Hard Favored Rage

by Don Shift

  Jaime collapsed backwards and lay dead. Andres started shouting something incoherent and ran outside, gun up, expecting to find more gangbangers like they had encountered two nights before. Instead, he had his gun pointed at cops who just lit him up with flashlights. A blast from Price’s shotgun, four rounds from Stackhouse’s handgun, and three rounds from Sam’s rifle cut him down.

  That is not what I wanted to happen at all, Stackhouse said to himself. His heart was pumping harder than he could ever remember it pounding. His ears were ringing from the echoes of the gun shots that reflected all along the alleyway. There was an overpowering urge to defecate. It was like nothing he had experienced before.

  He had drawn his gun many times, fired his Taser and even less-lethal rounds, but he had never shot someone. His Sig instantly felt like it weighed 34 pounds instead of 34 ounces. It was then that he realized he had not mentally prepared himself for killing, even though the suspect he was chasing were known killers. Now he understood what Sam meant about “normality bias.”

  On the roof, Sam felt disappointed as well, but knew that nothing could have been done. The burglar fired first, and his partner ran out with his gun up and ready to fight. What had begun as a textbook perimeter and arrest of burglary suspects became a deputy involved shooting. The detail knew that they were in for a long night, but they didn’t expect that it would involve Major Crimes and IA rolling out for interviews and investigation. With the suspects dead, instead of in handcuffs, it would be much more difficult to track where the drugs were going.

  Damn! Off the street for a week in the middle of all of this! Sam didn’t need a week off to feel bad or whatever for killing two criminals. He certainly wished he hadn’t had to do it, not that he regretted two less dirtbags in the world. It felt more like having to put down an injured animal; necessary, but one always wished they didn’t have to do it. In Iraq, it had been different. It had been a fight for his life. He fully expected to get shot and go straight from the streets of Fallujah to the Pearly Gates. Tonight, the ball of fear in his stomach were for the guys on the ground. When he climbed down the ladder and jumped the wall in the alley, his fears were confirmed by a bullet hole in the hood of the Oldsmobile.

  “Close shot Sarge,” Sam said.

  Stackhouse walked over and looked at the hole, letting out a low whistle. “That came pretty close. Good thing I ducked.” He ran his fingers over the hole and considered his mortality for a moment.

  “Only after I shot him, Sarge.”

  Stackhouse was still more than a little shaken up but appreciated the need to appear cool in front of his troops. “Well, with Rambo watching my back, what did I have to worry about?”

  Self-Doubt

  Palmer wondered why he was at work. He was low on gas in his personal vehicle, he wasn’t getting paid, and was deliberately compartmentalizing his emotions. His last assignment was thanks to a resident who flagged him down to complain about a neighbor’s relative who emptied an RV’s black water tank into the storm drain. A whiff confirmed the violation, but thankfully the stench of the rotting bags of garbage piling up on the curb cut down on the smell of fermenting human waste. Palmer understood why the neighbor was so angry about it. There would be no rain in months to push the foul effluent away.

  The humor of this being right out of Christmas Vacation escaped him. The angry neighbor demanded to know what Palmer intended to do about it, which was nothing. There wasn’t anything he could do about it anyway. A citation would be a meaningless scrap of paper and booking the guy a waste of gas, not to mention an incredible humiliation for the deputy himself over something so petty. “Then what good are you guys anyway?” the neighbor said snottily.

  That’s when the complaining neighbor walked down his lawn to shout at the RV. The RV refugee, up from somewhere in Orange County, came out and the two were in a shouting match that turned into shoving. Palmer was frankly shocked that two men would provoke each other into a physical fight in front of a cop. He watched for a minute, then yelled commands to stop. Neither heeded the commands. Swearing to himself, Palmer drew his baton and swung the it into the backs of the men a few times. To his surprise, this actually worked. Both men separated and turned to face the deputy, equally stunned at what had just happened.

  “Seriously you guys?” Palmer said. He pointed his baton at the illegal dumper. “What were you thinking? You’re parked right on top of this drain. You’ll have to smell it too.”

