X-Ring 1: The Vigilante

By Jeff Habermehl

Members of Southern Californias Hispanic community are being stalked by a sniper. His targets? Criminals; Street gang members; and Those who have escaped justice for their crimes. It takes a sniper to catch a sniper. Sergeant Dan Rodriguez, a Homicide Bureau detective of the L.A. County Sheriffs Department, and a former US Marine sniper, who is part of a task force directed to find and stop him.

Rodriguez is no stranger to death: From the ruined streets of Beirut; to the mountains of Peru; and as a deputy sheriff in the streets of LA County. But who is really to blame for the mounting deaths? The husband whose wife and daughter were collateral fatalities during a gun battle between rival gangs? A vigilante cop? Or is it someone else, yet unknown? The story unravels on three continents and the lives of three men intertwine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524548940

Jeff Habermehl

Jeff Habermehl is a retired educator and law enforcement officer of thirty-two years in Southern California. He has retired to a small town in southwestern Oregon. He lives there with his wife and family, and enjoys living “rural.”

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by Jeff Habermehl.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2016916640

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5245-4895-7

                Softcover        978-1-5245-4896-4

                eBook             978-1-5245-4894-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 10/03/2016

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1 The Present — East Los Angeles, California

Chapter 2 Starlight Lounge

Chapter 3 Promises

Chapter 4 Marcos and Rodriguez

Chapter 5 Heckle and Jeckle

Chapter 6 Magdalena and Walnut

Chapter 7 She’s Gone

Chapter 8 Job? What Job?

Chapter 9 Marcos, Rodriguez, and Jake

Chapter 10 Marcos Goes to Magdalena

Chapter 11 Marcos and Guantanamo

Chapter 12 The Sniper and Iggy

Chapter 13 Briefing and Lunch

Chapter 14 The Devil

Chapter 15 An Evening’s Drive

Chapter 16 Marcos Meets the Family

Chapter 17 Motive

Chapter 18 Ernesto Fat Boy Padilla

Chapter 19 The End of the Tether

Chapter 20 Heckle and Jeckle — Again

Chapter 21 No Overtime!

Chapter 22 An Evening’s Stroll

Chapter 23 Shortcut

Chapter 24 Rules

Chapter 25 Sniper’s Dreams

Chapter 26 Young Marcos—Chiapas, Mexico, 1960

Chapter 27 Young Dan Rodriguez

Chapter 28 Scout Sniper Training

Chapter 29 Many Shots, Many Kills

Chapter 30 Present-Day Road Trip!

Chapter 31 Moreno’s

Chapter 32 Ricky J

Chapter 33 Oh, Oh… Glenn!

Chapter 34 Goodbye, Glenn!

Chapter 35 Chief of Detectives

Chapter 36 Maricela’s Story

Chapter 37 Love Spurned

Chapter 38 On the Road Again!

Chapter 39 Love Lost

Chapter 40 Information Please!

Chapter 41 Dreams… No More Farm in Santa Fe!

Chapter 42 One Born Every Day

Chapter 43 Payday

Chapter 44 The Goode Knight

Chapter 45 Lisa’s Story

Chapter 46 Jake’s Mountain

Chapter 47 Woof! Woof!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I WOULD LIKE TO thank the people that made the task of writing this novel easier than how it could have been:

The men and women of theRogue River Oregon Writers Guild who took the time and energy to listen to my words, critique my work, and not to allow me to slip into mediocrity, my thanks. They wanted me to be better than I thought I could be and would not accept anything less.

The cops I met through thirty years of work as a reserve police officer with the Newport Beach Police Department in Newport Beach, California. The experiences I shared with them have been the tempering fire and quenching water of the information surrounding this book. Great liberties have been taken, but I have tried to keep within the truth.

Master niper Lt. Neal Baldwin (retired) of Fullerton (California) Police Department special weapons and tactics (SWAT) taught the Police Officer Standards of Training class in my training as a police marksman. In it I discovered the world of the police rifleman. Thanks for introducing me to my .308 caliber mistress.

The thirty-two years of teaching at a high school in the eastern San Gabriel Valley in Southern California where the communities it served were in gang-infested areas. I drew upon those years there as well as contacts with many of those in the life.

