ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.
IN THE AFTERMATH OF HELL
CHAPTER TWO
The four of us walk across the vacant lot to return to the logistics truck, Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon ahead of us, engaged in small talk, while Jim and I lag behind. Jim looks at his watch. "It's after seven," he says. "Jean's probably heard the news on tv or the radio by now." He rubs the bridge of his nose. "I wonder what she's told Jimmy as far as what's happened out here."
"She probably doesn't know the extent of your involvement," I tell him. "Our names haven't been released to the media yet. In fact, the whole situation has yet to be fully released to the public. No one knows who the shooter was, no one knows what exactly went down out here."
"No, but she'll figure it out, Pete. A cop's wife isn't a dummy, they know crap like that instinctively. I guarantee you, the minute she's heard it, she'll realize that you and I were involved in the situation today in some way. My concern is what she'll tell Jimmy," he says.
"He's pretty young to grasp what happened out here, Jim," I say. "I'm sure she'll explain it to him in terms he can understand."
"No, you don't understand, Pete," Jim says, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Jimmy's six. He's at that age where he is beginning to question everything, including what I do on my job and why."
"So you just tell him that there was a bad man hurting people out here today, and you had to put a stop to the bad man's actions," I say. "I wouldn't elaborate, Jim. He may be one of the brightest kids in his kindergarten class, but he's still a little boy. To him, bad men are big nasty things like dragons and brussel sprouts, while good guys are like Superman and his daddy."
"But…" He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I know Jean's attitude of late. She'll tell him that his daddy had to play hero again, and put himself in harm's way to save people, and one of these days his daddy is gonna do that and get badly hurt, or worse yet, not come home at all."
"Surely Jean wouldn't tell him that," I say.
"No?" Jim asks, his tone sharp. "Jean's really changed in recent months, Pete, as far as her feelings towards my job. She tells him that his daddy is gonna get killed one of these days, doing his dangerous job as a cop. She uses that against me every time we have a serious situation on duty. She gets Jimmy all upset, thinking that I'm not going to come home from work, just to prove her point, that the job is dangerous. She thinks that if I realize I'm upsetting my son, I'll take the investigator's exam when it comes up next time. Or better yet, I'll just get a job doing something entirely different." He looks at me, anger and hurt flashing in his eyes. "She uses my OWN son against me, Pete, in an effort to get me to quit the force." He shakes his head. "You know, sometimes when I leave for work and Jimmy's home, he'll start crying, begging me not to leave, because he's afraid I won't come back. What kind of mother does that to her child, to her husband? Uses them like their chess pieces on her personal playing board?"
"Jesus," I say, slightly shocked. "I didn't realize it had gotten that bad, Jim. I'm really sorry to hear that." I put a hand on his shoulder. "If you ever want to talk, I'm here, you know. I'm not the best guy to go to for marital advice, but I can listen."
"I know it," he sighs, shaking my hand off. "We're in couples therapy, Pete, and have been since the narco raid that you got hurt in. We're supposed to be getting our issues worked out, but sometimes it seems like all we do is spin our wheels, you know?"
"Yeah," I say.
"Have a wife and son, do you, Reed?" Sergeant Friday asks, looking over his shoulder at us. Even though he's been speaking with Bill Gannon as we walk, I know that he's likely been listening to every word we've said.
"Yeah, I do. And my wife's pregnant with our second child," Jim tells him. "At least I hope the kid's mine," he mutters under his breath. "And not some other guy's, like Burnside claimed."
"Jim, you oughta know that Burnside was just looking for a cheap shot at you," I tell him. "He knew where to hit you so it would hurt, and he did. So consider the source when you start mulling that over. Burnside was nothing but a lousy, vindictive asshole, who had it in for the world. I don't doubt for a minute that the baby Jean's carrying isn't yours."
"It's easy for you to say, Pete," he replies archly. "Jean's not your wife." He frowns, his forehead creasing into deep lines. "Maybe all those times she's taken Jimmy and gone over to her sister's for some reason, she's really taken him over there for Janice to watch, so she can go out to the bars."
"That's utterly preposterous and you know it," I chide. "I can't believe you're even CONSIDERING anything that Burnside said as the truth, Jim. You know that he was nothing but a lying sack of crap. He just wanted to piss you off, and he succeeded."
"Maybe," Jim says. "And maybe there's a nugget of truth in what he said after all."
"You need to stop thinking that way immediately," I tell him. "It's not going to do any good, and all you're doing is giving him the power over you, even after he's dead."
"Yeah, I guess," Reed says with a shrug. "I don't want to discuss it right now, okay, Pete?"
"Fine," I say. "We'll discuss it later."
