not bring the horrible images of dying children in ’Nam to Sam’s brain—he no longer suffered that agony. Instead, he went straight to rage, wanting to hurt someone—cure the problem.

He walked over to a deputy he knew and said, Jim, let me borrow your windbreaker. I don’t want you guys to shoot me when I come back out of there!

Jim’s dark blue windbreaker had the word POLICE on its back in large white letters. Sam took off his sports coat and laid it on the hood of a car and donned the windbreaker. All the cops there knew—or knew of—Sergeant Sam Crazy Crown. He knew they were all watching in anticipation, wondering what he was going to do. Jastro approached Sam, fuming.

You can’t go in there, Crown! That’s an order! he shouted, his finger in Sam’s face. I don’t need any of your fucking Dirty Harry shit here today!

Sam looked quietly into Jastro’s eyes, then said, I should have gone in earlier. You should have done something earlier. Stick your order up your ass! growled Sam as he drew his Smith & Wesson .40 caliber and pulled the slide back, then let it go, snapping a cartridge into the firing chamber. He put it back into his shoulder rig—he wanted his hands free when he entered the house.

I’ll have your badge for this, Crown!

Maybe. If that asshole shoots that kid, they’ll pin your badge on your ass! Get out of my way!

As Sam walked across the lawn toward the porch, a patrol cop named Mary Klink ran over to Sam and touched his arm.

Sarge! I’ll go in with you! Cover you! she panted.

No, Mary! That’ll just get you in trouble with Jastro.

I don’t care at this point, she replied. He stared at her, saw that she was serious—willing to face Jastro’s wrath.

OK, then. You can help me, if you insist. I don’t want you going in with me though. See that flower pot over there? Get it, and when I signal you, throw it through that window on the far left. I’m going in through the picture window, and hopefully your toss will distract him for a second or two while I get my bearings. He hesitated. You don’t have to do this, Mary. Jastro can cause you some grief just for throwing the pot.

Screw Jastro! she said, then she crouched and dashed to the other side of the walkway, grabbing the flower pot on the way. She knelt down behind the white porch railing and looked in Sam’s direction. The child was still screaming.

Sam eased onto the porch and picked up a wooden rocker that sat on the porch. He nodded at Mary. She stood and threw the pot as he threw the rocker through the plate glass window. He went in right behind it.

Inside the house, Norman Culvert—enraged, drunk, and high on drugs—was standing at his wife’s feet, peering down at her bleeding body, when the flower pot came crashing through the living room window, about six feet from where he was standing. He was startled, so he snapped a shot in that direction, hitting a CD player on a table against the far wall. The child, Sally Culvert, was cowering behind a couch covered in a bright floral print—now spattered with her mother’s blood—crying, trying to catch her breath between sobs.

Sam jumped through the dining room window and landed on his feet, but slipped on the glass-covered hardwood floor and smashed into the knotty pine dining room table. As Sam steadied himself against the table, he saw Culvert shoot at the sound of the flower pot smashing into the house. Then the drug-crazed man turned toward him.

As Culvert finished his turn and raised his arm, pointing his gun at Sam, Sam spun left to face him but lost his footing again on the glass shards and slipped to his right knee as a slug whistled over his head, missing him by scant inches. Sam drew his weapon in a smooth, fluid motion unmatched by most shooters. It was cocked and locked—safety on, hammer cocked—so his thumb flipped the safety off as his finger squeezed the trigger and fired a shot into the middle of the man’s chest. The force of the slug knocked Culvert backwards and he fell to the floor on his back, his weapon flying across the room.

Sam stood and strode over to the man and checked his pulse. He was dead. Then Sam heard the woman moan—he had assumed that she was dead. He knelt beside her and checked the pulse in her neck, finding a weak one. If he got the paramedics in here fast enough she might make it!

The child, Sally, ran from behind the couch, still sobbing, and Sam snatched her into his arms and rushed to the front door. He opened it and went out onto the porch.

It’s OK, Sally, he cooed to her. It’s OK.

Then he yelled, Paramedics! The woman is still alive! Hurry, before she bleeds out!

He crossed the lawn and approached Jastro as four paramedics rushed into the house with their equipment. Deputy Mary Klink appeared and took Sally from Sam. Sam knew that TV cameras and long-range digital cameras were recording the incident for posterity.

Where are the CPS people? Sam asked. This kid needs immediate help!