Lastly, I wish to make an apology to the men and women of Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. If I have maligned you in any way concerning the fictitious characterization of members of your organization, please forgive me. I took license with your department, and in no way would I wish to diss the men and women who wear the star. You have been heroes since I first moved to Los Angeles County as a child.

In Memoriam

Kathy Habermehl

Wife, Lover, Friend of Forty-seven Years

* * * * *

Charlie Staump

Friend and Mentor

***

Corporal USMC 1957 – 1964

*

Glenolden Police Department

Glenolden, Pennsylvania

Officer and Detective 1964 – 1971

*

Orange County Sheriff Department

Orange County, California

Deputy and Investigator 1973–1983

PROLOGUE

S INCE WEAPONS OF war have been made and people trained in their use, there have been those who can wield them with terrifying excellence. Whether it was the English long bowman or a modern-day military rifleman, each sent their missile of destruction with unerring efficiency and accuracy. Combine that with single-mindedness of purpose, intense training, and a precision weapon, its result is the sniper. The psychological impact of the sniper is his true effectiveness in combat. The fear and demoralizing effect of a seemingly random, single, and well-placed rifle shot out of nowhere generates fear. The thought that you may be in the sniper’s crosshairs reduces your effectiveness as a combatant or, in a suburban setting, reduces your confidence as a citizen. The sniper’s powerful psychological effect is one of uncertainty and fear. Whether the shot is fired from a book depository in Texas, along a roadside in Maryland, or a distant battlefield, the result is the same—fear.

SNIPER’S NIGHT

In the night

Dressed in black,

I fade into the earth.

I split the darkness,

Pull it around me,

And

Leave it unruffled behind in my passing.

JH

CHAPTER 1

The Present — East Los Angeles, California

T HE ROOM WAS dark. It smelled of mold and decaying garbage. The Sniper sat on a wooden box behind a rusted kitchen table amidst the debris. Breathing shallowly through his mouth, he tasted the stifling smell. It clung to him and surrounded his body, but the stalk was everything. It lived with him and inside him. He was silent and invisible to all around him.

Seated in the center of the room, he faced an opened, curtain-less, but screened window. In his rifle’s telescopic sight, he viewed Hugo Feliz in the living room of an apartment in an adjacent building. The man had become a target of interest after a Los Angeles Times newspaper feature mentioned him as the number two man in Eme, the Mexican Mafia. Although he lived elsewhere, Feliz still returned to the East LA barrio where he had been a longtime resident. The Mexican Mafia chief kept an apartment there to meet with his lieutenants and conduct business.

Four nights of waiting finally produced the Sniper’s quarry. From seventy yards away, the lens of the Leupold, a telescopic rifle sight, magnified the target with great relief. The hidden shooter observed a thin man with emotionless eyes that seemed almost reptilian. His distorted nose had obviously been broken often, and his thin mouth held a cruel twist. A scar ran from the left side of his cheek to just above his chin bisecting the lips. It added to his already sinister appearance. Yet, all this didn’t stop Feliz from being an animated talker. He was just as quick to flash a lifeless smile as he was to commit an act of thoughtless violence.

Seated well back from the window, the shooter knew that the darkened room hid him from view. He sat with impunity. He took his time sighting the M40A3 USMC sniper rifle. Through its scope, he watched five shaved-headed and tattooed men gathered with Feliz, laughing silently at some joke. The scope’s crosshairs rested below Feliz’s left cheek. Bipod front rests kept the rifle’s thick, heavy barrel from moving while its stock lay on a small sandbag. The weapon was immobile. It waited only for a human machine to fire it.

Hugo Feliz’s animated life ceased abruptly as the .308 caliber bullet entered and exited the head of the number two man in Eme. Its supersonic speed was barely hindered by the apartment window. The sounds of splintering glass, Feliz’s shattering head, and the bullet’s entrance into the wall behind him were as one. The lieutenants couldn’t react quickly enough until another member of their group also lay motionless on the floor, his head in pieces.