When we arrive back at the logistics truck, Mac is looking over his clipboard full of notes, most of them hastily scribbled. His forehead is creased in a deep frown, and he looks extremely tired. In the harsh light of one of the portable kliegs set up nearby, he has dark circles under his eyes, his pallor is grey, and the light picks out the silver in his dark hair that is starting to show at his sides and temples. And for the first time in the fourteen years that I've known Bill MacDonald, it dawns on me that Mac is only older than me by just a few years. If a horrific incident like this can take its toll on me, both emotionally and physically, what must it do to him? As a sergeant, he's a little more sedentary than the patrol officers are, and this kind of stress can't be good on him. While Sergeant Baron, Jim Reed, and I handled the action end of it, Mac had to be the one to take care of the designating and delegating end of it, deciding who needed to be called in and where to put them. A pang of worry crosses me, and I study him, looking for any signs that Mac might be flagging, energy-wise.
As if he senses my scrutiny of him, he looks up at us. "I'll be out of your way as soon as Captain Moore gets here," he says wearily. "Then you can have the logistics van for your interview, Sergeant."
A city water department truck pulls even with the logistics van. "Understand you've got a busted main that needs to be shut off?" the driver of the van asks Mac.
"Yeah, just beyond the squad car there at Palmtree and Adamson," Mac tells him. "Can you get access to the shutoff without having to tear up any pavement?"
The guy nods. "Yeah, the shutoff valve is right here on the corner. We can get it shut down for ya in a few minutes."
"Good," Mac says. "Just don't go beyond the water main. The area is an active crime scene."
"Wouldn't dream of it," the guy replies. The truck inches forward until it's even with Adam-12, then it stops. The driver and another employee get out and pull out some equipment from the back-end of the truck. They approach the busted main spewing water into the air, and with a few metallic clanks and shuddering thunk, the water ceases to skyrocket. They return to the truck and back it up, pulling even with us once more. "Be advised, that shuts off all the water to this area, including any sprinkler systems that are in these buildings. We'll go ahead and notify the fire department that the main is shut down here in this vicinity. You might also be aware that the pavement around that break is likely undermined, so ya wanna watch the traffic around it, in case of sinkholes."
"Great," Mac says. "Thanks."
"Not a problem," the guy says, and then he backs the truck up to the roadblock on Palmtree and Morris.
"I suppose we could go ahead and start the interviews," Sergeant Friday says.
"Not without Captain Moore present," Mac tells him, still looking at his clipboard.
"We could just get the basic information, their serials and time on the job…" Friday begins again.
Mac looks up from the clipboard and cuts him off with a glare. "I said, not without Captain Moore being present. I will not allow either Officer Reed, nor Officer Malloy, to be interviewed at all until their commanding officer is present." His tone is sharp and no-nonsense.
"But you're their commanding officer out here now, so I'm not sure why that's an issue," Friday says in protest. "Surely you can stand in for Captain Moore until he arrives?"
Mac gives him a look that could sear the skin right off of Friday's mug. "Captain Moore gave me EXPRESS orders not to allow the interviews to begin until he got out here himself. In addition, I have yet to give my own statement to the homicide team, so I feel it would be a little improper for me to sit in on an interview regarding a situation I was an active party to."
"Could we at least tag the weapons they were using?" Gannon asks. "In order to turn them over to Ballistics?"
Mac regards him for a moment. "Fine," he says. "As long as that's all that you do."
Gannon pulls two white tags with strings dangling from them out of his suitcoat pocket. He looks at Reed. "Officer Reed, may I please have your weapon?"
Reed hands the M-16 over to Bill Gannon. "Reed, James A. Serial 13985," he tells him.
Gannon scribbles that on the tag, along with the date and the time the weapon was tagged as evidence. He ties the tag around the muzzle of the gun, and turns to me.
"Malloy, Peter J.," I tell him, handing him the gun. "Serial 10743."
"Thanks," he says, scribbling that on the tag and attaching it to the gun. He starts to take them around to the trunk of their unmarked sedan.
"I only told you that you could tag them, not take them into evidence," Mac says.
"I was just going to put them in the trunk of the car," Gannon says. "That's all."
"And a lot can happen from the time you do that, until you turn the weapons over to Ballistics," Mac says. "I'm not releasing any evidence to you two in regards to these two officers until Captain Moore gets here and okays it."
"Are you implying that something dishonest might happen to their weapons while in our custody?" Sergeant Friday challenges.
"I'm not implying that at all, Sergeant," Mac tells him coolly. "It's just that I've seen you in action in the past, especially in regards to Officer Malloy, and I would not feel comfortable in allowing anything concerning these officers under my command to be taken into your custody without the express knowledge and consent of their captain, Captain Moore." He offers Friday a small tight smile. "I'm sure you understand, Sergeant."
Friday stares daggers at him for a moment. "Alright, Sergeant MacDonald. We'll await the arrival of Captain Moore." He jerks his head at Bill Gannon and the two of them return to their grey sedan. Friday leans against the hood and lights up a cigarette, never taking his sharp-eyed gaze off of us.
Over in the vacant lot, they're moving the smaller klieg lights out in order to set them up in the scene. The ambulance containing Dr. Brackett and Dixie has departed, and all that's left of the triage area is a bunch of medical debris.
"Who's gonna clean that mess up?" Reed asks, gesturing to the white clumps of bloody bandages and other detritus left from the harried and frenzied triage area.
