M-9

by Marvin J. Wolf

  “Let’s wait in here,” the elder Spaulding said and led the way to a paneled family room with comfortable chairs, a big flat-screen television, and a wet bar. Will followed his mother to the kitchen.

  “What are you drinking, Rudy?” Arthur asked.

  “I guess I could handle a small whiskey,” Chelmin replied.

  “Bourbon or Scotch?” Spaulding asked.

  “Scotch, then. Neat.”

  “Single malt or blend?”

  “Does everybody get the VIP treatment here?” Chelmin asked, smiling.

  “Single malt it is,” Spaulding returned.

  Will returned, carrying an open bottle of Amstel Light, and sat down near Chelmin.

  The Chief poured a healthy jolt of Laphroaig Triple Wood into a glass, poured half as much into a second glass, and offered the first one to Chelmin.

  The CID agent took a sip, savoring the peaty flavor.

  “Rudy, do you know how far you were from those Salvadorans when you started shooting?”

  Chelmin swallowed. The last thing he wanted to do was offend Chief Spaulding, but he was not the sort of man who liked talking about taking a life. It was nothing to be proud of. Yet in the last forty-eight hours he had killed four men, including a sniper, a bank robber, and two of the three who attacked the Criminal Courts Building. His conscience was clear; Chelmin was satisfied that he had done only what was necessary. But aside from his hitch in the Marines, he had killed only one other man, and that was in a gunfight, two agents against six armed hijackers.

  “I remember that it was quite far,” Chelmin said.

  “San Berdoo police say they measured from the flattened grass where you went down to the RPG gunner’s feet, and it was just over 198 yards.”

  Chelmin took another sip of his whiskey.

  “I’d rather they’d surrendered,” he said. “There was no cover or concealment, and I had only six shots. Had to make them all count. I’d say it was mostly luck.”

  Will, who had been drinking beer, almost choked. Beer gushed from his nose as he laughed.

  “Mr. Chelmin, I never heard of anyone who could shoot two armed men with a pistol in the head at that range, one shot each. I’d say it was more about skill and practice than luck.”

  Chelmin took another sip of his whiskey.

  “How is it that you got to be such a good writer?” he asked, giving Will a hard stare.

  Will flinched. “Uh, it’s just something I like to do,” he said, “since high school, anyway.”

  “Will was the quarterback on the Barstow High football team,” Arthur said. “In the third game of his sophomore year, he broke his right leg. That was the end of his season. My wife, Beth, is quite a writer herself. Essays in all the ladies’ magazines, used to write a Sunday column for the Desert Chronicle. And she undertook to introduce Will to writing.”

  Beth returned from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron. “While his leg was in a cast,” she said, “the poor boy had too much time on his hands. All he wanted to do was play video games. And Scrabble. And crossword puzzles, word games. Instead of just sitting around amusing himself, I encouraged him to write about his experiences.”

  Will nodded his agreement. “I liked it right away. For a while, I thought that I might like to be a newspaper reporter or an author,” he said. “Then I found out how hard it is to make a living that way. But I enjoyed writing. Once you've written something, it just seems natural that you want people to read it.”

  Chelmin took another sip of whiskey. “Did you know young Prinze before you arrested him?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Will said. “You missed my testimony when Mr. Swartz asked me that. Anyway, everybody knew Taylor. He was the town bully. Two years ahead of me in school. He was the quarterback until I joined the team. The day Coach Zalman promoted me to quarterback. After practice, Taylor shoved my head into a toilet. Another time, after practice, he grabbed me from the boys' shower and threw me into the girls' bathroom naked.”

  “You never told us about that,” Arthur said.

  “Nothing to concern yourself with.”

  “Was it just you,” Chelmin said, “or was he that way with other people?”

  “He wanted what he wanted. If you got in his way, he’d move you. Coach benched him because he didn’t keep his grades up. Taylor beat up two teachers because they wouldn’t give him a higher grade.”

  “Why wasn’t he arrested?” Chelmin asked.

  “His dad paid the teachers off. And the principal. They refused to testify.”

  “And after he finished high school?”

