by David Putnam
Harold pinned my arms to my sides and squeezed. Blood pressure immediately flushed my face and bulged my eyes. I wouldn’t last but a few seconds before total collapse and game over.
Borkow giggled like a little girl. “You see, Payaso? Harold is my Goliath.”
I couldn’t move my arms, but I could still move my hand and wrist. Harold’s face was inches from mine. His heated breath smelled of soured vanilla protein drink.
I pulled the Bulldog and stuck it in his gut. I forced out the words, “Say goodnight, Harold.”
I pulled the trigger. The discharge was muffled by muscle and the closeness of our bodies.
Harold lost his idiot smile, traded it in for confusion. He should’ve dropped me, but he held on and renewed his squeeze. Stars appeared in my vision that turned into flickering bright lights. I pulled the trigger three more times trying to blow the monster off me.
The fourth round did it. Those .44 specials did their work and turned his organs to mush, shutting him down. His grip eased. I fell to the floor and almost lost the Bulldog. The Bulldog only held five. I’d used one too many. I still had Borkow and Payaso to take down with one round left.
My vision started to clear but not fast enough. My head lolled to the side, and I couldn’t raise it up. I tried to shake off the near delirium.
Payaso pulled a short-handled sledge that had been under his shirt hooked in his belt. He came for me, expressionless. I raised the Bulldog and shot him center mass, six inches below his chin. He wilted straight to the floor.
I pointed the empty Bulldog at Borkow, who had turned and started to flee. “Don’t. Stay right there or I’ll shoot you in the back.”
He froze and turned around, fear in his eyes.
I tried to roll to my feet and couldn’t. Harold had broken something inside me, ribs, or herniated some disks, something. My legs wouldn’t readily respond. I floundered like a fish.
Borkow said, “Wait. Why didn’t you just shoot me like those two idiots? I think you’re empty, Mr. Bailiff. Is that correct? Are you out of bullets, in your chickenshit little gun?” He turned with the knife in hand. “You’ve ruined things. Now I’ll to have to drive that rattle-trap myself all the way down to Costa Rica. You’re going to pay dearly for that.” He pointed the knife at Olivia. “But her first.” He walked toward her. “I have to get out of here. Someone had to have heard all those shots. Too bad, I would have liked to take my time with—”
Gunshots to the right came from the broken-out window. Loud explosions that made Borkow’s body contort and jump. The heavy rounds slapped into his body and backed him up until he tripped over his feet and fell.
Twyla stepped through the broken window with one of my .357s smoking in her hands.
Silence ruled the day.
Twyla let the gun sag and hang from her hand. “I’m glad I killed him. I’m not sorry at all. I’m glad I did it. He killed Lizzette.”
She must’ve picked up the gun I’d dropped in the street when I’d confronted those thugs on 10th, just before she fled.
Twyla looked over at me for moral support. “I didn’t think I could. But I did. I’m not sorry for doing it, Detective Johnson. I’m not.”
“Twyla, it’s okay, it’ll be okay. You did the right thing. Can you please cut my daughter loose?”
She looked over at Olivia. “Sure.” She went to Olivia, still rambling. “Borkow, that asshole, he didn’t have to kill my friend Lizzette. He killed Lizzette, Detective. He left her in my garage for me to see. He didn’t have to do that. I told Frank where to find Borkow thinking he’d be strong enough to take care of him. When he didn’t, I … I …” She was in shock from having killed someone and rambled on.
She got the tape off Olivia’s mouth.
“Popi?”
“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
Twyla cut the tape off her hands and the one long piece strapped around her waist holding her to the chaise. Olivia hurried over to me. “Oh, Popi, I’m so sorry.”
“I know; me, too,” I said. “I’ve been a complete fool. It’s me who should be sorry.” I put my hands on her arms and face and head, not believing she could actually be unharmed. “Are you okay?” Tears burned my eyes. What did pregnancy matter? She was still alive.
“I’m fine, Popi, you saved me.” Tears ran down her cheeks.
Twyla stood there with the gun in her hand.
