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“Mr. Sorensen.” Dave wanted to wait a few beats to make sure the guy didn’t think the voice was coming
from inside his head.
“Mr. Sorensen. My name is Detective Dave Traxton.”
Dave wondered offhandedly if the doc would keep doing abortions after this.
“I’d like a word with you please, if it’s not too inconvenient.”
Relax. Start off neutral. Just a couple guys having a conversation.
“Whatta ya want!” the man shouted, the anxiety and panic evident in his
voice.
“I know! I know! This is crazy!” said Dave, matching the man’s pitch and tone.
“Everything is all messed up!” Dave was careful not to use foul language, lest it unnecessarily agitate him.
“The evil ones are the harbingers! The evil ones are the harbingers!” Harbinger. Dave was pretty sure this
was the first time he had ever heard this word spoken aloud.
“Of course! Of course!” Dave agreed again, matching his voice and tone. What
was a harbinger, anyway?
“They produce the destruction of man!” the man exclaimed.
“Yes! Yes! The destruction!” Dave heartily agreed.
•“The end-times have come and gone and have left us with the remnants of
apocalypse!” he said, emphasizing apocalypse rather enthusiastically.
“Yes! Yes! The apocalypse! The apocalypse!” Dave repeated to him, careful to pronounce apocalypse
exactly the same way, unmockingly.
“What do you know of the apocalypse?” the man questioned.
“All we have left is the remnants!” Dave said, feeding the man’s own words back to him.
“You do know!”
“Yes! Yes!” Dave agreed, although to what exactly, he didn’t really know.
“And the evil ones must be purged! Purged!”
“Yes! Purged,” agreed Dave, careful to stretch out the pronunciation of purged like the insane Bible man.
Lieutenant Wilex looked at him skeptically.
“Then you know what must be done here!” shouted the man.
“Please explain so that all may know!” Dave exhorted.
“This evil one. He kills innocents. He must be delivered! He must be killed!”
“Yes,” Dave agreed “The evil ones must be delivered and killed!”
“How can the mind of man judge evil?” continued Dave.
“He kills innocents! He is an evil one! He must be killed!”
“The killing of innocents does not an evil one make!” Dave retorted.
“What of the Passover? What of Sodom and Gomorrah? What of the flood?” he continued.
This was a trick Dave learned a few years ago from a hostage negotiation training seminar he’d attended.
Whenever in a dialogue with a suspect, start out by agreeing with everything he said. Then you gradually,
slowly and carefully, introduce a small bit of confusion into the guy’s reasoning so that he might question
his actions. Then you tried to convince the guy that it actually would be better to give himself up and let
the hostages go.
• 17
“You’re the evil ones that must be punished!” shouted the man.
“Yes! Yes! Punish the evil ones,” Dave pronounced evil as closely as possible to
how the man said it. Eeeevvillll.
“But I ask you again, what of the Passover, what of Sodom? Of Gomorrah?”
Wilex looked at Dave as if he’d lost his marbles. Dave’s expression said
otherwise.
“That . . . that was proclaimed by the Lord!” the man shouted.
“Indeed! The Lord doth proclaim the shedding of innocent blood.”
“Yes. The Lord!” said the man, grasping at straws, desperately trying to reclaim
his rightful martyrdom.
“Have you insight into the mind of God?” questioned Dave, more curiously than condemningly.
“Yes! I have been instructed to dispel of the bastions of hell!”
“Dispel the bastions of hell!” Dave said, again careful to match the tone and pitch of the man.
“I ask you again. Have you insight into the mind of God?” Dave added.
“Are not the bastions of hell beyond comprehension?” he continued.
“Are not the evil ones cloaked in righteousness?”
“I can see!” the man shouted, sounding like he was trying to convince himself.
“Who among us is truly good? Do we not all have original sin?” Dave questioned.
“I can see!” Frank said, defiantly, momentarily forgetting the “evil one” whom
he had his Beretta pointed at, and made the mistake of showing his face briefly in the broken front broken
window of the clinic.
“I can see!” he repeated.
Roberto had graduated from the academy seven years ago, after which he had spent two years working
shifts that only recent graduates worked, in neighborhoods that only recent graduates worked in. The
police academy was clear on this. Nobody, regardless of connections, aptitude, skills, demonstrations of
leadership was above the requirements of the department. And that had meant being assigned to times and
areas that were as far removed from the glamour and image of the police officer that most had when they
entered the academy. Roberto understood this, so he accepted his
role with obedience. The ‘Burroughs’ of East Los Angeles were hard and unforgiving The arrest rate was a
dismal 60 percent, meaning that of all the crimes that were reported, only 60 percent of those resulted in
an arrest. Often the public was misled by conviction rates, which were usually above 90 percent. The main
reason for this was that police officers only arrested those they were fairly certain were guilty of the
crimes they were charged with. This was not due to excellent police work or brilliant forensic insight, but
simply because criminals were mostly stupid. Most arrests were
made within twelve hours of a reported crime. Roberto was fairly thorough when questioning victims, and
he had a decent eye for detail. His own personal arrest rate was a staggering 73 percent. This was mainly
due to the fact that it was nearly impossible to faze him. The horrible conditions that the victims found
themselves in, the familial proximity to the obvious assailants, all this had a muddling effect on the brains
of responding officers. Clearly, officers were trained to be professional
and detached, but sometimes if one was only ninety-five percent focused instead of a hundred, you could
miss a key element here, a particularly strangely stressed syllable there, all of which, when properly
observed, naturally led to a higher degree of scrutiny. This was where Roberto stood out. And at six feet
three inches, with an impressive build and near-perfect physical shape, it wasn’t long for Roberto to come
to the attention of the higher-ups. There were a few paths of advancement in the
department, through the ranks, as Dave and Wilex had done. Some actually preferred to be a beat cop, on
the scene, in the action, topping out at sergeant. Then there was special tactics. SWAT, special response,
bomb squad. Still first, or close to first, on fresh scenes that required a level of skill and levelheadedness
that was rare in most people. This is the area that Roberto had chosen. And after six months during the
initial training period, where special skills and aptitudes and beliefs and attitudes were fleshed out,
Roberto’s special talents had become evident.