By the time the survivors and their bodyguards left the apartment to find the assassin, the shooter’s evasion was complete. The man walked off down the street pushing a food cart, the rifle hidden in its depths.

Tortillas! Tortillas frescas! shouted the Sniper. He was poorly dressed as a street vendor. He became one of the unnoticeables.

To anyone who was listening, the rifle’s shot was just one of the many gunshots heard throughout the day. Men running about openly with weapons was commonplace in the barrio. This latest rifle shot was nothing new, nothing traumatic.

CHAPTER 2

Starlight Lounge

I T WAS A cop bar, and it was a classic one. Within its darkened interior, the Starlight’s patrons couldn’t see how shabby it really was. Stools allowed people to belly up to a bar that had supported thousands of elbows over its tenure. It had listened to untold lies contrary to In vino, veritas. However, when the truth was spoken, it was rarely believed. Dark, plasticized, wood-grain booths upholstered in red velveteen lined the walls. Randomly placed tables and chairs filled the open floor space. Liquor bottles and glasses were stacked on a countertop behind the bar on glass shelves. The only thing that kept it from being a dive was the absence of jars of pickled pig’s feet, boiled eggs, racks of bagged potato chips, and deep-fried pig skins.

The Starlight Lounge’s customers were a varied lot. It was populated mostly by men whose ages ranged from their early twenties to fifties. The younger of the set had the loudness and brashness of youth. Most of the older ones sat alone or in pairs in silence. They were mostly silent and lost in thought or quietly studying the truth found in their drinks. A few women were allowed into the inner sanctum of the lounge’s limits. Their ages were indeterminate. They were the young and those trying to be young with varying degrees of success.

The Starlight Lounge owed its existence to its clientele. They were cops. Like all cop bars, its exclusivity fit only that tight, closed little world. Lost partiers who mistakenly found it and thinking that the Starlight was the new in place soon found their perceptions wrong. They were greeted by silent, hostile stares and poor service and less-than-friendly attitudes from patrons and help alike. The newbies soon searched for a friendlier establishment. Exclusive didn’t always mean designer clothes and BMWs.

Starlight customers reported to its roll call after shifts of mainly boring hours, sometimes interspersed with minutes of interest or even pure terror. On duty, they saw the people they were to protect usually at their worst and rarely at their best. Even the newest rookie couldn’t help but begin to harden. They grew indifferent to the plight of those they served to mask the pain they felt and saw. These men and women had watched the last breaths of strangers and friends. They’d cleaned blood off their hands—sometimes it was theirs, more often it was another’s. A few had held a mortally injured girl in her prom dress as she died alone, except for the uniformed officers. Many had listened to the screams of drunks with delirium tremors and nursed cuts, bruises, and broken bones from fights with crooks. They soothed their own tears and fears left behind from a bad dream concerning a death they may have witnessed or caused. The Starlight Lounge was basically a place where all could decompress. No one judged you there, at least not until you left.

* * * * *

One could do a multitude of things at the Starlight, but it reserved its true use as a place to gather and get things done. It was used by the brass to hold private, off-the-record meetings where everything could be discussed without the color of office. Suffice it to say, careers were made or broken there, and deals were created. Here, decisions of import were forged without the officialism of department bureaucracy. Unofficial department policy was leaked here, as was the fate of many a deputy had been discussed. Today wasn’t to be any different.

The bar’s side door opened, letting in afternoon sunlight. Its rays caused the Starlight’s denizens to cover their eyes and hide from its brightness like modern-day vampires. A man stepped through into its interior. Mark Haroldson stopped to wait, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness inside. He wore a suit. No one wore a uniform or a suit into the Starlight. To keep the job at a distance, they dressed like civilians, but most failed.

Men wearing suits meant brass: lieutenants and above. In a world where they were very identifiable, here they were invisible. The higher in rank, the harder they were to see. Had the Starlight had radar, their stealthiness would have never brought them on a screen. As such, they would be avoided by the other clients. In the police world where they were very identifiable, at the Starlight they were invisible. They were left alone and ignored by the rest of the bar’s clients, and that’s why they came to the Starlight. That one was coming here meant nothing but trouble to someone.

