Tales From The Hood - Shelly Lynn

Tales From The Hood - Chapter 5 – Shelly Lynn


By Ron De Laby

Summer evenings in Southern California are known for their warm pleasantness. While the days can be brutal, once the sun goes down, the nights can be delicious. Teased by the Santa Ana winds, summer evenings are something to look forward to as evidenced by the numerous barbecues and pool parties that abound throughout the many cities.

Of course, the further one lived from the beach, the hotter the day and evening. Riverside was an example of this premise and was known to have only two seasons, hot and not as hot. Uniquely situated one hour west of Palm Springs, one hour south of Los Angeles, one hour east of the ocean, and one hour north of San Diego, Riverside was not unlike a hub. Of course it wasn't all good. As the Los Angeles smog drifted east in its daily march toward the desert, it managed to linger long enough in Riverside to completely obscure the view of the San Bernardino Mountains, also one hour to the north. Depending on the time of year, the smog could be choking. Adding to the problems was the fact that since Riverside was halfway to Los Angeles from San Diego, or for that matter, Tijuana, drug trafficking was rampant. It seemed like no matter where you wanted to go, you’d wind up passing through River City.

Caught in the middle of this hub were the officers of the Riverside Police Department. 300 strong they patrolled a city of over 98 square miles and protected a population of nearly 325,000 souls. Home to five middle schools, five high schools and four colleges, it wasn’t all tranquility base. An average of 30 homicides a year and a violent crime rate of 6.9 per 1,000 people kept everyone hopping.

While the black population, for many long years a serious problem with the P.D., accounting for the largest number of officer fatalities, had dropped in recent years to around 7%, the Hispanic population also a thorn in their side had risen to an astounding 44%.

Pool and barbeque partiers weren’t the only people who enjoyed the warm summer evenings. Like rats leaving their lairs, thieves and assassins of all colors and stripes ventured forth to prey upon the unwary. Accompanying the thieves and assassins were the occasional mental cases, known in police parlance as 5150’s, after the Welfare and Institutions code section specially set aside for said nut jobs.

It was on just such a warm and pleasant evening that a resident psychopath decided that he was tired of living and figured the easiest way out of his tiresome life was suicide by cop. Having come up with and discarded a half a dozen scenarios on how to entice the local uniforms into shooting him, he settled on initiating his own contact by employing a Sears and Roebuck, tubular fed, .22 caliber semi-automatic rifle into shooting at the overhead passing police helicopter.

What he failed to take into consideration was that overhead passing police helicopters are somewhat difficult to hit from any position on the ground. Getting no response from his miniature anti-aircraft gun, he chose the next course of action, which was to call the police emergency line and inform them of what he had just accomplished.

Police dispatchers are notoriously ill-tempered when informed by a citizen that he just attempted to shoot one of their charges. Taking such pronouncements personally, they are inclined to sick the dogs of war on said citizen, which is exactly what happened in this particular case.

However, being ever alert to the fact that the local newspaper monitored all radio traffic in their ongoing effort to get reporters and huge amounts of camera equipment to the scene of some emergency and thereby foul up the police response as much as humanly possible, dispatchers were careful to assign potential tactical operations by phone to the nearest field supervisor and let him make the decisions.

Sergeant Robert Bradley, an 18 year veteran, and a 10-year supervisor, was making his way southbound along Magnolia Avenue and preparing to clear for Code 7, or dinner to the uninitiated, when the dispatcher decided that he needed to get in on the excitement just presented to her.

“1 Sam 27”, she broadcast his call sign.

"Sam 27, Mag and Arlington." He replied, giving his location.

“Sam 27, 10-21 radio.” She said in a sweet singsong voice, giving him the 10 code designation for using a telephone.

"Crap!" Muttered Bradley. There was a 50-50 chance that 10-21 radio was not good news, and since he was just preparing to clear for lunch, it was a guaranteed hundred percent chance of being bad news.

