First Commandment

by Dick Yaeger

  I thought I saw Braklin move.

  O’Farrell cut my hands free with his pocketknife. I grabbed my phone and hit Bubba’s number.

  “Yeah,” he answered.

  “A shooter’s on his way to your daughter’s school. Frank called and—“

  I heard his phone hit the floor.

  I cut away my legs and knelt next to Braklin lying on his side. He looked bad, his chest covered with blood. I took his hand.

  “Stay with me, Dick,” I said. “Help is on the way.”

  He opened his eyes halfway. I detected an effort to smile. “You’re okay,” he mumbled. “That’s good.”

  Tears dripped off my chin into a growing pool of blood. “Stay with me. You have to. You promised me a Monopoly rematch.”

  He gasped air through his open mouth.

  “Please don’t die,” I said. “I love you.”

  He hooked a finger in my shirt and pulled me close. “We were good together, weren’t we?” His voice was weak, raspy.

  “We were great together.”

  Six hours later, I was slumped on my sofa watching the six o’clock news with a glass of red wine, a quart of Rocky Road ice cream, and an almost-empty box of tissues. The blonde news anchor, Jenna What’s-Her-Name, was behind a desk relating the day’s events. A split TV screen showed earlier film of police cars, ambulances, flashing red lights, and thankful parents hugging their kids.

  “Luckily, no children were harmed today,” she said, when San Jose SWAT killed a terrorist and prevented another school shooting at Blaise Pascal Elementary. The shooting was heroically prevented by Detective Richard Braklin, who uncovered the plot but was killed in a deadly shootout with the terrorist’s accomplice who we’ve just learned is Leonard Guillory.”

  The split screen vanished, and the TV camera pulled away to show Senator Evans sitting across the desk from Jenna.

  “Jesus! What the fuck is he doing there?” I said aloud.

  “State Senator Blake Evans is here with me,” she said. “What’s your take on today’s events, Senator?”

  “First of all,” he began, “I want to commend the heroism of Detective Braklin. It’s public servants like him who protect us from the insanity we’ve witnessed today.”

  “I agree,” Jenna said. “The accomplice, Leonard Guillory, wasn’t he employed by you?”

  “Actually, he was a volunteer who did various menial chores for my campaign. I’m told he was an extremely hard worker and liked by everyone. His complicity in this tragic event is difficult to believe.”

  I yelled at the TV, “You fuck.”

  Jenna seemed sympathetic, nodding as he talked.

  “Lastly,” Evans continued, “I want your viewers to know that tomorrow morning, I’ll be presenting a bill to stop future tragedies like today. This law, supported by the governor, will finally ban all guns in California and—”

  I gagged, rushed into the bathroom, and vomited.

  In the days that followed, O’Farrell, Bubba, and I spent hours with police and the assistant district attorney relating details of our experiences. It remained too early to know how, or if, justice would be dispensed. I could only use conversations with the ADA to speculate. Some intuitions I felt good about, others distressed me deeply.

  The Altman shooter was an ISIS wannabe who did it for fun, money, and the notoriety he’d achieve from his fellow terrorists. He claimed it was all his idea, and he looked forward to his death and martyrdom. Furthermore, he believed the shooting would vindicate his sacrifice and lead to public gun confiscation that would help future terrorists in the US. He repeatedly said Lenny was his only contact.

  The ADA and police became convinced Lenny was a loony who fantasized about being the head of Evan’s future secret police. Pablo, and others who boasted Frumentarii tattoos, confirmed it. Evans, of course, denied any knowledge of such plan.

  I still questioned whether Pablo was unaware of the First Commandment shooting, even though he didn’t participate. The “we” pronoun on the newspaper note was still unresolved. The police uncovered a variety of misdemeanors by the wannabe Frumentarii brotherhood, but nothing more sinister than car theft. Pablo and two others were undocumented, picked up by immigration, and lounging in jail until their hearings. Deportation was a foregone conclusion.

  The senator’s wife, Maria, was questioned extensively, but nothing could be pinned on her. I thought she was a talented actress and not as naïve as her performance suggested. At my urging, prosecutors requested the IRS review her books and past taxes.

  I empathized most with Aaron Horowitz, who started everything to find his granddaughter’s killer, but would never know his identity or witness his punishment. His son Jacob, who enthusiastically supported the senator’s campaign, was innocent of everything except stupidity.

  My largest disappointment was the resolution of Senator Blake Evans’ involvement. During my last day of discovery, I came unglued with the prosecutors. I stood behind the table, pounding it with my fist. “He’s an insane murderer of innocent children,” I screamed. “He deserves a slow painful death with a very large needle.”

  “There’s no evidence,” the ADA calmly replied, motioning me to sit down.

  “I’m the evidence, goddamn it. What I know, heard, and feel is the evidence.”

  “It’s what you ‘claim’ to know,” he said with air quotes. “What Guillory told you is hearsay—inadmissible because he’s dead.”