  It was two in the afternoon on Tuesday. Sam woke up an hour before and was now sitting in a recliner reading a book by the light coming in through the front window. A Moorpark Tahoe and an unmarked sedan pulled in the driveway. Oh great, another freakin’ interview, Sam thought.

  He had finished his interviews with IA and Major Crimes detectives just before six. It was an unpleasant process. A lengthy interview was held in a conference room at Camarillo PD with the deputy’s association attorney representing Sam. Despite being innocent of any crime and a trusted deputy, the nature of the process was to cast a feeling of being suspected of something. The killing didn’t bother him; what tormented him was the feeling that he might have done something wrong and he’d be punished for it.

  Hearing the Miranda Warning read to him was unnerving. He was forced to answer under duress so nothing he said could be used to prosecute him. Sam had never been through an IA or shooting investigation ever before in his career. An irrational and unjustified fear of being arrested ran through Sam’s head. He felt a tremendous sense of relief when he realized a LA County Sheriff’s captain was among the group that included Commander Owens and Auggie, Sam’s roommate.

  “Marco!” Sam yelled. “LASO’s here!”

  “Huh?” Marco yelled from across the house. “Wait, that’s not right.”

  Sam met them at the door. Auggie spoke first. “Hey Sam, mind if they come in? We’ve got bad news about your family.”

  Sam suddenly felt weak at his knees and trembled. Marco had just come to the door as well and seeing this, led Sam to the couch. The LASO captain introduced himself.

  “Mr. Church, I’m very sorry, but your parents were unfortunately killed when they accidentally drove into a riot in an unincorporated area near Inglewood. We were able to identify them by personal items the suspects left behind.”

  Sam was hyperventilating now, his head dizzy and not because of the belt of whiskey he had earlier. The captain held out one of Sam’s old business cards that his father had written Sam’s contact info on the back of. “How?”

  “Beaten, shot, and stabbed. It would have been over for them in a minute or so. They would not have suffered much.”

  Sam made sucking sounds as his vision closed in around him. Auggie pushed Sam’s head between his legs. “Breathe slowly, bro.”

  “Leads?” Sam asked when he was able to focus again.

  The captain shook his head. “Perhaps if we still had access to advanced forensics, maybe. The car is too contaminated for fingerprints to be of any use. Our deputies didn’t discover it for several hours. They also stripped the car of most of its contents. We were able to recover some of the paperwork for the car, the contents of your father’s wallet and your mother’s purse. There were also some photo albums we brought. Do you know who Coletta Levine is? She was in the back seat.”

  “Mrs. Levine. She was a neighbor, had family in California. That’s all I can tell you about her. We never met.”

  “Thank you.”

  “We were unable to transport the car. It was inventoried and photographed, but we just didn’t have the resources to move it.”

  “I understand. And the bodies?”

  “Taken to the county morgue. It may be sometime before they can be autopsied, if at all.”

  “I understand. I doubt I will be able to take custody of them, given the circumstances.” Their wills indicated that the bodies should be flown to Connecticut and buried alongside Mr. Church’s parents and their family going back several generations, but that was not p
ossible now.

  The captain nodded. “We have arrangements for burial made. The coroner's office can provide you the details once they have been interred. It won’t be fancy, but you will know where they are.”

  “I appreciate it, sir. Thank you.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you? Any questions?” Commander Owens asked.

  Sam shook his head. “No. Only today and tomorrow matter now. What did Jesus say?

  ‘Let the dead bury the dead’?” Sam began to gag. “Excuse me.” He ran to the bathroom, remembering on the way the toilet did not function. He turned to head outside, but by then the urge to vomit had subsided. After getting a glass of water, he returned to the living room. “I’m sorry. I never felt like that before. Not last night, not even in Iraq.”

  “It happens,” the commander said. “It’s a lot of bad news in just a few short days. Sam you’re gonna feel like garbage. You’d be inhuman if you didn’t.”