  “He went away somewhere. I never asked, and nobody ever said. Maybe he went to college. He came back to Barstow about a year ago.”

  “Did you ever arrest him before that night?”

  Will shook his head. “I know he got a lot of traffic tickets. And he was picked up for drunk and disorderly two or three times, but by then I was a detective and off patrol.”

  Beth returned, beaming. “Let’s eat,” she said.

  Forty-three

  “Tomorrow,” Chelmin said as he drove his rental car back to the Bunkhouse. “I want you to write up a report about the bank robbery, including the attack on the gas station, and a second report on the Criminal Courts attack.”

  “Sure,” Will said. “What about the sniper attack?”

  “Yes, write that one up, as well. Write them like any police report, but tell it from my point of view.”

  “So, I won’t file a report under my name?”

  “My report will cover both of us. Which leads me to a little guidance: When you write up the bank robbery, do not mention that you were carrying a gun.”

  “But I shot one of the robbers three times!”

  “And because he was wearing body armor, you succeeded in knocking him down. So just write that you knocked him down, not how you did it.”

  “Yes, sir. Can I ask why?”

  “Because you haven’t had one lick of Army firearms training. I know that you are qualified to carry a firearm as a California peace officer. But I don’t want to have to explain, in writing, how it is that you were armed, whose gun it was, that I authorized you to carry it, and that you were functioning in the capacity of a civilian police officer. Trust me, that’s a can of worms that I don’t want to open. When you go through basic training, you’ll qualify with the Beretta M-9 pistol. Then, and only then, will you be authorized to carry a handgun while on active duty.”

  “The right way, the wrong way, and the Army way?”

  “So, you have learned something,” Chelmin said, chuckling. “While you’re resting and writing, I’m going back to San Berdoo to see the prisoner, the one I shot in the knee. Don’t forget to put him in the report. If there’s time, I may go down to Santa Ana.”

  “What’s in Santa Ana?”

  “It’s the seat of Orange County, and it has an FBI office. They should have some familiarity with the M-9 and other Salvadoran organized crime outfits.”

  Forty-four

  “Darwin ‘Travieso’ Maldonado,” Chelmin said, laying a color photo of the dead man on the table in front of him.

  “Age twenty-two, dead of a gunshot wound to the head.”

  The prisoner glanced at the photo, then looked away.

  “Franklin ‘Felon’ Flowers.” He laid the second photo in front of the prisoner. “Age twenty-six, gunshot wound to the head—dead.”

  The prisoner looked at the photo for an instant, then away.

  “Gino ‘Pelon’ Rivera.” Another photo was laid before the prisoner.

  “Dead at twenty-three, gunshot wound to the head.”

  Again the prisoner’s eyes flicked over the photo, then away.

  “And Guillermo ‘Rubio’ Mejia,” Chelmin said as he slapped the last photo in front of the prisoner. “Shot in the head, dead at age twenty. So you’re the lucky one, Wilber. You’re in jail, your knee is busted up, but you’re still alive.”

  Wilber "Flaco" Portillo wa
s a short, heavy kid with small, hooded eyes and bad skin. Chelmin had looked at his police record: At nineteen, he was convicted of burglary, for which he drew a suspended sentence, and he had then served a year for a stabbing. Now, he looked at the photos, one by one, and then at Chelmin.

  “What about Spider?”

  Chelmin took out another color photo. “Kelvin ‘Spider’ Santiago. Burned over sixty percent of his body. In a coma. Not expected to survive.”

  Portillo looked briefly at the photo, flinched, then looked back at Chelmin. “What happened to him?”

  “He was too close to the RPG when Flowers fired it.”

  “Hey, I know you,” Portillo said. “You the one-shot me and Rubio at the bank,” he said. “Who got the others?”

  “Ojo Muerto Huru,” Chelmin said, deadpan.

  “So that’s you? Dead-eye Dick?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You shot me with a six-gun, Dead-eye. You shoot them with a six-gun, too? Why don’t you use a nine, like a Glock or a Browning?”

  Chelmin shook his head. “I’m not here to talk about guns. I came to tell you that you will be charged with bank robbery, assaulting a federal officer, and resisting arrest.”

