Tales From The Hood - 5th & Lemon

Tales From The Hood - Chapter 6 – 5th & Lemon


By Ron De Laby



Riverside, California, the largest city in the Inland Empire Metropolitan area of Southern California. A city with a unique history, named for its location beside the Santa Ana River, but that’s another story. The birthplace of the California citrus industry and home of the Mission Inn hotel, the largest Mission revival site in the United States

Founded in the early 1870’s by John W. North, a staunch temperance-minded abolitionist from Tennessee, he eventually saw to the removal of the four saloons in the city. He was, no doubt, a very unpopular figure among some of the city’s inhabitants at the time.

By 1882, there were more than half a million citrus trees in California, almost half of which were in Riverside. The development of refrigerated railroad cars and innovative irrigation systems established Riverside as the wealthiest city per capita by 1895.



The original downtown and north end of the city flourished with Victorian estates and beautiful homes.



The layout was orderly and sensible. East/West streets were numbered from First to Fourteenth and north/south streets were given the names of various citrus; Orange, Lemon, Lime, etc. Riverside drew its population from all over the United States and Europe until the city burgeoned with a multitude of contributions that enhanced its natural development to a degree never foreseen by its early founder.



Of course, not being content to remain the jewel of the southern state, over the next hundred years Riverside grew exponentially until it was beset with problems not known to the early pioneers, particularly since political correctness and liberal courts were completely unheard of at that time. Hanging being the popular means of controlling the environment, problems were few and limited in scope.



As the city struggled with its downward slide, likewise did many of the homes. They fell into minimal repair, and in many cases were subdivided into two and three story apartment buildings housing any number of questionable or marginally sane people.



No one knows if the warm southern California climate or the smog in the air, or a potential overdose of vitamin C, due to the millions of readily available oranges, contributed to the yearly influx of crazy people, but influx they did. Riverside’s finest spent a goodly amount of time managing, incarcerating, or simply eliminating the most outrageous of the lot. It was here in the beautiful old downtown section of the city that the blue defenders met Batty Ben Berkeley.



Batty Ben lived in an Tri-Plex near the corner of 5th and Lemon Streets in old downtown. The Tri-Plex was a former residence that was cleverly divided into three living areas by virtue of the invention of sheetrock and studs. Ben got the top bedroom and living area, and his two co-dwellers got the bottom two apartments.



The fact that he resided right across the alley from the unemployment office was either overlooked by Ben or he never grasped the actual significance of the structure. In any event Ben was known among the locals as the Deacon of dumpster divers. He was removed from total homelessness only by virtue of the small stipend he received monthly for rent and incidentals, courtesy of the forever liberal city council, a political body who’s only reason for living was to spend taxpayers’ money as quickly and inventively as humanly possible.



Ben wasn’t crazy in the sense that he was a danger to himself and others, at least as far as anyone knew. After all, his Tri-Plexmates were still in one piece, even though they dedicated a lot of time in avoiding him whenever possible.



The two co-tenants were actually students at the nearby University of California, Riverside campus, a college known for its agricultural research in support of the surrounding citrus industry. Both were exchange students from China, Mei-Hua Ling and Bai Cho. Mei-Hua was 19, fluent in English and lived in the bottom floor right side apartment. Bai was 20, fluent enough to get by, and learning more each day. She lived in the bottom floor left side apartment and both met each morning to make their way to the bus stop on the corner and then on to the short ride to campus. Both were worldly enough to know “strange” when they saw it and made the appropriate arrangements to avoid Ben as often as possible.

The first time they saw Ben was on the way to class. He managed to run in to them at the bottom of the stairs, stopped as though awestruck, leered at them and bowed nearly to the floor in an exaggerated flourish in what he believed to be good manners. Hurrying past, Mei-Hua giggled and whispered, “Ge yi shi ta shuiguo quan”. Which actually meant, “This one is a fruit loop”, although it more literally translated to, “This one is a circle of fruit.” Bai stared at her for a moment and scurried to catch up while trying to translate the actual idiom. English was indeed a strange language.

