Killer On The Train

by Bruce Alan Jensen

  Now that the man had a gun, the violence escalated. Shouting into the phone, Hank told the dispatcher, “The big man just shot at a man in the doorway of the room across from me. The shot didn't hit him, but it looks like he was bleeding so he must have gotten wounded earlier.”

  As the man continued to push the woman into his truck, she continued to scream and flail her arms and legs. One of her kicks hit the man in his chin while another kick pushed him backward onto his back. Running from the truck, she saw the pistol lying on the ground and lunged for it. Her attacker rolled over and grabbed her ankle. She kicked him in the face with her free leg, grabbed the pistol and fired.

  “The woman fought and got the gun away from her attacker. She shot him!” Hank yelled, his heart racing as he watched the scene in front of him.

  Wounded, the man released his grip on her leg, grasping his left arm. He struggled to stand, yelling, “Gimme the gun, you bitch!”

  “Go to hell, Mitch. Leave me alone,” she yelled back. Instead of heading back to her room, she ran toward Hank’s side of the motel.

  Not deterred, the man raced after her, growled, “Stop, dammit. I'm taking you home.”

  “Leave me alone, or I'll shoot you again,” she barked.

  The man continued walking toward her. She turned, took aim and fired. A bullet hit his right leg.

  “Shit!” he screamed, falling to the ground.

  Out of his reach, the blond aimed the gun at his head. “Get outta' here, Mitch, or I'll shoot you again.”

  Now she was closer, and Hank noticed her words seemed to slur.

  His eyes were blazing with fury. Mitch struggled to stand. Dragging his injured leg, he headed to the back of his truck. The battered woman maintained a safe distance between them as she followed him, but kept him in view. He reached into the truck as if grabbing something. He withdrew a rag and tied it around his leg wound. The approaching sirens distracted her, and she looked away.

  Hank felt relieved. “I hear the sirens. You’d better call for an ambulance since someone else got shot,” he told the 911 operator.

  “I'll send out the call for one,” she replied.

  As if he were watching a movie, Hank saw the man pull out a sawed-off shotgun, stand, and point it at the naked woman. Terror crossed her face.

  As she ran from him, he fired. The pellets hit her butt. She fell to her hands and knees. She turned, aimed the pistol and fired four times. Three slugs pinged off the bed of the truck while one pierced the cab sending shrapnel into his face. He dropped the shotgun and covered his face.

  “The big man just shot her with a shotgun,” Hank said. Hank saw the lights of a car pulling into the motel.

  “A patrol car has arrived,” Hank said into the phone.

  The officers saw the naked woman standing with a pistol aimed at the pickup truck. The driver used the mic to announce, “This is the police. Drop your weapon, put your hands up.”

  She looked at the police car, dropped to her knees still holding the gun toward the truck.

  Mitch was kneeling against the truck. As Hank watched, he picked up the shotgun, pointed it at the officers as they exited the car and fired. The blast shattered the windshield and the window of the driver side door. Both officers returned fire. An officer yelled into his Mic, “Shots fired. Shots fired!”

  Hank couldn’t believe what happened next. Instead of throwing her weapon to the ground, the woman stood, turned and shot at the officer closest to her, hitting him on his right side.

  “Officer down! Officer down!” Hank yelled into the phone.

  The second cop fired one round in her direction but missed. She stumbled to the front of the pickup. Mitch slumped on the ground, held the shotgun pointed at the patrol car.

  The sound of more sirens approached the motel. Hank continued to narrate the bizarre events taking place.

  The crazed woman fired several rounds at Mitch, who remained slumped and immobile. She placed the gun to her temple and limped toward the arriving patrol car.

  “This is the police. Stop. Drop the weapon,” an officer announced, using the speaker.

  She stopped but kept the gun to her head, focusing on the patrolman who had his weapon trained on her. The officer yelled at her two more times to drop the weapon, but she appeared to be in a daze. “Shoot me; I don't care, just kill me,” she said, in a defeated voice. Hank wondered if the officer had heard her.

