OFFICER INVOLVED

by Lynch, Sean

  Chapter 36

  Kearns drove over the Bay Bridge, the frigid waters of the San Francisco Bay churning far below. He kept looking in his rear-view mirror as he cruised away from the city, but traffic was light and none of the cars on the span seemed to be shadowing his vehicle. If there was anyone from the sheriff’s department tailing him, they wouldn’t have to work very hard to figure out his destination.

  Twenty-five minutes later he parked his Jeep in the employee lot at the Eden Township Station. When he went inside he took the duffel containing his possessions with him.

  The station was nearly vacant at this time of the night, with all the road deputies assigned to the post patrolling the streets of Castro Valley and San Lorenzo. Kearns went directly to the locker room without encountering anyone, for which he was grateful.

  The locker room featured a washer and dryer, like many law enforcement locker rooms, since it’s not uncommon for a deputy’s clothes to become soiled in the line of duty. The standard uniforms required dry-cleaning, but socks, underclothes, and a detective’s plainclothes attire were often contaminated with materials the deputies may not want to transfer to their family by washing at home. Kearns put his soiled laundry in the washer, changed into his workout gear, and headed for the gym.

  It was a different story in the weight-room. Several deputies from the dogwatch crew were getting in a pre-shift work-out, and he recognized one as a patrol sergeant. Kearns nodded a silent acknowledgment and wordlessly began his own exercise routine.

  Not long into his bench press sets, the patrol sergeant, a very large, prematurely-balding man with a Magnum P.I. mustache, approached him. Kearns racked the barbell and sat up, preparing for the worst.

  “Too bad about Deputy Gregory,” the sergeant said. When he spoke, all others in the weight-room stopped their exercise activity.

  “He didn’t deserve what he got,” Kearns said.

  “No, he didn’t,” the sergeant said, standing over Kearns. “That’s how the job goes sometimes. Ain’t your fault.”

  Kearns didn’t say anything.

  “I hear you got one of the fuckers who got Danny,” the sergeant said. “Good job.” With that, the sergeant went back to his deadlifts. The remainder of the deputies in the gym resumed their respective workouts.

  Kearns breathed a silent sigh of relief and returned to his own regimen. Halfway through he went back to the locker room and switched his wet clothes to the dryer. By then several deputies and civilian employees working the midnight shift had begun to straggle in. A couple of them mumbled greetings.

  When he finished his exercise routine, Kearns retrieved his clean laundry, showered, dressed, and re-packed his duffel bag. He planned on spending the day tomorrow finding an apartment, and with that thought in mind headed for the lunchroom.

  The substation’s break-room was a series of tables, a refrigerator, a sink, an oven and a microwave. Kearns, however, was interested in another aspect of the lunchroom; the bulletin board. In addition to the cars, motorcycles, ATV’s, stereos, boats, guns and other miscellaneous items listed there for sale, there were always at least several solicitations for apartments and houses for rent. Many landlords liked the idea of having tenants in the law enforcement profession.

  Not only did a cop tenant mean a steady income, and thus rent paid in-full and on time, having a badge living on the premises often kept other rowdy tenants in line and the property value up. Landlords liked cops and deputies, and often discounted their rent as a result.

  Not that money was an issue. He and Farrell had both been paid handsomely by Judge Callen after the resolution of the Ray Cowell matter. Other than buying a beat-up old Jeep for cash, Kearns had banked the remainder of his considerable funds. He’d also saved a great deal of money while living at the academy and getting paid his full deputy salary, and by avoiding the common rookie mistake of buying a fancy new car, a motorcycle, a boat, or other expensive toys the minute he graduated.

  He wrote down a few phone numbers for prospective apartments and made his way from the lunchroom to the crib. That was the nickname employees had given the large, cot-filled storage room used as a sleeping facility within the substation. It was a place to get in a much-needed rest during all-call emergencies, when night deputies were forced to stay over during the day for court appearances, if deputies worked long overtime shifts, or when deputies evicted from their homes by irate spouses needed a place to cool out for the night.

