"We have everything else mid-county east of the PCH and up to the Mesas... those right there," he said as he pointed through the windshield to a series of tall flat-topped mountains, or "mesas."
Mesa was the Spanish word for "table" and from which the county got its name.
"The Four Beat is both sides of the freeway -- coast to mountains -- just south of us.
“Four Beat. Check.”
And the Five Beat is the whole south area around Valle Verde. You're already familiar with that."
"Got it."
Roger said, "Now let's do something important... and get some coffee."
Roger sped south on the PCH and took the off-ramp marked "Willowmere Boulevard" west toward the coast.
He made a hard right on the freeway frontage road and pulled the patrol car into the parking lot of a building with a roof-line making it obvious it had once been a franchise breakfast restaurant.
"Welcome to Sophie's Diner," Roger said as he parked near the rear fire exit.
"Sophie's. Okay," Jerrod said.
Roger asked, "Did you read the entire SO policy manual?"
"I did. Every single page," Jerrod said as he thought about the thick binder resting in his gear bag in the trunk.
"There are a few... less formal... policies that aren't in that book."
"Such as?"
"The sheriff has a 'two-car' rule."
"What's the 'two-car rule'?"
"He feels the public might think we're all lazy asses if they see a whole bunch of patrol cars parked together at a restaurant. So there can be only be the maximum of two SO cars at Sophie's or any other 'cop-shop' at any time. PD and CHP cars don't count."
Jerrod nodded. "Two-car rule... for lazy asses.”
The deputies walked in the front door of Sophie's and through the restaurant to a large half-circle double-booth near the fire exit. White cardboard "Reserved" signs were on the tables.
"That booth is reserved," Jerrod said as Roger slid onto the vinyl seat.
"Yeah. Reserved for us. Sit down."
Jerrod sat and took in the sights of the restaurant. Family-style. Clean. The distinctive smells of bacon and onion sizzling on the griddle came from the service window to the kitchen. Patrons smoking cigarettes were seated on the other half of the room.
A 1950s Seeburg jukebox with 45 rpm records sat near the front door. Chrome and glass Wall-O-Matic music selectors were placed at each table and "Baby I Need Your Lovin'" by the Four Tops softly played throughout the restaurant.
A server walked over with two cobalt blue logo coffee mugs, a pot of deep black coffee, and two menus under her arm. She was mid-twenties, average height, tan, curvy, shoulder-length dark brown hair, with a pleasant freckled face, and just a little too much eye make-up.
Jerrod glanced down at the name tag attached to her pale-blue polo-style uniform shirt while trying not to notice her ample breasts -- a truly impossible task. "Nikki" the name tag read. He looked back up at her eyes and found her glaring back at his face... which he suddenly felt getting warm.
"Who's the new guy, Roger?" she asked.
"Hello, Nikki. This is Jerrod. It's his first day here."
"Nice to meet you... Nikki," Jerrod said as he looked into the deepest pair of emerald green eyes he had ever seen. "I'm new here... but... uh... never mind."
She put the mugs on the table and filled them with steaming-hot coffee from the height of over a foot. She didn't spill a single drop.
Her nails were neatly trimmed and painted... but not at a salon. She wore a modest wedding band on her left ring finger.
Jerrod bumped his knee on the table post and rattled the coffee mugs as he reached his right hand to her.
"Careful, Big Boy," she said as she shook his hand. "Nice to meet you as well."
Her grip was firm and her palms were rougher than he expected.
"Just coffee this morning. Thank you," Roger said.
"Thank you," Jerrod said.
"Your welcome," Nikki said as she held eye contact with Jerrod a split-second longer than was necessary before walking away from the table.
Jerrod watched Nikki while trying to stir creamer and sugar into his mug without making a mess.
Roger sipped his black coffee. "Nikki's pretty famous around the SO."
"Is that good or bad?"
Roger laughed. "Good... of course."