He had just reached the 18 year benchmark a couple of months ago and since he couldn’t retire until 20 years were in he was in a virtual no man’s land. On top of that, the system was rigged in such a way that even with 20 years you had to be at least 50 years old to qualify. Since he came on the department at 21 and 2 months, he would still have another 9 years to tread water before they would release him.

My stomach will give out way before that. He thought.

He eased his black and white into the two-way left turn lane and made his way into the parking lot of Billie’s Sandwich Shoppe at Magnolia and Nelson. The spelling of shop always made him chuckle; as though the extra “p” and “e” made for better sandwiches.

Exiting the sergeant’s unit he made his way into the back door of the sandwich shoppe and signaled one of the waitresses that he wanted to use a telephone in the office. She waved at him, smiled and nodded, returning to wiping the counter.

Using his hand-held radio he called in a telephone number of the sandwich shop.

"Sam 27."

The dispatcher's response was immediate, "Sam 27 go-ahead".

"Sam 27, 3-9515".

As part of their initial training dispatchers learned that it was not necessary to hear the entire prefix to know approximately where in the city the phone was located. The number three at the beginning of the phone number sequence identified that particular phone as being in the north end of town, close enough from where her bad guy had called to know that Bradley was going to be her tactical supervisor.

"Sarge, it's Florence", she said when the connection was made. "I just had a 5150 call and tell me that he was shooting at Air-1. The callback number came from the Shelly Lynn Apartments, number 10. Don’t know if it’s legit or not, but, well, you’re it".

"Perfect", said Bradley. "Just what I need. All right, have the watch four units ‘87 with me at the front lot of RCC, routine". He emphasized the “Routine”.

RCC, or Riverside City College, was adjacent to the Shelly Lynn apartments and would make a good staging area. It also looked to Bradley like he wasn't going to eat this evening. His rumbling stomach reminded him that it had been a long time since food had passed that way and it wasn’t going to stand idle for much longer without creating some serious discomfort.

"Also, notify the watch commander that we have a pending tactical, and have the watch three supervisor meet with us at RCC. Ohh, and notify community Hospital ER to stand by for pending potential victims. With my luck someone’s going to wind up there sooner or later"

"We'll work off of Channel 4, and I'll let you know when we're ready to move."

"Got it, Sarge. Will do." Replied the dispatcher.

Working this watch was a two-way street, Bradley mused. On one hand the action was almost always guaranteed and the tight camaraderie of the shift was something money couldn’t buy. On the other hand it was a great party shift. One of the nice things about working 7:00pm until 3:00am in the summertime was the after hour’s parties, or “Choir Practices”, a term made famous by Joseph Wambaugh, a prolific writer of L.A.P.D. fame.

After getting off at 3:00 in the morning there wasn’t much else to do and it was a guarantee that NO one was going to be able to go home and go to sleep. Therefore, a few cases of beer were usually enough to wind down the tightest wound trooper. Also it was a great training lesson for new dispatchers who seemed to be drawn to the soirees like moths to a flame.

Bradley smiled as he recalled one such night of drunken debauchery a few years ago and the initiation of the then new dispatcher with whom he had just spoken, Florence Franklin. Florence soon thereafter, and forevermore was to be known as “Fellatio Flo”, or “EFF squared”.

It seems that Florence became enamored with the idea of working within the law enforcement circle while taking some police science courses at RCC. In short order she wound up being hired as a dispatcher, or fresh meat, as they were known to the inner circles.

She was a chunky little redhead with enough freckles to play connect the dots. Her main saving grace was her two biggest assets; breasts large enough that she had a perpetual lean to aft in order to keep from falling on her face. The fact that she was just tall enough to rest them comfortably on the dispatch console invited a constant stream of uniforms to volunteer to spend a tour of duty as complaint officers.

Of course it didn’t take long to get invited to a late night party at the river bottom, a particularly secluded and safe place to practice the fine art of train pulling. After a few boilermakers, made all the more potent each time by the resident bartender, Andy Johnson, Florence was feeling no pain, but was soon feeling the feeling she was getting from the attentive crew of blue suits, some of whom were down to T-shirts and shorts.

