Officer Needs Assistance

Chapter 1 San Jose, California, 1977 Rookie police officer Sean Patton strolled into the men’s locker room. He emptied his pockets of his wallet, cash, and comb, and put them on the bench in front of his locker. He striped to his briefs and gawked at the new uniform on its hanger. Sean took a deep breath, realizing he’d actually been hired. Most of his life he leaned toward insecurity, feeling everyone else was better than him. He decided to use the restroom first, but after taking a few steps, an older officer, naked and toweling off from a shower, warned him, “Don’t leave your money and wallet out.” Sean had spied the man before, with his tanned and gym-toned body that lacked tan lines. “We’re all cops here.” “Right. Don’t leave your money and wallet out.” The idea that all cops couldn’t be trusted flabbergasted Sean, but he put the valuables in his uniform pockets before using the urinal. As he passed the officer, he said, “Thanks. I’m new.” The taller and fit officer, holding his underwear, looked down at Sean. “Hope I didn’t shock you, but not everyone is as honest as you and I think we are.” He winked, smiled, and extended a hand. “I’m Captain Barrows.” Although Sean had seen the man around the department, but hadn’t recognized him out of uniform. They shook. “Yes, sir, thanks for the tip. I’m Sean Patton.” “Welcome aboard. Make sure you have fun, right? No job is too good that you shouldn’t have fun in life.” Sean could swear the guy checked out his package. He went to the urinals and tried to be subtle while checking out the other officers, just like he’d done in high school and college locker rooms. He knew a lot of guys glanced at others, and he’d heard stories of it being blatant in women’s locker rooms and gyms. There were dozens of officers dressing for the midnight shift. Some paraded naked in the locker room, some wore towels around their waists, while a majority wore ugly boxers. A few, mostly the younger guys, sported an array of briefs styles. One or two dared to wear colored briefs, and others teased them. Sean eventually dressed, shined his shoes, sat through a daily briefing, and eventually went out on patrol in his one-officer assignment. Walking behind two female officers in the parking lot, he checked out their asses and wondered what type of underwear they wore. On patrol, Sean handled a few routine calls, made two car stops, and got a disturbance call. He turned onto the street. His left hand panned the spotlight beam from one rundown house to another. When he found the address, 3634, he pulled his police car one house past it, parked, and lifted the microphone from its holder. “Unit Seven-Six-Two to dispatch. I’m on scene of the domestic disturbance call.” He grinned; he enjoyed being off probation. Now that the probationary leash is gone, my career will really take off. The last year had zoomed by and he now found himself in the middle of 1977. His mind back on business, the safety rules ran through his mind—forearm over the duty weapon and ready to draw, flashlight in the other hand and look around. His still-new uniform gave a light tug as it encased his muscular body. He flashed on the academy training about the dangers of domestic disputes as he strode up the driveway, and he was glad he decided to buy his own ballistic vest. It was bulky and stopped only some bullets, but it was the wave of the future. Elvis Presley sang “Jailhouse Rock” as Sean entered the open, well-lit garage. While the house could compete with all the others in this neighborhood for the status of “most dilapidated,” the garage sported an aura of cleanliness. The walls were finished and painted. Orderly racks held various sizes of lumber, sheetrock, and assorted lengths of pipe—all arranged by size. Against one wall stood a row of power tools—a table saw, a band saw, and a sanding machine. An older forest-green pickup truck with a polished body and shiny wheels displayed itself. South County Construction shimmered from the driver’s door in artistic gold and black lettering. The registration tabs showed May 1977. They’d expired two months ago. A shirtless white male leaned into the bed of the truck, straightening tools. Damn he’s buffed. It’ll be a hell of a fight if he resists. Sean assessed him—about thirty years old, six feet tall, two hundred ten pounds, sleek black hair in a ponytail, a tattoo on each huge arm, a long, trimmed mustache, and puffy sideburns. Looked like he had a nice ass, too, but Sean had no time to gawk; this was police business. Besides, my career will be over if anyone finds out I’m into guys. Sean grinned again, this time at his keen observational skills. Funny, it’s not a hot night, it’s almost eleven P.M., and he’s not working too hard, so why is he sweating so much? Why don’t the red spots on the right forearm match the tattoo? They’re not blood, are they? He ignored the chill of danger that shot through him. “Good evening, sir. Do you live here?” The man jerked upright. His head snapped toward Sean. “Yeah, I live here. You got a warrant?” “No, sir. We got a call of a family fight at this address. I’m here to make sure everyone is okay, then I’ll leave you to your business.” He remembered to display a friendly smile as he scanned the man for any visible knives or guns. A wave of concern squashed Sean’s momentary lust as he watched the guy step away from the pickup, flex his arms, and close and open his fists. The man’s chest rose and fell when he sighed. Another wave of concern lingered in Sean’s gut, and his heart rate increased. He thought to call for another officer but didn’t want to be one of those cops the veteran officers complained about who called for backup with every little excuse. “Everyone is okay, officer, just an