OFFICER INVOLVED

by Lynch, Sean

  “You have once chance,” Farrell said. “Your only chance. Surely a law enforcement officer with your tenure and experience knows what that is?”

  “You want me cooperate with the F.B.I. investigation,” Avery said. “Testify against Fresco, Pickrell and Derlinger, and cop a plea to obtain a life sentence in protective custody at an out-of-state federal penitentiary.”

  “Or not,” Farrell said. “Actually, I’d prefer you wouldn’t.”

  “Life in prison is still life,” Avery said. “I’ll testify.”

  “What about your oath to the Familia?” Farrell said. “Are you prepared to turn rat?”

  “I’m a survivor,” Avery said. “I do whatever it takes. Just like you.”

  “We’re nothing alike.”

  “Whatever,” Avery shrugged. “In my pocket is a little black book.” He was referring to the ledger he’d found in Deputy Brian Mendenour’s apartment. Farrell retrieved the book from inside his jacket. “Give that to the F.B.I. With my testimony it’ll wrap everything up. Without my testimony it’s nothing but numbers.”

  “You’re a better detective than I gave you credit for,” Farrell said, feeding him back his own words. He began thumbing through the ledger, his eyebrows rising.

  A Ford Crown Victoria raced towards them down Palo Verdes Road. It skidded to a halt, and two men in suits with earpieces in their ears came running over. Both held revolvers in their hands.

  “Sergeant Avery,” Farrell said, “meet Special agent Steve Scanlon, formerly of the Des Moines office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He’s been assigned to the Sacramento office for the past year or so. He works in the Organized Crime Unit.”

  “I know you told us to stay back,” Scanlon said to Farrell, “but we heard gunshots over the wire.”

  “Those were merely celebratory fireworks,’ Farrell said.

  “What were you celebrating?”

  “Sergeant Avery’s future singing career,” Farrell said.

  Chapter 48

  Kearns rapid-fired all six rounds in his weapon’s cylinder, closing his right eye and cursing as his night vision instantly vanished. If he didn’t hit meat, at least he might keep the gunmen from returning accurate fire of their own. A shotgun blast shattered the kitchen window above him and a barrage of pistol rounds began peppering the exterior walls nearby.

  He heard Jennifer let out a short cry and leaped to his feet. He dashed to the doorway as bullets impacted around him and threw his body at Jennifer, tackling her. Another shotgun blast shredded the doorway as they went down. Once they hit the ground, he wasted no time dragging her inside and behind the interior wall. He reached up and snapped off the light switch, bathing them again in darkness.

  “Two in the backyard,” Kearns yelled as loud as he could into the mansion’s interior. “Watch the front. They’ll be more of them.” He opened his right eye to allow his vision to return.

  “Roger that,” Hynds’ voice answered from within the house.

  “Are you hurt?” Kearns asked Jennifer.

  “I’m okay,” she said, her voice tense.

  “Get to a phone,” he ordered, “and call the police.” He opened the revolver’s action, ejected the empty auto-rim casings, and inserted one of the two full-moon clips containing six fresh .45 Silvertip rounds from his jacket pocket.

  Jennifer gave his leg a squeeze to acknowledge the command, and began to crawl away. Kearns stopped her. He reached down and took the Beretta .25 from his ankle and put it into her hand.

  “After you make the call,” Kearns said, “go upstairs and hide in a closet. Put your back against the wall and point the gun at the door. Anybody but me comes in, shoot.”

  The sound of the front door breaking inward, followed by many gunshots, erupted from the front of the house. Kearns heard the unmistakable report of a rapidly-firing semi-auto chambered in 7.62x39; an AK-47, no doubt. The cartridge and weapon were the standard-issue of all Warsaw Pact nations, and he knew the gun’s signature intimately from his stint in the army. It was countered by the equally-unmistakable sounds of a 5.56 military carbine; Hynds AR-15. These sounds were interspersed with the report of a shotgun blast, and numerous pistol-caliber shots. The attackers must have breached the front door, and Hynds and Judge Callen were fighting to repel them.

  “I won’t leave you,” Jennifer protested. “I know how to shoot. I can help.”