  Portillo shrugged. “So what?”

  “So, you’re looking at twenty years on the bank job. This will be your third strike. The prosecutor can ask for life.”

  “Life? I didn’t shoot nobody. Nobody got hurt in that bank. They can’t give me life.”

  “You went into a bank with a loaded automatic weapon, took money, and you came out shooting. That’s twenty years. If you’re tried by the state of California, they’ll add your breaking-and-entering and your assault with a deadly weapon. Three strikes.”

  “What you come to tell me? That I’m a bad boy and I’m going to jail?”

  “I came to tell you that all your compadres are muerto and that I’m the only guy that can help you.”

  “How does that work, dead-eye?”

  Chelmin produced his badge. “I’m Army CID. A federale. Bank robbery is both a state and a federal charge. I can get you charged in the federal system, where your two previous convictions won’t count for sentencing. And if you cooperate with me, I can get you a reduced sentence. Seven years, out in maybe five if you stay straight and don’t fuck up in prison.”

  Portillo looked down at the table. “I ain’t no rat. I don’t care about prison. My homies will protect me.”

  “A punk with a gimp knee, the only one in the crew who wasn’t shot dead or burned alive. The one who was in police custody for twenty-four hours before the last three got it. What will your bosses think? That maybe you talked to the policia, and that’s why everyone else in your crew died?”

  “But I didn’t know what El Jefé would do next. I couldn’t say nothing I don’t know.”

  “So, we let you go. Drop you off in front of the Federal Building in Santa Ana. Put some money in your pocket. Some nice clothes. Then what? You go home to your mama? You won’t make it to the bus stop.”

  “What do you want, Huru?”

  “Tell me about the RPG. Where did that come from?”

  “You got a cigarette, Huru?”

  “I quit. You should quit, too. Now tell me about the RPG.”

  “I never saw it but once. Felon showed me. In the back of a truck.”

  “Whose truck was that, Portillo?”

  Portillo shrugged. “Maybe it was the Marine’s truck?”

  “What Marine was that?”

  Again the prisoner shrugged. “He don’t tell me a name. Just that he got a Marine, and they gonna steal a rocket launcher and some machine guns.”

  “It was Flowers who told you that?”

  “Yes, Felon. The jefé of our crew.”

  “Talk about the truck, Portillo. The one with the RPG.”

  Again the shrug. “It was dark outside. I think it was white. Not so big. Maybe a Ford, or a Chevy, or one of them Jap trucks, Nissan or Toyota. I don’t know.”

  “Why did Flowers want to steal an RPG?”

  “We could sell that for a lot of money. Flowers said maybe $50,000. Even more.”

  “And he got it from a Marine?’

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “You ever see the Marine?”

  Portillo shrugged again. “You really don’t have a cigarette, just one maybe?”

  Chelmin sighed. He wanted a smoke. He shook his head.

  “Why did Flowers use the RPG to blow up a gas station?”

  Portillo giggled. “He don’t want to blow up that gas station, fool. He want to kill the cop in the Camaro.”

  “Why?”

  “That was the deal. See, first, the Marine said he’d give us 500 Oxy if we’d cap the cop.”

  "OxyContin?"

  “Yeah. Very smooth high. All the gringos like Oxy. You should try it.”

  Chelmin flashed back to the explosion that took his lower leg, to his month on a hospital ship, to the daily drip of morphine that had salved the hideous pain, and had made him an addict. Thought back to the two weeks of hell when he went cold turkey because he couldn’t stomach the thought of being a druggie.

  “So, this Marine offered 500 oxy for the hit on a Barstow cop.”

  “That’s it. But Felon wanted more. He told the Marine not 500. No, 1,000 Oxy, OK?”

  “Wait. How did Flowers know this Marine? Were they friends?”

  Portillo shook his head, no. “I don’t think they friends. I think the Marine is a friend of El Patróne.”

  That shook Chelmin. Why, and how, would a Marine have a relationship with Dalton Ignacio Guerrero, a merciless killer and head of M-9?”