"City works will have a haz-mat crew come in and clear it out," Mac tells him. He nods his head at us. "Why don't the two of you go ahead and get your gear out of Adam-12, put it here by my car?" he asks.
"Won't we be driving Adam-12 back to the station?" Reed asks.
Mac shakes his head. "No. I'll have Gus Baron drive it back, since his Armadillo is stuck. When the refrigerated trucks from the coroner's office get here, I'll place them as close as possible to the scene, just to keep the media from getting shots of the bodies being removed from the park. I'll want the squad car out of the way for that."
"So how do we get back?" Reed asks.
"Captain Moore will drive you in when the interviews are done. There's a bunch of press camped out around the station, so he'll want to shield you from that," Mac says.
"How do they know it was SWAT members from Central Division that got Burnside?" Reed asks.
"They don't," Mac tells him. "And we're trying to keep it that way, until the police department is ready to release your identities to the public."
"What if we don't want them released?" he asks.
"That's not an option," Mac tells him. "And you should know that, Reed. A big incident like this, the media is going to press for all the facts, including the names of the men who got Burnside." He shrugs. "Look at it this way, Jim. You'll become famous as the man who got the LA sniper."
"I don't want to be famous," Jim mutters, shaking his head with irritation. "I just want to be Jim Reed." With that, he stalks off towards Adam-12 to retrieve his gear.
"What's with him?" Mac asks me. "Everything okay?"
I study Reed's retreating back. "No," I say. "But it's up to him to tell you, not me." Then I go over to the squad car myself.
Reed has already opened the trunk of the car and gotten his helmet bag out. Without looking at me, he goes to the passenger side of the squad and opens the rear door, pulling his briefcase out. Then he opens the front door, pulling his nightstick out of the holder on the door. He slams the door, hard, making the squad rock, and he slaps the report book on top of the hood.
"Hey, take it easy," I tell him, getting my helmet bag and briefcase out of the trunk and shutting the lid. "No need to beat up my car, Jim."
"It's not your car, you know, Pete," he tells me sharply. "Other officers drive it when you aren't on duty."
"Lighten up on me, willya?" I ask, grabbing my nightstick and the logbook from inside the car. "I was only trying to be funny."
He doesn't answer me, instead he stalks back to Mac's wagon, dumping his gear onto the ground next to the car with a thud. He opens the report book, studying the few reports that we made out before getting the sniper call. He hands them, along with his set of keys to the squad car, to Mac. "There's the few reports that we filled out earlier on our shift," he says. "They're all done, if you want to take them now."
"That's fine," Mac tells him, taking the keys and the reports from Jim, tucking the papers up under the clip on his clipboard.
I dump my gear next to Reed's and hand Mac the logbook and the keys from the squad car. "I'm not sure what you want done with the logbook," I tell him. "Whether you want it left with the car or turned over to you."
Mac looks over the entries that we made today. He hands it back to me. "Here, you two sign off on it, and I'll let them have it for now," he says, nodding his head at Gannon and Friday.
I sign my name first to the logbook, then hand it to Reed, who takes it without a word, scribbling his signature and shoving the book back at me. He turns his attention back to the reports in hands, but I can tell his mind is far from them right now.
Mac takes the logbook out of my hands, studying it for a moment. He approaches Sergeant Friday hands it over to him. "Here," he says. "You can go ahead and start copying the information you need out of the logbook. I'll give you that much."
"Much obliged," Sergeant Friday says with a slight smirk. He gives it to Bill Gannon to copy into his notebook. "Bill, go ahead and start on the logbook entries, seeing as Sergeant MacDonald is so gracious to let us do that much right now." His tone holds a sharp edge of contempt for Mac.
Mac ignores him and goes back to his clipboard, perusing his notes. "Val should be here any minute now," he tells us. "In order to get the interviews underway."
"One-L-20 from One-Adam-14?" asks Jerry Woods' voice over the radio.
"This is One-L-20, go ahead Adam 14," Mac replies.
"I've got the Red Cross Mobile Canteen truck here, along with Canton Waste Disposal. Do you want me to go ahead and send them through?"
"Yeah, send them through. Advise them to go ahead and set up in the vacant lot," Mac says.
"Roger, Mac. Sending them through."
In a few moments, a large truck with a red cross emblazoned on the side comes chugging down the street. It's followed by a small flatbed truck, with two Porto-Johnnies aboard.
Mac waves the driver of the Red Cross canteen truck into the vacant lot. "Set up as close as you can here to the entrance," he tells the guy. "It looks like it's gonna be a long night ahead."
"Got it," the driver tells him. As he swings the canteen truck into place, the flatbed truck with the porta-potties aboard stops.
"Where do you want these unloaded?" the driver asks Mac.
Mac studies the vacant lot. "How about just a little ways past the canteen unit?" he says, gesturing to the middle of the vacant lot.
"Sure, wherever you want them," the guy says, and he pulls on into the lot to begin unloading the portable toilets.
"You've thought of everything, Mac," I say, a wry grin quirking at my mouth. "I commend your foresight."
