by Lou Reiter
“Cliffhangers. Normally a nice place to meet. Ernie runs it good. Usually don’t get riffraff in there like them bikers and Utah cops. Ain’t that so, Andy?” Andy nodded like a bobble head.
“Was a pretty big to do when it happened. We don’t get much of that in the Springs. Lucky that the cop, Skippy, didn’t get hurt. He seen all them choppers at the curb and knew something was wrong. Don’t get them types in town other than passing through. Ain’t that right, Andy?”
Again the gratuitous nod.
“Anybody there other than the bikers and Utah cops?”
“Ernie the bartender, he owns the bar too, was the only one I think. Isn’t that so, Jake?” The old guy directed the comment to the booth with the two cowpuncher looking guys. One nodded, got up, and approached the trio.
“Yeah, Ernie was there, but said he didn’t see nothing,” the nodding cowpuncher verified.
“Them two Outlaw bikers came in first and were just sitting at the bar drinking a tap. Then those Utah cops came in. Ernie said the bikers seemed surprised, but turned back to their beers and didn’t say anything. One of the cops told Ernie he best go into the back room. Said something about having some business to do with the bikers. Next thing Ernie heard was a bunch of shooting, yelling, and Skippy shouting out cop commands.”
Hearing the animated conversation, two young girls from the double-filled booths got up and stopped at the counter. “I seen them put that cop that got shot in the arm in the ambulance. There was blood all over his clothes. At first I thought it was a biker shoot out. Shit, the Utah cops looked just like the Outlaws with their leather jackets and colors on the back. The other Utah cops were screaming and cussing at Officer Skippy. Saying he was a dumb ass hick. Ain’t that true, Sara?”
“That’s the truth. You know, I just thought about something. One of them Utah cops was over by the Outlaw bikes. You know, he took off his jacket and sort of disappeared. I forgot to tell that to the cops. Think I should?”
Taylor said he would pass it on to the chief. He glanced back at Gladys who was standing behind the counter watching the exchanges.
“You sure got a way with people, Mr. Out-of-Towner.”
“Taylor Sterling, Gladys. Keep the change.” Taylor dropped a twenty on the counter.
“Nice meeting you folks, but I got to get down to Gunnison.”
*****
As Taylor drove the old pickup truck into Gunnison, a large carved sign buttressed by massive stone columns greeted him—“Gunnison, Gateway to the Rockies.” Snow-capped mountains created an ominous amphitheater for the county seat. Taylor liked the way the Chamber of Commerce kept the rustic charm of the Old West alive in the facades of the downtown buildings. The District Attorney’s office was housed in a more modern building behind the downtown square.
As Taylor entered, the receptionist looked up and smiled. “You must be Mr. Sterling. Chief Adams said you would be by today.”
“Chief Adams?” Taylor inquired.
“Police Chief of Juanita Springs.”
“Oh, I’ve only heard him referred to as Clyde or Chief Clyde. Guess I never was concerned about a last name. Thanks. Another piece of the pie for me.”
Taylor was surprised he’d never asked about Clyde’s last name. It wasn’t like him to miss details. Usually he was anal about being precise and making sure he had all the facts. He’d allowed himself to make a slip. Maybe it was Clyde’s easy, small town manner that caught him off guard. Shit, Taylor thought, and mentally kicked himself for being sloppy.
After a moment of self-lambasting, Taylor followed the receptionist down the hall to the second office door on the right. The door nametag read “Rachel Mendez.”
Ms. Mendez was in her early thirties, but looked older. She wore Levis over worn red boots. A handmade Navajo silver buckle accented a tooled belt. She wore a fitted silk V-neck blouse pulled tight into her jeans, tight enough to highlight the stays in her lacy bra. She must have watched a few episodes of CSI; she had the look down pat.
Ms. Mendez carried no noticeable bulges on either side of her belt. Her thick black hair was braided into a ponytail dangling casually between her shoulder blades. Her dark brown eyes peered at Taylor and traversed his frame like a CAT scan machine. They appreciated each other, at least in a guttural sense at this early stage.
“I’ve pulled the file on the biker shooting for you,” she announced, retreating behind her desk.
