Then, without saying anything else, he got out of the car and walked away.
I found Sonny over by the van, sitting on a curb looking at the burned-down house. He had soot and Emo's blood on his shirt, a frown on his face. I filled him in on my statement to Dodds and he looked up at me and nodded. 'Thanks, Shane. I owe you for that.'
'No you don't. We did the right thing. Why let a bad order and a dumb section in the rule book change it?'
On the drive back to the substation I called and checked in with Lieutenant Jeb Calloway, who was a twenty-year LAPD vet and my new boss at Special Crimes. Cal, as everybody called him, was a big African- American with a shaved head who looked like he should be working event security at a rap concert.
'That shoot-out is all over the news,' Cal said after I explained where I was. 'Sounds like the IC up there got froggy and pulled the string early.'
I told him the incident commander didn't make it and that Captain Matthews, the area commander, got caught wearing the hat. After I explained the rest of what happened he just grunted. He'd seen enough CYA in his career to know everybody was probably ducking.
When I arrived at the substation the ATF SRT truck was parked in the secure lot in a visitor parking stall. As I walked past it I banged on the side to see if anybody was home. Nobody answered. The back was a locked box that contained all their high-tech toys and deadly ordnance. But I didn't want what was in the back. I walked around to the driver's side and checked to see if the alarm was set. All SWAT vehicles have very sophisticated alarms, and the trucks were never supposed to be left unattended without that alarm set. However, this one was open, the alarm light off. Probably, with all the adrenaline overload, the cherry in charge of team security just forgot. He was going catch a ration of shit later, but I didn't care. I stepped up on the running board, opened the door, and jumped in. Then I turned on the police scanner and started flipping through channels.
The unit didn't have TAC-4. I knew that channel had to be specially programmed by a communications tech, because I'd had to have it done on my scanner.
So who was kidding who here? If these guys didn't hear the call on TAC-4, how the hell did they know a shooting was in progress?
Chapter 4
I found sergeant Micklyn setting up shop in the substation.
She was a dark-haired, no-nonsense member of OIS and had taken over two I rooms for interviews. She said she wasn't ready for me yet, but settled me in an empty office in the back where I put in a call to DSG at Parker Center.
'My God, Shane,' Alexa said after I told her what happened, sounding for a minute more like my worried wife instead of the acting head of the LAPD Detective Services Group.
Alexa and I had an easy, professional relationship on the job. That was because I always did what she said. She wasn't my direct supervisor; she was five layers above me on the command structure. But she was my division commander. If one wants a career in police science, one does not give one's division commander any substantial grief.
At home it was different. We had a completely open and balanced relationship, although I had always suspected that in most complicated, emotional, or political situations Alexa could out perform me. Of course, I could beat her at arm wrestling. She is also the most beautiful woman I have ever known. Tall, with an athlete's body and a face that belongs on the cover of a glamour magazine: black hair, Irish eyes, and strong cheekbones that ride high above the flat plains of her face and frame a strong but sensuous mouth.
I, on the other hand, look like something you'd find in the center ring at the Main Street Boxing Gym. My hair is always ruffled and unkempt, no matter what I do, so I keep it short. My body language is the trademark shuffle of a street brawler, which for a while in my teens I'd been. It always surprised me when women found all this nonsense intriguing. But the only thing that mattered was that Alexa had bought the package.
After I told her about Emo and the shoot-out, she remained quiet for a minute. 'But you're okay,' she said again.
'Yeah, physically I'm fine. Not a scratch. But emotionally I'm having trouble with it. Emo's dead. He was serving a warrant on some guy for impersonating an officer. Got hit standing in the perp's doorway.'
I didn't tell her I'd exposed my scabrous hide to gunfire in an attempt to pull him out and had only managed to rescue a corpse. Hopefully, that detail would be confined to sheriff's department internal documents, and she wouldn't be copied.
'I'll be back as soon as I can, but they're cooking a three-layer cake out here. Active shooter, lotta deputies at the incident, all of 'em cheesing off rounds. Sheriff's SEB had a SWAT team on the scene, ATF rolled a truck. It's gonna take some time for OIS to get all the stories coordinated so it plays okay for the six o'clock news.'
'Don't be such a cynic,' she said. 'I love you. Call if you get outta there in time to meet someplace for dinner.'
'Right.' I hung up and stood out in the waiting room where I practiced trying to be invisible, which is hard to do when you're in a sheriff's substation wearing a sports jacket with a dead deputy's blood and stomach contents spattered all over it.
I finally got a chance to make my statement at four o'clock. I was led into one of Sergeant Micklyn's I rooms and seated at a wood table in front of a tape machine. Captain Matthews sat in a chair across the room and kept quiet. He glowered as a young lawyer from the D. A.'s office took notes. Sergeant Micklyn ran the interview, Sergeant Dodds stood against a white concrete wall and listened. I started telling my story, adding my one embellishment to keep Sonny Lopez straight with his lieutenant. After I finished I looked at Dodds, who still had on his Ray-Bans, even though we were inside. He had been leaning his thin frame against the wall, chewing his toothpick, looking like a cowboy in a Bull Durham commercial. He finally pushed away and straddled a straight-back chair facing me.
'You sure you didn't fire your weapon at the scene?' he asked. 'Even though you got them rounds from SEB?'
'I didn't fire,' I answered.
'You have any psychological misgivings here? You and Emo were friends. You got the heebie-jeebies? You want me to call your supervisor, get you some time off… arrange for a visit to a psych?' It was a standard post- interview question, asked after all shootings to protect the department from a cop's lawsuit, in case he cracked up later.
'No, I'm fine,' I said.
Captain Matthews, who had said nothing, got up and walked toward the door. Then, without warning, he swung back.
'Tell me something, Sergeant. Did you see that fed SRT truck parked at the scene when you were coming up Hidden Ranch Road?' he asked.
'I think they got there ahead of me, Captain,' I said.
'That's not what I asked you.'
'I didn't see them until after I was there. Then later they started lobbing hot gas, like I already said.'
'So you didn't see them arrive?' he said.
'Excuse me, Captain, but why don't you just go ask them when they got there? They're still in the station.'
'Because they won't agree to be interviewed,' he said, repressed anger bubbling to the surface like toxic waste.
'They were on the scene at your shooting,' I said. 'They fired shots. They gotta sit for your internal review.'
'Tell them that,' he said. 'They're saying they'll only talk to their own Internal Affairs.'
I thought that might be the new low in interagency cooperation, but I didn't say anything.
