Random Thoughts From a Frazzled Mind

By Tom Morrow

   UNBELIEVABLE -- All this talk about the national debt is mind-boggling. Don't know whether it's true, but one of the TV talking heads put out a piece of information that is nearly unbelievable, but then again, maybe not. In 1917, President Woodrow Wilson and the Congress borrowed $17 billion to pay for our part in World War I. That figure is believable, but what's a bit hard to fathom is that we still owe that $17 billion. All we've been doing since the war ended is pay the interest. Sound familiar? Okay, so what about World War II, Korea, Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan? Don't forget the big bill we ran up outspending the Soviets during the Cold War.
   All of this, I guess, is believable. After all, we talking about the Congress and the Federal government. Where will it all end? Is it possible to even do anything about it? As individuals, we would never be able to just keep borrowing and borrowing, paying only the interest. Hmmmmm.
   
   SAME-O, SAME-O -- Never ask any sales clerk under 30 how difficult a particular piece of electronic is to operate. You'll get the same response nearly every time: "Ah, it's simple." Let's face it, young people who grew up with computers do find things fairly simple, compared to those of us who began dealing in electronics by twisting the radio's tuning dial, do have an advantage.
   This week I went out and bought a new laptop. It was time, but even though I'm perfectly happy with my desktop PC, which operates on Windows XP, technological time has more than passed me by. Windows 7 whizzed by without me noticing, and now we're dealing with Windows 8 -- actually, when I got home my brand new computer had an update to Windows 8.1 waiting for me.
   While I don't consider myself a novice, (I learned six different computer operating systems over the last 20 years in newspapers), I am completely perplexed with Windows 8. One of my biggest problems is remembering which buttons do what. In a couple of words (actually four), I don't like it.
   Just as I've done in the past, I'll figure this out, but I'm still retreating to the safety of my Windows XP. After all, I've cranked out four novels, and three non-fiction books on that system. And,  yes, this column.

   SPEAKING OF BOOKS -- This week I'm running the second chapter (below) of my novella, "Dark Angel." And, on my new web site, tomorrowsnovels.com, I have a number of goodies for you to play with, plus you can read my "Write Your Own Story." It's a short read resulting from frequent queries by folks asking me how they could write their own biography or that of a parent. Also, be sure and click on the "Affiliate" page. It's a way for anyone to make money without any effort or cost. Check it out.

   Until next time...

Dark Angel 

Chapter

 2

Shamus O’Rourke lived on his motor yacht, berthed in Oceanside Harbor. It was a 40-foot “stink pot,” as sailboat owners lovingly refer to motorized watercraft. It was a reward Shamus gave himself for years of toiling as a homicide detective. He had seen just about every sort of cruelty that humanity could inflict upon itself. So, it was time for relaxation, a beer whenever he liked, and a stroll around the harbor to work out the kinks gathered from sea legs developed as his rather posh yacht gently rolled from the wake of passing boats skimming through the harbor.

       Those sea legs were earned from more than a year of living on the water. He seldom took the “Jenny Lynn” out of Oceanside Harbor unless a few cop chums wanted a day of deep-sea fishing. Shamus obliged by taking them out while he sat on the quarter deck sipping a brew while watching his comrades try to untangle their fishing lines from each other.

       Shamus was well-tanned from forehead to toes, which were peeking out of his ever-present flip-flop zapatos. The dark complexion was from being out in the sun more than he should. Shamus promised his most-recent ex-wife he’d pay closer attention to solar exposure lest skin cancer set in.

       He was still close to Jenny Lynn, his yacht’s namesake, although she preferred to enjoy his company from afar – primarily via the telephone. He had named his beloved boat after her when times were better and seas calmer. When she announced her departure back to Tulsa, he never bothered to re-christen the boat. It was too much trouble to get a sign painter to change it, and he didn’t want to insult the one person to which he remained close, if only verbally on the cell phone.

       His cell phone rang.

       “City dump,” Shamus answered in an upbeat, business-like manner. His friends would know it was him; anyone else, especially bill collectors and telemarketing peons, usually hung up, thinking they had the wrong number.

       “Hey, ‘O,’ you got time for lunch,” came a familiar voice on the other end.

       “Sure, I always have time for a free lunch. It is gonna be free, isn’t it?”

       “Of course. We’ll let the chief pick up the tab.”

       The chief picking up the tab meant his old partner was in trouble with a case.

       “What’s up?” Shamus knew Danny wasn’t calling for sociability’s sake, especially in the middle of the day and in the middle of the week.

       “I gotta case you might be interested in.”

       “Don’t tell me you caught that shooting down in the Valley? I read it this morning in the Blade.”