  “This Marine, he is a Salvadoran?”

  Portillo laughed. “Hell no. A gringo.”

  “Dalton Guerrero has Anglo friends?”

  Portillo shrugged again. “Yo no se. I don’t know nothing about Señor Guerrero. Except he is El Patróne un hombre de respeto, a man of respect.”

  “What does the Marine look like? Is he tall or short?”

  “I already told you! I never saw this Marine. Only what Felon tell us, that he’s a Marine, a gringo friend of El Patróne, that we can do business with him. That’s all.”

  “Thank you, Portillo. Just a few more questions.”

  “And you gonna help me, no three strikes, is that right?”

  “If what you told me is true, yes. I will talk to the U.S. Attorney on your behalf. Now I need to ask you, who fired the RPG at the Camaro? It wasn’t you, Flowers, or Mejia.”

  Portillo said, “We were all at the bank. Rivera tried to take out that cop in the morning, but you shot him. So, it must have been Maldonado.”

  “Not Santiago?”

  “No way. Santiago don’t do nothing but drive. He can’t shoot a gun for nothing. Must be, after the gas station, he take Maldonado to the bank. They see Felon in the squad car, so Maldonado busts him out, grab our car, and books. But I don’t know for sure, 'cuz I was back inside the bank. Before I went to the hospital.”

  “So, Maldonado shot the RPG at the gas station, and he freed Flowers?”

  “That’s what I just said, Huru.”

  “OK. But there’s still something I don’t understand. The Marine offered Flowers 500 Oxy to kill the cop. Flowers said he wanted 1,000. Where did the RPG figure into this?”

  “I was telling you, but then you axed me a different question, Huru.”

  “So tell me now.”

  “Flowers said he wanted 1,000 Oxy, and Marine said he needed a week to get the second 500. Flowers said he’s not gonna wait. Everything up front or no deal.

  “So the Marine said, ‘Forget the Oxy. What if I give you an RPG and some machine guns?”

  Chelmin nodded. “And Flowers helped the Marine steal them from the base?”

  “I think so.”

  “Did Santiago see the Marine?”

  “Sure, he drove Maldonado to meet him and get the RPG and the machine guns.”

  “OK. Now
, what about the bank? If the contract was to kill the cop, why rob a bank?”

  Portillo giggled. “That was Felon. He is genius. He told us, if we kill that cop, then all the cops in Barstow gonna be at that gas station. Why don’t we rob the bank? In and out in three minutes, and we’re gone.”

  “But how did Flowers know the cop was gonna be at that gas station at that time?”

  “Easy. We followed you and him from the apartments. You went to a motel, and so I siphoned all the gas.”

  “You siphoned a full tank of gas?”

  “There was some left, so I went under the car with a Black and Decker with a titanium bit, and I put a hole near the bottom of the tank. So then he’d have to get gas, and the Chevron was the nearest station.”

  Chelmin sat back, his head spinning, and decided not to tell Portillo that he, not Spaulding, had driven the car to the station.

  “One more question, Portillo. Why did the Marine want this cop dead?”

  Portillo shrugged. “Why the hell I care? Contract is contract.”

  Forty-five

  After retrieving his weapon from the jail’s weapons safe, Chelmin headed for the parking structure, his mind churning furiously.

  A Marine who had a trusted relationship with the head of one of the most fearsome street gangs in the country. A Marine who could steal automatic weapons and an RPG from a well-guarded Marine base. Who the hell could that be? Someone who could drive on or off the base with ease. He has to be an officer or a senior noncom, Chelmin thought.

  And he drove a white compact pickup truck.

  Chelmin looked at his watch. It was only eleven a.m. If he skipped lunch, he could be in Santa Ana by twelve-thirty. But then everyone else would be at lunch or about to go out.

  He’d grab a bite there, he decided. But first, he had to make a few calls.

  He started with the FBI: Blair told him that Santiago was still alive, still unconscious in the Arrowhead Burn Center in Colton, a San Bernardino suburb.

  “And guess what the San Berdoo cops retrieved from the park—where you dropped those two cholos?”

  “A duffle bag.”