"Don't knock it," Mac tells us. "When ya gotta go, ya gotta go, and there ain't much of an area to do that in out here in a crime scene." He turns his attention back to his notes, silently scanning his documentation of the sniper incident out here. I'm sure he's gone over the notes several times already, but with the presence of Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon, the urge to talk among ourselves is tempered and shut off. I know Mac is just waiting to chew our asses for disobeying his orders, but he wisely chooses not to light into us at this point. After all, there shouldn't be an audience to an execution, especially an audience like Friday, who would delight in hearing of our misdeeds.
Reed is leaning against Mac's wagon, his arms folded on top of the roof, his chin resting on his hands. He's staring moodily into space, his mind millions of miles away from the right here and right now. It's not hard to know what he's thinking about; his wife and son, and how he's going to explain what happened out here today. As I study him, I feel a sharp stab of dislike for Jean Reed, for putting Jim through all that she has over the last few months. Things weren't great between them prior to the springtime narco raid in which Jim was ultimately awarded the Medal Of Valor for saving my life, but they've gotten increasingly worse since then. Jim's spent more than a few nights on my couch, bunking there because Jean threw him out. She seems to delight in picking fights with him over the smallest things, and while he might fear for the sanctity of his marriage, I fear for the sanctity of his sanity. The untold stress she's put on him has taken a toll on his good nature; he's gone from a rather happy-go-lucky guy to someone prone to sour moods and silence. And that's put a strain on our relationship as patrol partners in Adam-12, for the usually talkative Reed has steadily become morose and silent. And it's definitely put a strain on our friendship; Jim Reed is the closest thing I have to a brother, and I hate like hell to just standing by and see him hurt, without being able to do a goddamned thing about it, other than be there for him when he needs a friend. Silently, I follow his faraway gaze out over the vacant lot, to the lights of Los Angeles in the distance, that cast an orange pallor to the dark sky overhead. I wish I could offer you some soothing words of comfort right now, partner, but I can't, I think to myself. This is a battle you have to fight on your own, and all I can do is be there for you, and help you pick up the pieces of your shattered world if the final blow comes and Jean asks you for a divorce.
Closing my eyes, my thoughts jump from the marital troubles between the Reeds to my own relationship with Judy Smith, my girlfriend of over a year. While I know that I love her, I'm not sure if I'm ready to marry her and settle down. I've been burned on that end before, having a rather brief marriage when I was a lot younger, and living in Seattle. It didn't end well at all, and I have remained a happy bachelor ever since, thus avoiding all mention of marriage, up until now. Judy has been dropping hints about the two of us getting hitched, especially after the narco shootout in which I got shot. She has gotten a little more vocal about the issue of marriage as of late, pointing out that if I truly loved her and her young son, David, I'd make an honest woman of her by putting a gold ring on her finger and giving her my last name. And while that's true, there's just something that makes me feel like putting a ring on her finger is just tightening the noose around my neck. Reflexively, I rub my throat, as if feeling the noose already tightening. It's a delicate dance we do around the sore subject of marital bliss; she jitterbugs her way around the arguable points for marriage: she's not getting any younger, I'm not getting any younger, she'd like David to have a strong father figure in his life, she'd like to try to have a child with me before she gets too old and pregnancy becomes too dangerous for her, it would be beneficial for both of us financially, and we'd each have the other to love and care for in our old age.
And for all of her jitterbugging and cajoling for marriage, I somehow manage to waltz and glide away from it, easing my way around it with some excuse each time: we're not that old yet, I don't want to make her a widow if I'd get killed in the line of duty, I'm not sure I want to start a family, and if she thinks marriage works, she needs to look at the trouble the Reeds are going through right now. The honest truth is, I don't feel the same way about Judy as I felt about my first wife, Evie. Judy is more of a comfortable love, a solid, steady love, one that you can always count on being there in times of trouble. Evie was…well, Evie was unbridled passion and fireworks, the feeling that I would die when I wasn't around her. I hungered for her, yearned for her, and it was that powerful hold that she had on me that ultimately broke my heart when she cast me out for another. And for some reason, I can't bring myself to feel the same way about Judy, which is frustrating. Sighing, I scrub my hand across my face, fatigue settling in as those thoughts jumble and tumble around in my weary mind. I push them out, focusing instead on what lies ahead of us, mainly getting through the interview with Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon without strangling the good Sergeant with his tie.
The delicious aroma of hot coffee wafts over on the breeze that tickles my nose, and my stomach grumbles loudly, making me realize that I'm a bit hungry, not to mention thirsty. I open my eyes and look over at Mac. "Mind if we go grab a cup of coffee?" I ask. "And maybe a doughnut?"
"As long as you bring something back for me," Mac tells us. "I'll take mine black, and I wouldn't mind having a doughnut."
"C'mon," I say, tugging on Reed's sleeve. "Let's go grab some coffee, huh?"
He starts at my touch, bringing his mind back to focus on the here and now. "What?" he asks.
"Coffee," I say. "You know, the drink of the gods?" I gesture to the Red Cross Mobile Canteen. "Let's go grab some, whaddaya say?"