argument with the wife. I worked a long day and there was no damn dinner when I got home. I busted my ass to pull my life together after some stupid mistakes. I’m sure you checked my record. I’m still on parole. That b***h sits on her ass most of the time, hardly keeps the house up, and can’t even have dinner for me. Hell, this garage is cleaner than the house. You’d be pissed off, too.” The aggrieved husband’s chest rose and fell again with a second, and longer, sigh. Sean offered a sympathetic nod and short smile. “I’ll have to go in and check, just to be sure, okay?” “Well, dude, don’t suppose I can stop you, huh?” With a lowered head, the muscled man led Sean into the house by the door from the garage. Sean’s memory activated as the third sigh came—this one long and deep. What was it they said in the academy about decisive sighs? Either someone is going to escalate up or calm down. Sean stepped into the kitchen and scanned it. It was a stark contrast to the spic-and-span garage. His gaze moved from the sink full of dishes, to the dirty pots on the counter. A certain odor wafted by. What is that smell? Garbage, mildew? It stinks. But then his eyes locked onto a female Caucasian, about twenty-seven years old, sitting on the edge of one of the metal kitchen chairs. She slumped over the Formica table with her head and a scarlet-stained towel in one hand. He stared at her torn housecoat and the blood on her arm that dripped from her face. The swollen right eye stood out. The other hand held her ribs. Sean thought of a pummeled boxer. He stepped toward her. His mouth opened to speak when, with sudden awareness, he realized he had taken his eyes off the robust man. The pair of blasts shuddered his body. The impacts to the left side of his back made him shift his feet to maintain balance. Damn, what— He spun to see the man six feet away, holding a smoking revolver. He shot me; where’d he get the gun? The searing heat of fear spread from his gut to his chest and into his throat. His legs buckled and he dropped to one knee. Rippling pain encased him. The man spit out, “I’m not going back to prison for giving her what she deserved. Looks like we all die tonight.” Sean’s fear elevated as the man fired two more shots, hitting him in the chest, knocking him backward. Pain seared his body. The man shifted the gun toward the battered woman. Sean propelled himself upward and used his right hand and a body block to shove the woman off her chair. Simultaneously, his left hand drew his revolver. He returned the suspect’s two shots with three of his own. Sean wondered if something had gone wrong—the shots sounded like a distant echo. The familiar acrid but sweet scent of gunpowder invaded his nostrils. Curiosity assailed him. Why is everything happening in slow motion? A cloud of smoke swirled from his revolver and commingled with the opponent’s gun smoke. His peripheral vision caught the blue-steel revolver fly from his attacker’s hand onto the dirty green linoleum floor. Even the thud of the six-shooter’s fall seemed muffled. “Ugh,” was the only sound to leak from the assailant’s mouth. His Herculean body crumpled to its knees, then dropped onto its back. Blood oozed from the three holes in the hairy chest and mixed with the perspiration. His face and eyes transmitted a look of “What happened?” Sean froze in fear for a moment as the man’s chest heaved to seize its last gasp. The eyes locked wide open, and the body shook once, twice, and a third time. obviously in its death throws. Sean holstered his gun. Thoughts flooded his mind like a torpedoed ship. Did my bulletproof vest stop the bullets? It hurt so badly at first. Now my whole body is numb. Am I bleeding? First aid to the woman? No, cuff the suspect. Call for backup. Should I pick up his gun or leave it there as evidence? His right hand robotically lifted the portable police radio from its black leather case on his gun belt. He pressed the microphone button on the side of the plastic device. There was so much chatter on the police channel, he prayed he could weave his emergency transmission into it. “Unit Seven-Six-Two. Emergency. Officer needs help! Shots fired at the Sherwood address. One suspect and an officer shot, and there’s a beating victim.” Sean suspected he was going into shock. He forced his eyes to stay open in resistance to their desire to close. It was hard to breathe. His ears perked at the dispatcher’s response. “All units clear the channel, emergency in progress. Respond Code Three to 3634 Sherwood—officer needs help. Seven-Six-Two’s been shot. I’m dispatching a Code Three ambulance.” Code Three was an all-out, balls-to-the-wall drive with lights and siren. His eyes closed for just a second as he prayed. Thank you, God. “Dispatch to Seven-Six-Two, how many suspects? How bad are you hit? Are you safe?” His eyelids popped open, “Seven-Six-Two to dispatch. One suspect, he’s down, not moving, not cuffed, beating victim here, hurt bad. Not sure about me—I can stand, my vest, I’m not sure—” His thumb slipped off the transmission button. He strained to take controlled, deep breaths to stay conscious. His body felt numb. The radio crackled. “Patton, hang in there, kid. I’ve got lots of help getting to you, hang in there!” His eyes flickered. He took comfort in the senior dispatcher’s calm voice. His gaze floated back and forth from the lifeless man who’d tried to kill him, to the defeated woman in a heap, still on the floor. She uttered not a word. Her vacant eyes spoke for her. Sean whispered, “I’m sorry.” A distant siren shrieked louder. More joined it as they grew into a crowd. He had to hold on for only another minute. His girlfriend Debbie came to mind. She’ll freak. I’ll ask someone to call her from the hospital if I make it.