Haroldson walked through the bar, maneuvering through the minefield of tables and chairs. He greeted and was greeted by those he knew. He nodded to those he didn’t know the names of or didn’t want to know. In a booth, he saw his lead detective, Dan Rodriguez. The man waved to him. Rodriguez was talking to a female detective, Sharon. To those who knew him, Mark Haroldson was in contrast to his usual self. His usually erect carriage was now slumped. He had a harried, worried, and haggard look about him.

Standing before the bar, he greeted the bartender, an old friend. Hi, Pete! Is the back room open? I need it for a meeting! His cheerfulness was an attempt. He failed.

Sure, Mark! said the bartender, a medically retired sheriff lieutenant. He was the new owner of the place. He indicated the doorway to the back room with a nod of his head while pushing across Haroldson’s usual, but unasked for, drink.

Not right now. Maybe afterward. He turned, walked to the doorway of the meeting room, and entered.

The old-timers who were watching were in silent agreement that his ass was about to be chewed. This was to be a private ass-chewing as opposed to an official put-it-in-his-personnel-file one which was much more damaging, career-wise. But then again, this was the Starlight, and anything could happen here and often did.

The front door opened again, letting in light that was greeted by groans. The bartender observed two youngish suits enter and surveil the bar. One of the two nodded to someone outside as if to indicate the coast was clear. The bartender shook his head knowingly in disgust as the number three man in the sheriff’s department entered. Always the dramatic entrance! Asshole! mused the bartender as he automatically fixed the man’s drink, a Jack Daniel’s, neat with a twist. He sent it off to him with a waitress, the new one with the great ass. He watched the man pass by. Just like he was when we worked the men’s central jail together. The arrogant bastard! thought the bartender.

The fashionably tardy man already entered the back room. He sat down at its only table with Haroldson, accepted the drink from the waitress, and nodded in appreciation of the first sip.

Chief of Detectives John Vincent Xavier Murphy was there to unofficially ream his lieutenant in charge of the Sniper Task Force a new asshole and get him to do the same to his crew. The Sniper had struck again over the weekend, taking out a reputed Eme top man. It was tough luck for the Mexican Mafia, but no one at the department’s headquarters had shed a tear. Actually, there was a loud cheer when the organized crime boys heard of his demise. Unfortunately, the second generation Mexican-American political and social activists had begun to call the sheriff to task on all the killings. They suggested that it was racially motivated and vociferously had begun to make their views known to the media and, worse of all, to the county commissioners. This generation had learned the knack of stirring up shit. Please remember that shit rolls downhill. It rolled down on Murphy from the sheriff. Hence it was about to be loaded upon this poor schmuck, who, in turn, would load it upon those below him.

It was after the perfunctory greetings and asking that each be remembered to their respective wives and girlfriends that it began.

Mark, ye be knowin’ why I asked for this meeting in the first place? And why we’re here instead of m’ office, don’tcha now? The question came out in a mild Irish brogue that Murphy had affected. He thought that it suited his name even though he hadn’t seen the ould sod, and his relatives hadn’t been there in three generations.

Yes, sir. I believe I do, said Haroldson. Fuckin’ asshole! he thought.

There’s a lot of people startin’ to pay undue attention to this investigation. We need the Sniper’s ass in a cell or dead, preferably dead.

I send you a daily update report by e-mail, countered the cornered lieutenant. You know everything that I know, sir.

It’s not enough! His voice raised above the conversational level. We—he raised his eyebrows and looked upwards to indicate with his eyes that there was a higher source—we want this closed as soon as possible! This has to be done before the media takes more of an interest, the county commissioners get into it, and Sacramento starts putting its nose into it. [Haroldson noticed that Murphy had lost his affected brogue along the way.] Get this taken care of!

You’ve seen everything. We’re doing the best we can with the manpower that we have! said Harold defensively.

Murphy quickly finished his drink, pushed himself away from the small table, and stood up. He leaned over from the waist and, like a teacher scolding a recalcitrant child, slowly shook his right index finger at him and said, Do it better! Remember what I told you, Haroldson? Get this taken care of now! He walked away but stopped before he reached the door. He turned to face Haroldson again. Get this job finished, or it’s off to the Twin Towers for you. He turned and walked through the door, through the barroom, and back into the sunlight with his minders following him. The threat of being sent back to the purgatory of the Los Angeles County men’s jail was very real.

