by Tony Peluso
Blood, bone, brain, sinew, muscle, and tissue burst from every wound spraying everything around us. Steve, withered, dropped the shotgun onto my chest, and slipped into a heap next to me, his dark red blood pumping in streams, soiling my shirt, pants, and the ground.
Eddie ran up. He looked me over as I tried to stand.
“Tony, I’d have shot him, but he was too close. Couldn’t risk hitting you.”
I had a hard time talking. I couldn’t breathe. I worried that my jaw might be broken. Small streams of blood poured from the top of my head, my cheek, and my mouth.
“Geez, Tony. This guy’s a mess.”
“What do you expect? I shot him five times in the head,” I slurred.
“Why?” Eddie asked.
“Those were all the bullets I had in the gun!” I garbled through my bloody mouth.
Eddie made me sit down. He retrieved the medical kit and tended to my wounds. He stopped the bleeding, covering the open cuts on my head and cheek.
“The cut on your head is superficial. It’ll be fine. You’ll need some sutures on this cheek. It looks like oral surgery on your jaw. He fucked up your tooth.”
“I was none too gentle with him,” I said.
Eddie found small cotton rolls in the kit. We jammed them into my mouth. I looked like I had the world’s largest chaw. The bleeding slowed.
I stood up after taking two of the industrial-strength pain pills from the kit. I recovered the AK, shotgun, the Glock, and my knife from Steve’s side. I located the missing magazine. An errant round from one of the killers had sent it flying about ten feet.
Eddie and I reloaded our weapons. We walked over to the ambushed caravan. We examined the other seven men. All were as dead as their leader. I walked over to a tree and peed for a full minute.
When we were about to go looking for Father Pat, he came up with the dog in tow. The dog acted as obedient and meek as could be.
“What happened to you, Tony?”
“You should see the other guy, Padre,” I garbled through the cotton.
“What’s with the dog?” Eddie asked, noting for the first time that the priest was bleeding from deep scratches on both his forearms. There were no bite marks.
“I choked him out,” Father said.
“You did what?”
“In Northern Ireland,” Father began, “We learned that the Brits train dogs to go for your arm. If you keep cool, you can lure the dog in and grab it by the throat. This beast weighs at least eight stone. But once I got my hands on his throat and lifted him, all he could do is scratch at me. He passed out from the lack of oxygen. When he woke, he was disoriented. He’ll cooperate with us now.”
Eddie took care of Father Pat’s arms while my painkillers kicked in. The dog curled at the feet of the priest. I checked my phone. We still had no bars.
When Eddie finished, the three of us pulled the dead men from the vehicles and lined them up on the side of the path. Eddie had humped his camera, so he photographed everything. We gathered all their weapons and put them in the back of the Jeep.
Eddie tried to start the Jeep. It was useless. He opened the hood.
“Mother fuck!” Eddie swore. “Some dickhead fired into the engine. It’s kaput.”
“Looks, like the work of an M14,” I said, looking over Eddie’s shoulder, not wanting to take the blame.
“More like poorly aimed shots from an AK,” Eddie said. “Anyway, in battle, shit happens. Let’s see if the ATV works. I don’t feel like humping this crap out of here.”
The ATV started. Blood and human tissue covered the seats, but we weren’t choosy. We transferred the weapons to the carrier on the back of the ATV.
While we loaded the vehicle, I realized that we’d compromised this crime scene. But we needed to appropriate a vehicle and get medical assistance. We couldn’t leave the weapons in the forest unsecured. We had no way to call the authorities. We’d cross the crime scene bridge with the deputies who came to our aid.
Father said prayers over the dead men, and asked for forgiveness for what Eddie and I had done. I didn’t feel the slightest guilt. I didn’t see the need for forgiveness. In the last two days, we’d fought off a dozen homicidal madmen. It might have been the medication or the adrenalin but I felt high, six beers high.
We got into the ATV and Father Pat called the dog in German. The Alsatian jumped into the empty seat.