Jastro—shuffling from one foot to the other—replied, They must be around here somewhere. I followed procedures! Klink, see if you can find them!

You’re really on top of things, Jastro! Sam said. You can cancel SWAT. That asshole won’t be causing any more trouble. The woman still has a trace of a pulse, but I don’t know if she’ll make it. She certainly wouldn’t have if we had waited any longer. I’ll be leaving now.

The hell you will! snapped Jastro. We have an officer-involved shooting here! Yet another one for you! Not even mentioning that you disobeyed a direct order! I’ll take your gun pending an investigation!

Sam moved closer to Jastro and said softly, Screw you, Jastro! You’re on TV, you know! Why don’t you pull yourself together and figure out a way to take credit for how well you handled things here. Tell Internal Investigations I’ll be at the San Clemente substation for about the next hour, then I’ll be at my parents’ house on Beach Road in Capo Beach. They have the address on file. Otherwise, they can wait until I get in on Monday.

With that, he spun around and walked in the direction of the car where he had left his jacket. He gave the windbreaker back to the cop who had loaned it to him, then put on his jacket. He saw the press and the TV reporters poised like a pack of hyenas between him and his car. He looked skyward and saw several TV choppers hovering. As he scanned the hyena pack again, he spotted Chandra Claudet (she pronounced it Claw-day) and her camera crew.

Good! he thought. A friend among the vultures! I’ll probably need a friend for this one!

He made his way toward the yellow tape, knowing he had to run the gauntlet to get to his car.

Chandra Claudet was a beautiful woman in her middle thirties with black hair, dark brown eyes, and soft features with skin the color of coffee with cream. She was 5' 8 with D-cup breasts, and long, shapely legs. She worked breaking stories" in Orange County for L.A.’s Channel 5 News, and Sam had bedded her more than once.

As the throng converged on Sam with their mikes and cameras, he went straight to Chandra and whispered in her ear.

"Meet me at Sonny’s at 6 o’clock."

Then he pushed through the mass of people and made it to his car and drove away without even saying No comment. He headed toward the San Clemente substation to file his report.

***

Sonny’s is an Italian restaurant on PCH in San Clemente frequented by not only the locals, but by people from miles around. The restaurant has both inside and outside patio dining, and Sam found Chandra waiting for him on the patio at a round table—covered with a red-checkered table cloth—with four chairs. She was sipping from a glass of red wine and munching on hot garlic bread. She wore a dark green pant suit with a cream-colored, low-cut blouse, and Sam thought she looked especially sexy this evening—maybe because her suit coat was hanging on a chair and her ample breasts were stretching her blouse to its limits.

He plopped down in a chair next to her and said, Thanks for coming, Chandra. It’s good seeing you again! It’s been awhile.

She smiled, flashing straight white teeth. I’ve been working up in North County. I was just lucky to catch this hostage thing. I got some good film—long range, of course, but our optics are exceptional. The boss even let me go live with ‘breaking news’ when you went into the house, so I got you coming out with the kid. You’re a hero! Are you going to tell me what it’s all about? I need a wrap-up for the eleven o’clock and morning news. The little piece the viewers saw live just whetted their appetites—they’ll want the details of what went on inside the house. And what was that shit with Jastro?

Sam poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip as he watched the cars zip along PCH. He pondered his options with Chandra. She had always been fair to him, but she was, after all, a reporter in search of a story. How she presented the story was important to Sam.

Let’s go off the record for now, Chandra. OK? he finally said.

Sure, Sam. But give me something I can use before I leave?

Something. I don’t know what. Look, I’m having a hard time keeping my hands off you here in public. Why don’t I buy us some dinner, then move this discussion to the beach house. My parents are in Hawaii so we’ll be alone there, Sam said.

She laughed, pushed a strand of hair out of her face, then replied, A sudden hankering for black poontang, eh?

"Chandra! You know I don’t think that way! I have a hankering for you though! For Christ’s sake, you’re an octoroon! You’re seven-eighths New Orleans French! I’d call that French poontang if I had to choose between the two! Why stress the black?"

I don’t make the rules, sweetie. One drop of black blood makes you black in this country. Why do you think I’m stuck in this dead-end job chasing ambulances? I should have had an anchor slot long ago!

And you blame that on your African-American blood? I think it’s just that there are so few openings for anchors. Some of them never leave, said Sam.