The back room and the barroom shared a common false ceiling. It leaked sound like a sieve. If the speakers in the room spoke loudly enough, which they had, and it was quiet enough in the barroom, which it was, then everyone could, and did, hear what was being said. The ass-chewing had an ulterior purpose.

Asshole! thought the bartender of the hief of etectives. He’s gotten better at fuckin’ over people. It must be the company he keeps!

The Starlight had turned quiet. Everyone there had heard. Everyone here, at one time or another, had been the recipient of a reaming by some brass. This was the first time any had seen a brass suit get his in public, no less. By the time Haroldson got home, word of what had happened would have gotten back to his station. Wherever two or more of the old-timers got together, it would be a topic of discussion. If you want something spread fast, tell a cop.

It had been a stroke of genius by the chief of detectives. He had laid it all off on the lieutenant. If it falls flat, it’s the lieutenant’s fault, and everyone knows it. And he let it out to the field deputies that it was open season on the Sniper. They wanted him dead rather than go to court. The one who got the Sniper could be made quickly: this story would be told and retold, growing bigger with each telling—mythic. It was pure Starlight politics in its richest form.

The Starlight Lounge had lived up to its reputation. It was a quiet, cozy place where you could go after watch was over and have a drink or three or four or until they cut you off. The Starlight was a place to get things done without the bureaucracy. It was a place where you could be made or broken or laid or left alone. The Starlight was all this and more. It was a place where the drinkers never changed, just their faces. The reasons to drink never changed, they just got older. The Starlight was the place. There was no other like it. It was a place to call home when home had given up on you.

CHAPTER 3

Promises

Present — La Puente

T HE WARM CALIFORNIA night offered the promise of something for Jaime Lopez or Casper as his friends called him. Three of these friends were seated, crowded into the black Honda Civic with dark, tinted windows that Casper was driving. Their combined weight made the car ride even lower than the customized suspension job allowed. Spanish rap played loudly from super amplified speakers as Casper and his carnales (homeboys) rolled out into the growing evening’s darkness.

Casper and his crew had been friends for as long as they could remember. Their mothers had turned them out to play in their neighbors’ yards where they raised themselves. They came home only for food, sleep, and the usual Mi hijo (pronounced mee-ho) verbal affection that many Hispanic mothers heap upon their sons. Consequently, they had grown to become small-time neighborhood terrorists and thugs. Now in their teens, their mothers still addressed them as Mi hijo.

The young street toughs all carried handguns. Money had been scrimped, saved, or stolen to buy them or perhaps borrowed from older brothers or cousins. Their prime goal was to be recognized by the older street veteranos (older gang members, usually aged twenty and up) of the neighborhood and be shown respect. This was the hoped-for result of that evening’s activity. So far, it had been like the song: Promises, promises. All I get is promises, promises…

Hurley Street was close, and the gang known as Hurley Street was already there. Casper’s crew drove by a few baggy-dressed and shaved-headed younger gang members called chicos (younger gang members around ages ten to fourteen years old). They flashed their signs at them, laughing at this coup. The Hurley Street chicos naturally fingered their signs back, pissing off their rivals. Casper quickly slowed the Honda, turned it a 180 degrees, and headed back to the group he and his friends had just passed. The machismo (the Hispanic man’s personal philosophy and actions of manliness) engendered in them by the community of older males had been damaged, so feelings of vengeance soared.

Mistake number one: Casper stopped the car close to where they had last seen the boys.

Mistake number two: Being new at this game, Casper stopped the car under a streetlight. When they all got out of the Honda, they were fully illuminated.

Mistake number three: Like most of these sorts of activity, it hadn’t been well-thought-out what everyone was supposed to do and when and how.

Mistake number four: They hadn’t planned how to get out of the area whether they were successful or if they fucked up.

Mistake number five: They shouldn’t have gotten out of the car in the first place. The Hurley Street chicos had quickly left, but the Hurley Street grandes, with older gang members fifteen and older, were there waiting in the shadows.