  Sam was quiet for a few minutes. “I don’t even feel like crying, sir. Just hollow inside. The same hollow feeling when I wondered why on Earth, they weren’t here by Saturday night. Hollow about all the missed opportunities in life, hollow about my girlfriend, hollow about all the things that are going down and will go down, hollow, hollow, hollow. You know what I was doing when you pulled up? Reading a book to take my mind off the shooting. I was worried about being in trouble, you know, that I screwed up and did something wrong. I thought you were here to roll me up.

  “And my parents, I’m pissed off at them the most. What was my dad doing down in LA? Why did he wait so long to leave? What was he thinking pulling off the freeway in an area like that? He always talked about getting a handgun, but he kept putting it off. He always thought that everything would be fine and would work itself out. He thought I was extreme for stockpiling food in the garage.” Sam stood up and started pacing. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! Am I crazy or what?” No one had any answers for him, just platitudes.

  Sergeant Stackhouse wasn’t having a good day either. A week that began with shooting someone by definition was a bad one, justified or not. He was glad that the shooting had occurred in the dark. He never really saw anyone, just dark figures and muzzle flashes. It was like a shooting scenario on the simulator at the academy. His actions that night were little more than a formula; criminals + guns + threat to life = shoot back. His training had given him a set of criteria for when he could and should shoot and put him in simulations that unfolded just like last night. He had very little remorse for participating in taking the life of a criminal.

  What he did feel was extreme personal rage for having been shot at. That bullet had been directed at him and only by the grace of God it went into the hood. They had been trying to kill him. His anger showed up in surprising ways. He shouted at his wife because the back patio was not being swept of the dirt and debris that the winds were depositing.

  The argument had turned pretty nasty. Mindy stormed off and he left to wander the neighborhood for an hour to cool down. On his walk, he noticed that others were out walking too, all with a purpose. No one acted suspicious of each other, but all made eye contact without speaking a word, while neighbors calmly talked to each other in their front yards. It seemed odd. Once he had calmed down, he went home and apologized to his wife.

  Someone tried to kill him and it set off a storm of emotions that the terrifying uncertainty of the present circumstances and the unrelenting heat only magnified and made worse. He didn’t understand why he should be so unreasonably angry at someone trying to kill him; yes, it was the ultimate personal indignity, but without a scratch on him and the offender dead, he shouldn’t be pissed at all of creation all the time. As far as dying, Stackhouse wasn’t particularly worried, but he didn’t want his wife or kids to go through that. Not at the hands of some scumbag who was busy making the world more miserable than it already was.

  Was it fear? he wondered. Was he afraid of dying because it would hurt his loved ones? He didn’t know. Anger was often the product of misplaced fear, but he couldn’t see it. He forced himself to relive the fight. He remembered he wasn’t really aiming when he shot; it was an instinctual, follow-the-front-sight style shot. Was he alert and paying attention? He thought he was. The shooting felt so slap-dash, so hurried, almost panicked. Not planned, cool or careful at all. Nothing like when he practiced on the range.

  In those scenarios, Stackhouse knew that it was just practice. He knew that it was all building up to some sort of climax; shoot or don’t shoot. Can you talk the guy down? Will he suddenly pull out a gun while talking? His senses were operating at 100% then, carefully watching the hands, the hidden spots, clearing the corners. He knew where to expect the ‘tricks.’ But behind the CVS, he was expecting the suspect to barricade themselves or try to run, not shoot it out, although their previous behavior indicated this was a real possibility.

  Did he screw up as a sergeant? Did he place himself, and his guys, in the line of fire? No, every man was behind cover, well trained and prepared. They had their weapons lined up on the area of the threat and they made quality shots. Sam had held the high ground and covered their backs.

  Perhaps that was it. Sam took the main shots. Stackhouse hadn’t. He was a secondary shooter firing on instinct. The vast majority of his training was single-combat, or at least only himself shooting to save his own bacon. Without Sam, would he have survived? Stackhouse didn’t know. Was he angry with himself for not taking the kill shot or was he afraid because he may have failed on his own? The thoughts and emotions made no sense. Questions generated no answers, only more questions; at least he and his whole team were alive.

