Morgan writhed in pain. His intestines felt as if they were on fire. Heat permeated his body. He turned his head and vomited violently.
Lazarevic held him tightly, telling him it would be okay. “Hang in there, Morg,” she said, her voice crackling. Morgan felt comforted by her presence, and wished he had the strength to tell her not to worry. He wasn’t going to die. The spirits had already come to him and assured him of it. With this knowledge he found himself at peace, and he began to breathe more easily. Lazarevic stroked his head, wiping the sweat away with her sleeve.
Morgan, his eyes now closed, heard Farley’s distant voice confirm what the spirits had already told him about PFC Christina Ortiz. “She’s dead.”
Standing near the lowrider in the school lot, Josefina Sanchez faced a uniformed patrol deputy. She was pointing toward the direction of recent gunfire and yelling over the sounds of the orbiting bird. “Get the airship on your radio, tell them to go north two blocks and look for a light-colored compact car, gold or tan. Let them know there are army investigators Code Five in the area in plain clothes and unmarked cars, and that we’ve now got shots fired from that direction.”
Floyd jogged to my car, yelling, “Let’s go!”
I had already climbed in behind the wheel and was ready to take off. Josie hurried behind Floyd. At the sounds of two slammed doors, I took off.
The Crown Vic bounced and jerked as it grabbed the pavement when we sailed off of the curb from the parking lot onto the street. I was practiced at this type of maneuver and knew that speed and the proper diagonal angle were the keys to a smooth landing and to maintaining control of the vehicle. Through our open windows I could hear the helicopter peel away, and I saw the beam of its spotlight traveling north across the school grounds, across the street, and through the houses and trees. We followed the pavement while watching the bright streak across the sky for direction.
Floyd, sitting up front, fiddled with the dial of a sheriff’s radio and yelled against the wind rushing through open windows. “What frequency are they on here?”
Josie shouted from the back seat: “Compton’s on twenty-two, but go over to L-tac for the bird. If they’re not there, try A-tac.”
I turned left on the next street to head north. I could see the bird ahead and west of my location. I went two more blocks and turned left.
Josie shouted, “Grandma’s street.” Seconds later: “That was her house we just passed.”
“Nobody around.”
“No.”
Floyd was on the radio: “Airship above North Compton, can you copy? This is David-Five-Adam-Six, Homicide.”
“Go ahead, David-Five, this is Air Twenty-two,” the handheld radio squelched.
“We’re in a gray Crown Vic, just south of you, coming your way.”
A ray of brilliant light washed over our car, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. “Roger that, I’ve got you coming north, David Five.”
“Be advised, there are a couple of unmarked cars in the area that belong to Army CID. Our suspects are in a tan compact, and we believe they’re armed with rifles.”
Josie, now leaning across the back of my seat, pointed toward the sky. “The bird’s circling now, up ahead. Looks like another block or two north, a couple of blocks west.”
The radio crackled: “David Five unit, this is Air Twenty-two, we have a gunfight in the alley!”
“Fuck! Where are they?” Floyd said, craning his neck to follow the bird.
Air Twenty-two: “Shots fired, numerous shooters. Stand by! . . . Okay, looks like the suspect is fleeing now. You have two unmarked cars in the alley, but the suspect is fleeing. You might have officers down, guys.”
I pushed the Crown Vic hard around a corner. The rear fishtailed while the tires squealed against the pavement. I glanced toward the sky and accelerated, heading north.
The airship came back on the radio: “Okay, guys, you have a suspect on foot, a male white who just bailed out of a tan compact at the end of this alley. Suspect is wearing all black. We need some units up here to set up a containment.”
I glanced at Floyd. “Why’d he bail?”
Floyd shrugged and keyed the mic. “Air Twenty-two, any idea why he bailed?”
“Possibly a disabled vehicle. Not really sure, to be honest.”
“Is he armed?”
The radio crackled back: “Nothing we could see.”
Floyd and I exchanged glances. “Would you have seen a rifle?”
