"Yep," Scott said as he stared through the window.
"What?" Jerrod asked.
"Yep," he said again as he started down the ladder twice as fast as he ascended. He jumped off the ladder three rungs from the bottom. The ladder bounced away from the wall and the firefighters caught it.
Scott froze in place on the patio with his back to Jerrod. Jerrod touched his shoulder and Scott turned around. His eyes were wide and his mouth open. The expression on his face could be described by two simple words -- absolute terror.
"Scott. What's up there?" Jerrod demanded.
"Yep."
"Roger," Jerrod directed. "Cover the front. Tyler, you stay with me."
Jerrod turned to the senior firefighter, "I'm going up."
Jerrod started climbing the ladder. His heart beat faster and pounded in his ears as he ascended. Time slowed to a crawl. Nothing else in the world mattered as all his attention focused on what he was about to see. Rung by rung. The mark on the ceiling looked more and more like a bullet hole. As he climbed, the white ceiling turned into white walls, white walls into a king-size bed with a blue cover, and the king-sized bed into tan carpet as his head raised above the window sill and he was able to peer inside.
The room was well lit and his view unobstructed.
Jerrod stopped breathing for the next thirty-three seconds as he stood atop the ladder and his mind absorbed the sights contained in the room.
CHAPTER 3
They looked like mannequins placed in a police academy training scenario -- each of their positions frozen in time. Except for the silent slowly spinning ceiling fan, the scene looked like a still photograph.
Four human beings, alive and active forty minutes earlier, lay motionless on the tan carpet. Jerrod watched for any sign of life. There was none. He felt his face getting hot -- a sensation he had experienced several times before at death scenes and would never completely understand.
Jerrod removed the thin aluminum-framed screen from the window and dropped it to the junior firefighter standing on the patio. He slid the window fully open and climbed over the sill into the bedroom.
He felt his entire body start to warm.
He drew the Glock from its holster with his right hand and checked each of the bodies with his left hand.
A girl -- pale, thin, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, wearing a white tank top and white shorts -- laid on her left side in the gap between the right side of the bed and a wall. Her head was toward the open window and her bare feet toward a night stand. She had a gunshot wound to her right upper leg and to the center of her chest. There was a small pool of blood. He felt her neck for a pulse and was not surprised when he found none.
He felt the room getting hotter.
A boy -- chubby, eight or nine years old, wearing a light blue school t-shirt and black basketball shorts, barefoot -- lay on his back at the foot of the bed. Arms straight along his sides. A single gunshot to his right hand and another to his chest. Almost no blood. No pulse.
Jerrod started to sweat.
A woman -- average height and weight, between thirty and thirty-five years old, wearing a set of pink pajamas, barefoot -- lay on her back to the left of the bed. Arms straight out from her body. Gunshots to her abdomen and chest. Her pajama top was soaked with blood from the belly wound. Minimal blood from the chest wound. No pulse.
The air felt thick and Jerrod had difficulty catching his breath.
A man -- thirty-five, clean-shaven, dark blue long-sleeve dress shirt, tan slacks, brown shoes -- lay on his back in the open double-doorway leading into the bedroom. His head was in the hallway and his feet in the room. His right hand was near his head. A gunshot wound from inside his mouth had exploded the left side of his head. Jerrod didn't check for a pulse.
A three-foot pool of red surrounded his head. A large-framed stainless-steel auto-pistol lay in the coagulating pool of blood and brain and hair and teeth.
Tyler had climbed the ladder and looked in through the window. "Sarge, you want me to come in."
"No," Jerrod shouted. "I'm going to clear the condo. Lock this whole place down."
The white t-shirt under Jerrod's ballistic vest was soaked with sweat. The condo felt like an oven set at 150 degrees as he searched the dark upstairs rooms of the condo. He had no idea what else he could expect and was unsure his mind could handle any more.