“I think I’ll call him ‘Adolf,’” Father Pat said. “Like the dog you saw at the chapel all those years ago.”
“That dog’s name was Rommel, Father,” I said.
“But Gretchen said...”
“Long story, Father. I’ll explain another time.”
I pulled out my phone and turned it on. After entering my code, I opened the Trimble app. I hit the icon for our position and created a waypoint, so that I could give the local Sheriff the exact coordinates of the battlefield. Eddie started the ATV, put it into gear, and we motored down the track past the bodies of the killers.
“Pat,” Eddie began loud enough for the kid to hear in the back of the ATV.
“Yes, Eddie.”
“What possessed you to go out in front of those killers like that? You had to know how dangerous that was.”
“It’s an old trick. Let the enemy see you. They chase. Your mates ambush them.”
“I don’t want to know where you learned that,” Eddie said.
“Gentlemen, do you think that’s all of them? By my count, you’ve killed twelve men over the last few days.” Father said.
“I hope so, but I’m not so sure,” I said.
“Hope for the best, and expect the worst. That’s my motto,” Eddie added.
Less than 20 minutes later, we pulled into the campgrounds around White Horse Lake. I had three bars on my phone. We could communicate. We stayed away from the other campers. I called the emergency number.
“Coconino County Sheriff, what’s your emergency?”
I removed the cotton from my mouth so I could speak better.
“My name is Tony Giordano. I’m law enforcement from Florida. Two of my friends and I have been on a hike to Schnebly Tank. Some unknown assailants killed our guide there. His body and the bodies of at least three of the assailants are still there. He’s retired from your agency, Detective David Fleet. We couldn’t communicate with you guys, so we ran from the killers.
“We went west,” I continued. “Before we could get to White Horse Lake, the rest of the homicidal crew caught up with us. We shot it out with them. I’m wounded. My other two friends are OK. Eight more of the bad guys are dead. We left their bodies on the trail. I have the coordinates.”
“Mr. Gordani,” the operator started.
“It’s Giordano, miss,” I snapped.
“Sir, if this is a joke, you should know that there are severe criminal penalties for false police reports in Arizona.”
“Miss, I wish this was a false report.”
“You say you’re wounded?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” We’re at White Horse Lake Campground. We need assistance.”
“We’ll dispatch a unit from Williams immediately. How will we recognize you?”
“One white male, sixties, five-feet-eleven, one-ninety-five, brown / grey and bleeding from three head wounds. One black male early sixties, six-foot-one, one-ninety, brown / black and driving a shot up ATV. One white male, thirty-something, five-feet-eleven, one-seventy, blue / red and Irish as Patty’s Pig. We’ll be sitting here bleeding on the northwest corner of the grounds.”
“Dispatching a unit now,” the operator said.
“Thanks,” I said, as I rang off. I started keying in Gretchen’s cell phone.
Chapter Thirteen
August 31, 2013, 3:00 p.m.
Coconino County Sheriff’s Office
Conference Room #2
911 E. Sawmill Road
Flagstaff, Arizona
The Coconino County
Sheriff’s conference room reminded me of scores of similar meeting places in federal and state venues all over the country. It had a long, maple-stained wooden table, suitable for gathering a dozen attendees. The chairs were utilitarian and uncomfortable. They’d painted the walls a neutral off-white. Staged photos of deputies, employees, little-league teams, and police equipment covered the walls.
The room was too cold for my attire. The hospital had allowed me to keep a set of their dark blue surgical scrubs and slippers. The Sheriff had seized all of my clothes and equipment as evidence. I had nothing to complain about. I was safe, dry, and warm enough. The fact that I was still alive was a miracle of biblical proportions.
Where I come from, the Sheriff has over 1,200 law enforcement officers, 900 detention deputies, and 1,400 civilians to help police the unincorporated portions of our county with a population of over 1,200,000 permanent residents and millions of tourists and travelers passing through each year. He and his people do a superb job in a jurisdiction the size of Rhode Island.