When Flo disappeared into the bushes with one of the young lions the line began to form on the left. The sounds of moaning, groaning and thrashing were too much for the semi-inebriated lot impatiently waiting and the line fell apart with every man for himself. Soon Florence was on her hands and knees and the valiant defenders of the public trust were doing their best to hermetically seal her from both ends.

Florence suddenly discovered her natural born talent. Having been a breast fed baby long beyond that time normally set aside for weaning, she reverted back to her childhood and fell naturally into the art of suckling. By the end of the evening she had hoovered the entire pack and everyone was lazily lying about with dreamy looks on their semi-awake faces. Florence burped contentedly from time to time and decided she had found a home.

Bradley could hear the call go out over his hand-held radio as he left the sandwich shop and walked across the asphalt parking lot to his unit.

"All watch four units 10-87, with Sam 27 at the front lot of RCC, routine."

Such a call, if monitored by the press weenies, could mean anything from a training session to a gab fest. Bradley was known to frequently conduct such large scale training exercises so it wasn’t all that unusual. It was a stalling tactic at best because if it hit the fan, everyone this side of Disneyland would know about it.

One by one the units acknowledged the assignment and began moving towards the meeting point from their respective beats. Within a few minutes, Bradley had acquired all five of his watch four units. Assembling them around the trunk lid of his unit he gave them the story.

"Radio just advised me that they received a call from a 5150 who claimed to have been shooting at Baker One. They traced him back to apartment 10 of the Shelly Lynn apartments." He said, as he gestured towards the apartments. “We need to find out what’s going on, but I don’t want to just send one guy in there to ask.”

"Let's set it up this way. Since it’s a ground floor unit it’ll make our job a little easier. Andy and Tim cover the rear windows. Bob and Manny take the front door with me. Mark, stay loose on the outside and be ready to go in either direction. We'll knock on the front door and attempt to make contact and see what the story is. Obviously we ratchet the situation up if the resident does anything squirrelly. We need to get inside as quickly as possible in case he really DOES have a weapon and neutralize him and the situation ASAP."

Everyone nodded in agreement and started moving into their designated positions.

Andy Johnson and Tim Willett had six and eight year’s experience, respectively, and had usually worked as radio car partners. Mark Dickerson was a ten year vet, and Bob Reeder and Manny Salbato had 8 and 9 years. No one on the watch four team had less than five years on the street. Since watch four was a cover shift between watch three and watch one, the swing and graveyard shift, it had become an unwritten rule that to even qualify to work the shift required a minimum of five years. Because of the hours, and days off, 7 p.m. to 3 a.m., with Sunday and Monday off, the watch four folks could expect to be in the thick of anything that occurred in the city and was known as the combat shift.

Unfortunately due to vacations and special assignments everyone was working single man cars tonight and that spread them out far too thin for Bradley’s comfort level. He would typically field 8 two man cars and felt they were too light even at that ratio.

Johnson and Willett had moved into position under the downstairs bedroom, sliding glass window. Bradley moved his black and white closer to the building and had no sooner stepped out onto the street when Johnson and Willet began to gesture frantically and call out to him, “Get down, GET DOWN!”

Not immediately understanding what they were trying to say, Bradley took another step in their direction and saw the sparks fly off the cement sidewalk at about the same time he heard the splanging whine of a ricocheting round. He was momentarily fascinated by the bright orange-yellow sparkle of the ricochet and stared in wonderment at why the sidewalk should suddenly change color in such a fashion.

“He’s shooting!” they called out to him. “Get back, He’s shooting”

Instantly returning to the situation at hand he sank quickly out of sight and duck-walked around the rear of his unit using the car for cover. Opening the trunk he began to drag out some return firepower. Sergeant’s units carried tear gas masks, baseball grenades and a couple of shotguns outfitted to fire the grenades. Grabbing one he slid it into the elongated cup attached to the muzzle of the shotgun making certain the “spoon” was inside the cup. He pulled the cotter pin thereby allowing the spoon to spring free and the firing pin to engage the primer as soon as the grenade cleared the cup.