Of course Batty Ben acted strangely enough to make one cross the street to avoid him, but his looks gave him away first. He was around six feet tall and maybe weighed in at 160 pounds due to his restricted diet of dumpster delights. But it wasn’t the stature as much as the area residing above his shoulders. In addition to sporting a tangled, black mass of beard and unkempt mustache, inhabited by who knew what, he also maintained a shoulder length mop of mane that appeared to not have been combed since it began to grow. Aside from outward appearances his eyes told the story of his soul. They revealed a troubled and disoriented man; a tortured being forced to live through a hell of hallucinations which were the product of his damaged brain; a man pursued by demons; a man who had never seen better times. In short, he was just really batty.



No one knew how Ben came into possession of the item that set the city on its head that warm summer Friday evening. The item in question was a .30-30 Winchester, Model 1894 saddle ring carbine, a classic old west cowboy rifle. A beautiful collector’s item to normal people, but it was a frightful appendage in the hands of a walking whack attack.



Likewise, no one knows what set old Ben off either. Theories ran from a vitamin deficiency to a failure to collect the Reader’s Digest millions he had absolutely been promised, neither of which lasted long on the stage of credibility. More than likely a rejection by the sisters ornamental was the final straw. The jilted psycho idea was developed sometime later during the after action investigation. It was a plausible concept, and since there seemed to be no one offering a better viewpoint, it was adopted as gospel.



Following the thread of spurned amore, investigators interviewed friends, neighbors and lovers and developed that conclusion.



Mei-Hua, at 19, studying in a foreign land, and away from the probing eyes of parents and chaperones, quickly realized that America was truly a great country in the freedom and opportunity it offered horny young Chinese tarts. Her introduction to the wide, wide world of sex took less time than that needed to break open a fortune cookie. For Mei-Hua the campus was a veritable smorgasbord of sexually repressed young men who were more than happy to introduce their Firecracker Beef to her Rice Noodle Salad.



She had taken to wearing fewer and shorter garments as the weather warmed, until nearly all that was left was a wink and a smile. She had developed a particular wiggling gait that caused several male students to become introduced to the university infirmary due to neglectful and inattentive contact with various metal poles and overhanging objects.



Yes, life was more than good to Mei-Hua.



So therefore, at least three or four nights a week, sometimes, five or even six for that matter, enthusiastic and greatly creative sounds could be heard loudly emanating from Mei-Hua’s apartment. In fact, much of the building reverberated with such vocally high-pitched paroxysms that adjacent neighbors were forced to turn up the television volume so they could better learn about the latest Sham Wow offers.



Unbeknown to anyone was the fact that she was being lusted after on a daily basis by our own Batty Ben Berkeley. Try as he might to catch her eye in the hallway or on the street, she studiously avoided him. He rescued bouquets from the dumpsters of the best restaurants and left them at her doorway to no avail. He brought her late night snacks and was rejected. It got to a point where she refused to come to the door or even acknowledge his presence. One evening he tried to corner her at the front door and she screamed at him in Chinese, essentially telling him he smelled bad and looked worse and to leave her alone or she would summon the ghosts of Youxia to disembowel him. To make matters worse, Batty Ben would lay awake night after night listening to the Mei-Hua overture until the words were burned into his brain.



AHHH!!! Wo Jie Guangming!!! Cao Wo! JIADA!!! YUEKUAI!!! Which loosely translated seemed to say something to the effect of, “Ohh my great freaking Buddha of the consummating persons, wet. Intercourse me, harder. Faster. Or at least, words to that effect.



In any event the carryings on were simply not acceptable in Ben’s world and something had to be done, which is how R.P.D. came to be involved.