"Oh, sure," he says, slowly following me. "Coffee would be great right now."
A cheery blonde woman waits on us at the canteen. "What can I do you for?" she asks, flashing us a bright smile.
"Three coffees and three doughnuts, please," I tell her.
"You want cream or sugar with those coffees?" she asks.
"No, two will be black…" I begin.
Reed interrupts me. "We'll take all three black," he says. "Thanks."
I cast him a puzzled glance, Reed usually takes a bit of cream and sugar in his coffee, but he ignores me, taking two of the proffered styrofoam cups filled with steaming black drink, while he nods at me to grab the three doughnuts the woman lies atop the counter. "Thanks," I say, taking the wax-paper wrapped glazed pastries and one of the other cups of coffee. "It's appreciated."
"There's more where that came from," she calls to us, then she turns to wait on a couple of detectives.
Reed hands Mac a cup of coffee while I hand him a doughnut. "Thanks," Mac says, taking a bite of the doughnut. "Mmm," he says, closing his eyes in ecstasy. "They're freshly made and still hot."
"You realize we're living up to the typical cop stereotype, don't you?" I ask, taking a bite of my own doughnut.
"How's that?" Reed mutters around a mouthful of pastry.
"The usual crap about cops always having nothing better to do than sit around eating doughnuts and drinking coffee," I say.
"Yeah, but I'd say we deserve this," Reed says, taking a sip of coffee. "Especially after a hellish day like today."
"You know, Sergeant," Sergeant Friday pipes up from where he's leaning against the hood of their grey sedan. "We could've started these interviews already and had them halfway over with by now. It's a little ridiculous to keep us waiting like this."
"Captain Moore had specific instructions not to allow the interviews to begin with Officer Reed and Officer Malloy until he was on the scene," Mac tells him. "I'm merely following his orders, Sergeant."
Friday lets out a disgusted sigh and shakes his head. "This is utterly asinine," he mutters under his breath.
Sergeant Gus Baron returns to the logistics truck from giving his statement to one of the homicide detectives. "If you don't need me any longer, Mac, I'm gonna head on back to the station," he tells Mac. "I've gotta get the SWAT gear back there yet, and plan for a debriefing tomorrow afternoon."
"Yeah, fine," Mac tells him, swallowing the last of his doughnut. He fishes in his pocket for the keys to Adam-12, handing them off to Gus. "Go ahead and drive the squad back in, since the Armadillo is stuck out there."
"Any idea on when it might be freed?" Gus asks.
Mac shakes his head. "Whenever the crime scene is released and city works gets in here to clean up the debris. I'll let you know as soon as possible."
"Okay, great," Gus tells him, picking up one of the bulletproof vests and helmets we used earlier.
Setting my coffee on the roof of Mac's wagon, I grab one of the vests and helmets, too, in order to help Gus. Reed does the same, and we get the equipment loaded into the back of Adam-12.
"Thanks," Gus says. "You know, you two were a great asset out there in the field today, and I want to congratulate you both for keeping your cool under such extreme circumstances."
"It wasn't all us," I say. "Paramedic John Gage deserves a lot of the credit, too. He was a pretty gutsy guy, going in on the rescues with us without considering the danger to himself."
"So does the Armadillo," Reed says. "It more than proved its worth out there today. Without it, I don't know what we would've done."
"Yeah, let's just hope we never have to use it again, except for training exercises," Gus tells us, climbing into the driver's seat of Adam-12. "There's going to be a SWAT debriefing tomorrow afternoon at one o'clock, covering the techniques and tactics we used out here today. You two will need to be there."
"Got it," I say. "We'll be there."
Gus nods to Reed and I. "When you get ready to change out of those coveralls, just toss 'em. There's no way we can reuse them." Then he starts the car, putting it into gear. He carefully swings Adam-12 into a U-turn and drives slowly up the street, dust from the damaged parking ramp sifting off of the top and sides of the car.
"He needs to run it through the car wash," I remark. "Get some of that concrete dust off of it."
Reed watches the tail lights, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coveralls. "Yeah," he says, his tone dull. "I guess."
I look over at him. "Do you want to go somewhere after work and talk when this is all over with?" I ask him.
He shakes his head. "No. As soon as we're released from duty, I'm going home to my family, providing Jean isn't on the warpath and decides to throw me out." He gives me a small smile that is not like Jim Reed at all. "Thanks, though, Pete."
"Anytime," I say, worry for his state of mind flashing through me once more. And for a brief moment, I feel like I'm looking at the ghost that used to be Jim Reed. I shake my head, chasing that thought from my mind.
"Looks like Val's here," he says, nodding at a pair of oncoming headlights.
The black sedan of Captain Val Moore pulls up and parks behind the unmarked detective car of Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon. Val's car is equipped with a single red flashing light on the dashboard, and he reaches up, turning it off. If he had the siren going prior to his arrival, he's shut it off since getting here. He climbs out of the car, dressed in a dark suit and tie, carrying a clipboard. "Sergeant Friday, Officer Gannon," he says, as he strides past the two detectives. "If you don't mind, I'd like a word with my three officers in private for a moment."