Bullshit! They owe me! It’s not my fault that some slave owner screwed one of his slaves years ago!

Calm down, Chandra! Your day will come, replied Sam.

OK, OK. Enough of that. I’d love to go to the beach house with you, but let’s eat first.

The two of them split a pizza and finished off the bottle of wine, then Chandra followed Sam home to Capistrano Beach—through the guard gate and down Beach Road, which paralleled the Pacific Ocean. They went directly to Sam’s bedroom and he took her into his arms and kissed her.

It’s been too long, Chandra! he whispered in her ear as he nibbled on it.

Yes, it has, Sam! And we make such good music together! she replied—emphasizing her southern drawl—as she began undressing. Undo my bra, sweetie, and turn these hush puppies loose for a breather.

***

Afterwards, Sam fixed a couple of cognacs and they went out on the large deck and watched the waves roll in. Chandra lit a filtered cigarette and blew smoke into the dark, star-speckled sky. She was still naked under one of Sam’s terry cloth robes, as was he. She raised her snifter of brandy and touched it to his.

Here’s to us, Sam. I use you, you use me. The perfect formula for a perfect relationship! she laughed.

And the sex is good, too! he chortled.

Only good? I must be slipping! I gave us 5 stars!

They sipped their drinks and were silent for a moment. Then Chandra said, OK, Sam, let’s use each other again. You tell me what happened in that house, and I’ll give it whatever spin you want. But I need the story!

OK, Chandra, he answered, then told her as much of the story as he wanted her to know, while he ran his hand under her robe and absently stroked the inside of her thigh.

***

Monday morning, Sam was in Captain Charles Reese’s office at 10 A.M. Sam brought a cup of coffee in his own mug—one with the U.S. Marine Corps emblem on it. Reese waved him into one of the visitor’s chairs and Sam eased into it.

Dammit, Sam! Why do you keep doing it? growled Reese from his black leather executive chair.

What, Charlie? Saving people’s lives? That woman would have died if I hadn’t gone in there when I did. And he might have shot the kid, too, shrugged Sam, sipping his coffee. That was not only a good shooting, it was a necessary one!

Shit, Sam! You know what I mean! Making Jastro look like an ass! And on TV at that! That Claudet woman took Jastro apart on the morning news! blurted Reese as he stood and started pacing. Reese, Captain of the Criminal Investigations Division (CID), was wearing a blue suit—already rumpled by 10 A.M.—and his white shirt was pushed out, his stomach hanging over his belt. He and Sam had graduated from the academy in the same class, and Reese’s political aspirations had allowed him to climb the promotion ladder to his current position.

Yeah, I caught her broadcast. Crazy Crown saves woman and child while disobeying order given by asshole Jastro, who would have let them both die while his head was up his ass. Pretty accurate, I’d say. I didn’t make Jastro look like an ass. He did that all by himself. She does have a way with words, doesn’t she? smiled Sam.

Oh, yeah! ‘We were privileged to see a true hero—one who was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor for saving his platoon in Vietnam—again risk his life’ . . . blah, blah, blah. Jastro wants to bring charges against you, but that bitch has things set up so even if we give you a slap on the wrist, she’ll tear us apart again.

Maybe you deserve it. Why do you support that asshole?

You could have had that job instead of Jastro. But, oh no, you have to stay down in the muck. I still can’t figure you out, Sam, grumbled Reese, sitting back down. Do you know how many officer-related shootings and excessive force complaints you’ve had? You and your version of the law—‘Crown’s Law’ everyone calls it.

No, but I’m sure you do. All my shootings have been good ones. You know that. I can’t help people while sitting in an office. Well, I know you’re between a rock and a hard place, Charlie. You have to do something about Jastro, or take action against me. I don’t think you have the guts to buck the system anymore, so I’m gonna make it easy on you. You’ve been a good friend through the years. I have no intention of putting up with Jastro’s shit charges. I’m tired of fighting with the idiots around here.

Sam stood and placed his badge and gun on Reese’s desk. He pulled a folded paper out of his inside jacket pocket and laid it next to his gun.

My resignation, Charlie. All I’ve ever wanted is to help the victims and their families, but I can’t fight the system anymore. It takes too much effort, said Sam, a note of sadness in his voice.