"Okay. Why is she famous? This sounds like a bad joke."
"About a year ago, the sheriff -- Wayne Osborn -- did a ride-along with one of the swing-shift sergeants on a Saturday night. The sheriff was wearing one of our green raid jackets, you know, with a gold cloth badge on the front and SHERIFF in big letters on the back."
Jerrod was listening to Roger, but watching Nikki across the restaurant.
"The sheriff and sergeant stopped into Sophie's for coffee and Nikki poured a couple mugs for them. The sergeant introduced her to the sheriff and Nikki asked him if he was the sheriff. When he confirmed he was, she said: 'Nice to meet you, sir. I think I'm going to buy a jacket that says WAITRESS on the back' and then walked away from the table."
Jerrod covered his mouth with his hand. "No way. What happened then?"
"That poor sergeant just froze... he didn't know what to do. The sheriff stared at him for about five seconds and then started laughing. Nobody had ever seen the sheriff laugh before. That's the night Nikki became famous."
The deputies chuckled quietly as they both watched Nikki.
"There's another rule that's not in your policy book," Roger said.
"What's that?"
Roger's face became serious. "Stay away from Nikki. She's... well... protected."
"'Protected'. Seriously. She's wearing a wedding ring. Why does she need to be protected?"
"She's not married. She still wears the ring so guys don't hit-on her all day. Just stay away from her. It's kind of complicated. Okay."
"Stay away from Nikki. Okay," Jerrod said aloud -- while his mind thought: Stay away from Nikki... not a chance.
CHAPTER 15
Four Years Later -- March 1990 – Thursday Evening
Sergeant Jerrod Gold was dressed in uniform about an hour before his deputies arrived and he would start their nine o'clock roll-call briefing.
The Cardinal Lane scene continued to play over and over in his head.
He climbed the stairs to the secure room located on the second-floor of the SO which contained Mesa County Communications Center.
He was "buzzed" inside and found six dispatchers -- male and female, in civilian dress and wearing headsets with microphones -- seated side-by-side in comfortable high-back office chairs at individual work stations at a long radio console.
He watched for a moment as the six professionals gracefully and efficiently juggled the endless stream of in-coming calls from the general public of Mesa County: True emergencies, kind-of emergencies, not-at-all-emergencies, hang-ups, pranksters, and the people who were scared or sad or lonely and just wanted to talk to someone.
The in-coming calls were quickly sorted based on jurisdiction, nature, and priority. Those calls were then translated into radio "details" and broadcast to the deputies in the field based on the beat from which the call came.
The diligent dispatchers also handed the radio traffic to and from the deputies making car stops, checking suspicious people, running warrants checks, and the numerous other situations they encountered between the assigned details.
The dispatchers handled the incoming calls and radio traffic for Fire and Ambulance as well as the SO.
The three police departments of the incorporated cities in Mesa County -- Mesa, Willowmere, and Valle Verde -- had there own dispatch centers and handled the in-coming calls and radio traffic within the city limits. The California Highway Patrol -- responsible for all traffic-related enforcement and incidents in the unincorporated area of the county -- likewise, had their own dispatch center.
Jerrod caught the attention of Tammie Moyer -- the dispatcher
who had taken the call from the boy on Cardinal Lane the previous night. She was talking on her headset as she glanced at him. He held out both hands and made a gesture as if he were breaking an imaginary stick. She nodded back and held up one finger to indicate she could get away in a minute.
Jerrod went to the break room and filled a Styrofoam cup from the always-ready coffee maker. Tammie walked in a few moments later and pulled from a cabinet a black mug embossed in gold with the Ichthys, or "Christian Fish." She filled her mug and sat down with Jerrod at a round table.
"I am so sorry about last night," Jerrod said. "I really upset you when I called-in after we found... them... at the condo. I just wanted to apologize."
"I'm sorry too," Tammie said. "Walking away from the console wasn't a very professional thing to do. The thought that I was the last person that boy talked to just hit me real hard."
