As though to emphasize that she was Police, she always wore her Police uniform, gun-on-the-hip and all.
She was adept at handling both politicians and the media and proved to be a good administrator of a very complex organization. Most officers respected her although some suggested, as men would, her name of Slumberjay implied she should have gone into the mattress and bedding business.
She had been married to a businessman in San Diego for nearly thirty years and they had two officer sons in the Army, both of whom were graduates of West Point.
Interestingly, Chief Slumberjay wore four stars on her uniform collars and “scrambled eggs” on her cap, as did most other Police Chiefs and elected Sheriffs. Even the local Chief of the Humane Society and a school’s Police chief wore four stars even though they had but a tiny number of Officers to command.
That was of course implying an importance for each of them equal to top Generals and Admirals, the heads of huge armies, air forces and navies; the defenders of gigantic nations. The Los Angeles County Sheriff even wore five stars, a la Douglas MacArthur who in World War II commanded many times as many men and women and was important in beating Japan.
Detective Charles Fredericks reported to Leslie that he’d had no success at all in locating a storage place that might house McCoy’s Orange Cab. He said he had yet nine “possibles” to check out.
“Keep at it, Chuck. That’s what detective work is. We’ve got to keep at it,” Leslie told him.
“Also Sergeant,” Fredericks said, “CSI told me this morning that although they used an evidence vacuum on the floor of that hallway where Williams was killed, they could so far find no strange hair or other evidence. That floor must’ve been really clean.”
“Chuck, someone simply came in, Williams went to see who it was and the intruder shot him. Maybe the guy knocked him down and shot him, but there were no blood splatters to be found on the floor or the walls. He might have been in and out of there in just seconds, I suppose. Strange. There’s always splatters of blood around from a gunshot wound. But none could be found by the CSI folks. That’s a puzzle. Well, we must keep on trying to find that McCoy fellow. He’s a definite person of interest in all those shot-in-the-face cases; especially since we’ve been told that he has a .22 caliber rifle.”
As Leslie began going over Fredericks’ list of possible storage places to inquire of, Lieutenant Dean came charging over to Leslie’s desk.
“Goddamnit! We’ve got ourselves another one of those sonsabitching .22 caliber homicides! Fredericks; right now, get your ass over to 25th and C Streets and start the investigation. Landlady just called and says there’s a tenant found with his eyes and teeth shot out. His room’s all torn to hell, she said. We’ve got other units on the way, too. Leslie can’t go to the field until the DA clears him on yesterday’s shooting so me and you’ll have to check it out. Here’s the address and apartment number. Go, Fredericks, go!”
As Fredericks scurried away, Dean told Leslie, “Well my friend, we’ve got a meeting in a few minutes here so I’ll be going over there after that. Damn, I’ll be glad when Detective Brian Alan returns to pitch in with this. I wish your eagle eyes could be looking at the scene but we know you can’t. Let’s go see what our Chief has in mind.”
Captain Noffsinger was already at the Chief’s office and he beckoned in Homicide Detail Lieutenant Patrick Dean, Robbery Detail Lieutenant Arne Borrelli, Lieutenant Oland Murray of the Burglary Detail and Detective Sergeant Leslie.
“She’ll be here in a second, gentlemen,” the Captain said and then they saw the tiny woman as she came in from her bathroom; as always, she was in her black police uniform.
“Please be seated gentlemen,” she said to the five and sat herself on the edge of her desk.
“Right off, Sergeant Leslie,” she began, “I want to congratulate you on your bold actions yesterday. I say ‘bold’, but your intention was of course to soothe that man and get him to lay down his weapon and surrender to you. I’ve listened to Captain Noffsinger’s recording of your account of what transpired and I’ve read Lieutenant Borrelli’s report of witness accounts. They jibe perfectly. You understand you are not to engage in fieldwork, of course, until the DA clears you. That should take only a short time, I’m sure. Okay Sergeant?”
“Yes ma’am; I understand the procedure.”