  “Do as I said,” he told her. “There’re more of them than us. If they get past Norm and the Judge before the cavalry arrives, you’re dead. Go!”

  Jennifer reluctantly complied, and Kearns watched her disappear from the kitchen and head for the stairs. He took deep a breath and let the rage overtake him.

  During the past four days he’d been shot at more times than he cared to admit. He’d watched three of his fellow deputies die, and learned the most beautiful woman he’d ever known had survived a brutal attack, directed at him, in which a fourth deputy lost his life. He’d broken up with his girlfriend, been fired from his job, re-hired, and spent much of the week getting accused and grilled by his employer, probed by a shrink, and looking over his shoulder, waiting for the next assassination attempt.

  He now found himself again under siege and fighting for his life, and the life of Jennifer Farrell, alongside a courageous retired judge and a valiant former cop who had no stake in the battle other than their personal honor and their loyalty to him and Farrell.

  Deputy Kevin Kearns had had enough. More than enough. Bob’s words echoed in his brain.

  “I’m done playing nice,” Farrell had told him, the morning after Jennifer was nearly murdered. “I’m going to war.”

  “You bastards want a war,” Kearns howled out into the darkness. “You’ve got one.”

  Kearns went up to a kneeling-supported position and fired three times each at the two men in the yard. As expected, their firing momentarily ceased. He again snapped open the cylinder of the old military revolver and replaced the empty full-moon clip with his last reload. Then he jumped to his feet and ran out onto the patio.

  Kearns upended the wrought-iron patio table and grabbed it by one of the legs. Hefting the heavy platform like a Roman soldier shouldering his full-length shield, he charged.

  Kearns ran across the lawn towards the two gunmen, thankful he’d spent most of his life lifting weights as a hobby instead of less physical pursuits. He’d only taken a few steps when two shotgun blasts struck the solid wall of metal, clanging like a gong. They were followed by the ping of several pistol rounds. He barely felt their impact.

  Kearns slammed into the first gunman, the man with the shotgun, who’d gone to one knee and was trying to feed more rounds into his gun’s tubular magazine. As the shotgunner was launched backwards under the force of the ferocious onslaught, Kearns let go of the table and dropped it on top of him. The man’s baseball cap flew off and he dropped the shotgun as the table crashed down.

  Kearns now stood face-to-face with his handgun-wielding adversary, who had just finished inserting a fresh magazine into his pistol. Kearns raised his own gun and shot him twice in the face at nearly contact distance.

  Kearns pivoted back to the other man as he crawled out from under the table, blood trickling down his forehead. His eyes were wide and he showed his palms. The sounds of the ongoing firefight raged in the house.

  “Don’t shoot,” he pleaded.

  “Can’t help you,” Kearns said, and shot him in the forehead.

  Tactically, Kearns had little choice. He couldn’t turn his back on the man, didn’t have time to take him into custody with the shootout fully underway inside the house, and wasn’t feeling especially merciful toward a person who had come to execute him and Jennifer Farrell from ambush.

  Kearns ignored the empty shotgun, but recovered the pistol and stuck it in his waistband. He turned and raced around the side of the house. His plan was to flank the assailants attacking the house from the front. His strategy was to come up behind them unawares and finish it
.

  He didn’t know how many opponents there were, however, and hoped he had enough ammo. He had only three rounds left in his revolver, and an unknown number of cartridges in the single-stack Star 9mm pistol he’d taken from the body of the dead gangster. If he could hold them off until the police arrived, it might be enough.

  Even if Jennifer had been unable to reach a phone, he hoped one of the neighbors would have summoned the police by now. Judge Callen’s palatial home was situated in the kind of neighborhood where gunshots were rare, despite the epic battle fought last year against the insane stalker Raymond Cowell.

  Kearns reached the front of the house and peered around the corner. There was a tall, fat Hispanic teenager, dressed similarly to his associates lying in the backyard, standing on the porch and steadily firing a Kalashnikov into the house. Squatting below him, using the side of the door as cover, was another Hispanic youth wearing a Raiders baseball cap turned backwards. He was reloading a revolver one cartridge at-a-time. Sporadic fire emanated from the interior.