“Can you give me a start with a Cliff’s Notes version?”
“Got two dead Outlaws. One shot by an off-duty Utah cop who looked like a one-percenter. The other Outlaw shot by Officer Brent.”
“That Skippy?”
“Yes. Seems it was one of his three shots. One got the Utah cop in the arm. Only wits were the other five Utah cops. Bartender was in the back room and didn’t see or hear anything useful. The Utah cops all say the same thing. They were out for a cycle ride in the mountains and stopped for a beer. Saw the two bikes parked out front, but didn’t figure them for Outlaws. When they came in the bar, the Outlaws started trash talking about their jackets and the colors they were flying. The cops were going to leave when one of the Outlaws pulled a knife and said he was going to cut off their colors since they hadn’t paid some sort of fee to the Utah Outlaw Chapter, or some shit like that. The knife moved aggressively at one of the cops who then drew his gun and shot the Outlaw dead. About that time, Skippy entered the joint and saw what he believed was an agg assault so he drew his gun and fired off three. We, my boss the DA, figured a cut and dry self-defense, justifiable homicide. I was the case agent and agreed there wasn’t anything else to it.”
“Who did the investigation?”
“CBI. That’s the Colorado Bureau of Investigations. They do a lot of investigative work for smaller police agencies and district attorneys. They’re pretty good at what they do.”
“Was there any surveillance footage, Ms. Mendez?”
“Actually there was. The bar had one camera, but it wasn’t rigged for sound. Got the incident captured, but from only one angle.” She opened the brown expando file and pulled out a disk.
“I’ve looked at this probably a dozen times. Pretty much compares with the cops’ version. Hey, call me Rachel.”
“Now, Rachel, where did the CBI agents come from?”
“Grand Junction.”
“So what happened to the Utah cops until they got to Juanita Springs?”
Rachel squirmed in her chair and then leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “You know, I’m not sure. They weren’t in custody, I do know that. It must have taken at least a couple hours for the CBI to get down there. I don’t know. Just the shooter was taken to the emergency room down here in Gunnison. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering how much time they had to get their stories straight.”
“You don’t think there’s anything fishy going on, do you?”
“Never know. Police shootings are crazy incidents. Sometimes the obvious isn’t so obvious in the end. Other times it’s just the appearance of evil that throws a monkey wrench into the picture. Of course, that can be worse than evil itself. When they were interviewed, was that taped?”
“No. CBI doesn’t do that. They take notes and complete a narrative summary. Kind of like what the FBI does with their 309 reports. A lot of people think it’s not the most professional way to do investigations, but what the hell. I’m not in a position to criticize.”
“What do you think, Rachel?” Taylor asked. This was a test to see if she was just a pretty clone or someone with an independent head balanced on muscular shoulders. Taylor was sure she lifted iron somewhere, and on a regular basis.
“Personally I’d rather have everything recorded. That protects everybody, including the investigator. I tape all my interviews, but the state boys have their own agenda.”
“Can you play that surveillance tape for me?”
“Sure can. Pull that chair around to this side of the desk.”
She opened the plastic cas
e and pulled out the disk. Taylor took one of the smaller plastic chairs and lifted it over the edge of the desk. Rachel moved her chair to make more room. They were side by side with their thighs resting against each other. This was something interesting! Rachel inserted the disk, double clicked the icon, and waited for it to load. The tape was not the best quality, but adequate.
The camera must have been mounted in a corner of the bar near the ceiling. It focused across the room, centering on the cash register. Probably was a deterrent for robbery or employee theft. The two Outlaw bikers were shown together at the bar wearing leather vests with their gang colors highlighting the back. Taylor saw the six Utah cops as they entered. The camera was behind them as they stopped ten feet or so back from the bar. The bikers didn’t acknowledge their presence at first.