Jerrod sipped his coffee.
"I just wish we could have done more to save that family," she said. But I don't know what else we could have done. If we had had an address, or even a general area..."
Tammie looked away as she fought the emotions building inside her. A tear escaped the corner of her right eye and she wiped it from her cheek.
"That whole family was gone by the time the neighbors started calling in," he said. "There wasn't a lot we could have done for them."
"I understand that. You're probably right."
"I spoke to Lieutenant Knapp this morning and he asked, 'What kind of God would allow something like that to happen?'"
Tammie didn't respond as her attention focused away from him. She wiped a second tear from her cheek as she turned and looked at his face. "Jerrod, I believe in Jesus with all my heart. I believe He loves us. I believe He protects us. And I believe He has a plan for all of us. I have completely surrendered to Him and my faith is still strong, but I have a problem with Him allowing something like this to happen too. I just don't understand it. I couldn't sleep when I got home. I prayed for hours for that poor family. And I prayed for Him to make me understand why this happened."
Jerrod reached his hand across the tabletop. She reached over and held his hand.
"And I'm going to keep praying for them until I can't pray any more or I get an answer."
CHAPTER 16
Jerrod left Mesa Comm and went downstairs into a quiet squad room. Four rows of wooden table tops with four chairs in each row faced a podium at the front. A single chair at the front row of tables faced the others.
Adjacent to the squad room was the sergeant's office. He sat in the tired swivel chair and at one of the two time-worn gray-steel government-surplus desks shared by the six sergeants assigned to Patrol.
He sat back in the chair and thought about his conversation with Tammie. He admired her for her deep faith. He hoped her prayers found her peace and the answers she sought.
His recovery from that scene would take a much different path.
He checked the stack of papers in his mail slot: A reminder about payroll time-cards being due, a crime report rejected by the dayshift sergeant with a yellow "Correction Needed" notice, and a sealed white business envelope with "Sgt. Gold" typewritten on its face.
He opened the envelope and found a formal, typed memo on SO letterhead to Lieutenant Knapp from the commander of the Investigation Division -- Lieutenant Eric Blanchard.
The memo documented his appreciation for the Patrol response, search, and the ultimate grisly discovery of the crime scene on Cardinal Lane.
All of the patrol deputies at the scene were commended for their actions, but he was particularly singled out for coordinating the incident. The lieutenant made special mention of him working with the on-call ADA and obtaining the Mincey warrant.
A handwritten comment on the memo read "Excellent work" with Lieutenant Knapp's initials. An additional set of handwritten initials -- "WBO" -- appeared on the lower right corner. "WBO" were the initials of Sheriff Wayne B. Osborn.
Jerrod checked the squad room mail slots of Scott Jackson and Tyler Baumann and found sealed white envelopes with their names typed on them. He hoped Roger Collins and Mandy Levine had received copies of the memo as well.
The first of the five deputies assigned to the graveyard shift started to arrive in the squad room. Scott Jackson and Tyler Collins walked in together and were the last to sit down.
At nine o'clock sharp, Jerrod left the sergeant's office and took his usual place in a single chair in the front of the room facing the row of tables.
A brown wooden podium with a five-inch raised platform stood next to his chair. Although many of the other sergeants used the podium to present their roll-call briefings, Jerrod chose to use the single chair to imitate the style of one of his first SO sergeants, and his current watch commander, Lieutenant Harold Knapp.
"We have the usual beat line-up tonight," Jerrod said, "and not much on the board."
He flipped through a variety of two-hole-punched wanted and missing person fliers and stolen vehicle teletype BOLs -- short for "Be On the Lookout" -- contained on a decade-old wooden clipboard with twin chrome rings at the top to accept the stack of papers. He read the names, descriptions, and license numbers in a monotone as his deputies took notes.
Jerrod pushed the roll-call clipboard to the side.