  Kearns again went to his elbows and knees, and crawled along the front hedges until he was at the base of the porch steps. He once more took a deep breath, withdrew the pistol from his belt, and stood up.

  The gunman with the AK-47 never even saw him. Kearns fired the 9mm in his left hand into the man’s back until the slide locked back. The gunman fell forward on his rifle and lay still.

  As the man with the revolver wheeled to face him, Kearns dropped the empty pistol and assumed a two-handed grip on his own revolver. He rapid-fired twice into his opponent’s chest, and then paused long enough to find the front sight and put his final .45 round into the man’s head.

  “It’s Kearns,” he yelled into the house. “Hold your fire. I’m coming in.”

  “Come on in,” he heard Callen reply, relieved to hear the Judge’s voice.

  Kearns had only taken a few steps inside the hallway when a gun was pressed against the back of his neck. One of the assault-crew must have made it inside, and was hiding in the front room. He silently cursed himself for being caught unaware.

  “Drop the gun, motherfucker,” a voice with only a trace of Spanish accent said. He could smell fetid cigarette breath on his cheek. Kearns complied, his empty revolver falling to the carpet.

  “Move inside,” the voice said. “Try anything and I’ll kill your ass.” He could hear the beginnings of desperation in the man’s tone.

  “You’re going to kill me anyway,” Kearns said, walking slowly forward. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

  At the end of the hallway, Judge Callen and Norm Hynds’ heads popped into view. Kearns continued to walk, conscious that the gunman was much shorter than him and using his larger body as a shield.

  “He’s going to kill me,” Kearns said to them without emotion. “He has no choice.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” the voice said as the gun jabbed into his neck. Outside, Alameda police cars could be heard screeching up.

  “Do me a favor, will you Your Honor?” Kearns asked.

  “Whatever you want,” Judge Callen said from down the hall. Both men were aiming their weapons, but Kearns knew they didn’t have a shot.

  “After he shoots me, he’s going to drop the gun and surrender to the police,” Kearns said. “That way he’ll survive and become a big-shot on the cell block when he’s locked up.”

  “What do you want us to do?” Hynds said.

  “Don’t let him surrender,” Kearns said. “Execute him, even if he drops his gun.”

  “My pleasure,” Callen said.

  “Consider it done,” Hynds said.

  “Anytime you’re ready, asshole,” Kearns told the man behind him. “Pull the trigger.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” the gunman said, despair creeping into his voice. He poked Kearns once more with the pistol. “Move.” It was obvious he wanted to get further inside the house, away from the open front door and the encroaching police outside.

  As they passed the hall closet, the door suddenly opened and a hand emerged. The hand was holding a pistol. The pistol’s barrel went into the gunman’s ear. Kearns dove to the floor.

  He heard a sharp ‘crack,’ and when he stood up Kearns found a dead man at his feet. Jennifer was standing over the body with her father’s smoking Beretta in her fist and a look of fury on her face.

  “I thought I told you to go upstairs and hide?” Kearns said.

  “You did,” Jennifer said, her face relaxing. “I don’t always do what I’m told.”

  “You’re Bob Farrell’s daughter, all right,” Kearns said.

  Chapter 49

  Deputy Kevin Kearns strode from the elevator towards Undersheriff Fresco’s office in his suit. It was Sunday morning at 10:00 A.M., and the administration building was virtually desolate.

  When Kearns entered, he wasn’t terribly surprised to find Lieutenant Scott Pickrell and Deputy District Attorney Myron Derlinger in the room along with Fresco.

  “Shouldn’t you guys be in church?” Kearns said.

  “Sit your ass down,” Fresco commanded. Kearns complied.

  “Where’s your mouthpiece and that asshole Farrell?” Fresco asked. “You can’t take a piss without one of them holding your dick.”

  “Judge Callen is currently piecing together what’s left of his home, and Bob is comforting his daughter. Nearly being murdered again so soon after nearly being murdered can have a dramatic effect on a person.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Farrell’s kid. I called you in for different reason.”

  “Here as ordered,” Kearns said.