“I was told your bullet went through the man’s left bicep, entered his chest between a couple of ribs, tore through the left lung, clipped off that main artery called the aorta at the top of his heart, continued through the right lung and buried itself in his right bicep. I found it very interesting that – according to witnesses, now – I found it interesting that your shot sent the robber ass-over-teakettle across the room and flat on his back. Would you say that’s accurate, Leslie?”
“Yes Chief, because of the way he swung around in order to shoot me. I’d say he was sort of tilted over a little, in swinging around so abruptly to shoot. I was the most surprised guy in the world, for I was certain he’d obey and lay his gun down as I asked him to do. I know people committing crimes are very often on drugs or drunk and they can’t or won’t reason the way they should. This fellow was full of bravado with his terrible foul language and I imagined I could talk him down since I had him dead to rights and he knew that very well.”
“I see. In the recording, you said you thought it was a ‘suicide-by-cop’ thing with the man. Why’d you think that?”
“I supposed he had had enough of prison and didn’t wish to return to that hell. He surely has a long record.”
“No Sergeant Leslie, he did not have any criminal record at all. None. His get-away car was driven by his wife. Both of them were so on edge they thought it was Monday, not Sunday. When she was brought in, she talked her head off practically all night. He was an expert finish carpenter; you know, the expert that good builders trust to trim doors and windows and build stairways and such. But the building boom’s gone bust as everyone knows and he couldn’t find work.
“He was five months behind on his big mortgage, he had four kids whose education he no longer could pay for and he could hardly feed them. So in his desperation, a relative who had worked in Ham’s kitchen told him about how easy it would be to take their week’s receipts and all his financial troubles would be over. He was told an armored truck picked up a whole week’s receipts on Tuesday mornings after Monday’s accounting of it. Quite something, eh Leslie?”
“Chief Slumberjay, if all that’s intended to make me feel sorry for shooting him, it absolutely does not. He would not lay down his gun as I patiently asked him to do and in fact, he tried his darnedest to kill an Officer of The Law!”
“Dammit Leslie, don’t get hot now! I’m not criticizing you; not for a second. But now you know; the man was desperate and you know very well from previous experience there’ll be bleeding hearts out there making the most of it; and they’ll be implying you’re the bad guy, not the robber. Just be aware, that’s all.
“But you know, it reminds me of others of your cases. I’ll mention only two others. Remember that crazy drunk that shot you with buckshot and you returned fire and hit him in the neck and your shot damn near took his head off? Of course you could hardly forget something like that.
“And how about that idiot of a lad who was high as a kite on drugs and he came at you with a big butcher knife and you shot him in the leg. Well, that shattered the hell out of his knee and the doctors couldn’t save his leg. But you saved him from bleeding to death, I remember, by using your expensive, pretty silk necktie as a tourniquet until the paramedics came; the paramedics that you called so as to save his life. You remember those cases?”
“Chief Slumberjay, I remember them like they happened last week.”
“Do you see a pattern here, Sergeant Leslie?”
“A pattern, ma’am? I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“Let me see that pistol of yours.”
“Yes Chief,” Leslie said and wonderingly,
pulled it out from under his arm and handed it to her. “There’s a magazine with fifteen shots in the handle, but of course it’s safe as there’s none in the chamber.”
“Why don’t you carry it on your hip like other officers do, Sergeant?”
“Because Chief, it’s hardly ever noticeable under my arm. I try to speak softly and carry a big stick you see, because it gets suspects off balance, sometimes. And being under the arm, it’s a lot less easy and also less tempting for a suspect to try taking it.”
“Okay; I get it. I carried one of these goddamned cannons in Vietnam, Leslie. I was an MP there. Where’d you get this Army Colt Pistol caliber .45? It’s not department issue.”
“It was my father’s, ma’am. In a particular battle in Vietnam he was the Platoon Sergeant of a Marine Corps outfit that the North Vietnamese had nearly wiped out. His Platoon Commander was killed and when the battle was ebbing, as he told me, he spied an enemy command post fairly close by. The enemy apparently thought the whole platoon was dead although in fact, he and four other Marines, all of whom were wounded, were still alive. So he took the Lieutenant’s .45 and crawled through the jungle and amazingly killed a Colonel and four Lieutenant Colonels of the North Vietnamese Army. His Division Commanding General gave him the pistol to keep and the Navy Cross Medal for his aggressive bravery.