Oh shit, Sam! You can’t do this! You’ve got 17 years in. Just calm down and we’ll figure out a way for you to hang in and get a pretty good pension. I can make you a lieutenant over in narcotics. I’ll shut Jastro up somehow! moaned Reese.

You know my answer to that, Charlie, but thanks for caring.

You’ve got a ton of enemies on the street, Sam. What’ll happen when they find out you’re without a badge?

Shit, Charlie! Do you think it’s my badge that protects me on the street? Send that asshole Jastro out into the real world and see how long his badge keeps him alive. Besides, I’ll still be packin’. I got my P.I. license sometime ago. Also, a bodyguard license. I knew this moment was inevitable, and I don’t want to be naked in the streets.

Hell, Sam, if you’re set on doing this, stay off the streets! Go enjoy the good life, said Reese.

This was the good life, Charlie. Whatever I do now won’t be as good. Who’s gonna be an advocate for all those victims out there now? Jastro? You? All the friggin’ laws favor the perps. The victims and their families are left blowin’ in the wind.

Part 1

Crazy Horse

"It’s a good day to fight;

it’s a good day to die."

Crazy Horse (1849-1877)

A Chief of the Sioux Nation

Chapter 1

June 1970

Capistrano Beach, CA

Samuel Crown was not listed as Most Likely to Succeed in his high school year book. In fact, the only reference to him was under the group picture of the San Clemente High School graduating class of 1970.

There were some juicy entries handwritten by several of the girls who had surrendered their virginity to him. He wasn’t a bad student—he had a B average—and he was quite popular, but he had spent only his freshman and senior years at the high school. Much of his time had been spent elsewhere—subject to his father’s work assignments.

His father, John Crown, was in the CIA and was moved about quite a bit. Sometimes Sam and his mother Helena went with him, sometimes they did not—depending on the location and security level of the assignment. Sam had spent time in schools in Spain, England, Italy, Holland, and Turkey—not to mention several stateside cities. He got to spend his senior year at San Clemente High School in San Clemente, California only because his father was stationed somewhere they couldn’t be—Vietnam.

So Sam contented himself with being a surfer in pursuit of easy girls and big waves, since it was not really feasible for him to get involved in school activities or organized sports in his senior year. Too many cliques develop over the course of four years of high school, and he had been absent for two critical years.

His social calendar was full, however, since he lived in Capistrano Beach on the renowned Beach Road—right on the beach. He was quite famous for his parties and he always had a bevy of beautiful beach bunnies swarming around him.

Capistrano Beach is a sleepy, comfortable community in Southern California nestled between Dana Point Harbor on the north, and San Clemente on the south. The elite area of the community is the Capistrano Bay District, a Community Services District run by a Board of Directors. This district consists of two and a quarter miles of road running along the south-facing beach, and has a guard gate at the west end—blocking entry to all except residents and their invited guests. The name of the street is Beach Road and nearly everyone referred to the private community simply as Beach Road. Most people assumed all who lived on Beach Road were wealthy—given the price of beachfront property and the numerous mansions visible from Pacific Coast Highway—but that wasn’t actually true. Many people had bought property there in the 1930s and 1940s when a building lot could be purchased for as little as $500. They built modest houses and still lived there on pensions and Social Security in 1970.

Others were very wealthy, which was the case with the Crowns—at least, Helena Crown was. Helena Crown nee Barkley—of the Boston, Massachusetts Barkleys—came from old, East-coast money. Her grandfather had come to Orange County in the 1930s and bought a great deal of prime real estate, including several lots on Beach Road. Helena eventually inherited the property, and in 1960 she built two huge, Spanish facade houses side by side. Each house spanned three building lots with the fourth lot for a pool and other entertainment-oriented facilities. Each lot had 40 feet of beach frontage, which meant that each two-story house was about 12,000 square feet in size with plenty of party space on their large redwood decks and pool lots. Each had a six-car garage.

The Crowns’ home of record was the southernmost (actually easternmost, since it was a south-facing beach) of the two; Helena rented out the other one—or, at least, her business manager did. She had very little to do with it. Her plans for Sam were that he’d become a famous lawyer or surgeon, get married, live next door, and she could dote on her grandchildren as she wished.