“He definitely wasn’t carrying a rifle,” the airship reported.
“Interesting,” I said in the car.
Floyd nodded in agreement.
“We need to check that car,” Josie said.
We reached the alley where two unmarked sedans sat with lights on and engines running. I skidded to a stop, dust and debris sailing past us. We were exiting when a man with a protective vest worn over his shirt rushed toward us, a badge displayed in his hand. “Army CID, we have an officer down.”
Floyd announced on the tactical frequency that we had an army investigator down at the mouth of the alley and requested that paramedics be dispatched to our location immediately.
I went to the man who was down and recognized him as one of the two we had met with in the station. Morgan. The woman cradling him was Lazarevic. Morgan moaned softly, his blood-soaked hands and arms clutching his stomach. A tactical vest was in the dirt at his side. Lazarevic saw me looking at it. “Must have hit him right beneath it,” she said. “I took it off of him.”
I nodded. Finding no words, I looked to the other CID man, the one who had flagged us down. He and Floyd were crouched near a body that lay twenty feet away. It was a woman, crumpled on the filthy pavement. I left Morgan and his partner and walked over to them. The CID man glanced up, and I introduced myself. He stood up to meet me and shook my hand. Floyd remained on his haunches, studying the dead woman. All of us were silently appraising her for a long moment before anyone spoke again.
“Charles Farley,” the army man said softly. As an afterthought, he mentioned that he was in charge of the team. CW3, he said. I knew that meant his rank, Chief Warrant Officer 3, and I recalled that Morgan and Lazarevic had said they were each a CW2.
The dead woman lay in a fetal position. She was dressed in black tactical pants that were soaked in blood and covered with dirt. Her dark hair was matted with blood, and her eyes were open, staring off into the distance. Dead eyes can offer glimpses into the final moments of life: fear, surprise, regret, sorrow. Hers said knowing. Expecting. Death had been at her doorstep and had knocked—maybe more than once. But tonight, she opened the door. Expecting.
“Is that her? The AWOL woman you guys were searching for?”
His nod was nearly imperceptible. “I’m sure it is, but we’ll have to get a positive ID through prints.”
“So, the man we’re hunting now, he’s the other one.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes sir,” Farley said. “Travis Hollingsworth. The sonofabitch who no doubt caused all of this, and who downed my best man.” He glanced back at Morgan resting against his partner, Lazarevic. She watched us but showed no emotion. After a moment, she lowered her eyes back to her partner.
“We’ll get him, chief,” I quietly assured him. “I promise you we’ll get him.”
Floyd was standing with a group of deputies who had gathered at the mouth of the alley. I walked up and listened as one of them set up a containment of the area, using his radio to direct assisting units to specific locations that would seal off two city blocks. The containment would be held until a search for the suspect concluded. SWAT and Canine had been requested.
The airship checked in over the radio with the newly positioned deputies and confirmed that the containment looked good from above. It seemed almost certain that the suspect would be somewhere within it. There were deputies positioned on every corner and others mid-block. Each would vigilantly watch for anyone trying to slip out between their posts. Air Twenty-
two provided another description of the suspect as last seen, as well as his last known location and direction of travel. The Tactical Flight Deputy, or “observer” as he is sometimes called, is the one on the airship who operates the cameras, the radios, the stabilized binoculars, and the 50-million candle-watt searchlight. He is the voice from above, and it was his that now crackled that they were going to lift higher. They would continue searching dark crevasses utilizing their night vision camera, but they would do so blacked out and from a higher altitude.
The sounds of the bird faded but you could still hear its blades thumping through the darkness. More sirens drew near, and soon a team of paramedics were working on Morgan. Now it was time to wait for a SWAT team, which could be a while; there was still an intense search for the killer of a deputy sheriff just a few miles west of us.
A sergeant and lieutenant showed up together and gravitated toward the three of us—me, Floyd, and Josie. We had drifted from the group of patrol deputies and gathered in a semi-circle at the back of my Crown Vic.