He zig zagged quickly in a crouched run to a palm tree adjacent to the window. He could see the glass slider was open but the screen was still in place. The suspect had fired through the screen from a position in the darkened bedroom. He took aim at the window and fired the grenade. In theory the grenade would blast into the bedroom, ignite and fill the room with choking tear gas and smoke. Enough to drive anyone out into the waiting arms of the uniforms posted near the front door.

Of course everything works in theory and seldom in reality. By now Mark Dickerson had joined Johnson and Willet. All three were pasted solidly against a low brick wall below the window and were reasonably out of the line of fire from within, but were not able to move without exposing themselves. When the baseball grenade struck the window screen it bounced off and landed right in the middle of the three uniforms and began to merrily spin and spew a cloud of gas that completely enveloped everyone.

As is typical of budget conscious police departments, the tactical equipment had not been replaced since the war of 1812 and was so old and weak it was a miracle the grenade even cleared the cup in which it resided. While the chief, deputy chief and all division captains were rewarded with brand new, top of the line, take home cars every year, the line doggies had to make do with what was issued. Since there was a limited amount of tear gas grenades available, no one was able to practice with them to tell whether they worked or not. It wasn’t until the moment of truth did they learn the truth and by then it was truthfully, too late.

Gasping, choking and swearing the three officers scrambled back out of the widening cloud of gas in a dash to safety and clean air. Bradley stared in stunned amazement and realized that they were now going to have to try another approach.

As the gas dissipated a little the three officers took up positions with cover, but still in close proximity to the window. Johnson crept up quietly and in one movement rammed his hand through the screen and ripped it off the window leaving a good sized opening to feed in more gas.

Bradley tossed a baseball grenade to Dickerson who was posted behind the palm tree near the curb. He, in turn lobbed it to Willet, who was concealed behind a large bush, and who then tossed it to Johnson. Johnson pulled the pin and slammed it into the open window like a Lakers’ forward. Two seconds later he caught a second and shortly thereafter a third. Each of the baseball grenades having being handed off to him as though it were an egg toss contest. All three were slam dunked into the open window with no response from within.

By now the billowing white noxious cloud of tear gas was pouring out of the building as though the entire structure was on fire. Bradley had considered the possibility of overkill on the gas and then decided, “Screw it. The guy’s got a gun and he’s using it.”

It was now time to up the ante on this caper. Grabbing his hand held radio from his gun belt he mashed the talk key and very deliberately put out the call that would cause the sky to open and policemen to rain down in large numbers.

“SAM-27 SHOTS FIRED, OFFICER NEEDS HELP”

The call was immediately relayed by the dispatcher on all frequencies.

“All units, 11-99. 11-99. Shots fired at Shelly Lynn Apartments Magnolia and Terracina. 3 Robert 21 and Sam 32 copy?”

Units were talking over each other trying to respond and sirens could be heard approaching from all over the city.

“Sam-27, Sam-32, channel 4”

“Sam-32 on 4. Whatcha got?”

“Bill, we have a barricaded sniper in apartment 10, ground floor, facing Terracina. Set up a perimeter at the intersection on Magnolia and divert traffic away from the area.”

“Copy that, Bob. Do you need any more help at the scene?”

“Affirmative. Get me 3 or 4 more people up here. We’re going to have to evac the building.”

“Copy that. I’ll be there in about 2.”

Bradley glanced at his watch and realized in horror that it was now 15 minutes to 10 o’clock. RCC’s classes ended at 10:00pm and the parking lot, not 200 feet away, would soon be teeming with several hundred students, right in the line of fire.

Keying the mike switch again he began organizing the immediate scene.

“Sam-27. Have Mercy respond and take a position near the area. Also have RFD respond as well.”

“Sam-27, copy Mercy and RFD enroute.”

Mercy ambulance would definitely be needed if this moron got off a lucky shot, or if we have to take him out feet first. Thought Bradley. He didn’t even want to consider the possibility that one of his own people might need them.

Riverside Fire Department might be needed if the tear gas started a fire. He remembered all too well the fiasco at 5th and Lemon a few months prior, but then, that’s another story.