Sam, of course, being 18, only looked forward to the next weekend. His 18th birthday—July 5, 1970—was a big beach bash, of course. It was a fun time for Sam and his friends, but a worry for Helena. He now had to register for the draft, and to avoid getting drafted, he had to get into college in September. She couldn’t get Sam to sit still long enough to discuss whether he wanted to go to Harvard, or Yale, or even the nearby University of California at Irvine (UCI). He needed to enroll somewhere immediately. Her husband had to be in Vietnam, but she didn’t want her only son there!

In August, the two had another big argument about it, and Sam jumped in his sports car and roared off. Two days later he called his mother and told her that he had fucked up royally. He had gotten drunk, stayed that way for 24 hours, then had enlisted in the Marine Corps. He was in San Diego.

Helena called her husband John—after much hassle getting connected to him—to see if he could pull some strings and get Sam out of this mess!

John told her, He made his bed, let him lie in it! Stop mollycoddling the boy! Let him grow up!

Sam Crown was in Vietnam before the end of the year. Helena was mortified!

***

When Sam first arrived in Vietnam, he found himself daydreaming about how different his life could have been if he had made other choices. At first, he wished he had been born earlier—he figured he would have made a perfect hippie in the 60s: play guitar, wear beads, drive an old van with peace symbols painted on it, partake of lots of free love, smoke dope. That being a pipe dream, he focused on a version of the good life he could have had by letting his mother pay his way through college: play guitar, screw a lot of coeds, smoke dope, surf, some studying. No beads or painted van, though. Just his Porsche.

After surviving his first fire fight, Sam forgot about daydreams and what could have been and began focusing on the present  and staying alive.

***

Sam didn’t clearly formulate his theory of concentric realities until he found himself immersed in the insanity that was Vietnam. The theory, as he conceived it, was that the world was made up of concentric realities and you had to recognize and accept the reality that you found yourself in or life would become confusing and unbearable. It was better to accept your situation, no matter how miserable, do the very best you could, and then maybe later move on to another reality—some circle outside your own.

He had unconsciously begun forming the theory when he was in boot camp. A stupid, impulsive decision had put him there. If you considered boot camp as one of his reality circles—his reality at the time—then drew another circle around that, then the outer circle was the reality space where the guys who went to college—or Canada—lived. Perhaps even the protestors. An even larger circle contained people living ordinary lives—people who didn’t give a shit about the war in Vietnam. Then a larger circle contained politicians playing their international games, and so on.

The circle Sam was in in Vietnam was one he knew he couldn’t leave until his hitch was up—or he was dead. There were other circles, however, within the Vietnam circle. One was populated with those who were biding their time, trying to stay alive until they could go home. Another was inhabited by those who really fought the enemy with fervor. Sam ultimately became a hardcore member of the latter.

Chapter 2

September 1972

South Vietnam

Sam heard the shots and the screams off to his left. He knew there was a small village there, and he had planned to skirt it. Now his plans changed. He crept silently through the heavy jungle until he was able to peek into a clearing. The bodies of four old men were stacked in the middle of the clearing, their bodies riddled with gun shots, blood everywhere. There were three women huddled against a hut—one old and wrinkled, two young. They were each holding onto a child. Sam guessed two of the children’s ages at 2 or 3 years old, and the older one maybe 9 or 10.

There were four Vietnamese Regulars there, armed with AK-47 automatic weapons. Sam was too late to save the old men, so he just watched. It had rained earlier that day, and the smell of the damp foliage mixed with the sharp odor of cordite and blood was sharp to the nostrils. He wondered if there were more soldiers nearby. He knew he should just move on to his objective and leave these people to their fate.

The two toddlers were crying, making quite a racket. The older child was trembling, cowering behind her mother now. As Sam started to disappear back into the jungle, one of the soldiers approached the old woman, snatched the toddler from her arms, and tossed it several feet. While the child screamed in agony, the soldier yanked the old woman up and dragged her to the pile of bodies and threw her down on it. Another soldier gave her a burst from his AK-47. They all laughed—more like cackling than laughter.

Sam hesitated. Soldier Number One jerked one of the young women to her feet and ripped her tattered clothes from her body. All four soldiers were laughing with glee as they awaited the onset of the raping—often the prelude to annihilation.