"Sure, go ahead," Friday says, grumbling. "We've waited all THIS time to get the interviews started, why not wait a little longer?"
Val stops, turning around to face Friday. "Why, did you have something more pressing that needed to be done, Sergeant?" he asks a bit sharply.
"No," Friday says. "We've just been waiting awhile, that's all."
"Then I'm sure you can wait just a few moments longer, Sergeant," Val tells him dismissively.
"What's up, Captain?" Mac asks the man who used to be our lieutenant, until getting promoted to Captain in the Wilshire Division. When Captain Grant retired, Val put in for a transfer back to Central, and he's been the Captain of our division since mid-summer.
"Let's go around the side of the truck," Val says, gesturing. "Out of earshot." When we do, Val continues. "This situation out here has gone globalwide as far as the media coverage. Other news outlets have picked the story up and are reporting on it. We've gotten calls at the station from as far away as Great Britain. Governor Brown is expected to release a statement later tonight concerning this incident, and President Ford has been kept apprised of what has happened out here. He'll likely be giving a statement himself, sometime either tonight or tomorrow, once the facts are all in. Mayor Bradley has a press conference scheduled for this evening, and there will be another news conference tomorrow afternoon at City Hall. That one the three of you will be expected to attend, so that the public can get an official look at the men who brought down the sniper. There may be a question-and-answer segment by the press, I don't know for sure. It's up to the Mayor and the Chief of Police."
"Why do they want to talk to us?" Reed asks, dismayed. "I'm not sure I'm comfortable doing that, Captain."
"Reed, what's happened out here has only happened a couple of other times in large cities. Mark Essex in Atlanta, and Charles Whitman in Austin. The fatality count is high, and the fact that it happened in a park, with children among many of the victims, makes it all the more horrifically newsworthy," Val tells him.
"What's it like back at the station?" Mac asks.
"Media everywhere," Val says with a grimace. "We've had to put them behind barricades to keep the driveway and the entrances clear. It's the same in the dispatch room, the phones are ringing off the hook. I've got our police spokesman, Sergeant Philip Anders, fielding the press, and I've got two other dispatchers working taking calls from concerned relatives of people in the park. I've been trying to keep the Mayor and the Police Chief advised of what's going on out here." Val shakes his head. "It's the same at the two hospitals, Rampart and Central Receiving. They've had to put barricades up to keep the media at bay, preventing them from getting in and conducting interviews with the wounded. It's almost worse than an earthquake. At least with an earthquake, the media vultures don't usually descend upon the stunned and the grieving." He gestures to Mac. "I've got cars coming out here at eight o'clock to relieve your officers on roadblock duty. Sergeant Broward will be out here to take over command so that you can give your statement to Sergeant Miller. Once you give your statement, Mac, you are free to go home."
"What time's the press conference in the morning?" Mac asks.
"Eleven o'clock. I don't need to remind any of you that you will need to be in uniform," Val says. He clears his throat, looking at Reed and I. "Now then. Give me a brief rundown of what transpired out here, so that I don't have any surprises sprung on me during the interview with Sergeant Friday."
"We got the call a little after noon to assist the Los Angeles County Fire Department. Their paramedic unit was pinned down by sniper fire," I say. "When we arrived on scene, we confirmed that we had an active shooter in the vicinity, and we notified Sergeant MacDonald. Once he got on scene, the decision was made to call out the SWAT unit, and Sergeant Baron brought in the Armadillo at our request. Once the Armadillo got here, Reed and I suited up and began rescue operations in the park."
"Why didn't county take over command?" Val asks. "It's in their jurisdiction."
"I took over the role as primary incident commander when I was informed that the county already had a hostage situation that was ongoing elsewhere, and most of their deputies and their SWAT team was tied up with that," Mac says.
"So you and Reed went in and began rescue operations, right? With Sergeant Baron piloting the Armadillo?" Val asks.
"Eh…" I hesitate. "Well, there was a third person aboard the rig, too."
Val stares at me. "Who?"
"Paramedic John Gage," I tell him. "He and his partner, Roy DeSoto, were the two medics pinned down by Burnside's fire. Once we got them out of danger, Gage got in his head that he could help us out in the field."
Val turns a hard gaze to Mac. "And you went along with this, Sergeant MacDonald?" he asks sharply, his eyebrows raised.
Mac shakes his head. "I had no choice, Captain. John Gage managed to slip past us the first time and stow away on board the Armadillo. Once it was evident that he was indeed, of valuable assistance during the rescue operations, it was decided to allow him to function in that capacity, despite the misgivings of both his Captain and I."
"To be fair, Captain," Reed says. "Gage was outfitted with a bulletproof vest and helmet."
"That doesn't matter," Val says angrily. "You allowed an unauthorized and unqualified person aboard a SWAT vehicle, performing a function best left up to members of the police department. You should have pulled him off at the first chance you had, and placed him under arrest, if necessary, in order to keep him from pulling such a dangerous stunt."