“Help me up.” Both women got me to my feet. The temporary paralysis had started to fade. Olivia stayed close with her arm around my waist. She wasn’t scared of me anymore.
I took the gun from Twyla’s hand.
“I am going to prison, aren’t I?”
“No, not at all. This is my gun. I’m the one who shot him. You understand? I’m the one, not you. Now you better get out of here before the police arrive.”
“Really? You’re not kidding?”
“Really. Get going.”
“Thank you, Detective Johnson.” She started to run for the open hole she’d come through and detoured over to the wall of shoeboxes. She pulled the tops off, going through them quickly, picking out six boxes, almost too many to carry. She loaded them up in her arms and fled.
She exited out the hole. Seconds later, in came Dad. He shook his head in wonder at all the carnage and death. “Oh, my dear Lord.”
He saw Olivia in my arms. A huge smile filled his face. He hurried over and joined in the hug.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In August of 1995, San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Department had the largest jailbreak in its history. The record still stands today. The conspiracy, the organization, and its execution was stunning. Suspects on trial for separate murders used accomplices armed with cordless drills to take out a window in the visiting area of the jail.
I had left the Violent Crimes Team and was working a major narcotics crew at the airport investigating smuggling cases. Two weeks into the massive manhunt, all six of the suspects were still at large. I was called back into service on the Violent Crimes Team to run them to ground. I convinced my captain at the time to offer a reward. When he hesitated, I asked him the cost of all the overtime for the fifty or sixty deputies involved in the manhunt. He agreed and it worked. It took another ten days to track down the first murder suspect. My partner and I caught up with him in a county section of Los Angeles. The suspect was death row eligible and had nothing to lose. He had been the one to behead a woman in front of her five-year-old daughter. A violent confrontation ensued in the parking lot of a popular family restaurant. There were four of us—two uniforms from another agency we’d called in to assist—trying our best to take him into custody. He wasn’t a large man, but he had fear and desperation on his side. You would think four highly trained officers could subdue one suspect without too much of a problem.
He broke through every pain compliance hold, he resisted blunt-force trauma, and pepper spray had no effect. The fight turned so brutal, people driving by on the street started honking their horns. They didn’t understand the situation and, of course, mistook the absolute need to take the suspect in hand to protect the public. With four officers on him, he wasn’t losing and we were not gaining the upper hand. He continued to sock and kick and bite. We were taking a beating as well. At one point, my partner, near exhaustion, stepped back and drew his gun. He yelled to stand clear. He was going to shoot him. That was how desperate our plight had become. We couldn’t take a chance that the suspect might get away.
We ultimately tackled him one last time and took him to the ground, where he ran out of steam. It was amazing, for the amount of force used, that he came away without any major injuries, no large bones broken. But the next day, he was hardly recognizable from the soft tissue injuries. One of the officers from the assisting agency was a probationer and he lost his job over the incident, a sacrificial lamb tossed out to placate a ruthless media. It was grossly unfair, the loss of a career over something that had to be done. The murderer had given us no option.
Wh
en I went to the department to secure the reward for the informant who’d led us to the suspect, like in any bureaucracy, the deputy chief balked. I was angry—it was my promise they were going back on. The informant threatened to go to the press. The words the informant used almost sounded as if he’d been coached. The informant was later paid in full.
The other five were eventually taken into custody. One of the captures will forever be memorialized on video. One of the popular reality cop shows on TV rode with the team. The suspect was in the attic when the relatives swore he wasn’t in the house. He had a gun—a very dangerous situation. The attic was filled with pepper spray. The suspect moved around and fell off the support beam and through the dry wall ceiling. He hung down in the hallway, his legs dangling. He surrendered.
AND ABOUT THE OTHER THING
During one segment of my career, I had the opportunity to work with a detective who told me about a boyfriend she once dated. This man had a sexual proclivity involving women’s feet—a real fetish. He loved the shoes women wore almost more—maybe even more—than the women. A woman’s shoe catalog did the same for him as a soft porn magazine. To add a little color to Louis Borkow, I gave him a bit of that same shoe fetish.