  Since tomorrow was Saturday and there was no court, Kearns had the room all to himself. He retrieved a clean blanket from a stack on a shelf, courtesy of the inmate-operated laundry at the Santa Rita Jail, and selected a cot farthest away from the door.

  Kearns had just taken off his shoes, and was settling in for the night, when the pager on his belt began to buzz.

  Chapter 37

  Cason was bored, tired, and counting the minutes until midnight and the arrival of the relief surveillance team. He’d been cramped in the compact truck all day, and was looking forward to getting home to a cold beer and a warm bed. It wasn’t even 11:00 P.M., and he still had at least an hour to go before his relief arrived.

  He envied Kearns, upstairs across the street. The rookie deputy was no doubt comfortably entwined in the arms of the gorgeous red-haired woman he’d dined with earlier. Kearns was likely languishing this very moment between soft sheets while he was left to huddle in the dark in a parked pick-up truck on a damp San Francisco street.

  There was a silver lining. As the evening wore into night, the pedestrian and vehicle traffic on this particular block of Lombard had diminished considerably. Only a sprinkling of people occupied the sidewalks now, and only sporadic vehicle traffic. Most everyone in the neighborhood appeared to be either out celebrating Friday night elsewhere or were tucked in, like Deputy Kearns.

  Cason noticed a van pull up and double-park directly in front of the door to the building Kearns had entered. He watched with growing interest as two men got out and approached the door. A third man, the driver, remained in the van. The engine didn’t turn off but the headlights did.

  It was too dark and too far to be sure, but it looked to Cason like the two men who dismounted the vehicle were carrying guns. He sat up abruptly and squinted through the haze. No doubt about it; the men were armed. He watched as they mounted the steps and one of them used the butt of his pistol to smash out the glass front of the security door. Both were wearing dark coats, caps, and gloves.

  Cason knew immediately who their intended target was. How did they know Kearns was here? Did they follow him? Had he and Sergeant Avery somehow missed them? Did they have prior knowledge the redhead was one of his girlfriends? Or did she set Kearns up and tip off the gunmen herself?

  It didn’t matter. In another minute the men would be up the stairs and breaching the apartment where the rookie deputy was likely snoozing placidly, completely unaware of the lethal threat creeping up on him.

  Cason looked at the Handie-Talkie in his coat pocket, realizing as he picked it up it was useless. The portable transceiver was low on battery from the long day and had limited range. It was only good for car-to-car transmission between other surveillance units. He couldn’t raise the sheriff’s dispatch center if he wanted to. Even if the device had been pre-programmed to the California Law Enforcement Mutual Aid Radio System, or C.L.E.M.A.R.S., which it wasn’t, it was certain he didn’t have the transmitting power to connect.

  Cason cursed himself for agreeing to let Sergeant Avery go home early. Avery’s car had an in-dash transceiver easily able to reach out to the Alameda County Sheriff’s Dispatch Center, and more importantly, to the San Francisco Police dispatchers. He’d been overconfident in his belief that the target of their protection detail, Deputy Kearns, was their only potential problem. He desperately wished his two-deputy relief team would arrive, but knew they were at least an hour from due. By then Kearns would be cold meat.

  Alameda County Sheriff’s Detective Ed Cason was an honest cop, a
nd knew what he had to do. He wasn’t about to sit across the street and witness the murder of a fellow deputy. He burned a second ensuring the dome light in his struck was switched off, and silently got out, his short-barreled Smith & Wesson .357 magnum in his hand. His knees, ankles and back shrieked in protest as he stood for the first time in hours.

  Two male pedestrians walked ignorantly on the sidewalk towards him, chatting away and oblivious to his presence. As they passed, Cason grabbed them by the arm and pulled them down to his level. Before either man could scream or protest, he shoved the barrel of his revolver in their faces.

  “Don’t make a sound,” he said, keeping his voice low. The wide-eyed men complied.

  “I’m a sheriff’s deputy,” he whispered, showing his badge. He knew by his appearance the men were not convinced. “I’m under cover,” he explained. “There’s going to be some shooting across the street where that van is parked,” he gestured with his gun. “I need you two to get to a phone and call the police.”