"I fully apologize, Captain," Mac tells him in a clipped tone. "But the man did do good out there. Without his help, I'm sure the operations wouldn't have gone as smoothly or as quickly as they did."
Val studies Mac for a moment, then he speaks, his expression grim. "That's fine, Sergeant. And once you get done giving your statement to Sergeant Miller and return to the station, you are on paid leave pending an investigation into this matter. This may be brought before a disciplinary board, do I make myself clear?"
"Very," Mac says coolly, with a sharp nod of his head.
Val turns back to us. "Go on, Malloy. After rescue operations were complete, what happened next?"
"By that time, the sniper had been identified as Charlie Burnside," I say. "We made plans to go in and get him, utilizing the parking ramp. Unfortunately, Burnside blew those plans all to hell, along with the ramp, when he saw the Armadillo approaching. Debris from the ramp trapped Captain Stanley from Station 51 inside the fire truck. We managed to get off-board the rig, and after trying to assist the fire crew in freeing their man, Mac ordered us back to the command post. Once we got here, Burnside made contact with us via a CC unit, and began to taunt us. He got angry with us and took a shot at the fire crew of Engine 51, injuring one of the firefighters in the shoulder. That was when Reed got mad and went after Burnside. I chased after Reed, and after a brief standoff on the rooftop of the Granite Court building, Reed managed to shove Burnside over the edge of the roof, sending him to his death."
"Officers Malloy and Reed acted against my direct orders, I might add," Mac says. "The plan was to wait Burnside out, not charge in and take him down. Officer Reed took it upon himself to go after Burnside. Officer Malloy followed his partner."
"I wasn't going to let him get killed," I say with irritation.
"Oh Jesus," Val says, rubbing his forehead. "Okay, what happened on the rooftop? It's my understanding that you didn't get a chance to fire a kill shot at Burnside, is that correct, Officer Reed?"
Reed nods. "He had dynamite strapped around his chest, with the detonator in his hand. In addition, the rifle jammed, rendering it useless. Burnside took me hostage, and when Pete arrived, he held Pete at bay, pointing a gun to my head and promising to blow us all up. Pete was forced to back down."
"At that point, I heard the conversations going on between the men, thanks to Malloy leaving his CC unit open," Mac says. "I ordered Air Ten to fly by, hopefully long enough to distract Burnside, allowing either Reed or Malloy to get the drop on him. Luckily, it worked. Reed yanked the detonator out of Burnside's hand and shoved him off of the roof."
Val sighs heavily, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "There will likely be a disciplinary hearing for the two of you, also, for disobeying Sergeant MacDonald's orders, do you understand?"
"We do," I say.
"Once the two of you get back to the station, you're also on paid leave, pending an investigation," Val says. "And I'm sure I don't need to remind you gentleman that you are NOT to talk to anyone about anything out here, once you are released from duty. That means no telling the wife or kids what happened, or regaling the neighbors with what you did. And for God's sake, if any member of the press approaches you, decline comment." He looks at Reed and I. "Is that all?" he asks. "As far as how it went down out here?"
"It is," I say.
"Good," Val says. "Sergeant MacDonald, why don't you go ahead and go over to where Sergeant Miller is at, and see if he can start taking your statement? Sergeant Broward should be here any moment, and he'll take over at the command post. Is there anything he should know?" Val pulls out a pen and prepares to take notes on the pad attached to his clipboard.
"The refrigerated morgue trucks should be arriving out here shortly," Mac says. "When they get here, I want them placed as close to the scene as possible, to keep the press from getting shots of the bodies being removed from the park. As far as anything else, it's mostly a mop-up operation now. We'll keep the roadblocks in place overnight and into tomorrow, at least. A bus should be arriving to take the relatives of the deceased over to Good News Baptist Church, two blocks from here. The police chaplain is already on scene out here to assist with them, and if he needs anything, he'll let Sergeant Broward know. It's mostly in the hands of the homicide dicks now. Main operations on that end is Sergeant Miller's responsibility. The uniform patrol is now shifting primarily into a support and maintain capacity." Mac points to the rubble of the parking ramp. "City works and the parks department have been notified of the debris and damage out here, but they've been advised they will not be allowed access until the scene is released. Same with the keyholders for the surrounding buildings, no entry until the scene is cleared. The bomb squads are making a sweep of the Granite Court building and the area around it, looking for any surprises Burnside might have left behind. The water is shut off out here, due to a broken water main that occurred when the ramp blew, so none of the buildings have working sprinkler systems at this time. The water department was going to notify the fire department of that. The Red Cross canteen unit will be here until they're no longer needed." Mac shrugs. "That's about it, Captain."
"Good," Val says, tearing the notes off and tucking them into his pocket. "I'll let Sergeant Broward know as soon as he gets here. Unless you can think of anything, go ahead and go over to Sergeant Miller."
Mac turns to us. "You two need to get your uniform shirts and gunbelts out of my car," he says. "Since Val will be the one driving you back."
"Yes, about that," Val says, stopping us. "When we get done with the walk-through, you two will need to change out of the coveralls and back into your uniforms. We don't want the press to realize that you two were the ones who got Burnside just yet."