  The debate went on until I was exhausted. He tried to placate me with the expectation that Evans’ career as a public servant was disgracefully finished. Initial investigations of CAIV revealed a fraudulent charity set up for supporting Evan’s political and personal needs. He would be indicted, convicted, and spend a few years in a white-collar country-club jail. It was no consolation.

  I sat in my office early the next morning, playing solitaire on my computer, still tormented by the fact that it was my gun that killed Braklin. Bubba had taken the day off to spend with his daughter, so I didn’t know how long O’Farrell stood in the doorway watching me. He looked as drained as I felt.

  “I’m taking off,” he said.

  “Back to Sacramento?”

  “Yeah.”

  I paused, thinking over the last few days. “You never told me how Braklin showed up.”

  “I called him when I saw the shooter enter the house with a rifle case. Knew I was going to need help.”

  “Charging through the door in front of a guy with a gun wasn’t smart,” I said. “Should’ve been a better plan.”

  “I agree. It was risky, but seemed the only option at the time. We believed any delay would be fatal for you. The windows were boarded so we couldn’t get a layout, and we thought he’d emptied his gun perforating the door. Braklin said he had a vest and should go first.”

  “But he didn’t have a vest.”

  “Yeah. Don’t know why he said that. I think he was in a hurry to get to you. See if you were hurt. Not thinking straight.” He sighed and bit his lip. “It’s my fault. I should’ve slowed him down. Made him reconsider.”

  I stood. We met in the center of the room and embraced. “Don’t blame yourself,” I said.

  We lingered long before separating.

  “Give me a call if you’re ever in Sacramento,” he said.

  “I will.”

  Our eyes met briefly. There was nothing more to say. He turned and left.

  As I watched him walk away, I felt things drawing to a close. Therapy wasn’t in my future. Nevertheless, there was one final thing I needed to do. A phone call wouldn’t suffice—it had to be face to face.

  I knocked on the door of Aaron Horowitz’s simple house in Los Altos, not far from the garage where the first Apple Computers were built.

  “Ms. Quinn,” Aaron said with a surprised look when he opened the door. He looked frailer than I remembered in a rumpled bathrobe and slippers. The cancer and bad heart were debilitating.

  “Can we talk for a moment, Aaron?�
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  “By all means. I’ve just made a fresh batch of coffee.”

  We sat at the kitchen table. When I asked of his health, he deflected an answer by expressing regrets and admiration for Braklin. I apologized once again for not finding his daughter’s killer, and he said it was his fault for not contacting me earlier. He asked about Bubba, and sympathetically frowned when I said Bubba’s daughter had been at Blaise the day the terrorist was killed.

  “There’s one more thing about the school shootings you should know,” I said. “Something I think will never be made public.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I described in detail how I believed Senator Evans was the true mastermind behind the shootings, and how Lenny’s confession supported my conclusion. Because Lenny was dead and there was no other evidence, I explained that Evans would likely never be held accountable. Aaron didn’t react. I had prepared for a backlash of unfulfilled vengeance, but got nothing. He poured a second cup of coffee. Did he somehow know? When I continued, he watched me intently, seeming to analyze each statement, but questioned nothing. It was mid-afternoon when I finished.

  “I’m glad you told me these things, Hunter. Thank you very much.”

  “It’s between you and me. It should go no further.”

  “I understand fully.”

  As I left, he thanked me again and we shook hands. Despite his health, the old Israeli tank commander’s grip was still strong.

  I sat in my car, feeling I’d done the right thing before driving home. I stopped for food and beer, and then settled down in front of my TV to watch Thursday Night Football. When the Seahawks destroyed the Niners for the fifth straight time, I felt no post-game depression—a good sign for my quick recovery.

  Breaking News, the TV flashed, interrupting the “Fifth Quarter” litany of sportscaster excuses for the Niner’s failures. Jenna What’s-Her-Name graced the screen again. Did she ever go home?

  “An hour ago,” she said, “Senator Blake Evans was found dead in his bedroom at home along with his longtime friend and associate Aaron Horowitz. The coroner on the scene said the causes of death have yet to be determined and will require autopsies of both bodies. Senator Evans had recently been re-elected and was believed in good health, but the aged Mr. Horowitz was known to suffer from a failing heart and an advanced stage of cancer.”

  “Well I’ll be damned!”

  Jenna’s droning voice faded into the background as I walked outside for a smoke. The air was chilly, quiet, without a breeze. Thanksgiving wasn’t far away. I remembered Aaron’s business relations with Evans because of his support for the Israeli solar industry, but was surprised they were good friends. Would be interesting to know if Aaron ever contributed directly to the senator’s campaign. I looked at my watch—almost midnight. I wondered if O’Farrell had caught this latest news.

  I went inside and located the FBI jacket and ball cap Frank had given me. Back outside, I put the top down on the Jag, and headed to Sacramento.