Three detectives from Vice and Narcotics scrambled up to Bradley and offered to help.

“We can start knocking on doors, Sarge, and help get some of these people evacuated from the building.’

Bradley decided he was going to need all the help he could get until the perimeter was secure. Looking up he could see the tear gas smoke billowing from the apartment. How long could anyone stay in there under those conditions? The gas was permeating everything and Bradley’s eyes burned even at some distance from the window.

“Okay, but take these.” he said, as he handed each of the detectives a gas mask. They each grabbed a mask and scrambled off to start trying to evacuate innocent tenants in case the place turned into the OK Corral.

Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. Even the best intentions can go sideways on such days as he soon learned. The detectives fanned out and put on the masks. They began knocking on doors to get the tenants out of the apartments, but soon realized what the tenants saw when they opened the door to frantic knocking wasn’t the image they intended to project.

The first tenant, Miriam Gilderstein, was an 87 year old widow. She had been sound asleep and was confused and disoriented when awakened by banging and muffled shouting. When she opened the door she saw a large bug eyed Martian with an olive drab face and wild kinky hair sticking out in all directions. This particular alien was obviously trying to pass himself off as a human since he was wearing faded Levis and an orange Hawaiian shirt, but he wasn’t fooling her. She screamed and slammed the door on him. He continued to pound away and she backed into the kitchen and armed herself with a broom.

Since Vice and Narcotics detectives have little luck in mingling with the doper crowd by wearing Brooks Brothers suits, they typically dress and groom like those they try to arrest. In other words the more they look like scumbags the better luck they have. What escaped everyone’s thought process was that putting the green rubber, WWII gas masks on over shoulder length hair and full beards did not command instant trust and believability from the elderly residents of the complex. In other words the evacuation was a complete failure.

In the meantime a large crowd of RCC students was forming in the parking lot a few hundred feet away. Attracted by the pretty flashing lights and all the sirens everyone thought this was infinitely more interesting than what they had just endured in class for the past three hours.

With the evacuation now a fiasco, Bradley needed some uniforms to repair the credibility and convince the tenants of a need for speed. He also had the entire RCC faculty and student body to contend with and the cavalry hadn’t yet arrived in sufficient numbers to be of any real value.

Two figures in civilian clothes were approaching from the street side and Bradley recognized them as the Detective and Patrol Captains, Croft and Mendez, respectively. As they approached and greeted him it was obvious they had been attending their own group meeting with shooters, Tequila shooters.

“Sergeant Bradley, wass goin’ on”? Slurred Mendez, the Tequila vapors wafting from him and across the parking lot to eventually merge with the CN gas and form pretty little miniature cumulonimbus clouds.

“Barricaded sniper, Captain. As ranking officer on scene will you be assuming command of this operation?”

“No, my boy. You’re doing just fine. Carry on.”

Both men continued their stroll back to their car, congratulating themselves on their ability to inspire the troops by their command presence.

Fat chance THAT had of working, thought Bradley.

Units continued to scream into the perimeter and were being directed by two watch 3 supervisors to various locations. There still weren’t enough bodies to contain the RCC onlookers, but there wasn’t time to deal with it. If the shooter decided to start taking potshots at the crowd the whole scenario could collapse into a major disaster just made for the Riverside Press headlines in the morning edition.

FORMER POLICE SERGEANT CAUSES THE DEATHS OF COUNTLESS INNOCENT STUDENTS!! FILM AT ELEVEN!!! Screamed the headlines in Bradley’s head.

Nope. Something had to be done, and NOW.

Getting the attention of his own troops, Bradley raised his right hand and pointed his index finger into the air in a circling motion signaling them to fall in on him.

“We can’t wait any longer.” Bradley explained to his men. Everyone grab a gas mask and let’s go in. Andy, kick the door and everyone file in one behind the other and hug the least obstructed wall. We’ll have to clear the place one room at a time. We can’t risk his using the people out there as his personal shooting gallery.”

Everyone nodded in agreement and began to file past the open trunk for the masks.