  How Fast Things Went Downhill

  The shocking deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Church unnerved Marco. It had been two months since he and his ex-girlfriend Erika had last spoken, yet her safety weighed heavily on his mind. Today the thought weighed more heavily than usual. He knew that he wasn’t over her, despite a total lack of encouragement on her part. Maybe it was just a stupid obsession on his part that he had to ignore. Two months was a long time, plenty to get over a long-term boyfriend, find a new one, and fall in love. For all he knew, she could be safely on some Hollywood producers’ yacht.

  Yeah right, he thought. Erika gravitated towards charming men with fatal flaws. Like the ‘roided out weightlifter she refused to sleep with. Or the workaholic San Francisco millionaire. Or the graduate student that was having sex with his (male) professor. Erika was a fantastic woman, but she had really poor judgment when it came to men. She held on to Marco far longer than his typical stubborn intransigent male behavior deserved. Possibly the reason she started dating the weed-smoking, guitar playing “musician” was because he was the complete opposite of the reticent, suspicious Marco. Or perhaps because he showed her the affection Marco hadn’t noticed he had unintentionally withdrawn.

  Every time he thought about the end of their relationship, he mentally kicked himself. Her clinginess wasn’t meant to be controlling or annoying. Instead, she craved every moment she could get out of Marco, who preferred to work overtime more than anything else. All she wanted was attention and time with her boyfriend and she got upset when Marco pushed her away. He had been a jerk and didn’t even know it at the time. This had become a regular topic of conversation between Auggie and he.

  Erika was a graduate student at USC and lived a few miles from campus. She was the only white resident under 60 in her predominately non-white apartment complex. Marco tried to explain why living off-campus in this particular area was a bad idea, but she called him a racist and wouldn’t listen. That’s what he got for dating a woman who helped gentrify south LA. Friggin’ crunchy granola girlfriend. Under the current circumstances of absent law and order, a pretty blonde white girl was not going to be safe down there.

  Marco refused to visit during daylight hours for fear that someone he arrested might recognize him. His skin was dark enough and his ancestry mixed to the point he only looked out of place among Asians or ultra
-white people like the Churches. Growing up in suburban California, race had never been an issue for Marco, so when he found out about subtle racism as he got older, often from those that viewed him as a “traitor” of sort, he was confused and saddened. No matter what his genetics said, he bled blue. That was good enough for his brothers behind the thin blue line; and for those who hate cops to hate him.

  He decided the only way to quiet the fears that had been constantly interrupting his thoughts was to go down there. It’s not like it was that far away. He had plenty of gas, due to Church’s intervention at the gas station. Marco knew what Auggie would say. You gotta let her go, man. Like Tom Hanks in Castaway letting Wilson float away. Then there would be some strange analogy that compared swimming to driving to downtown LA. Auggie was like that. Sam, on the other hand, would be down for what Marco had in mind, but Sam was highly intoxicated at the moment. He would have to go alone.

  Driving at very high speed, Marco was there in forty-five minutes. Traffic was non-existent, besides police and the odd military vehicle. Smoke rose from too many points in the city to count. As soon as he got off the freeway, he ran into a contingent of police cars blocking an intersection. A highway patrolman was directing traffic in full riot gear but sporting a reflective vest in an odd congruence with the rest of his kit. Further up the street, a line of soldiers held a line against a crowd of two hundred who were throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails. The acrid scent of tear gas seeped in through Marco’s air conditioning vents.

  Four blocks away from his destination, Marco was stopped for five minutes in a traffic jam of cars trying to avoid the rioters and looters. Everyone seemed to be heading for the freeway except Marco and a few other brave souls. Streams of looters pushing shopping carts loaded to the brim with televisions, alcohol, and everything else imaginable weaved in and out of traffic. A few cars tried to nudge their way through, playing chicken with the looters, but received broken windows or worse for their trouble.