In contrast, the Sheriff of Coconino County has fewer than 70 sworn deputies to patrol the second largest county in the nation with more square miles than Massachusetts. Both Sheriffs have excellent reputations in the communities that they serve because of the courage, dedication, and professionalism of their deputies and support staffs.
It is a daunting challenge to be the first responders with so few resources over so vast an area. In Flagstaff, the local police number around 100. They collocate with the Sheriff at the Saw Mill Road operational center.
I sat in the middle of this law enforcement complex, awaiting my fate and recalling the events of the day before.
Almost 40 minutes after my call from White Horse Lake, a unit from the Williams substation arrived. The deputy conducted a cautious and professional evaluation. He assessed my injuries, but insisted that we surrender all weapons to him. We helped him to secure the cache in the back of his four-wheeler.
Our cooperation and my credentials allowed him a degree of comfort regarding our intentions but—based on the violence that I described in my recorded call—he never relaxed his guard. I told you that he was a pro.
In light of my condition, he transported us to Williams after recommending to his dispatcher that the Sheriff send resources to Schnebly Tank and to the coordinates that I’d furnished for the site of the second firefight.
He apologized, but he handcuffed Larry and me after reading us the rights outlined on his plastic Miranda card. It was the first time in my life that I’d received that kind of treatment. I understood, but I hated every second of it.
Either the deputy had only two sets of handcuffs, or he gave Father Pat a break because the priest traveled to Williams unbound. Adolf curled at Pat’s feet in the foot well of the front seat. At the deputy’s insistence, we journeyed in silence.
Williams is a small Arizona town. It’s a way station and hub for AMTRAC and trains to the Grand Canyon. It has services for the hordes of tourists who come and go along I 40. It does not have a hospital.
The deputy dropped Eddie and Father Pat at the substation. He took me to an urgent care facility in town, where a doctor cleaned my wounds and sutured my face. He could do nothing for my tooth other than to provide pain medication. The deputy took possession of the pills after I swallowed the initial dose.
Still handcuffed, I fell asleep in the back of his four-wheeler. I didn’t wake up until we arrived in Flagstaff. The deputy took me to the Medical center where they called in an oral surgeon. After she pulled what was left of the tooth, I spent the night in the hospital, handcuffed to my bed with a Flagstaff police officer hovering nearby.
The next morning, I asked the police officer what the deal was.
“Are you really the chief legal counsel for a Sheriff in Florida?” asked the officer—an experienced man in his forties—as he looked me over, not quite believing the rumor that he’d heard.
“Yes,” I said.
“Look, man,” the officer began. “I have strict orders not to question you or talk to you about what you guys did.”
“No kidding?”
“Yeah, but I hate treating one of our own like this.”
“Where are my friends?”
“At the operations center at Saw Mill.”
“Am I under arrest for something?” I asked.
“I don’t know. The Chief of Police believes that Dave Fleet’s been killed along with several others. This is the biggest thing since we lost those boys in that tragedy down in Yarnell.”
As I formulated another question, the officer got a call and shushed me. After he hung up, he looked at me and shook his head. “The doc is supposed to release you to my custody. I’ll transport you to the operations center. They’ll let you know how it’s going to be once you get there.”
After a quick shower, the hospital discharge, more medication, and a short drive to the Sheriff’s Office, I found myself in the conference room with a deputy posted at the door. They’d removed the handcuffs and gave me coffee. I took these as good signs.
I waited in the conference room for over an hour—working on the rosaries that Father Pat had given me—before five people came in. They walked to the opposite side of the table and took seats facing me. Two acted like lawyers. I assumed the other three were cops. They reminded me of a jury returning a verdict in a difficult case.
“Mr. Giordano, I’m Joe Ledger. I’m the managing assistant U.S. Attorney in the Flagstaff Division. This is Mary Smith. She’s the Chief of the Felony Prosecution Team in the Coconino County Attorney’s Office. Craig Scott is a senior detective with CSO; Chuck Hudson is a special agent from the ATF; Wayne Bennett’s from the DEA,” Ledger said as he gestured at each of his colleagues on the other side of the table.
