Music City Mayhem
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Pat Ruger: Music City Mayhem
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About Me
I was born in Southern California but as of this printing, Nadyne, and I now reside in an RV, traveling the country with our Cairn Terrier, Lucy. I truly enjoy writing in the detective/mystery/crime/ thriller genres and now have several Pat Ruger mystery novels now released.
I also have several books of poetry and photography on the market and have been a Staff Writer for Poetic Monthly Magazine. My first poems were published when I was just 10 years old when two pieces submitted by a teacher were accepted by a literary magazine. I have since enjoyed writing poetry throughout my writing career.
Being able to weave mysteries was unexpected but understandable, considering my influences growing up. I have always had a penchant for telling stories and I really admired this quality in my uncle, Pat Wombacher. No, Pat Ruger was not modeled after my uncle...
Excerpt from the short story, “The Squatter,” a Pat Ruger prequel:
I knocked on the faded-red front door furiously. The screen was missing but its hinges were still intact. Nothing. I pounded on the door this time and heard a woman’s voice inside.
“Hold your horses, I’m coming!”
The door swung open revealing an older woman in a bath robe and a lit cigarette barely clinging to the left side of her mouth.
She spoke without grabbing the cigarette, “Who the hell are you?”
I thrust out my opened wallet showing my credentials and badge. “I’m Senior Detective Ruger with the Denver PD and this …” I nodded towards the young female officer standing just off the porch, “… is Officer Henninger. Ma’am, we need to get you evacuated.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
I could barely look at her without focusing on the waving smoldering cigarette held only by the corner of her moving lips. “Your next door neighbor… there’s a situation and it’s dangerous to be here.”
“That asshole? Figures.”
“What do you know about Mr. Walton? Does he live alone?”
“Yeah, but he has some chick come over all the time. She drives an old white Ford pickup, like a Ranger or something, and she never spends the night.”
I knew then I was speaking to the neighborhood busybody. “Anything else you can tell me?”
“Just that I’ve complained about his meth lab 4 or 5 times and this is the first time someone has asked me about him.”
“He has a meth lab in there? How do you know?”
“Please, I watch NCIS. I can tell when I see chemicals coming and going all the time, and once a week a van stops by that says, ‘Economy Plumbing.’ It backs up the driveway to the garage and they load it up.”
“You might want to put out that cigarette, then. There could be fumes coming from over there.”
The woman spit it out onto the porch and stepped on it with her pink house slippers. When she looked up, I could see the vast number of micro-wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She had probably been smoking most of her life.
I was annoyed that this information never got to me. Perhaps it was because she had cried, “wolf,” once too often. “What’s your name, Ma’am? I’m going to check on your complaints.”
“You mean that’s not why you’re here? Figures.”
“Your name?”
“Penny, short for Penelope, Penelope White.”
“Thanks, Miss White. Is there anyone else home?”
She shook her head. I again nodded to Officer Henninger, who helped Penny out of her house and to her squad car.
I pulled out my walkie-talkie and pushed the mic button. “Jimmy, we got a problem. He’s got a meth setup in there. Don’t approach him yet. We better wait for SWAT.” “Jimmy” was Detective James Stewart, like the actor and we all shuddered every time we had to introduce him. He was a bit sensitive and we never knew what we’d get. He was also the best partner I ever had.
“Ten-four, good buddy,” Jimmy replied between squawks. Even on a two-way radio Jimmy Irish brogue came through. “But SWAT is in Centennial right now. They’ll be a while, I think. A gang’s barricaded in a convenience store — with hostages.”
The last time SWAT had that type of call it had taken three days to resolve — we were on our own. This was a basic eviction made complicated by the type of “citizen” Walton was known to be, threatening police in the past, and now the possibility of a meth lab made entering the house precarious.
I met my partner by my Camaro. I usually drove a beater when I was under cover or on the streets, but this happened on my way to the precinct and I drove straight here. A few uniforms joined us and I went over the scenario with them. We would approach carefully, try to talk him out. “Take no chances,” I instructed. “Walton probably has firearms. Keep your cover and check your vests.”
Jimmy and I started up the walk and as we got to the stoop, a voice came from the house.
“Stop right there, Pigs!”
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