“He never did tell me why he didn’t carry his M-16 rifle for that amazing mission, instead of the pistol. But he carried that pistol on his hip for the rest of his career in the Marines until he decided later, as a Police Officer, I needed it more than he did.”
“That’s one helluva damn good story, Sergeant. I can tell you why he used that .45 for such a mission then. It was because those brand new M-16 rifles at first jammed often and became useless. They drove us nuts. This pistol was much more dependable for close-up firing. You’d have to get one damn awful dirty to jam it up.”
“Oh, I hadn’t realized that, Chief.”
“But don’t you get it, Sergeant? This goddamned artillery piece here is a weapon of war! It’s too damn powerful for the streets. That’s why we issue those .38 caliber – no, 9 millimeter, they say now – those 9 millimeter Glocks to our police officers.
“Lieutenant Dean, I want you right now, right this very day, to issue this fine, brave officer one of our Glocks. Sergeant Leslie, you are to take this .45 caliber cannon of your hero father’s home and mount it behind glass or something. But you are not to carry it ever again as an officer of the law. Understood?”
“Loud and clear, Chief Slumberjay.”
Chief Charlene Slumberjay said she would make a personal appeal to the District Attorney – also a female – to expedite the Tom Ham’s shooting investigation so “our best brain in the Homicide business can get back to work.”
The meeting ended and Lieutenant Dean presented Leslie with a 9mm Glock pistol, in use by all the other Officers in the Department. It held seventeen shots in the handle, two more than his .45 although military regulations called for merely a seven shot magazine in the handle. The new pistol fitted well in his shoulder holster.
“Jack, I want you to take the afternoon off. Go out there to the Home and Federal firing range and blast away until you’re comfortable with this here Glock,” Dean said. “It’s not really so different, but it weighs less and has a bit less kick to it. And don’t you goddamnit shoot nobody for the rest of the goddamned day; hear me boy?”
“Thank you sir,” Leslie grinned, “I’m going to put my dad’s great big giant artillery piece away, have lunch and then do a little practicing.”
Leslie ate a sandwich in his condo and placed the .45 in the top drawer, laying it just so – as his father would have done - next to where his dad had slept.
The whole cabinetry was eleven feet wide, with three-foot wide lower and upper cabinets flanking the centerpiece and the five-foot wide queen bed. There was a walk-in closet each side of the room and an adjacent bathroom. He stood staring at it for a while and thought, why not put it to use? Beginning that night, he would sleep right there where his dad had slept. Why not?
He spent the afternoon in target practice, getting familiar with his new weapon. He liked it and found it to be quite accurate, lighter than the .45 and easy to shoot.
He stopped in the Headquarters office to find out what Lieutenant Pat Dean and others had discovered in the latest murder/burglary.
“Leslie,” Dean said, “the one on 25th Street seems to be practically identical with the first three .22 caliber homicides. The poor devil was shot up in that usual ugly, grisly way and the place was ransacked to a fare-thee-well. No computers, TV, hi-fi, or jewelry was there; we could find not a penny in the place. Landlady said the guy had at least two guitars, but they’re gone. Guess none of the victims had really big TV’s or we’d have to think there’s more than one perp.
“How he gets all that stuff out without notice is another question we have.
“The medicine bottles were all emptied but CSI thinks that among the aspirins, there was some meth powder. They’ll have to check ‘em. We can bank he left no prints. Nobody didden see nothin’ nor hear nothin’, as is per the usual in our business. How’d you do on the range?”
“Okay, I suppose. I was used to that .45, but the Glock’ll do, especially if I don’t try to hurt anyone, Lieutenant,” Leslie grinned.
“Now now, come on. That 9-millimeter will hurt plenty. It’s just not going to decapitate people or take their goddamn legs off. Got any new ideas on these .22 caliber homicides?”
