“If you’da been doing your job, this never woulda happened,” DeShawn snapped. “Where was you at, anyways? Off shoving donuts in your hole or something?”
Chisolm smiled humorlessly. “You’ll want to curb that talk,” he said in a low voice.
DeShawn opened his mouth to shoot back another comment, but Chisolm twitched his fingers next to his handcuff case. DeShawn noticed, and after a moment he closed his mouth and pressed his lips together. “What you wanna know, pops?” he asked, his voice more neutral.
“Were they wearing masks?” Chisolm asked.
DeShawn shook his head.
“Did they say anything?”
“Somethin’, but I couldn’t tell what. It sounded like some foreign shit.”
Chisolm nodded. “Show me where they were hiding before the van showed up.”
DeShawn pointed out the three locations. Chisolm noted the perfect triangulation of fire-whoever set this up had a strong understanding of military tactics. He would have to make sure the investigating detectives knew.
“Somethin’ else, too,” DeShawn said. “They didn’t all get in the van right away. Two of ’em walked behind it while they were shooting at me.”
“They used it for cover,” Chisolm muttered. “Great.”
“Thas right,” DeShawn said. “I saw that before once. I didn’t remember before, but I do now. It was in a movie.”
“What movie?”
DeShawn scratched his chin. “That Vietnam movie. The one with the little Oriental bitch sayin’ ‘me so horny’ and shit.”
“Full Metal Jacket,” Chisolm said.
DeShawn snapped his fingers and pointed. “Thas right. Them dudes was walking along next to a tank, just like these motherfuckers were doin’ with that van.”
Chisolm resisted the urge to sigh. Using a tank or an APC for cover while on the move was a fairly common military tactic. But it took knowing the tactic, as well as a little bit of planning ahead and practice.
“Can I go check on my little cousin?” DeShawn asked. He pointed to the neighbor’s house where a teenage girl sat huddled on the porch in a blanket.
“Sure,” Chisolm said. “But don’t go anywhere.”
DeShawn nodded and walked directly toward the girl.
Chisolm glanced around the crime scene’s inner perimeter. Yellow tape cordoned off the front yard of DeShawn’s house as well as the area across the street. At the edge of the outer perimeter Sergeant Shen sat in his cruiser with the door propped open, working his phone. Chisolm knew he was talking to Lieutenant Crawford in Major Crimes. He’d arrive soon, along with his detectives. They’d take over the scene and conduct the remainder of the investigation.
“Homicide, step aside,” Chisolm muttered to himself, snapping his notebook shut.
Day shift would be out soon to relieve the graveyard officers, but he decided he’d stay on scene until the detectives made it out. He hoped it was Detective Tower or Detective Browning, either of which he figured would listen to the bad news he was going to have to tell them.
0719 hours
Officer Mark Ridgeway took a deep drag from his cigarette and watched the young man in a business suit approach the edge of the crime scene. He noted the uptight, cocky swagger and the slight bulge under the left arm.
“Fed,” he muttered, and cursed silently. So much for wrapping the scene up in a timely manner.
The agent stopped in front of Ridgeway and looked him over, contempt plain in his eyes. Then he reached into his jacket and removed a billfold. “Special Agent Payne,” he announced, flashing his tin at an unimpressed Ridgeway. “FBI.”
Ridgeway nodded slowly, and blew out a stream of smoke. “You expected in there?”
Payne’s eyes narrowed. “I was requested.”
“Oh, I see.” Ridgeway raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. “Requested.”
“Yes,” Payne said tightly. “By your chief, as a matter of fact.”
Ridgeway lifted the crime scene tape. “Then, by all means, go right in.”
Payne took a step forward, then stopped. He pointed at Ridgeway’s cigarette. “This is a crime scene. You need to put that out.”
Ridgeway eyed him for a moment, not entirely believing what he’d just heard.
“I’m serious,” Payne said. “Put it out.”
“This is the outer perimeter,” Ridgeway told him, letting the crime scene tape snap back into place. “There’s no chance of contaminating the scene out here.”
“This whole area is a crime scene,” Payne repeated. “And now that I’ve been called in to consult, federal procedures are to be adhered to. That means no smoking anywhere near the scene.” He leaned in slightly and forced a cold smile. “Of course, officer, if you’d like me to get your lieutenant out here to talk to you about this, I’m sure I can accommodate you.”
Ridgeway took another drag off his cigarette. It wouldn’t be Ridgeway’s lieutenant that came over. It would be the Major Crimes boss, Lieutenant Crawford. And while the man was a bona fide ball buster, they’d known each other a long time. Ridgeway wasn’t particularly worried. “How many years have you been a cop?” he asked Payne.
The special agent crossed his arms. “Why?”
“How many?” Ridgeway repeated.
“I’ve been with the bureau three years. Plus I have a degree from the University of Washington in the field of-”
“See these?” Ridgeway interrupted. He pointed at the one-inch horizontal service stripes on his left sleeve. “You know what they are?”
Payne shrugged. “Service stripes.”
“That’s right,” Ridgeway said. “Each one of these stripes is for three years of service.”
“On patrol, probably,” Payne snorted.
“Yeah, on patrol. All of them.” Ridgeway’s voice was low and mean. “And since you feds have trouble with simple things, I’ll tell you straight out that there’s nine of these stripes right here on my sleeve. Nine.” He cocked his head slightly and glared at Payne. “How many years is that, Agent Payne?”
“Twenty-seven.So what?”
“So what?” Ridgeway took a deep drag and sent the smoke billowing toward Payne. “Well, sonny, I’ll tell you so what.” He pointed at the hash marks and traced them up his sleeve. “Why don’t you just climb up this ladder and kiss my ass?”
Payne blanched. His mouth gaped open for a moment. He moved it as if to speak but no words came out. Finally he slammed it shut, turned on his heels, and stomped toward the inner perimeter.
Ridgeway shook his head and made a notation in the crime scene log of the time and who had entered. He exercised great self-discipline and labeled Payne as “Agent” instead of “Dipshit.”
Then Mark Ridgeway finished his cigarette and lit another.
0720 hours
“Military training?”
“Yes.” Thomas Chisolm nodded emphatically to Detective Ray Browning. “That’s what I’m saying.”
Chisolm stared into the intelligent, dark-brown eyes of the veteran detective. Detective Tower stood off to the side, his pen poised above a notepad as he made a preliminary sketch of the scene.
Browning gave Chisolm a long look, then nodded. “All right, Tom. I’ll keep it in mind. Who would have this kind of training?”
“Any infantryman gets it,” Chisolm said.
“That doesn’t narrow the suspect field much.”
“Any infantryman gets it,” Chisolm repeated, “but getting instruction and training is a long ways from putting into effect in a real situation with a full team.”
Browning stroked his closely cropped goatee. The jet-black whiskers had a sprinkling of gray in them. Chisolm could remember a time when Browning wore his face clean-shaven. The detective’s skin had been a more vibrant cocoa color back then. Now it had a worn, dusty look to it.
We’re all getting old, Chisolm thought. Even so, he was glad for the deep wisdom he saw in Browning’s eyes.
“You’re saying it takes a lot to employ these tactics?” Browning asked. “More than just being trained?”