  “If you’re really a cop,” one of the men said, “why don’t you call it in yourself? That’d be the fastest way.”

  Cason hit him along the side of his head with his revolver, hard enough to draw blood but not hard enough to render him unconscious. The man flopped to the sidewalk. He pointed his gun at the second man’s face.

  “Actually,” he said, “the fastest way for me to get the police here is to shoot your friend between the eyes. You going to summon the cops or shall I?”

  “Okay, okay,” the second man protested. “Let us go. We’ll call the cops.”

  “Get the hell out of here,” Cason said. The unhurt man helped his friend to his feet and they scurried off. He was now sure the S.F.P.D. would be alerted, but how soon could they get here?

  Crouching low, Cason moved parallel to the double-parked van, using the row of parked cars as concealment. He stopped when he was perpendicular to the vehicle. He could see a Hispanic man behind the wheel smoking a cigarette. The man kept glancing furtively at the door where his two companions had entered.

  Cason knew he couldn’t wait any longer. Any second now, long before the cavalry arrived, he’d hear shots. When that occurred, rookie Deputy Kevin Kearns would be no more.

  “We’ll,” Cason said to himself under his breath, “I guess if I’m assigned to a protection detail, I’d better do some protecting. Here goes nothing.”

  Cason stood and began walking across the street towards the building where Kearns and his date had entered. He switched his revolver to his left hand and took out the heavy Motorola Handie-Talkie with his right. He’d figured out a use for the hitherto useless transceiver.

  As Cason neared the building, he hurled the portable radio as hard as he could over the van’s roof and through the front window of the apartment Kearns and his date were occupying.

  Following the din of broken glass, Cason returned his gun to his right hand. He took a two-handed shooting stance, directed his weapon at the driver of the van, and yelled as loud as he could, “Deputy Kearns! It’s an ambush! Two armed suspects on the way up!”

  Unfortunately for Deputy Cason, moving close enough to the window to throw the transceiver put him in the middle of Lombard Street without concealment or cover. It also left him less than ten feet from the van’s driver’s door, which flung open.

  “Sheriff’s Office,” Cason announced, by training and habit, as the driver stepped out and swung a shotgun towards him.

  Both men fired simultaneously.

  Chapter 38

  Jennifer was in the hallway between the bathroom and spare bedroom, wearing only a bathrobe, when the explosive sound of shattered glass startled her. She twitched and dropped the towel she’d been drying her hair with.

  “Deputy Kearns! It’s an ambush!” she heard a man’s voice yell from outside on the street below. “Two armed suspects on the way up!”

  How did anyone know the name Kearns? Jennifer’s mind raced. If the voice was to be believed, men were heading for the apartment to kill Kevin, whom they presumed was still inside. As if to further convince her of its authenticity, the same voice yelled, “Sheriff’s Office!” An instant later she heard gunfire.

  Jennifer was not unfamiliar with the sound of gunfire. She’d first been taught to shoot a handgun by her father and his friend Norman Hynds at age fourteen, and together they’d taken her to the firing range many times during the summers of her teenage years. She’d been extensively trained, and was quite proficient, with Farrell’s snub-nosed .38, which she much preferred over his large-framed .41 magnum service revolver. She found the .41 to have an unpleasant kick and flinch-inducing muzzle blast, but dutifully applied herself, despite the weapon’s discomfort, to mastering the heavy Smith & Wesson. By the time she was eighteen, she was consistently firing qualifying scores on the Practical Pistol Course with it.

  Jennifer went for the gun. She knew her father kept it loaded and under his pillow. He would often remark, whenever she admonished him about leaving a loaded firearm around, “There’s nothing in the universe more useless than an unloaded gun.” She was suddenly grateful for her father’s now seemingly less-paranoid foresight.

  She dashed to her father’s room and thrust her hand under the pillows. She couldn’t at first find the weapon, and fought panic as she thought for an instant her father may have finally heeded her advice and locked the revolver away. But a second later her freckled hand closed around the reassuring wooden stocks of the old model 58.