Suddenly both bikers whipped their heads around toward the six cops who now were fanned in a semi-circle. Both bikers got off the bar stools and faced the six with their arms folded across their chests. Taylor could see one biker’s mouth move as if saying something, but he wasn’t doing so in an animated or angry manner. Suddenly that biker’s hand thrust out, pointing a finger at the Utah bunch. It appeared the still unrecognized cop and biker simultaneously pulled their weapons. The blade in the biker’s hand glinted briefly and Taylor could see the muzzle flash from the cop’s gun. At the same moment, Skippy appeared on the right of the screen and muzzle flashes from his gun were evident.
Something was wrong with the sequence, Taylor observed. The entire encounter lasted only 47 seconds. Taylor knew this was common with police shootings. They often were defined as split second incidents. The interaction between the two groups appeared to show something different, but Taylor wasn’t sure exactly what at this stage.
“Rachel, has anyone done anything to analyze this tape?”
“What do you mean, like authenticate it? No one doubted that it was the actual tape made and hadn’t been tampered with.”
“No, that’s not what I’m getting at. You know any lip readers? I’d like to know what the biker was saying. It might be possible to find out. By the way, what happened to the bikers’ rides? Any search made of the Utah cops?”
“Boy, you sure don’t pussy foot around, do you, Taylor?”
Taylor didn’t take offense at Rachel’s comment. When he was at LAPD, people either wanted to work for him or jack-rabbited the other way when a job under him was offered. He knew he was a hard person to work for, just as he was a difficult subordinate. Taylor believed when a person in authority gave someone a task to do, certain parameters for the completion of the job should be set, and then the superior should get out of the way.
Taylor set high standards for the people who worked for him. If someone failed to deliver the end product the way Taylor thought it should be delivered, he’d work with the person and train them how to do it “his way.” Taylor always believed “his way” was the right way, the most professional way. Taylor would offer someone a second chance, but only one. Failure was always difficult for Taylor to accept, from anyone. The slow pace of government and police procedure was always a stumbling block for Taylor. The system seemed to reward those who didn’t make waves, and even those who didn’t do a damn thing but show up. For some cops, doing nothing on the job was better than making mistakes or expending extra effort.
Rachel said she would find someone to lip read and would check with the CBI investigators to get answers to his other questions. Taylor briefly thought about hanging around Gunnison to ask Rachel out for dinner, but decided against it. At least for today.
*****
Taylor found Chief Clyde in his office.
“Thanks for setting me up with Rachel Mendez.”
“She’s a looker, huh?”
Taylor nodded in agreement.
“Lots of guys sniffing around that one. Heard the DA’s wife put down serious boundaries for him when dealing with her. Hey, how’d the old truck drive?”
“Drove good, boss. Thanks for the loan. Say, is Skippy around?”
Officer Skippy was on patrol. Taylor was surprised when Skippy finally entered the station. He was in his late 40s, short, and about forty pounds overweight. He was not just balding; the officer was totally shiny dome bald with beady eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. Taylor suggested Clyde sit in on the conversation with his cop. Turned out Skippy was a retired Air Force specialist. He had been a mechanic during his 20 years of service. Taylor figured retiring with the rank of specialist after 20 years was testament to either lack of skills or laziness.
“How you doin’ Skippy? Taylor Sterling here. Did 20 years on LAPD. Fortunately I never had to use deadly force, but I dealt with a whole bunch of officers who did. Most came out good; a few had issues to deal with.”
Taylor let that last comment linger as he watched Skippy’s reaction. The officer shifted in his chair and looked down at his hands folded tightly in his lap. Taylor noted a slight movement in Skippy’s upper cheek.
“Okay, I guess,” he said, looking at the chief for approval.
“How’re your sessions with the psychologist going?” Taylor asked, not knowing if he was seeing one. Skippy’s quizzical glance told Taylor apparently he was not.
“Clyde?” Taylor directed the comment to the chief.
“I figured it was a good shoot, so why bother with that mumbo jumbo. You think that was wrong, Taylor?”
“Yeah, I do. You know the standard practice calls for sending all officers involved in a critical incident, a shooting, to visit a psychologist. Not just any doctor, but one who knows cop work.”
“We’re small town, Taylor. We don’t have someone like that here in Juanita Springs.”