It seems that one fine afternoon following her last class, Mei-Hua, having contemplated the possibility of a three ingredient stir-fry, enlisted the aid of a couple of new young archers after checking to see that their quivers contained enough arrows. On the bus ride home she managed to make their respective arrows quiver enough by alternating tonsil tag with each of them, and exposing her melon morsels of the moon gods, so that neither one was able to get off the bus at her stop unassisted. Alternately pushing, tugging and half dragging both of them to her apartment she was anticipating an afternoon and evening of tongue swapping, sweat soaked, bed destroying debauchery.



Batty Ben had been watching from his second story window. He knew her schedule down to the minute and when she deviated from the schedule, as she sometimes did, he would pace his room, moaning in anguish and pound the walls with clenched fists. Today was a mixed bag. He watched her get off the bus followed by her latest pint-sized paramours. She seemed to prefer Ornamentals to regular people, a trait that he knew he would have to work on with her. But first things first, the cheating chinks had to go.



The first anyone knew of the impending trouble was when a neighbor, Mrs. Selma Feinberg, called in the alarm. Selma was watering her Petunias and happened to be looking in the direction of the apartment across the street when several things happened simultaneously. First, there was much shouting and complaining in what sounded like several different languages. This confusion was immediately followed by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. Then, several people scurried from the front porch and scattered in different directions, waving their arms in the air and shouting gibberish. Shortly thereafter she saw Batty Ben appear on the front step and fire several shots into the air from a rifle. Now Selma wasn’t born yesterday, and if you asked her she would tell you, “Young man. I wasn’t born yesterday…” So she did what all good citizens are programmed to do, call 9-1-1.



The computer at the Riverside police dispatch console logged the call in at 1524 hours, or nearly 3:30pm. The call was answered almost immediately.



“Riverside police. What is your emergency?”



“Hello? Said Selma. “Can you hear me?



“Yes, ma’am. This is the police department. Do you have an emergency?”



“Well, I don’t know, young lady. I was watering my Petunias and, Ohh dear. I left the water running. I’ll be right back.”



Staring at the phone in disbelief, the dispatcher heard the sound of the receiver clunking on a table and the fading sounds of someone shuffling away complaining to herself about old age and forgetfulness. Now she was in a quandary. As it stood, she had three choices. One: She could hang up and wait for a recall, but if there really WAS a problem she could lose the caller. TWO: She could send a unit anyway, but she didn’t know what kind of a situation she might be sending them into. THREE: She could wait. She decided she had better wait and spent what seemed like the next half hour before the caller returned.



“Are you still there, honey?” Selma asked.



“Yes ma’am. What is the problem there?” The dispatcher was clearly pissed at being made to waste this much time.



“Well, honey. Some fool is running around shooting at people.”



The statement hit her like a cattle prod.



“Shooting? Where, where are you? What’s your address? Who’s shooting? What are they shooting with?”



The dispatcher was so flustered the words came out in a torrent.



“Slow down, Honey. Let me think. Now what was the question?”



The dispatcher was ready to slam her head on the console.



“What’s your address?” She annunciated very slowly.



“Well, why didn’t you say so? It’s 5125 Lemon Street in Riverside. That’s right down the street from….



The words drifted off as the dispatcher over rode the phone line and hit the alert tone for an emergency broadcast.



BEEP, BEEP, BEEP…2-ROBERT-15 and all units the vicinity. Shots fired 5th and Lemon. Stand by for further. 2-Robert-15 your call is code-3.”



2-Robert-15 was the radio designator for the supplemental downtown radio car. The 2 represented the day shift, or watch 2. The Robert for Radio Car and the 15 for the smaller beat area within the downtown perimeter of beat 10.

Robert 15 happened to be a two-man unit this week due to a trainee rotation. The trainee was a 6 week recruit fresh out of the academy by the name of Jamie Barton. He was 21 years old and looked 15. His partner or senior officer was a designated FTO, field training officer, by the name of Frank Solis. He was a 10 year veteran who spoke fluent Spanish. His assignment in the downtown area came about primarily due to the heavy influx of non-English speaking Hispanics who were moving in at a rapid pace.