“You guys are from Homicide?” the lieutenant inquired.
“We are,” I replied.
Introductions were quick, and he got right to it. “What the hell do we have out here?”
“A real clusterfuck, LT, if you want me to be honest about it. The suspect in this containment is responsible for shooting that army investigator over there,” I turned and nodded toward the action involving paramedics, “and he’s good for a murder a couple of blocks from here in a school parking lot. He will likely be made on a murder and armored car robbery in downtown L.A. from earlier this evening, and we think he’s good for a double murder at a liquor store in Compton last Friday. And that’s just the beginning of it.”
The lieutenant stood gazing around the scene as he listened. He had a flashlight tucked under his arm, and he rocked gently in highly-polished uniform shoes. He wore a long-sleeved uniform shirt and tie, as did his sergeant. The two looked like they had come from a funeral, or an interview for another promotion. After a moment, he asked, “Just one suspect?”
“He had two accomplices: the dead female further up the alley, and a dead male—her brother—who was killed in the armored car robbery.”
Josie said, “And the dead woman, Christina Ortiz, had another brother who was killed by an off-duty deputy last weekend in Long Beach.”
The lieutenant was stone-faced. The sergeant gently shook his head in disgust or disbelief. “Okay, what do you guys need from us?” The lieutenant asked.
Floyd said, “Has the department gone tactical yet?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“We’re going to be here all night, boss. Units are scattered all over the place on this caper and also on the murdered deputy case over in Compton. It’s none of my business, but if I were in charge of this area, I’d be asking for reinforcements from all over the county. You’ve got to be out of patrol deputies by now. I know when we called and asked for two teams of investigators from Homicide, the desk about shit. They said we’re about out of personnel, but they’d make some calls. And truthfully, we could use more radio cars on this containment.”
He nodded. “The commander is with the sheriff over at the command post in Compton. I’ll suggest it, if nobody else already has. I think your captain is over there too, if I’m not mistaken. Stover’s still in charge up there?”
Floyd nodded. “Yeah, he thinks he is, anyway.”
The lieutenant smiled for the first time in our meeting. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do to get more help out here. Be safe.”
I chimed in: “I’m not so sure the city’s ready to go to sleep yet, L.T. That’s what has me worried.”
32
A couple of hours passed, and the airship pulled out, citing they were low on fuel. It was now Thursday morning, the end of a long Wednesday behind us.
The containment was tight, and there had been no activity reported. The suspect had either gone to ground, or he had escaped before the containment had been established. Nobody talked about that possibility though each of us likely considered it, if only for a moment. Morgan had been transported to the hospital, and his team members, Farley and Lazarevic, had gone with him. Two other investigators were sent to monitor and assist as needed. These two soldier investigators segregated themselves near their vehicle and watched. Both had declined offers to join our circle.
Josie, Floyd, and I hovered over the trunk of my Crown Vic with containers of coffee and bags of donuts that had been dropped off in two separate deliveries in the last hour. The coffee was needed and welcomed, but the donuts were scarcely picked through. Bored and stiffening from the cool air that had settled during the night, I collected the donuts and two cups of coffee and walked them over to the army investigators. They thanked me and soon were devouring them as if they hadn’t eaten in days. It occurred to me that the pair—perhaps the whole unit—were combat veterans, and as such they knew to eat, sleep, and hydrate whenever the opportunity presented itself. Soldiers never knew when they would go without any or all of the aforementioned needs for days or more at a time.
“If you guys need anything—”
I left them with their sustenance and returned to silent stares from my two partners.