"What good's that gonna do?" Reed asks. "They'll see you bringing us in and figure it out anyway."
"No, as far as they know, you two are just two officers I'm bringing in from the site. You could be officers who worked the barricades and I've brought you into the station because it's the end of your watch," Val says. "They won't know the difference." A pair of headlights bouncing off the side of the logistics truck herald the arrival of Sergeant Broward. Val pulls the notes from his pocket and hands them to Mac. "Give these to him, fill him in on the situation out here, and then get over to Miller. And remember, the press conference is at eleven o'clock in the morning, but the three of you need to be at the station by ten, so we can go over your statements and get you over to City Hall."
"You mean coach us on what we can and can't say," Reed says.
"I didn't say that," Val tells him. "It's just an advisory meeting, that's all."
"We've got a SWAT debriefing at one," I tell Val. "Will we be out of there in time to make it?"
"I would think so," Val says. "Just to be on the safe side, I'll request Sergeant Baron move it back to two, okay?" When we nod, he glances down at his clipboard and says, "Alright then, let's get this show on the road. I'm sure Sergeant Friday and Officer Gannon are chomping at the bit to get the interview underway." He gestures to our gear on the ground by Mac's wagon. "Why don't you two grab your gear and we'll put it in the trunk of my car?" he suggests.
Sergeant Friday looks up as we come around the back of the truck. "Captain," he says, his tone a bit snide. "I trust that we can get started on the interviews now?"
"Yes," Val says, nodding. "Just as soon as they get their gear stowed away." He hands me the keys to his car.
As Reed and I stash our helmet bags and briefcases in the trunk of Val's car, I take my uniform shirt, shoes, and gunbelt, laying them on the backseat of his car. Reed does the same, so that we can change back into them prior to leaving for the station.
Val is studying the M-16's we used in the field. "I see you've gone ahead and tagged the weapons," he says to Sergeant Friday.
"Yes, Sergeant MacDonald allowed us to do that," Friday tells him. "And he was also gracious enough to allow us to copy the entries out of their logbook. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to put their weapons in the trunk of our car, in order to take them to Ballistics."
Val smiles a bit, a cold little smile that could freeze a polar bear's nuts. "I'll place them in the trunk of my car, Sergeant. They will be taken to our Ballistics division at Central for testing." He cocks his head a bit, still smiling icily. "You're certainly welcome to follow us into the station after the interview and walk-through is completed, in order to quickly get the evidence you need. But since this is a Central Division incident, any and all evidence pertaining to the matter out here will be handled in-house. I'm sure you understand, Sergeant. We don't want any hint of impropriety or whiff of misconduct…especially since you're the one quite fond of following the rules to the letter."
Friday matches Val's grin with an icicle one of his own. "Fair enough, Captain. Officer Gannon and I will be more than happy to accompany you to the station once we're through out here."
"Officer Reed, Officer Malloy, please place your weapons in the trunk of my car," Val says, handing us the M-16's.
"Do I detect a bit of a grudge match?" Reed whispers to me as we put the guns away.
I shake my head. "Val's only watching out for us," I whisper back. "Remember, he holds no love for Sergeant Friday, either, just like Mac and I don't. Friday's a damned good detective, but his interrogation techniques leave much to be desired at times. I found that out once already, now it's your turn." I look at Jim. "Don't let him get you flustered or angry, keep your cool, no matter what. He'll try anything to rattle you, just to detect anything you might be hiding. He'll make you feel like a criminal more than a cop, so keep that in mind. It's his job to be hard-hitting, and he does it well." I slam the trunk lid shut.
Reed sighs with disgust. "Pete, I've handled interviews before and come out just fine. Quit worrying."
"But you've never been interviewed by Sergeant Friday," I say. "Except for when you were in the hospital after the Walters' incident."
"What's there to it?" he asks, following me back to the logistics truck. "I'm not afraid of him, Pete."
I shake my head. "I'm just trying to prepare you, that's all."
Val takes a tape recorder and microphone from the front seat of his car. "I hope you gentlemen won't mind that I record this interview," he says, holding the recorder and microphone up. "Just for the sake of truth and validity," he adds. "It gives us an official record to look back on, should any questions arise later on down the road."
Friday stares at him a moment, his eyes glittering maliciously, a muscle working in his jaw. Val's tactic seems to have thrown him a bit. "That's fine, Captain," he says crisply. "I have no problem with that."
"Good," Val says, setting the tape recorder and microphone up in the back of the logistics truck. "Let's begin then, shall we?" He pushes the 'play' button on the tape recorder and speaks into the mike. "This is the initial interview with Officers Peter J. Malloy and James A. Reed, regarding their involvement in the sniper situation on Granite Court, dated September 21st, 1975. Time of interview, 20:00 hours. Detectives conducting the interview are Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon, of police headquarters. Present for the interview is the commanding officer of Central Division, Captain Valman Moore," he says. With that, he nods curtly to Sergeant Friday. "The interview may now begin."