Solis was textbook handsome with a large black, Pancho Villa, mustache and slightly graying temples. He was instructing his new charge on the fine art of drinking Tequila when the call came in. The recruit was momentarily stunned by the intensity of the dispatcher’s voice and when he tried to grab the mike from its cradle he lost his grip. The microphone squirted out of his hand, ricocheted off the windshield and onto the floor under Solis’ feet causing him to nearly drive into a parked car trying to retrieve it.



Finally gaining control of the microphone he mashed the red talk button and responded.

“Robert 15, copy enroute.” He tried to respond as calmly as possible. Senior training officers weren’t cool if they betrayed any emotion.



He slapped the Unitrol control lever on the radio console all the way over to the right, activating both lights and siren. Spinning the steering wheel all the way to the left he jammed the gas pedal and made a screeching u-turn toward 5th and Lemon.



In the meantime the dispatcher was attempting to pry information out of Selma and began feeding it to responding units piecemeal as she was able to acquire it.



“Units responding and 2-Robert-15. The suspect is a white male, 6 foot, with a black beard and shoulder length black hair, break…Continuing, the suspect is wearing a light colored button-down shirt and dark blue jean type pants. He has a white headband around his head, break…Continuing, the suspect is armed with an unknown type rifle. There are additional calls coming in at this time. Sam-35, copy?”



“Sam-35, 10-4, enroute from 14th and Market”, the north end field supervisor responded.



As Robert 15 arrived at the scene and skidded to the curb, Solis and Barton saw Selma calmly standing outside with her garden hose in her hand watering her Petunias. Solis ran to her and attempted to clarify what had happened.



“Ma’am, did you call about the shots being fired?”



“I did.” Replied Selma.



“Well, where is the person who was doing the shooting? Don’t you think you should be inside? It could be dangerous out here.”



“He went back inside the house.”



Selma offhandedly pointed her garden hose in the direction of the gray two-story directly across the street.



“Can you tell me what he looked like?” Solis was becoming frustrated with the dental excavation.



“I already told that girl who answered the phone. Ask her. I need to get my Petunias watered. Look at them. They’re wilting.”



By the time Solis could get back to his unit three other black and whites screeched to a stop on both sides of the street. Solis found his Sergeant and made directly for his unit.



“What’s up?” Sergeant Jim Tulley was the responding north end supervisor and was anxiously swiveling his head like a barn owl while asking the question.



“Hell, I don’t know, Sarge. That goofy old lady said the shooter went back inside that house.” He pointed toward Batty Ben’s apartment. “She won’t give up anything else.”



“Radio said we had additional calls on this. I’m going to have a couple of the guys check with other informants and let’s see what they come up with. In the meantime why don’t the two of you stay low and keep an eye on this place”.



“Got it, Sarge.” Solis whistled to his partner to get his attention and motioned him back to their unit to explain their next move.



From the second story window Batty Ben watched the policemen move around on the street below. He attached no particular significance to the event. In fact he never even connected his running off the two panicked paramours with the arrival of the cops. After all, He was protecting Mei-Hua and it seemed like the thing to do at the time.



Within a few minutes the story began to emerge and a tactical operation was falling into place. At least three other neighbors had confirmed the shooting incident and described the fleeing victims as well as Batty Ben. The only thing to do at this point was to contain the scene and try to get the suspect out of the residence and neutralize the danger.



It was time to call in the cavalry.



“Sam-35.” Tulley started the process rolling by coordinating with the radio personnel.



“Sam-35, Go ahead.” Replied the dispatcher.



“Sam-35, we’re going tactical on Channel 4. Advise the Watch Commander and Community Hospital. Notify Mercy to roll an ambulance into the vicinity and stand by. I’ll need three more units to set up a perimeter between 4th and Orange and the 5th and Lemon area. The command post will be at Raincross Square.”



“Sam-35, copy Raincross. Watch Commander has been advised and will be enroute your location”.