It was one of those nights that seemed surreal. I had experienced others like it during the course of my career, though I had never become accustomed to the feeling. Floyd had too, and I was certain Josie had as well. A cop had been murdered a few hours earlier, yet life went on all around the otherwise all-consuming event. I wondered if combat was a similar experience where there was no time to mourn for the fallen as the battle raged on. I pondered if that might be part of the psychological damage that often resulted in PTSD, the trauma that drives soldiers and cops alike into dark holes too deep to climb out of. We had been forced to continue on as if a colleague murdered on the streets was merely a new file number, another investigation, just one of the thousands of coroner’s cases logged throughout the year. There would be a day in the near future where the city would hopefully calm for a few short hours while brothers and sisters and those who support us would pay our respects and mourn the loss of our fallen comrade. Then we would each carry on, vaguely aware of the additional weight we bore. It would be off to the next crime scene, the next family disturbance, another neglected child or the overdosed junkie to be cleared from an alley, each of us slightly more mindful of our mortality.
I was jolted from my thoughts by the sounds of an approaching airship. I looked across the horizon to see a bird coming in, and then banking sharply just as it seemed to have passed us. “Aero Bureau is back.”
Josie and Floyd were looking up as well. Floyd clicked the mic on his handheld radio to hear the short series of varying tones from a repeater that sits high on a mountain in East Los Angeles. It was a way to check the volume and to assure that the battery had not died. A moment later, the friendly voice of Air Twenty-two returned. “David Five and units in North Long Beach, this is Air Twenty-two coming back around.”
Floyd said, “Welcome back, boys. It’s all quiet here. We’re locked down and waiting.”
“Okay guys. We just pulled off of a search in Compton where they thought they had cornered a suspect in that deputy-involved one-eighty-seven. SWAT’s still clearing several houses there, so I don’t know how much longer you’ll be waiting. Could be a while, guys. The good news is, we have a full tank and we’re not going anywhere anytime soon. As long as the fog doesn’t roll in.”
Josie drew an exaggerated breath and let it out slowly. I sighed, disappointed at the news about the wait, but glad we had a bird above the containment again.
Floyd said, “We should go get this bastard ourselves. I’m tired of waiting. Are you with me, Dickie?”
Josie and Floyd seemed to watch closely as I considered it.
“How bad do you think it will be if it goes hot and we have to kill this guy? Or if one of us gets killed in the process? I’m not sure it’s worth it,
though I’m not entirely against the idea either.”
“We have a dog,” Floyd said. “Perry from Canine is around the corner just waiting for orders. I still have a gun and a badge; what about you?”
Floyd grinned after he said it, his eyes practically challenging me. He was ready to go. One thing we both hated about working Homicide is that at times, some of our colleagues and much of the brass acted like we had forgotten how to be cops, or had lost our police powers. Wait for SWAT. Call for a radio car to back you up. In truth, many of us were still very capable and eager to do the heavy lifting, in spite of our suits and ties and dress shoes.
I pictured the contents of my trunk. There was one flak vest, a short-barreled shotgun, and extra ammunition for it and for my pistol. But that was it, as far as weaponry. Floyd and Josie rode with me, so none of their extra equipment was available. We could probably scrounge some extra vests from the patrol deputies, but that was the least of my worries. The fallout could be enormous if the situation went hot. Career-ending enormous. This was a high-risk operation and there were new policies in place that dictated exactly how these situations were to be handled, and by whom. The department had changed over the couple of decades since we were young cops on the job, and we were expected to play by the rules. Though Floyd and I often stretched, skirted, and at times completely ignored the new policies, this was a volatile situation. Our asses would be in hot water if we didn’t follow the book. Especially if it didn’t turn out well.
But as Floyd would say, sometimes, you had to reach down between your legs . . . and ease the seat back.
Floyd, still waiting: “Well, Dickie?”
Katherine kept checking her phone. She’d called twice and also sent a text message while at Dallas-Fort Worth on a layover. Now, as she waited for luggage in the baggage claim at LAX, a cold and eerie place this time of night, she tried calling again. Still, there was no answer. Was he ignoring her? She pictured him at a bar enjoying a cocktail, looking at his phone and deciding not to answer it. She knew he would do that. He had told her that he had done that with his wife, Valerie, at times, and he had even ignored his partner at times when he wanted to be alone.
Hard-Boiled- Box Set Page 88