“Nice to meet you,” I said. “What’s the deal, here? Am I under arrest?”
“No, Tony, but you’re not free to go, either.”
“How does that compute, Joe?” I asked. “I have a little experience in criminal law. If you’re not charging me, you have to let me go.”
“Tony, we know all about you. DOJ sent your e-file. You have quite a record, but you found yourself in a real shit storm in the mountains, didn’t you? I know that you’re hurt and on pain meds, but be patient for a couple of minutes and we’ll discuss your future.”
“By all means, but where are Eddie and Pat?
“All in good time, OK?”
“Fine. Since I’m a captive audience, please continue,” I said.
“Let me summarize for everyone,” Ledger said. “A former CSO detective was brutally murdered at Schnebly Tank. CSO deputies found three bodies near him and another corpse seventy yards south. All four died of multiple gunshots. The crime scene was tainted. We found parts of automatic weapons and ammunition all through it.”
“Are you looking for comment?” I asked, when Ledger paused.
“Not yet, Mr. Giordano,” Mary Smith said. “Let Joe finish.”
“Late yesterday afternoon, deputies found eight more bodies near the coordinates that you gave us. Thanks to you, we already had a trunkful of weapons. So Chuck Hudson confirmed—through fingerprints and touch DNA—that most of the guns came from the dead men. We interviewed Mr. Grimes and Father O’Malley yesterday. Their stories are consistent, if not a little bizarre. What’s left of the evidence and the crime scenes corroborates self-defense. Your friends are witnesses under our protection.”
“So what’s the problem? Why am I in custody?”
“Tony, everybody at DOJ and your people at the SO in Tampa tell us that you’re a smart guy with a superb record of prosecution. Your Chief Deputy and your wife worry that you’ve gone off the reservation over whatever happened to you in Sedona decades ago.”
“Bullshit, Joe! There are two thousand people in Sedona that are farther over the edge than I ever could be. Do you take any of them into custody?”
“Of course not,” Ledger res
ponded. “Who do you think those guys were? You know, the men that you and your pal, Grimes, whacked.”
“Best guess is that they were growing illegal marijuana in the national forest. Wanted to protect their operation. Pot growers on federal land have a reputation for violence. If you’ve done drug cases as an AUSA, you’d know that. I’m sure Mr. Bennett from the DEA will confirm, right Wayne?” I said, as I looked at the DEA agent.
“Tony, you’re right.” Special Agent Bennett said. “You killed drug dealers and their muscle. I’ll concede that. Turns out they were operating one of the largest illegal drug distribution centers in Arizona history. We found their operation this morning by tracking up the forest road that they tried to keep you off. We arrested another six mopes working at the site.”
“No shit?” I said.
“It was a regular cornucopia,” Bennett said. “They had twenty bales of high-quality powder cocaine, air-dropped from one of the cartels. Gotta be over five hundred kilos. We found kilos. I mean kilos of Cocaine Base. It’s one of the largest Crack busts in our history. We don’t ever see a commercial operation this large and complex for crack.”
“No wonder they were so well armed,” I said.
“Yeah, and that’s not all,” Craig Scott jumped in. “They had a huge hydroponic marijuana operation, too.”
“Never heard of a hydroponic operation coincidental with the hard stuff,” I said.
“Neither had we,” Ledger said. “In fact, we’re not sure that we’ve identified all the illegal drugs that are up there. The field tests on the marijuana are through the roof. It’s the highest level of THC that we’ve ever seen. The lab tests will tell us more.”
“So they attacked us and killed Fleet to protect their operation,” I said.
“It’s way more complicated than that,” Mary Smith said, looking at Ledger.
“How so?” I asked.
“Let me answer this way,” Ledger said. “These guys set up a large illegal drug distribution point to take advantage of the small population in—and the remoteness of—the Coconino National Forest, as well as its proximity to I-40. The interstate provides a straight shot into L.A. and all of Southern California. Once on I-40, there’s not a spot on the entire West Coast they couldn’t reach in fifteen hours.”