“Not really, sir. I think you ought to have Chuck check daily with the Orange Cab dispatch service to see if they’ve heard of McCoy. He’s doing a good job of checking those storage places, although that’s sort of a shot in the dark. I have really strong feelings about this McCoy fellow. No evidence; just a really, really strong hunch.”
“Sure, sure. We’ll have to do a helluva lot better than that, of course. Well Leslie, have a good evening off.”
Driving home, his Blackberry took him by surprise again, ringing in his shirt pocket. He pulled over to the curb and saw it was Ronica’s number calling.
“Yes ma’am, what may I do for you?”
“Oh hi, Jack. Little Anne and I were here just now about to fix dinner and I was sort of wondering if maybe you’d like to join us. That is, if you like spaghetti. Do you like….?”
“I’d love it! I was about to enjoy peanut butter and jelly, but spaghetti sounds nearly as good.”
“Nearly as good, eh?”
“Actually Ronica, you could feed me sawdust and I’d love it. When shall I come? Right now? I’m about a mile away.”
“Sure; come on over. You know how to get in the garage and where to park, so we’ll see you shortly.”
Leslie knocked on apartment 601 and Little Anne opened the door. Obviously “over-acting”, she bowed low and waved him into the place.
“Sir Knight in Shining Armor, pray enter our humble castle.” she said.
“That’s the best invitation I’ve had in several minutes,” he smiled at her.
The lady of the house was waiting in the kitchen and she was laying plates on the island counter as he came in. “We always eat here,” she told him. “Do you mind?”
“With such a lovely smile to greet me, fair one, I’d be glad to eat right off the floor.”
“Oh now, stop that,” she smiled at him. “You can wash up in there,” she pointed to her bedroom.
There seemed nothing unusual about her bedroom, it being done in pale blues all over, even to wallpaper with soft, wide blue stripes. The bathroom had an assortment of cosmetics laid neatly on the sink counter, as one might expect of a lady’s bath. Both were nicely furnished.
Leslie returned to find a cup of coffee, a salad and plate full of spaghetti, Italian sausage and garlic toast where he was to sit. Little Anne sat on the left side of the island and Ronica to his right.
They had barely began eating when the girl said to her mother, “Mom, I saw Mr. M
cCoy today.”
Leslie stiffened to hear that. But the girl would have no way of knowing how interested he was in that man.
“Really, Dear? Where’d you see him?”
“I was walking home on First Avenue with two of my friends from school and there he was on a bus bench. Mr. McCoy said ‘Hi’ to me and I sat down with him while my friends walked on. He looked real tired. He was only carrying a simple shoulder bag as he usually does. I never did ask him why he carries one the way a lady carries a purse.
“But he asked me about my homework and then he helped me right there with my algebra. Right there on the bus bench. He’s a better algebra teacher than that lady in school. He makes clear what is sometimes such a mystery to me,” Leslie heard the little one say.
“Was that all you talked about? Just algebra?” her mother asked.
“Oh no. I told him about your friend being shot. I told him he was only just a friend from your work; that he came down here on business from Los Angeles. Mr. McCoy wanted to know all about it. I told him about Sergeant Leslie here investigating the case and that you and I went to Tom Ham’s later with him and the Sergeant had to shoot a robber there, practically, like, right in front of us.
“And then that we went to his house for a while and that we both liked Sergeant Leslie a very, very great lot. But then, you had said that you felt you knew Sergeant Leslie already since his late wife had talked to you about him all the time,” Little Anne said.
“My oh my, you had quite the conversation then,” her mother put in.
“Well mom, he wanted to know about your friend being killed and I had to tell him I didn’t actually see him although it happened right outside my bedroom. And that the body was gone by the time I got up. He wanted to know all about the guy getting killed and I couldn’t tell him very much except about you forgetting the wine you bought and you had to go back and get it and the guy was dead on the floor when you got back.
The .22 Caliber Homicides: Book 1 of the San Diego Police Homicide Detail featuring Jack Leslie Page 9