  The officer yelled again, “Drop the weapon.”

  Another officer repeated the same command. She looked around at the three patrol cars and lowered the gun. Suddenly, her arm swept between the patrol cars before she took aim at the closest one. The driver yelled, “Drop the gun, NOW!”

  Instead of dropping her weapon, she fired at the patrol cars surrounding her. Instantly, five of the six officers returned fire, piercing her body with multiple hits. The impacts tossed her body to the asphalt.

  The senior officer called over the speaker “Cease fire. Cease fire.”

  She lay on her back motionless.

  Still, on the phone with the 911 operator, Hank said the shooting was over. As he was talking, an ambulance arrived on the scene. The operator advised him to remain at the scene and give a statement to the officer in charge.

  Within seconds, an unmarked car pulled up behind one of the patrol cars followed by a Fire Department EMT truck.

  Hank turned on lights and dressed. He poured water into the coffee maker, added the coffee packet and started the brew before he located, petted and consoled Molly, who was cowering in the closet. To relieve her anxiety, Hank gave her a treat which she accepted. Hank led her to the bathroom and placed her water bowl near the tub before closing the door. He opened the door to his room, stepping forward, hands raised with palms facing out.

  One patrolman approached him. “Sir, turn and face the wall, hands up against it. Spread your legs.”

  “I’m an LAPD retired detective. I’m the one who’s been calling what’s been happening.”

  The officer repeated his commands, “Turn around sir and face the wall, hands up against it. Spread your legs.” The officer gave him a complete search. “Okay, sir you can turn around. What is your name,?”

  With shaking hands, Hank offered the officer his ID, said his name and the reason for being at the motel. “I saw most of the action that occurred here and called 911 at two-thirty-four. Then I provided the needed information and described the events as I observed them. I hope the man in the room across from us is okay. He got injured some time ago.”

  The officer instructed Hank to remain outside the room. “Excuse me, officer,” Hank said before the patrolman turned away.

  The officer nodded, “Sir?”

  “May I get a cup of coffee? I just started a pot.”

  “Wait until a detective talks to you, please. You know the routine, sir.” The young patrolman approached a detective. He handed him Hank's ID. The detective looked at Hank and nodded. He said something to the patrolman who walked over to the Sargent.

  The detectives were busy giving orders to the arrived patrolmen to cordon off the crime scene with tape. They separated the patrolmen involved in the shootings by vehicle for interviews. The EMT's loaded the two injured patrolmen and left for a local hospital.

  While standing there, Hank remembered similar situations from his past and the emotions that the police experience after being injured or taking part in the tragic events they've encountered.

  Individuals who enter the law enforcement field are public servants. Psychologists find this calling as their willingness to rush into danger to aid total strangers. This dedication lent itself to a brotherhood. Hank sometimes missed the kinship and bond of the police squad. He and his last partner, Bob, had experienced the horrors of violence, often shedding tears for the victims.

  After all the triumphs and tears, there came a time when officers found themselves retired. A high percentage of retirees describe feelings of despair and explain that they've lost their identiti
es and a purpose. Many officers became tired of dealing with felons, scumbags, cons, and miscreants, hardening their hearts. Officers often suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and depression. Some became suicidal.

  Hank had seen it all. His new life offered him enjoyment, even as a loner. He avoided contact with people unless required by work. Not a complete loner but never with an opportunity for permanency or a future in any of his relationships.

  Since leaving the LAPD, Hank enjoyed the solitude, enabling him to concentrate on his writing assignments. Foremost in his life was a lack of a stable relationship. I hope something comes of meeting and being with Alicia.

  A detective approached Hank, interrupting his thoughts. “Mister Carson, I'm Detective Sherman. Thanks for calling 911 while observing these tragic events.” He offered his hand.

  “I'm glad I'm able to help. I’m sure you want a statement which is fine but can I get a cup of coffee first? Join me?”