  “Why didn’t you answer your pager last night?” Pickrell said. “You were ordered to reply when paged, or did you forget?”

  “I was a little preoccupied,” Kearns said. “After surviving yet another assassination attempt, I spent the night at the Alameda police station giving my statement. You’ll have to forgive me if I selfishly put my survival, and my legal protection, above your desire to bust my balls.”

  “Still have a smart mouth, I see,” Fresco said.

  “Like I said, I’m here as ordered. What do you want?”

  “To fire your ass,” Fresco said, leaning back and grinning. “And this time, you insolent little asshole, you’ll stay fired.”

  “Terminating my probation, are you?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” Fresco said. “You’re history.” He looked over at Pickrell.

  “You cooked your goose during that homicidal fiasco you participated in last night,” the Internal Affairs Lieutenant said. “Apparently you used an unauthorized weapon, failed to report in as ordered, and were derelict in your duty to let your protection detail, led by Sergeant Avery, know your whereabouts. Your career as a deputy with the Alameda County Sheriff’s Office is officially over, effective right now.”

  “This time,” Fresco snorted, “that windbag old judge can’t bend the sheriff’s ear and get you reinstated. You’re in violation of several departmental policies, and you’re still on probation. That spells termination. I don’t give a shit if you do go to the press, because your lawyer already did it. That damage is done.”

  “It’s true,” Kearns said, “the weapon I used to defend myself with last night hadn’t been logged in with the range staff, but only because I’m on administrative leave. My departmentally-issued gun, and my registered off-duty gun, have both been used in previous shootings to save my life. They were taken as evidence. I’m certain the Civil Service Board wouldn’t begrudge me obtaining another firearm to protect myself with, especially in lieu of the ongoing lethal threats?”

  “Get him,” Derlinger said. “Sounds just like a lawyer, doesn’t he?”

  “You’ve been spending too much time with Iron Gene,” Fresco laughed. “It won’t do you any good. Even if the gun issue doesn’t stick, you were insubordinate in not checking in as required. Insubordination is a fire-able offense.”

  “As far as not checking in as ordered, you’re wrong about that,” K
earns said. “Sergeant Avery knew where I was at all times.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Why should I?”

  “What’s the matter?” Kearns said. “Afraid he’ll verify my story?”

  “I’m not going to bother Sergeant Avery at home on a Sunday morning.”

  “Why not?” Kearns said. “You didn’t hesitate to bother me.” Fresco turned to Pickrell again, his eyes posing the question.

  “I paged Sergeant Avery earlier this morning,” Lieutenant Pickrell said. “He never called back.” He shrugged. “It’s the weekend. He could be water skiing at Lake Tahoe for all we know.”

  “I know exactly where he is,” Kearns said.

  “Oh yeah, smart guy?” Fresco said. “Where exactly is Sergeant Avery, if you know so much?”

  “He’s currently at the F.B.I. office on Coast Guard Island in Alameda.”

  “What?” Pickrell said

  “You heard me. He’s been there since last night.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Fresco said.

  “Like I said,” Kearns went on, “Sergeant Avery has been in the custody of the Feds since yesterday. He probably couldn’t answer your page on account of how busy he was singing like a canary for a federal prosecutor, a federal judge, and their stenographer.”

  Fresco, Pickrell and Derlinger looked at each other quizzically.

  “You’re full of shit,” Derlinger said.

  “Am I? Sergeant Avery’s been explaining how he’s been a lifelong member of a criminal street gang called the Alvarado Nortenos, and how you three knew all about it and let it slide so you could share in the illicit profits he brought in. He also told them about the several hundred thousand in dope money and asset forfeiture funds he’s funneled to Undersheriff Fresco’s election campaign through Lieutenant Pickrell, and how Myron here has been selling out his position at the D.A.’s office to advance the cause.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Pickrell said.

  “No I’m not,” Kearns said cheerfully. “Avery’s been up all night giving names, dates, and very detailed specifics. He’s testifying about all the payoffs, drug-trafficking, gang-murders, directed prosecutions, evidence tampering; the whole she-bang. And he’s got more than enough evidence to back his story up.”