Once assembled in front of the apartment, Bradley gave the signal and Johnson rushed the door from about five feet. Catching the door just under the doorknob perfectly flat footed, the door splintered and gave way, embedding the door knob into the wall. The team filed forward on the double with each one holding the shoulder of the man in front of him. Once inside the visibility was absolute zero. Bradley entered last and upon taking his first breath began to choke and gag. He realized his gas mask; likely rejected by the South Kafiristan army, was holier than his ex-wife’s colander. His eyes bulged and he turned and ran from the apartment. Reaching the trunk of his unit he quickly strapped another mask to his head and returned to the apartment, now more deadly than the San Quentin gas chamber. Four steps and two breaths inside and he immediately reversed course.

As he staggered from the apartment the tear gas training class at the Riverside Sheriff’s academy last year flashed through his mind.

“Gentlemen”, the instructor began as he paced in front of the 40 students. “What we are going to experience today is unlike anything you’ve ever seen or felt before in your life.”

The students were from various agencies as far away as Palm Springs and Indio. They were all dressed in jeans and T-shirts and were told they would be experiencing the two main gasses used in law enforcement field situations.

“As you know, you are required to experience, first hand, the effects of these gasses before you are allowed to use them on the citizens of your respective communities. There are two basic chemical munitions commonly in use in our business, CN gas, or 2-chloroacetophenone, commonly found in your Mace canisters and the munitions you use in standoffs.

The main uses for 2-chloroacetophenone, are in tear gas and in chemical Mace. It is a potent eye, throat, and skin irritant. Acute (short-term) inhalation exposure of humans causes burning of the eyes with lacrimation, some degree of blurred vision, possible corneal damage, irritation and burning of the nose, throat, and skin, and burning in the chest with dyspnea. Acute dermal exposure is irritating and can result in first, second, and third degree chemical burns in humans. This exposure must be mitigated with clear water to prevent injury to your detainee.

Eyes glazed and heads were in danger of bouncing off the wooden desk tops.

The other is CS gas, or 2-chlorobenzalmalononitrile. There is a reason it’s called C.S., as you will soon learn. We will ignite a canister of C.S. gas out there on the firing range and you will run, at a slow trot, through the gas cloud for one pass. I strongly recommend you hold on to the person in front of you as the gas can be very disabling.”

No one believed him. Plans were made to get through the gas by holding one’s breath or closing one’s eyes. After all, how bad could it be?

40 men lined up in single file and the canister was ignited. Once the gas began to billow the instructor blew his whistle and the line began to trot forward. Within seconds the line broke and people were running blindly in all directions, falling down, choking, and gasping and searching for the water hose at the end of the run. No one made it through unscathed and 40 believers were baptized that fateful day.

Ahh, yes. He remembered it well.

By this time, his quavering, empty stomach decided to make good it’s promise to get even for the uncalled for starvation it had recently experienced. Leaning over the trunk of his unit Bradley retched up a half cup of bile onto the parking lot. After the third contribution the RCC crowd caught on and a loud cheer went up to celebrate his offering to the gods of disaster.

Bradley weakly regained his composure and started to return to the apartment when he saw his officers returning with someone. Their charge was an elderly black male subject who was handcuffed and loudly complaining about the treatment he was receiving.

“He was in the back bedroom on the left, Sarge.” Explained Willet. “The door was closed and the gas didn’t get into the bedroom until we forced the door and took him down. We didn’t find a gun and it’s too smoky in there now to see anything so we don’t know if anyone else is in there or not.”

By now the gas had begun to permeate the other apartments and people were rushing out onto the sidewalk only to be escorted away by uniformed officers. Two additional ambulances were needed to treat those affected. A by product was the shifting wind, which blew some of the gas cloud in the direction of the loudly cheering student body gathered in the parking lot. At first contact they scattered and ran in the opposite direction, dropping books, backpacks and paper. It was the highlight of the evening.

“Not so funny now, is it?” Chuckled Bradley, his stomach unable to decide whether or not a fourth round of vomiting was in order.

“Andy, get me a fire captain willya? We need some fans to clear this building as fast as we can.”