His pistol was still in his right hand. He switched his flashlight on and held it in his left armpit to free his left hand. He pulled open a hallway linen closet. Clear. Two bathrooms. Clear. A teen-age girl's bedroom -- bed unmade, tidy. Clear. A boy's bedroom -- L.A. Lakers poster on the wall, messy. Clear. Hallway and staircase. Clear.
The oven felt reset to 200 degrees and a stairway tread creaked as he crept downstairs.
Living room. Clear. Front door knob and deadbolt locked. Dining room and kitchen. Clear. Patio sliding door locked. Laundry room. Clear. Door to the garage unlocked. The garage contained a silver Nissan Sentra and a white Ford Ranger pick-up. He felt the grills of both vehicles -- the Nissan was cool, but the Ford truck was still warm. Garage clear.
Jerrod couldn't take another second in the condo. A lighted button shined on the wall near the laundry room door. He mashed the button with his palm and the loud motor of the garage door opener jerked the large door up. He saw the dusty black boots and uniform pants of two deputies scamper as the door raised.
"It's me," Jerrod yelled. "I'm coming out."
He should have warned Roger and the trainee he was opening the door. They had no idea of the horror that existed inside the condo or what to expect might emerge from it.
He stepped out of the garage and onto the driveway. Roger and the trainee holstered the pistols they had drawn when the opening garage door had surprised them.
"Scared the shit out of us," Roger said.
"Sorry about that," Jerrod said as he holstered his pistol.
"What's up there, Sarge?" Mandy asked.
Jerrod paused to clear his head before answering. He wiped a bead of sweat from his nose with the sleeve of his uniform shirt. He took in some very deep breathes of the ocean-cooled night air.
"Four... down," he said as he took more deep breaths. "Looks like a family. Murder-Suicide... probably."
Roger shook his head. "Fuck me."
The trainee -- Mandy -- stared at Jerrod for a few seconds. She then asked, "Are you okay, Sarge?"
"Yeah. Fine." Jerrod shrugged as he answered the fresh-faced and innocent recruit's question. But at the same time, he knew he was a long way from "fine."
"We need to get some tape up on that garage door," Jerrod directed. "And down at the entrance to the condos. No one in, or out, for now. I'll set-up a command post here. Would one of you bring my car down? Please. Just back it into the driveway."
"Okay," Roger said as he headed to his patrol car to get a roll of yellow crime scene tape out of the trunk to secure the perimeter and restrict access to the scene.
He sent Mandy to get the sergeant's car -- a standard Mesa County SO Ford Crown Victoria painted deep forest green with white front doors -- each presenting large gold-colored seven-pointed replica badges. The sergeant's car had the addition of the word “Supervisor” stenciled on the front fenders.
"Mesa Comm, Sam-15," Jerrod radioed. "Code 4 on Cardinal Lane. I'll call you in a minute with details."
"Mesa Comm copy. Code 4 on Cardinal Lane."
CHAPTER 4
"Code 4 on Cardinal Lane," Jerrod muttered again to himself. Situation back to normal. Everything secure. The earth can start spinning on its axis again and everyone can relax and go on with their lives... not by a long shot.
Scott Jackson walked around unit B-6 and met Jerrod in the street.
"You okay?" Jerrod asked.
"Never seen anything like that," Scott said as he kicked the toe of his boot at a small stone on the ground.
"Can you finish your shift?"
"Yeah. Sure."
"We'll talk later. Okay?"
>
"I'm sorry," Scott said.
"Nothing to be sorry about," Jerrod said. We all handle shit differently. You and me and Tyler just witnessed the worst thing... what I hope is the worst thing... any of us will ever see. There's no quick fix and we just need to deal with it. You and me are going to talk. Not like a sergeant and deputy, but as two guys who just went through something absolutely horrific together."
"Thanks, Sarge."
"You're welcome. Go back in-service. I'll write the crime report on this thing, so don't worry about it. We'll get together for coffee when I clear from here."
"Okay."
Jerrod watched Scott walk away. Head down. Shoulders rolled. Gait slow. A good man, and a damn good deputy, who had been radically changed from who he was less than a hour before.