When the first shots ran out, Casper and his friends stopped and looked about them wondering who had fired his pistol. Then as the Honda’s windows began to shatter and holes magically appeared in its sides, the confusion vanished. Each boy panicked and began his desperate footrace to get out of the area as fast as possible. Following Casper, his gang of tough guys ran down the streets and alleys they didn’t know, with the laughing and shooting Hurley Street grandes close on their heels. All thoughts of firing back were the furthest thoughts in their minds.

Casper saw the lighted parking lot of the mini-mart and headed for it at a dead run, his friend Rico charging at his side. They thought the store would offer them safety. Casper’s other friends had dropped out of the footrace to hide in various yards along the way, so it was just the two young boys sprinting for the store.

There was only one car in the parking lot, a blue BMW convertible. Casper and Rico ran toward it for quick cover. Suddenly, a blasting gunshot rang out; it was louder than all the others. Rico screamed and stumbled then fell heavily to the pavement. Casper turned away from the Bimmer and ran to the store. As he dashed to the front door, it opened, and a woman with a little girl stepped through it. Casper collided with them and spun the two around. The bag of groceries the lady held fell to the pavement. The woman stumbled and tried to regain her balance. And then the sound of another booming gunshot echoed off the store’s wall. Only a pile of shattered glass crystals and the door’s metal skeleton remained.

Why Casper hadn’t been hit he didn’t know. Not taking time to think, he continued to run past the two exiting shoppers to the corner of the mini-mart and its alley. From the protection of the wall, he looked and was surprised to see the woman and the kid on the ground still and bleeding. Frowning, he felt a weight in his right hand. Somehow, he had kept his pistol during the foot chase. He quickly raised it, pointed it at one of the approaching Hurly Street randes coming toward him, and pulled the trigger. The pistol had a life of its own. It fired and fired and fired until it, too, died. The gang rival he had aimed it at fell straight forward to the ground and lay there unmoving. Casper turned up the alley and took off in a stumbling but frantic run.

* * * * *

Four hours into their twelve-hour shift, both deputies were looking forward to finishing for the night. It was their sixth consecutive duty shift, their last one before their five-day break. Their partnership in the patrol car carried over to friendship during time off. Each thought of water skiing and their combined family vacations at the Colorado River starting the next day.

Industry Adam 365! sounded their radio call sign from the police radio. The Los Angeles County Sheriff’s station in the ity of Industry, California, which is fifteen miles east of LA uses the city it’s located in for the beginning of their radio designation. Adam indicates that the patrol car is a two-man car. The numeral 3 identifies the time period as the third work watch of the day, and 65 is the car’s designated patrol area. The Industry sheriff’s station deputies, in their two-man car, reacted to the call.

Three-six-five? responded the partner deputy handling the radio.

"Industry Adam 365! Shots fired! Repeat! Shots fired! Ampm mini-mart at Hollingsworth and Valley! Four, repeat, four down! Paramedics en route!

Having been partnered for several years, their Pavlovian response to the radio call was immediate. Three-six-five en route! We’ll be there in two!

Jim Jacoby, the driver of the unit, turned on its overhead light and siren. He didn’t need to be told. It was a ode 3 run. The sound of the shotgun rack’s lock snapping open ratcheted his adrenalin a dozen notches higher. His partner, Bob Stevenson, always believed in the concept of mo’ powa. A Remington 870 shotgun with a one-ounce rifled slug could give you that powa. Over the radio, they both heard other patrol units calling in their backup responses.

The patrol car bounced into the mini-mart’s parking lot, skidding to a stop. Industry Adam 365 arrived first on scene. While stopping, Stevenson turned on the car’s quartz-beamed alley lights that illuminated the area in their harsh, cold light. Jacoby focused his spotlight on the prone forms of a woman and a child. He got out of the car and ran up to a white-faced young man kneeling over the prostrate form of an injured young female lying on the pavement. The clerk’s uniform was bloodied from trying to aid the victim. Curious onlookers gathered to satisfy their morbidity, while those braver came closer. A handful had actually tried to help the mother and the small girl. However, after seeing the deputies running up with weapons drawn, several gore-mongers turned and started to move away.