Bradley pointed toward the big red truck with the flashing lights occupying the corner of the parking lot.

“Got it, Sarge.’ He took off in a trot toward the gathered firemen.

A few minutes later he returned with a middle aged fireman with fire captain’s rank on the collar of his white short sleeved, uniform shirt.

“Jim Davis” he stated. “Battalion One.”

“Bradley. Good to meecha. Do you guys have some big fans to help suck out some of this stuff so we can clear the building?”

“Sure. We can set that up for you right away as long as the building’s secure.”

“We have one in custody” said Bradley. “I don’t know if there’s anyone else but I’ll have a couple of my guys provide cover for you while you set the fans up.”

Typical, he thought. We do all the dangerous stuff and EVERYONE loves Mr. Fireman. Go figure.

Under the watchful guard of the P.D. officers, the firemen strategically placed several large exhaust fans in the front door and windows of the apartments and began clearing the gas from the unit.

The process was fairly well completed by the time a half-hour had elapsed and plans were being made to reenter the unit.

Bradley huddled together with his men forming a circle under the overhead mercury vapor street lamp.

“OK, same plan. Single file, clear each room as we go and watch for the closets, beds or anywhere this idiot might pop out from. Questions? Concerns? Now’s the hour.”

Everyone glanced at each other and shrugged. It was as good an idea as any. They had to go in sooner or later so it might as well be now.

As before, Johnson took the point and they moved forward checking behind furniture and systematically clearing each room as they went. They were as quiet as possible, communicating only by hand signals as they secured each room.

Finally they stood by the closed door of the second bedroom. Since it was the one from which they originally took fire it was going to be a hot entry.

Johnson slowly turned the doorknob and gently pushed the door open an inch or so. Then with a sudden shove he slammed the door against the wall and entered to the left, gun pointed in a sweeping arc around the room. Dickerson was immediately behind him and went right utilizing the same moves.

It wasn’t until they reached the small single bed against the back wall did they see a figure crumpled on the floor between the bed and the wall.

Raising his hand in a clenched fist, Johnson signaled everyone entering the room behind him to instantly freeze.

Dickerson and Johnson each approached the subject and began to shout commands.

“Let me see your hands! Show me your hands or I’ll kill you where you lay!”

Nothing.

Johnson saw the muzzle of the weapon under the subject’s body and signaled to Dickerson what he had. They both jumped the prone suspect and Dickerson grabbed the rifle and wrestled it out from under the body while Johnson twisted the subject’s arms behind his back and cuffed him. There was no resistance.

As the lights came on Johnson was the first to notice the blood. He carefully rolled the suspect over on his back and relaxed his grip with a slump of his shoulders.

There was dried blood in a trail down the suspect’s mouth and a quarter sized portion of the top of his skull was clearly missing. He had placed the rifle in his mouth at some point during the standoff and pulled the trigger. The round exited the top of his head, killing him instantly. Splatter marks on the ceiling confirmed what they were seeing on the body.

Bradley moved in and squatted down on his haunches next to the dead sniper who had caused all the ruckus.

“Dumb ass son-of-a-bitch. Why didn’t you save me all this grief and shoot yourself first?”

He raised the hand held radio to his mouth and keyed the mike.

“Sam 27, Code 4. Notify the coroner’s office. Suspect is DOA.”

The dispatcher’s voice echoed off the walls as the announcement droned in the distance.

“KQR-573 to all units on all frequencies. Tactical alert is stand down. Repeat, Code 4. Unassigned units return to beat. 3 Robert 23 stand by for assignment. See the woman…”

The voice drifted off into obscurity as Bradley turned to his men standing over the body of the dead sniper.

“Good work, everybody. You guys were perfect. Let’s pack it up and get back to the station and get these reports written. If we can wrap this up in time I’ll buy and we need to have a debriefing session at the usual location.”

“Hey, Sarge.” Willet called out. “Can we invite Flo?”

“Sure, Tim. You bet. We need to invite Flo.” Bradley replied. ‘After all, she’s part of the team isn’t she?”.