Unfortunately for Sam-35, Batty Ben had seen enough cops for the day and was tiring of the game. Leaning out the second story window he rested the rifle on the sill and wetting his thumb like he had seen done in a cowboy movie, he wiped it across the front sight of the carbine. He didn’t know whether this was a cowboy ritual or whether it had some other significance, but it seemed to be the thing to do at the time.



Taking careful aim he deftly placed a solitary round through the windshield of Sam-35’s unit. This, of course, unnerved the occupant and caused a somewhat undignified exit from the unit to a hidey place behind another nearby black and white.



“JEEESUS H. KEE RIST!” shouted Tulley. “Get DOWN”! He gestured wildly to the other uniforms who seemed to be frozen in time, staring up at the open window with collective mouths agape.



“SAM-35…11-99, 5TH AND LEMON. SHOTS FIRED!”



“ALL UNITS, OFFICER NEEDS HELP, 5TH AND LEMON. 5TH AND LEMON. SHOTS FIRED.”



“Sam-35, have the units block off all adjacent intersections we’re pulling out of the immediate area. Have other units meet me at Raincross.”



Raincross Square was a large city owned building used for conventions and various social gatherings. It’s proximity to the current shooting scene was to the police advantage. In addition, the large underground parking lot was ideal for staging as many pieces of equipment as may be needed.



Batty Ben’s apartment was covered from all angles in the event he decided to leave of his own accord. In the meantime the planning on just how to get him out could take place in relative security right across the street.



“Lincoln 15, 10-8 enroute to Raincross.” Lincoln 15 was Lieutenant D.J. Morris, a 28 year veteran officer, who by virtue of his rank would become the tactical commander.



“Lincoln 15, copy. 1605 hours.” Responded the dispatcher. Time stamping each transmission during the operation would be critical to establish a timeline and event sequence reconstruction after the fact.



“Charlie 5 and Charlie 7 enroute to Raincross.” Now the Patrol and Detective Captains were going to respond to the scene for moral support. Protocol dictated that the ranking officer at any event scene would take command, but they were more likely interested in the entertainment value of the operation than for any practical purpose.



“Adam 10, 10-8 and enroute to the Raincross.”



“Charlie 6 and 7, and Adam 10, 10-8, 10-4, 1610 Hours.” The dispatcher dutifully recorded each response advisal. Now the Chief of Police had decided he wanted to get in on the action as well. The ante kept going up.



Within the next 30 minutes every ranking officer up to and including the chief were assembled at the Raincross parking garage. All had made the obligatory pass by Sam 35’s unit and uttered thoughtful comments about the impressive hole in the windshield.



While the brass were meeting and conferring, the apartment was surrounded by every available uniform in the city. Tulley was reduced to trying to reason with Batty Ben through a megaphone as no phone link was available to his apartment. The negotiations were not going well as Ben answered each demand to give himself up with a shot out the window.



After about an hour of this exercise in futility one of the perimeter officers appeared with a disheveled woman in tow.



“Sarge.” He called out to Tulley. “Hey. This lady claims to be the guy’s wife. Maybe she can help.”



Tulley put the bullhorn down and took the woman aside thinking there might now be a way out of this nightmare. She was a thin, pale looking woman; maybe 35 yet looked much older. Her hair was uncombed and streaked with gray. Her dress was a cotton print and looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month or two.



“I’m Sergeant Tulley.” He introduced himself to the woman. “Is this person in the house your husband?”



“Yes he’s my husband and he, he, he needs to take his medication because he, he, he thinks people are trying to hurt him if he doesn’t take it and please don’t hurt him because it isn’t his fault, you know, he, he, he needs his medication and he, he, he can’t help himself…”



The woman had a wild-eyed look and talked non-stop as fast as she could get the words out, waving her arms in sync with each, “he, he, he…”. Tulley realized she was as batty as Batty Ben and silently tagged her as, Batty Betty.



Leaning around the corner once again with the bullhorn Tulley called out to Ben.