You! . . . You! . . . And, you! Come back here! Sit your asses down! yelled Jacoby at many of the leaving onlookers. Other patrol cars entered the parking lot with lights and siren, their exiting deputies corralling up would-be witnesses and securing the crime scene.

Jacoby saw the young woman had been shot by a shotgun. Her lower abdomen was a massive wound. The deputy knew she wouldn’t live much longer. The doctors could do only so much. Her left femoral artery had been severed by the blast, and the young store clerk, to his credit, was trying to stem the arterial spray with his hands. It wasn’t working.

The gravely wounded woman was trying to speak, but Jacoby hushed her quietly. Don’t worry! The paramedics will be here soon to help you! Hang on!

My baby! came a whispered cry.

Jacoby looked over to his left. The small form was still and silent. Out of kindness, someone had placed a jacket over the little girl’s face. Soothingly, he said, My partner is with her. He’s taking care of her! Don’t worry!

As he was speaking, Stevenson came up to him. Pointing at the crowding people, he said, Bob! Move these people back, will ya? They don’t have to be here!

His partner began moving the looky-loos surrounding them away. Jacoby gathered up the young woman into his arms and held her until the paramedics came. When they did, they pronounced her dead. Her body was eased away from him and lowered down. She and her daughter were covered with the same sheet.

Jacoby walked over to his car and leaned wearily against its hood. Lit only by the lot’s mercury vapor lights, they bleached the color his face and on his uniform. They turned the young woman’s blood on his clothing to black streaks. Dejectedly, he slumped against the car. His head bent and shoulders sagging, he held his forehead in his right hand, covering his eyes.

The supervisor, a rough, weathered, and grizzled older patrol sergeant, walked over to him.

What’s wrong, Jim? he asked fatherly.

She died, Bill! . . . And I couldn’t do a thing for her, he said emotionally.

I saw you with her. What you did helped!

Jacoby looked up unbelievingly at his sergeant.

Unfortunately, she won’t be the last one, son. The sergeant shook his head as if his own ghosts were there bringing with them unpleasant memories. She won’t be the last! He put an arm around the shaken deputy’s shoulders and said, Go ten-nineteen OD! Go back to the station and clock out. You’re through for the night! You’re in no shape to work!

No! I can take it! I can finish out the rest of the shift! came the macho reply, though not very convincingly.

I’ll have John and his trainee write the reports! The newbie has to learn sometime. Go home! He called Stevenson over from where he was talking with some other deputies. Go back to the station! Jacoby’s through for the evening!

Sergeant! That dead woman is a friend of my younger sister. She lived with her dad in that old farmhouse on the hilltop on Valley and Nogales. Her dad still lives there.

You sure? Seeing Stevenson nodding, he said, On your way back to the station, stop by there first and notify her father. Tell him that we need him down at Queen of the Valley Hospital.

The two deputies got into their patrol car and drove away, leaving the organized chaos of the crime scene. An NBC TV affiliate mobile news team had already set up their equipment. They were gathering story information for the talking heads of the evening news.

* * * * *

That’s the latest info from Iraq, Samantha! Iran and Syria are meeting with representatives of the United States State Department to discuss how they can assist the fledgling democracy to join in a full partnership in the Middle Eastern community of nations, Byron Hall said all this fullfaced to the camera and never once ceased to smile. It was quite a feat, all while thinking, A semi-theocracy and a constitutional monarchy helping out a democracy next door to them. Yeah, right! Like that’ll happen! Iraq and Iran were once in a ten-year war with each other for Christ’s sake! Syria has all of Iraq’s WMDs! Give me a break!

Thanks, Byron! Wouldn’t it be wonderful for those nations to work together?

He was smiling and nodding in agreement but thinking, What a ditzy cow! Read your teleprompter instead of ad-libbing! He didn’t like his co-host. She was an aging has-been who had screwed her way up the ladder in the news department of the TV station to get where she was now. Too many cigarettes, too much booze, and way too much time under the harsh lighting had taken their