"We had a bad one last night," Jerrod said as a few heads nodded in response. Scott Jackson sat motionless and stared down at his notepad.
Jerrod added, "Thank you all -- those at the scene and the rest of you who covered all the other calls while we were there -- for everything you did. Investigations was pleased with the way the scene was handled and I appreciate all of your efforts as well. Are there any questions about what happened last night?
Jerrod scanned five faces and saw no response. He ended roll-call with the same admonition he used each shift before sending his deputies into the field:
"Be safe, cover each other, and find someone who really deserves to go to jail... and take 'em there."
The squad room erupted into a swirl of activity as the deputies rose, leather creaked, wooden batons slid along the sides of metal chairs, notepads were gathered, and they filed out the door to face the uncertainty of the next ten hours.
One deputy, Scott Jackson, lagged behind the others. After the room had otherwise emptied, he walked to the front row of tables and sat down across from Jerrod.
"Sarge, I didn't sleep very good today."
"Me either, Scott."
He stared down at the tabletop. "The whole thing from last night played over and over in my head. It's like a movie that I can't turn off."
"You're having a normal reaction to a very abnormal situation. It will take some time for you to sort it out and find some peace."
"Okay."
Jerrod thought about his earlier conversation with Tammie. "Some people find help from their faith. Do you belong to a church, Scott?"
"Not really."
"Me either. We'll have to find a different way to deal with this."
"Okay. I'm sure I'll be okay. It'll just take some time."
"It'll take time."
CHAPTER 17
Friday Morning -- Mesa SO Investigations Division
"Hey, L-T. Got a minute," Jerrod asked Lieutenant Eric Blanchard who was seated at his Investigation Division desk on the second floor of the SO.
"Sure, Jerrod. Come on in."
Mid-forties. Tall. Fit. Long, narrow face. The lieutenant was handsome in a Tom Selleck-way -- without the mustache. Dark wavy hair with subtle silver at the temples and very deep tan, but only on his head, neck, and hands. The tan-lines were a tell-tale sign of someone who spent a lifetime wearing a neoprene wetsuit while surfing the chilly waves of the Pacific Ocean current that drifted south as it passed along the Mesa County coast.
"I just wanted to thank you for the letter, sir. I... we... really appreciate what you wrote about the Cardinal Lane thing."
"Sure. No problem. I've been wanting to talk to you. Close the door and sit
down," the lieutenant said.
Jerrod closed the door and sat in one of the seven wooden chairs arranged around the conference table forming a "T" with the lieutenant's desk -- a desk scattered with papers, file folders, an assortment of pens, and a large blue US Navy coffee cup.
"You did a remarkable job at that crime scene the other night, Jerrod."
"Thank you, sir, but--"
"Let me finish," the lieutenant interrupted. "No one in Patrol has ever done what you and your deputies did the other night at a major scene like that. It was textbook. In fact, it rewrote the textbook and set a new standard."
Jerrod nodded.
"Things like that are what I look for in the people who work here in Investigations. I like people who take charge, can make decisions, and get results."
"Okay..." Jerrod said.
"Did you know that your former VVPD sergeant, Pete Hanson... Lieutenant Hanson now... and I went to the academy together and have stayed friends over the years?"
"I didn't know that, sir."
"Pete told me some things about you -- perhaps there were a few 'adult beverages' involved at the time to loosen the conversation -- regarding an unauthorized investigation you organized involving a heroin ring and the murder of a young Latino man a few years ago."
The lieutenant watched him for a reaction.
Jerrod rubbed the back of his right hand. "I'll have to stick to the official version of that investigation, sir."
"I suspected you'd say that, Jerrod."
"Why's that, sir?"
"I run a group of operators... excuse me... investigators here who are highly skilled and highly motivated. I give the detectives -- especially the sergeants -- room to make the calls and take cases where they need to go. I don't worry much about the details. I don't worry much about the overtime. I really only worry about the results... and they get results."
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