Sniper.
Many people could be sharpshooters. In fact, most everybody could become a sharpshooter, given the
proper equipment and training regimen. It was a matter of patience and practice. Lots of practice. And
even more patience. Wind calculation, proper equipment maintenance, and extremely rigorous aerobic,
anaerobic, and mental exercise. Anaerobic in order to give the muscles of the upper body the physical skill
to be still and hold position. Cardiovascular to be able to slow the heart rate, 19
preferably to less than sixty beats per minute. That gave a little less than one second for the brain to
quickly decide if the conditions were right, send a signal to the finger to slowly and evenly squeeze the
trigger. And mental exercise, mostly in the form that focused breathing for long periods of time, in an
attempt to “empty” the mind, for lack of a better description. If one could hold the rifle in position for a
long period of time, and one was in sufficient condition such that the resting pulse was between fifty and
sixty beats per minute, sharp shooting skills came naturally. These were trainable in a surprisingly large
percentage of the population. One small extra detail was required of police snipers. In addition to the
strenuous physical training and mental conditioning, there was one more requirement. That was the rare
ability to view a human being as merely a target. To calmly prepare, set up, and sight another person, and
squeeze the trigger without question or hesitation when the order came. Very few people had this skill.
Roberto did.
Once he got the order, it was simple. Sight target. Inhale quickly, but not forcefully. Exhale slowly. Very
slowly. Slow enough to slow the heart rate into acceptable range. During the long exhale, he would
practice the kills in the space between beats. Of course, it depended on the movement
of the target, more precisely if the target was seen or unseen. If the target was visible, Roberto would
practice two or three kills per exhale. By the time he got the “We are live” order from command, he had
already killed the target, in his mind, dozens of times. In his mind, every practice kill was marked off with
an imaginary counter, not unlike those used by umpires to count balls and strikes. Each press of the button
on the counter made a distinctive imaginary click. What kept Roberto’s interest level up while he was
practicing was seeing how small of a surface area he needed to conceivably achieve a kill. When the “We
are live” order came, he usually had plenty, like an entire head.
Child’s play.
Roberto didn’t notice the several police cars that showed up after he had taken position. He didn’t hear the
police and news helicopters circling above. He didn’t notice or count the “victims” running out the back of
the “building.” He didn’t notice when Detective Traxton seemed to take over the situation, nor did he pay
attention to or even hear the strange conversation between Detective Traxton and the target. He merely
heard the words “We are live” in his earpiece briefly after the target’s head appeared in the front window
of the building.
• 20
After the target dropped, several specially outfitted officers carefully entered the building. After
confirming the target was down, all officers received a “Clear” on their radios and earpieces. Officers
were trained to the word clear, to immediately stand down and holster any drawn weapons.
“What in the hell was that about?” Wilex asked Dave with a perplexed expression.
“What do you mean?” Dave asked offhandedly, throwing the bullhorn in the backseat of a nearby patrol
car.
“What of Sodom? What of the Passover?”
Dave couldn’t help but grin at himself.
“That was a pretty good pull, if I do say so myself.”
“Don’t tell me you used to be a Holy Roller?” Wilex questioned, finding it hard to suppress a smile.
“Catholic school,” Dave replied, smiling, although to the keen observer, saying the words Catholic school
seemed to shoot a slight, almost-imperceptible wave of anxiety across his face.
“Catholic school? I didn’t think that Catholics were allowed to read the Bible.” Wilex was laughing now.
“Well, I never was really good at following rules,” Dave answered, cracking a grin. A few officers came
up and congratulated Dave, clapping him on the back, smiling, laughing. They were very impressed with
whatever he had said to the perp, although they weren’t really sure what had just happened. Dave turned
and looked for Tony, scanning the crowd. After all the tension releasing
laughter had died down, Dave spotted his partner and started walking over to him. This one had been
pretty easy—engage the guy, distract the guy, allow the sniper to pop the guy.
“Jesus, Davey, you been watching some messed-up TV or what?”
• 21
Dave shot him a quizzical look.
“So is that something you learned at some religious retreat you never told me about, or did you make that
junk up off the top of your head?” questioned Tony as they walked into the station thirty minutes later.
“Both. Kind of fun to be in the moment like that.”
“Sodom and Gomorrah?” Isn’t that the ancient city of fellow ass rammers? Where the term sodomy came
from? As in a dick up your ass?”
“Yep,” said Dave, suppressing a grin.
Dave and Tony had been together for three years. Before being matched up with Dave, Tony had been a
third-grade detective, lowest grade possible. He had worked his way up through the ranks after being a
beat cop. Tony was one of the good ones. Able to give assistance when needed, able to distance himself
from the crime scene
when needed to ascertain evidence, able to preserve evidence when no clear motive or perp or crime
method was distinguishable.
Dave and Tony shuffled to their desks, facing each other. The amount of paperwork that lay ahead of them
was starting to sink in.
George Hutton’s Zapotec