The trainee drove the sergeant's car to the front unit B-7 and got out.
"Thanks, Mandy," Jerrod said.
"What happens now, Sarge?" she asked.
"We wake some people up."
Tyler walked around B-6 to the sergeant's car. "The Fire guys left. I thanked 'em for the help. The backyard is taped off."
Roger joined the other two deputies.
"We need to contact all of the other condo residents again," Jerrod directed. "Find out anything you can about the family in B-7. Names, ages, work, schools, schedules, any problems they know off, and the last time they talked to them or saw them alive."
The deputies nodded.
"Now I need to make some calls," Jerrod added.
As the deputies headed out to knock on the doors and interview the remainder of the Cardinal Lane residents, Jerrod had a brief moment of quiet. His right leg shook uncontrollably and he felt he could just lay down and fall asleep.
Only the sergeant's patrol cars were equipped with cellular phones. They were large rechargeable black batteries with a phone attached to the top. The phones reminded him of the metal lunch boxes his mother sent packed for him in elementary school. The only thing missing was some colorful illustrations of Tom and Jerry, Batman and Robin, or The Monkees.
He telephoned the dispatch center non-emergency number.
"Mesa County Communications," the familiar voice of a dispatcher, Tammie Moyer, answered.
"It's Gold over on Cardinal Lane."
"What the hell happened out there?" Tammie asked.
Jerrod gave her a sanitized description of the scene and there was a long pause on the phone.
"Tammie. You still there?"
"Was one of the victims a little boy, Jerrod?" Tammie asked.
"Yes. He was eight or nine."
"We had a 9-1-1 call from a boy. He said his dad just got home and was yelling at his mother." She paused. "We got cut-off and were trying to trace the number back to an address when all the 'shots fired' calls started coming in."
"I'm so sorry," he said.
There was no response. He heard a dispatch headset being taken off and a male dispatcher come on the line.
"Tammie's taking a break," he said. "She'll be okay."
"Sorry about that," Jerrod said. "I forget you folks in Dispatch have to deal with the same stuff we do out here."
"Thanks. How can I help you?" the dispatcher asked.
"We need to get some people moving. I need the on-call detective, coroner, and CSU to respond to the scene. And the on-call DA notified."
"Got it, Sarge."
"Thank you," he said as he hung up the phone and felt the uncontrollable quivering in his right leg continue.
"I'm missing something," Jerrod said quietly to himself.
He went to the trunk of his car and found the three-inch thick Mesa SO policy manual stashed in a cardboard box. He checked the tabs, found the "Major Case Response" policy and scanned the pages: Scene secure -- check. Medical assistance rendered – not applicable. Witnesses located and interviewed -- in progress. On-call personnel called -- check. On-call DA called -- check. Patrol Watch Commander and Sheriff notified....
Jerrod telephoned Lieutenant Harold Knapp at home.
"Hey, L-T. It's Jerrod. Sorry to call so late."
"It's okay. What going on?" the SO veteran asked.
"Four dead in a condo mid-county, sir. Looks like a murder-suicide. The on-call people have all been notified."
"Need me to come out there?"
"It's up to you, sir. The scene's pretty contained and there's no media here... yet."
"I'll stay away unless you need some help. Have you already called the sheriff?"
"I'll call him next. I've been inside the condo and can answer any questions he might have."
"Okay," the lieutenant said. "Call back if you need to."
"Thank you, sir."
Jerrod took a deep breath and he punched in the last digit of the home phone number of Sheriff Wayne B. Osborn.
Sheriff Osborn -- a physically large man with a quiet, but intimidating demeanor -- had a well-deserved reputation as a man of very few words. Jerrod had only spoken to him two or three times since he had been with the SO. None of those events would be considered a conversation.
A baritone male voice answered the second ring: "Hello."
"Sheriff, it's Jerrod... Sergeant Gold... in Patrol."
"Yes, Sergeant."