  The detective followed Hank into the room.

  “I have these condiments if you need any,” Hank offered.

  “Not needed. Thanks.” The detective accepted a cup of the motel brew. “Let's sit at the table and pull the drapes open, so I can observe what’s going on. Okay?”

  “I assume you know; other guests were watching the scene unfold from the safety of their rooms.”

  “Yeah,” Hank said.

  They noticed that the naked woman got checked by an EMT and covered with a sheet as was the dead man at the pickup truck. The CSU team arrived with the medical examiner after three a.m.

  “I need to finish here so that I can return to Sacramento by early afternoon. I'm to observe a suspect interview with the California Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Are you an agent?”

  “No, I'm a journalist and got involved with a murder that the Bureau is investigating. I'm helping, but not doing the investigation.”

  “That shouldn't be a problem. Would you be willing to write out everything you observed?”

  “Can I write it and email or mail it you?”

  “Yes, but I'd like you to date and sign it. Any chance you stop by our office later this morning?”

  “Sure. I can also come back here if needed. I expect to be in Sacramento for another week or two, returning to Tucson in mid-December.”

  The detective and Hank discussed the timeline of events, finished their coffee. They shook hands, and the detective joined his partner talking with other motel guests.

  Hank took Molly out for a quick walk, staying clear of the crime taped area. When he returned, he entered his observations into his laptop. He stepped outside and walked to Detective Sherman. “Detective, my statement along with the video from my cellphone are on this thumb drive. I hope this is what you need.”

  “Thanks, Hank. We are about to leave. I'll have this printed out, and you can sign your statement at the station. The address is on my card,” Sherman said, handing Hank his card.

  “I'll be glad to do that. Call me if you have more questions. I'll be leaving for Sacramento within a few hours,” Hank said.

  TWENTY-FOUR Monday, December 2

  At ten o'clock, Hank’s phone rang. “Good morning Alicia.”

  “I told you about Scott's coat, didn't I?”

  “No, what about it?” Hank asked, confused.

  “I’ve been so busy I couldn’t remember if I mentioned that the button found at the scene was probably from an off-the-rack, brown tweed, sports coat, popular in the 60's with college professors. Austin has printed out a sheet with a photo of a Harris Tweed coat. I've got the team making calls to the train passengers about seeing a guy in a similar coat.”

  “That might help to spark someone's memory.”

  “Hopefully, remember when we were at Scott's place we found sympathy cards and letters from people in Oregon. Ferguson and Smith are trying to contact those with return addresses to locate Scott. Bridge got a judge to issue a search warrant. He and the CSU team are heading over to look for clothes that may have evidence placing Scott at the murder scene.”

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “The CSU team found dog hairs on Hatchett's pant legs, identified as coming from a pug. Since neither Hatchett nor Scott had a dog, the hairs could have gotten transferred at some other time. I doubt there is any relationship with the killer, but you never know.” Alicia relayed the interview with Drummond in San Mateo. “Nothing to hold him on right now.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Michaels and Ferguson are attempting to pick up Caswell in Reno within an hour. Would you like to observe the interview with him sometime this afternoon?”

  “Sure, what time?” Hank asked.

  “I’ll call and let you know. Okay?”