Sam could take no more. He would have to risk stopping this. He clicked the safety off on his M-16 and unhooked the leather thongs on his two Colt .45 six-shooters. Two of the soldiers were a few feet away from the women and children, providing Sam a clean shot at them without endangering the innocents. He cut the two soldiers in half with his M-16, leaned it against a tree, and stepped into the clearing, a cocked revolver in each hand. The soldier holding the naked woman spun around, putting her frail form between his body and Sam. The other soldier raised his rifle as Sam shot him in the chest with the pistol in his left hand. He was flung backwards to the ground by the momentum of the .45 slug.

Sam flicked his attention to the sole remaining man and his naked shield. The young woman was screaming hysterically. Only the right side of the soldier’s face was available as a target. It was enough.

Sam shot him in the right eye with the gun in his right hand. The naked woman scooted into the hut. Sam stopped and listened, searching for any sound that would indicate others were rushing to the village, but the wailing toddlers made it difficult. The crying children were huddled around the other young woman.

Sam dragged the four dead soldiers by their feet and lined them up next to the pile of bodies. He methodically cut their throats and severed their left ears, stringing each ear on a leather thong. The woman watched closely, but was not frightened by the man with the grease-painted face, dark aviator glasses hiding his eyes. She sent the children into the hut and approached Sam.

She said in broken English, Thank you. You save us. You come with me. To hut. I make happy.

She was a pretty woman, probably 20 years old, and the thought of screwing her caused a contraction in Sam’s loins. She was offering herself to him. He couldn’t allow himself such pleasure now, however.

He replied in his pigeon Vietnamese, Thank you, but no. I would be no better than them.

He pointed to the four soldiers lined up on the ground.

He continued, Go! Take the children and leave this place. Save the children! Others will be here soon, and I must go.

Thank you, again! Go with God! said the woman fervently in Vietnamese.

While he reloaded his weapons, Sam thought, God? If there is one, He must be laughing his head off watching us use the free will he bestowed upon us to create our own Hell!

The naked girl—now wrapped in a sheet—crept out of the hut as Sam disappeared into the damp jungle, his killing day barely begun.

The clothed woman said, We were just saved by the Apache. He really exists!

***

Four hours later, Sam found Corporal O’Reilly. His head adorned the top of a stake at the end of the path that entered Da An village from the south. A warning to any American who might approach the village that way. Sam moved to the east, and settled in to watch the Viet Cong guerrillas who occupied the village at the moment. As he waited for dark, he determined that there were 14 of them. O’Reilly’s headless body lay a few feet away from the stake that bore his head. Sam controlled his rage by visualizing what he would do later—after dark.

***

The next morning, a platoon of Vietnamese Regulars entering the village was greeted by 14 grisly heads on as many stakes. Their left ears had been sliced off.

Corporal O’Reilly’s head and body were no longer there.

At the same time that morning, back in Base Camp Able, Staff Sergeant Spencer said, I hear Crazy Crown went in and brought out O’Reilly’s body.

Lt. Mack answered, You heard right. He took a body bag in with him. O’Reilly had been beheaded, but he stuffed both pieces in the body bag and called for a pickup 2 clicks from Phan Rang. He must have carried that dead weight quite a distance!

Ears? queried the sergeant.

The scuttlebutt is 18 new ones.

Shit! I’ll make sure to get rid of them. I don‘t want them on that damned totem pole!

OK. Morning recon chopper reported seeing 14 heads on stakes at Da An. How do you suppose that happened? mused the lieutenant.

How does he do it? But where’d the other 4 ears come from?

Go ask him.

No, sir! I’ve got enough troubles with Charlie. No need stirring things up here!

Well, enter the body counts and see that you get rid of the ears.

Yes, sir.

Chapter 3

September 1972

South Vietnam

Gunnery Sergeant Burt Collins—a grizzled two-tour veteran—was giving Lt. Ralph Manley a tour of Charlie Company’s area. Lt. Manley had just arrived for his first tour. He had recently been commissioned and had no experience in combat. His first impression was how primitive the living quarters were. And how shabby the men were. He was used to the spit and polish of Camp Pendleton.

Sergeant Collins hated breaking in new officers. The last one had lasted less than a month. He certainly didn’t like this one who carped about the facilities and how the men were dressed. He was really apprehensive as they approached the last tent. Crazy Crown’s tent.

Lt. Manley stopped in front of Sam’s totem pole and examined two circles of leather shoestrings hung on nails sticking out of the pole.

He gasped, My God, Sergeant! What’s this? Human ears?

Shit! thought the sergeant. We forgot to get rid of his latest collection of ears! How do