“BEN! It’s the police again (somehow that comment seemed unnecessary. Who ELSE would it be at this stage of the game?). Ben. Your wife is here and wants us to get your medication to you. Come on down and let’s take care of things for you.”



Ben’s thoughtful response was another volley of rounds fired as fast as he could lever them out.



Obviously Ben didn’t care much for his wife’s concern for his welfare and Tulley had her removed safely from the scene.



At about this time Sam-27, Rob Bradley, had arrived at the department to make preparations for the watch 4, 7pm to 3am, roll call. He was hailed into the Watch Commander’s office by the only ranking officer not at the scene, Lieutenant Donelson.



“Grab every tear gas canister and box of ammunition you can load into your unit and take them to 5th and Lemon”, he instructed. “We have a barricaded sniper and it’s getting nasty out there.



Having done the same thing recently himself, Bradley was well versed in what could go wrong. He and Donelson started grabbing as much as they could carry and began to load the sole remaining Sergeant’s unit.



“How long has this been going on?” Asked Bradley.



“Since about 1530.” Replied Donelson. “He’s taken out Tulley’s unit and has been throwing rounds at the on scene people. They’ve tossed a lot of gas, but he isn’t moving. Looks like they’re going to need more. Probably gonna be a long night.”



“Got it.” Replied Bradley. He started the unit and raced away to the scene not more than a half dozen blocks away.



In the meantime SWAT had taken a position on all sides of the building and had effectively supplemented the uniforms. A sniper and spotter had been placed on the roof of the Unemployment office and had an unrestricted view of the entire rear of Batty Ben’s apartment.



The sniper was Sammy Abbott, an 8 year veteran officer, but relatively new to the SWAT team. He had dreamed of this opportunity ever since he graduated from the academy. Being accepted to SWAT was a lifelong desire for him. It meant he would actually have the opportunity to kill a bad guy and he knew if he got the chance he wouldn’t hesitate. As he lay on the roof of the building, scanning the rear windows through his scoped rifle, he wondered if he could get away with carving a notch into the stock, kinda like they did in the old west. He’d have to think about that.



In order to shoot the bad guy he had to be given clearance. His spotter would relay the information to the ground commander and if they had a target, and IF the ground commander decided it was worth the chance they would give him the go ahead to shoot. However, out of an abundance of caution a “Go” word had to be employed that was so unique it couldn’t have been mistaken for anything else. Following a near disaster a couple of years ago when the ground commander uttered the comment, “Ohh shoot”, which was mistakenly interpreted as, “Ohh, SHOOT”, it was decided to build in a safety feature.



The “Go” word was decided to be, “Pink Elephant”



So Sammy lay proned out on the roof of the unemployment office, legs spread wide for balance and his SWAT baseball cap turned backward looking all cool. Eyes glued to his scope, he scanned back and forth, murmuring quietly, “C’mon, baby. Show yourself, just once. Let Sammy show you how it’s done in the big city.” His spotter rolled his eyes wondering if maybe a transfer to traffic might not be a better career choice.



While the entire command staff of RPD was arguing about the best means to remove Batty Ben from the building, Tulley had managed to get several officers to evacuate the surrounding buildings likely to come within Batty Ben’s line of fire.



By now the entire block was an armed camp with only a few units left to patrol the remainder of the city. All non essential calls were being held until the tactical operation was over.



While the senior commanders haggled over the best means to breach the building Ben decided he was tired of waiting and made the next move.



He broke out the upstairs rear bedroom window just like in the movies and fired a couple of random shots down the alleyway. This of course put everyone into a panic and caused Sammy to squeeze off an involuntary round.



“PINK ELEPHANT!” He shouted into his headset. “GIMME A PINK ELEPHANT!! DO I HAVE A PINK ELEPHANT?”



Several voices tried to respond at the same time causing a blurred buzz on the radio frequency. Finally someone broke through and denied the shot. “NEGATIVE. NEGATIVE ON THE PINK ELEPHANT AT THIS TIME. Let’s get some tear gas in there.”