  “I look forward to hearing his story.”

  ~~~~~

  Hank disconnected from the call, grabbed his packed bag, leashed Molly and walked to the car. He drove to the police station to sign his statement. The clerk said Detective Sherman wanted to keep the thumb drive Hank had given him. “That's fine. I hope the case goes well. Please let Sherman know I am available if he has questions,” Hank said, then headed to the car.

  Before entering the Interstate, he stopped at a gas station to fillup. His phone rang, he checked the caller ID. “Hello, Charles.” He set the phone on speaker.

  “Good morning, Henry.”

  “Great to hear from you, my friend. Sorry, I haven't called you.” Hank sat in the Mini and patted Molly.

  “Not to worry. I've been busy planning a couple of fundraising events.”

  “I'm sure you have. Anything I can help with?”

  “Yes, but not right away. I would like your assistance, but we can discuss it later. Probably in a couple of weeks.”

  “You've got my attention, but I will rely on your judgment. How did the fundraising at the Wine Train event go?”

  “Very well. No refunds were given out. In fact, I received several additional contributions.”

  “I'm so happy for you. I'm proud to be your friend.”

  “As I am with you. What are you doing now?”

  “I've become more involved with the Hatchett murder assisting Alicia by observing interviews and offering my opinion. Naturally, I can't discuss the details.”

  Hank pictured his friend smiling. “She's Alicia now? How are you and Agent Tomlinson doing? I thought I saw a little attraction there.”

  “You’re quite observant, yeah it was there.” Hank paused, searching for the right words. “We’re finding we have a lot in common and are getting closer, but still moving slowly. I’ll let you know about the case when I can.”

  “I wish your developing relationship well. Regarding the case, I have faith in your power of deduction and excellent judgment. Have you been in contact with your daughter lately?”

  “An occasional call. She's probably busy now that she’s attending college. I hope we see each other when I head down to San Diego.”

  “Are you two doing okay?”

  “Okay. How was your Thanksgiving?” Hank asked, wanting to change the subject.

  “Very well. I assisted with the Thanksgiving Dinner at the Los Angeles Homeless Mission, not serving a meal, but coordinating the fundraising. There was a good volunteer turnout, but I wish more people would volunteer for all meals and services. I helped with a program that accepted donations of stocks, bonds, real estate, and other assets. The policies and procedures vary, depending on the items donated. The IRS has regulations of the assets. I was able to get business and social acquaintances, even the Republicans, to contribute a total of 1.1 million dollars to this cause. That included a restored building on Third Street, west of Alameda Street, for single parents and a health care clinic.”

  “You are an incredible person, Charles. I feel sad that I haven't participated in more of your ventures. What can I do to help your causes?”

  “Henry, I will call you for your support as needed. Please, don't worry about the money. My
goal is to get the obscenely opulent stuck up witches to do the giving.”

  Hank chuckled. “You're right.”

  “Not right! Correct is the word. Rightwing is Republican but wrong.”

  “Yes, sir, you are so correct. It would be wonderful to get the correct people to help those less fortunate, especially our neglected Veterans.”

  “Old friend, I'd love to continue this conversation, but I just received a text to return an urgent call. Take care, Henry. Let's talk next week. I hope you have a good Christmas with time to relax.”

  “Same to you, Charles. Goodbye.”

  He went inside for a biscuit sandwich, returned to the car and drove to Sacramento.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  At two-forty, Caswell was waiting in interview room two. He wore his long-sleeved white chef's coat and checked pants as if heading to his restaurant job. Agents Tomlinson and Bridge sat across from Caswell. As usual, Hank watched from the monitoring room with Austin.

  “Mr. Caswell, you are not under arrest, we told you this when we escorted you here from Reno. You can have an attorney present if you wish. We have questions to ask you regarding the murder of Mr. Hatchett on the Wine Train where you worked on November twentieth. May I proceed?” Agent Bridge asked.

  “Sure, but I had nothing to do with that.”

  “I’m turning on the recorder.”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  “Where were you that day from eleven-thirty to twelve-thirty?” Tomlinson asked.

  “I was in the kitchen.”

  “You were absent during part of that time according to your coworkers.”

  “That’s right. I stepped into the vestibule to make a phone call about a car for sale.”

  “What's the name of the person you talked to?”

  “I don't know. I was responding to a classified ad, and didn't keep any information.” He brushed his short cropped hair and frowned.

  “During the interviews, you kept none of the information. Why?” Bridge asked.

  “I didn't want the Chef to know I left the kitchen. I was hoping to get on with the train full time.”

  “What do you mean 'get on'?”