Taylor shook his head. “Clyde, I really don’t care where you find a psychologist. I know there are many in the Denver area. Maybe Grand Junction has one. That’s your job, boss. Find someone qualified to help your man. Skippy here deserves nothing less.” Clyde nodded.
“Skippy, okay to ask you some questions?”
“‘Bout what?”
“The day of the shooting. Couple things that weren’t covered in the investigation, or at least didn’t pop out at me when I reviewed it.”
Skippy nodded his acceptance.
“What drew you to the Cliffhanger that particular morning?”
“We don’t get many bikers in the Springs and it seemed strange to have eight bikes out front at ten in the morning. I guess I figured it was worth looking into. Walked in, not expecting much of anything, but walked into a real shit storm. Looked like a stand-off between the two groups. Big guys, all bad looking asses. Don’t mind saying it scared the shit out of me. I did what I had to. Christ I didn’t know they were cops. Looked just like more Outlaws. Just a bunch of bad asses in one place at one time!”
Skippy shifted again in his chair and continued. “Second I opened the door and stepped over that threshold, all I saw was eight bikers. One was holding a knife. One, no maybe another one too, was holding a gun. Suddenly the gun erupts. Shit, I was scared! It’s not bad to be scared, is it Mr. Sterling?”
Taylor shook his head. Skippy plugged along with his story.
“I shot at the biker holding the gun. Three rounds in rapid concession, like they trained me at the academy. Didn’t have no training for this shit, though. I was fixed on the dude with the gun.”
“What happened after the shooting, Skippy?” Skippy’s confused squint told Taylor he needed to be more descriptive.
“I’m interested in what the other five Utah cops did, and what happened to the bikes parked outside.”
“I got on the horn and requested an ambulance and back-up. Checked the downed Outlaws to see if they were dead. The shot Utah cop was screaming and yelling at me. Saying I should have known he was a cop. Christ, how was I supposed to know that? One of the other cops yelled at me calling me a mall rent-a-cop and shoved some sort of badge in my face. During all this, a couple other cops were dealing with their shot buddy. I rounded up the bartender
and told him to stand outside and keep everybody out.
Next thing I know Chief Clyde was there, a state trooper appeared out of nowhere, and finally the ambulance roared up. I lost track of the other Utah cops.” Skippy stopped and was obviously replaying the situation in his head.
“The bikes? Don’t know, Mr. Sterling. Chief?”
“Oh yeah. The Outlaw’s bikes were impounded by the trooper. I think they’re still over at the impound lot behind Smitty’s Garage. The five Utah cops rode after the ambulance to the hospital in Gunnison. We pushed the shot cop’s bike to the police station lot. Someone came up a couple days later, loaded it on a pickup, and left town. Nobody saw anything strange about them bikes. Found no evidence on ‘em that I know of.”
“Skippy, you gonna be okay?”
“I think so. Just hope I don’t get sucked into anything like that again. I’m kind of pissed that Utah cop I shot is suing me. I was just doing my job. I didn’t know he was a cop. I thought I just stumbled on a biker shootout.”
“Maybe it was, Skippy, maybe it was.” Taylor said. “But really, how you doing, my man?”
Skippy shifted again in his chair and again studied his hands planted in his lap.
“I think I’m okay. My wife, though, she’s taking it all pretty hard. She’s on me to quit the department. We’ve been going down to her church in Gunnison. You know, she’s Catholic. We’ve been seeing one of the priests there. Nice guy, but don’t know shit about police work. Keeps talking about the sanctity of life and bullshit like that. He’s almost got me thinking maybe I did something wrong. I’m even questioning that myself. Don’t know what I’d do if I had to pull my gun again. I hope I’d do the right thing. But, who really knows?” Skippy’s left cheek began to quiver violently, almost closing his eye.
“You know, Mr. Sterling, I guess I’ve just got to man up! I decided I’m not going back to that priest. Don’t give a shit what my wife says! She can go. I’m not!”
“You stay safe out there, Skippy. Chief, want to go with me to talk with Ernie, the bartender?”
Walking to the bar later, Taylor looked at Clyde. He was walking with his shoulders drooped and head lowered. Without glancing at Taylor he said, “You think I should have done something more for Skippy, huh?”