Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

“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?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Whoever executed this operation has either done it before, probably in the military, or they planned for it extensively.”

“Are you saying that because of the-”

“Triangulation of fire. It’s the exact opposite of crossfire.” He peered closer at Browning. “Were you ever in SWAT, Ray?”

Browning shook his head. “No. Five years in patrol. The rest of it in investigations. Why?”

Chisolm squatted and motioned for Browning to do the same. “I know for a fact that you’re one hell of a detective, Ray,” Chisolm said. “Everyone does.”

“Thanks, but-”

“The thing is,” Chisolm continued, “that no one can know everything, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Even if some people think they do,” Chisolm added, his eyes flicking toward Lieutenant Crawford as he conversed with a Channel Five news reporter.

Browning smiled slightly. “Even if.”

“Okay, then. Here’s what you might not know.” Chisolm removed his pen from his uniform shirt and scratched in the dirt while he spoke. “Here’s the van,” he said, drawing a small circle in the dirt, “and here’s the house.”

“Got it.”

Chisolm marked the positions of the gunmen with a large dot for each. “This is where the shooters were staged,” he said. “Keep in mind that every one of them had cover and concealment, whether it was the one behind that tree over there or crouched next to the front tire of that pickup truck.”

Browning nodded.

Chisolm drew a line from shooter to shooter, creating a rough semicircle. “They’re covering about 120 degrees of the compass here. That gives them a huge field of fire, but it also keeps them from being in a crossfire and out of danger of hitting each other.” He emphasized his point by drawing lines from each shooter’s position toward the house.

“It was an ambush all along,” Browning muttered.

“Exactly,” Chisolm said. “They used the gangster drive-by tactic and threw a couple of shots into the house as a ruse. This draws the majority of the bangers outside.” He stabbed his pen into the dirt. “Once they’re outside, they walk into the middle of hell. From their perspective, bullets would have been coming from everywhere.”

Browning nodded thoughtfully. “One of the witnesses said that the shooting was loud and definitely from what she called machine guns. But she said it only lasted about five or ten seconds at the most.”

“Right,” Chisolm said, “because these guys knew what they were going to do. They had a plan. They had concentrated fire. They poured a full magazine of rounds down onto these poor bastards, went back to cover, and did a reload. Meanwhile, the van swoops in. They use it for cover as they get away.”

“That’s pretty organized,” Browning said. “And impressive.”

“It’s more than impressive,” Chisolm said. “It takes training, experience, and balls. You have to be ready for anything.”

“No plan survives contact with the enemy,” Browning quoted.

Chisolm nodded emphatically. “Exactly. In this case, you got DeShawn here, who didn’t come outside right away because he was checking on his cousin. So he’s not in the kill zone when they open fire. He gets a good look at them after the first volley.”

“He was a little bit outgunned, it sounds like.”

“Sure he was. But that’s not the point. The point is, what do these guys do? When things don’t go as planned?”

Browning considered a moment. “They stay calm. They continue to fire. And they stick to their plan.”