Of course giving permission to a tightly wound bunch of tactical people to shoot ANYTHING was tantamount to their winning the lottery. Almost immediately the front windows of the apartment could be heard shattering as several tear gas rounds were fired into the interior of the apartment.



Not getting any immediate results the second volley followed shortly thereafter. Soon white smoke was billowing from the broken windows and a familiar red glow could be seen emanating from the interior. Since tear gas canisters produce impressive flame and heat it’s predictable that out of 6 dozen or so fired into the apartment at least one of them would be likely to come into contact with some flammable object, which is exactly what happened in this case.



Sam 27 quickly pulled to the curb near the unemployment office and grabbed a couple of uniforms to help distribute the supplies. He could see billows of smoke coming from the front of the residence. Riverside Fire was in attendance from the standpoint that they were happy to observe from several hundred yards off through heavy lenses. The point being that as long as there was someone inside shooting it would be better if he were shooting at the police rather than the firemen. They reasoned that since it was a policeman’s job to be shot at anyway, why complicate the issue? Never mind the fact that the salary differential between the two departments was nil, and it wasn’t like the cops were getting paid exorbitant amounts of combat pay to be blue targets.



Working his way around the corner to the alley behind the surrounded apartment Bradley approached one of the SWAT officers intently watching the rear door.



“Waddaya think? Is he gonna come out? He asked.



“If he is he’d better hurry up.” The officer was Paul Elliott, a six year veteran officer who had been with the SWAT unit for just over a year.



“The house isn’t going to take much more before it’s totally engulfed.” He said. “If he stays much longer he’s gonna be a crispy critter.”



“Save us considerable grief.” Noted Bradley.



Bradley and Elliott were partially concealed behind the corner of an adjacent house and were not more than a few yards from the back porch of Batty Ben’s apartment. Smoke was now billowing through the rear door and broken windows, and the rest of the house was totally involved. Just when it appeared that time had run out, out ran Batty Ben, rifle in hand, coughing, shouting and complaining to whoever would listen.



Everyone guarding the rear exit was so surprised at Ben’s sudden appearance they were unable to immediately react. Everyone except Sammy, of course, who began to shriek, “PINK ELEPHANT! I NEED A PINK ELEPHANT!! GIVE ME A PINK ELEPHANT!!!”



Bradley and Elliott looked briefly at each other and immediately made a mad dash for Batty Ben while he was still trying to clear the smoke from his ruined eyes. Elliott whacked the saddle carbine out of Ben’s hands with the butt of his mini-14 while Bradley tackled him to the ground. In less than 10 seconds it was over.



Before anyone could react Batty Ben was handcuffed and being dragged down the alley to a waiting unit while an ever present Press photographer let off a series of strobe flashes from his camera that effectively destroyed the night vision of everyone within range.

Ben was whisked away to Riverside General Hospital where he was placed on a 72 hour psychiatric evaluation hold. It seems Ben was no stranger to the staff at General, having been there on several previous occasions.



As always seems to be the case, all of the command staff returned to the station each congratulating himself on his individually inspired leadership that allowed this dangerous situation to be resolved in such short order.



Sam-35 got a new windshield but nothing else. Bradley and Elliot never even got honorable mention in their next evaluation and the only memento of the entire event was the 8 X 19 glossy, black and white photograph taken by the press photographer.



The city paid about $150,000.00 for the demolished apartment building and contents.



Mei-Hua Ling and Bai Cho were forced to temporarily relocate to the student living quarters on campus where unrealistically strict and watchful chaperones saw to it that Mei-Hua’s rice noodle salad remained unstirred during her short lived tenancy.



Shortly following the disappointing climax of the incident, Sammy requested transfer back to patrol where he felt he might have a better shot at a notch in a place where he didn’t have to ask for permission to take out some miscreant.



Riverside went back to normal, at least for the time being. However, those sworn to protect and serve knew it would be just a matter of time before some other Cecil B. DeMille production would come to visit and