  The apartment door pounded and creaked as she withdrew the revolver and took a second to snap open the cylinder and ensure there were six .41 magnum cartridges nestled within. As if to authenticate the warning voice outside, someone was trying to smash their way in.

  As a burglary detective for almost three decades, her father had installed a reinforced frame around his apartment door and several top-quality locks. Whoever was outside was determined to gain entry, however, and the entire apartment vibrated with the rhythm of the force slamming against the entrance. Jennifer didn’t have much time, and didn’t bother with the phone. Another thing her dad taught her was, “Cops are always minutes away when seconds count.”

  She ran barefoot from her father’s room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen. The kitchenette was U-shaped, and the dishwasher was under the counter facing the door. Jennifer got behind the appliance in the kneeling-supported firing position her father had taught her, and levelled the big revolver at the door in a two-handed grip. She kept both eyes open, focusing on the fixed front sight. She could feel the tremor in her hands, arms and torso, and took a slow breath to calm herself, as her father had instructed her.

  Suddenly there were the sounds of dual blasts, and the portions of the apartment door along the hinges exploded inwards. Jennifer was pelted with flying wood splinters, and instinctively squinted and lowered her head as a stream of debris bombarded her. She looked up in time to see the remains of the door fly open and two men rush in.

  Jennifer quickly re-acquired the revolver’s front sight, exhaled, and squeezed off two shots, aiming dead-center at the burly chest of the first man in. Another thing she remembered her father teaching her was, “Anyone worth shooting is worth shooting twice.”

  The first man in was holding a shotgun, undoubtedly the instrument used to blow off the door’s hinges. To Jennifer’s surprise, he was wearing a dark cap and a blue handkerchief over his nose and mouth, like a stagecoach robber in a B-grade western. Both of Jennifer’s rounds caught him high in the chest, and he dropped forward on his face without turning his head or posting his hands to break his fall. He didn’t move after that.

  The second man, shorter than the first, was Hispanic and wearing a hooded sweatshirt, cap and dark coat. When he heard the shots and saw his companion go down, he hastily backed out of the apartment. Jennifer kept her revolver aimed at the door.

  The muzzle of a submachine gun emerged from around the door’s edge, and Jennifer threw herself to the floor as the weapon spr
ayed the apartment. The fully-automatic firearm swept the interior in an un-aimed arc, blasting the walls, shattering furniture and shredding everything which fell into the path of its torrent of bullets.

  Jennifer heard the unending roar and felt the impact of bullet-strikes all around her for what seemed like hours before it abruptly stopped. She didn’t hesitate. She slid herself into a prone-supported firing position and again took aim again at the door.

  Despite the near-deafness the fusillade of close-quarters gunfire had created, Jennifer could hear the gunman outside in the hallway reloading his submachine gun. She knew what was coming next.

  “No you don’t,” she said, and rested her front sight along the edge of the entrance where her adversary’s gun had disappeared. She aimed about halfway up the length of the door and thumbed the hammer back for a single action shot.

  When the submachine gun’s snout again peeked around the door-frame, Jennifer was able to estimate where the bearer was standing on the opposite side of the wall. She moved her front sight inward from the door’s edge approximately eight inches and fired twice, grateful to be shooting her father’s .41 magnum and not his .38 special. She was rewarded with a short scream and saw the submachine gun fall to the ground.

  She rose to one knee, still aiming her gun, and saw the Hispanic man cross the doorway on the run for the stairwell. He was too fast for her to get off a shot, and she heard his rapid footsteps fading down the steps.

  Furious, Jennifer scrambled to her feet and gave chase. She leaped over the immobile body of the man on the floor and ran for the doorway. As she left the devastated apartment she scooped up the discarded Ingram submachine gun and ran for the stairs. She didn’t specifically know how the weapon operated, but she knew how to shoot. As far as she was concerned, the gun had a barrel, a trigger, and she presumed it was fully loaded with a fresh magazine and ready to fire, since its previous owner was in the process of preparing to shoot it at her again. She certainly knew what it could do. She slung the weapon over her shoulder and descended the stairs two-at-a-time.