"We have a situation in mid-county... on Cardinal Lane... sir. Four people are dead. All gunshots. Gun's still at the scene. Looks like a murder-suicide... to me. The scene is shut down and on-call personnel are en route."
"Do you need more help down there?" the sheriff asked.
"No, sir, it's pretty contained here. I think we have it covered... for now."
"Okay," the sheriff said. "Has your watch commander been called?"
"Just got off the phone with Lieutenant Knapp, sir."
"If you need more help, call him back and tell him I approved it. Thanks for the call." And he hung up.
A man of very few words... indeed.
CHAPTER 5
As Jerrod guarded the garage door opening of the condo with the four lost souls in the upstairs bedroom, details of their lives began to emerge as Tyler, Roger, and Mandy reported the information they had gleaned from the neighbors:
Family names were learned. A married couple with their natural children. Renters for about two years. He had managed a local restaurant. She worked in the office at the elementary school her son attended. The daughter attended middle school. A quiet, but friendly family. No fighting or arguments seen or overheard until that night. No suspicion there was any trouble in the household.
The first of the on-call personnel arrived in an unmarked tan Chevrolet sedan.
Detective Nathan "Nate" Boxley stretched from the driver's door. 32 years old. Tall. Lanky. Flat-muscled. A high school and college stand-out baseball pitcher who turned to law enforcement after a serious elbow injury ended his playing days. He was one of only three African-American deputies with the SO and the only Black detective.
"Good evening, Jerrod... uh, Sarge," Nate said as they shook hands. "Sounds like a bad-one up there?"
"I'd say so," Jerrod said as he hoped his vibrating right leg wasn't obvious to the detective. "You on your own tonight or do you have some help."
"I was just the 'on-call,'" Nate said. "Rozman's on the way. This is way too big for just me."
"Rozman" was Detective Sergeant Brent Rozman -- one of the two general-crimes supervisors in the Investigations Division.
Next to arrive in an unmarked white van was Coroner Sergeant Ted Lindsey. A few minutes later, Crime Scene Unit Detective Ray "Shroom" Mingus arrived in his white van.
Last to arrive was Sergeant Brent Rozman. Average height. Pudgy. An experienced investigator with a "take-charge" attitude and a natural command presence.
"Follow me," Jerrod said as he walked the team of four investigators to the privacy of the garage at B-7.
"We got a shots fired and people screaming call at 2237 hours...," Jerrod said as he started recounting the events that followed.
"Can you hang-out her
e for awhile in case we have any questions?" Brent Rozman asked.
"Yeah. Sure," Jerrod said.
Brent turned to Nate Boxley, Ted Lindsey, and Shroom Mingus. "Let's go take a look," he said as he turned and led them past the glow of the garage opener button... and the horror behind the door next to it.
Despite Jerrod's descriptions of what awaited them, he was certain they were completely unprepared for what they were about to witness.
CHAPTER 6
Jerrod leaned against the front fender of his green-and-white and watched the deputy trainee -- Mandy Levine -- leave the ribbon of crime scene tape at the main entrance to Cardinal Lane and jog toward him.
"Sarge," she said. "There's a woman here who says she's with the DA's Office. Can I let her in?" Mandy looked back at the woman. "She's not very nice."
Jerrod looked toward the condo entrance and saw a woman -- arms crossed and head cocked to the side -- standing behind the barrier created by the yellow tape. "Send her down," he said.
Mandy trotted back to the entrance and lifted the tape for the impatient Assistant District Attorney.
The woman marched the one hundred feet of Cardinal Lane to the front of B-7 with the focus, determination, and efficiency of a military commander leading a platoon of soldiers into battle rather than a young deputy trainee who had to jog every forth step to keep up with her.
Jerrod's picture of her became sharper is she came closer: Short and solid. Mid-forties. White sneakers. Designer jeans. USC Trojans crew-neck sweatshirt. Two-inch crucifix on a gold chain worn outside her clothing... on purpose. Modest earrings. Big wedding ring. Coiffed short dark hair. Manicured nails. Minimal make-up.
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