       “Yep. But the news media doesn’t know how the guy was shot, nor why?”

       Danny was one of O’Rourke’s closer confidants. Working together as a two-man team for six years tends to bring partners to the point where each knows the other’s thoughts, moods, problems, strengths, and weaknesses.

       “See you at the Surf Break around 11:30, if that’s okay.”

       “Sure. I’ll put on my best flip-flops. I’ll even wear a clean aloha shirt in your honor.”

       “You’re all heart, asshole. See ya then,” Danny said, hanging up.

       “It must be a real puzzler for them, this shooting of last night,” Shamus thought to himself. He knew full-well how Danny hated to ask for help, so he must be really stumped to call on the retired reserves.”

       The quaint comfort-food café was located in the south part of the city on Coast Highway. Shamus thought of Yogi Berra’s alleged comment about a popular New York eatery. “Nobody goes there anymore – it’s too crowded.” The same quip could be said of the Surf Break.

       It was 11:30 on the dot when Shamus managed to find a parking slot on the street. He saw Danny had captured an outdoor table over near the edge of the make-shift patio, which was partially on the sidewalk with the rest covering what would have been lawn in front of the café had there been any.

       “Buddy,” Danny said, standing, extending his hand.

       “How’s it going? No, let me guess. You’re calling in the first-team to solve your little problem,” Shamus replied with a chuckle.

       “You might say that,” Danny responded, sans smile. He took a long sip of his iced tea.

       A cheerful young waitress with shorts so short and tight there wasn’t a lot left to imagine. She bounced up to their table, giving a cheerful welcome, dealing two menus like cards from a deck.

       “And, sir, what would you like to drink?”

       “Are you talking about this clown? Danny chuckled, half-pointing at his old partner. “You can call him a lot of things, but gentleman?”

       “Both of you, of course.” It wasn’t the first time she had waited on the two detectives – the first time, however, both of them together.

       Nothing of substance was passed between the two cops until their sandwiches were delivered by the waitress.

       “A Marine’s wife? whadda ya think?” Danny ventured as he was squeezing mustard onto his hamburger.

       “Naw, she’s a college student. No ring.” Shamus countered.

       “Damn. Retired life hasn’t stunted your observational skills.”

       Shamus was well into his burger.

       “Okay, whadda got that has you stumped?” He mumbled through a mouthful of meat and bun.

       “O’Rourke, it’s not so much being stumped, it’s who and how the victim was offed,” Danny replied, studying his own half-eaten burger without looking at his old partner.”

       “What?” Shamus’ curiosity was building.

       “Well, this guy lived out on Via de Flores. He was shot while watering his front yard. The neighbors called 9-1-1 about 5 o’clock last night. They didn’t hear a shot, but they saw him go down.”

       Shamus stopped chewing.

       “No report from the gun?”

       “Nothing. I got four witnesses, two next-door neighbors, a kid riding by on his bike, and an old lady across the street peeping out her front-room window. You know the type – keeps tabs on everyone – complaining about everything, never pleased with anything,” Danny replied.

       “Anyway, the victim is a 48-year-old white male. The neighbors probably wouldn’t have bothered to call us except they probably figured the guy would stink up the neighborhood if we didn’t get his carcass outta there.”

       “Well, there’s always the coyotes,” Shamus whispered. “The guy was real liked, huh? So, who shot ‘em?”

       “Remember last year before you retired we got that unsolved shooting that we figured was done by a sniper?”

       “Yeah. I remember.” Danny now had his old partner’s full attention.

       “It looks like the same guy’s back. I figure maybe he’s after child molesters. Our guy last night was offed with a .30 caliber, steel-jacketed slug. It looks as though it was high-velocity and it probably came from up on the ridge above the victim's house. It had to have been 750 to 1,000 yards. That’s why no one heard the shot. This guy’s either very lucky or a helluva shot.”

       Shamus finished his sandwich and took a long gulp of his iced tea.

       “Could I have a re-fill on this, lil’ darling,” Shamus asked the perky waitress as she was finishing serving a nearby table.

       “Remind me. What was our victim of last year shot with?”

“That’s the interesting part. A .30 caliber slug – high velocity,” came the reply. “And, that victim was accused of child molestation, although the charge was dropped.”

       Shamus just sat, staring at his old partner, not saying anything.

       “I figured you might have some ideas, seeins’ how …”

       “Don’t go there, partner,” Shamus growled, cutting short Danny’s sentence.

       “Hey, I wouldn’t open up old wounds for anything, but ya gotta be interested in two child molesters being offed within a year’s time in the same manner.”

       Shamus slowly nodded agreement. The two men sat saying nothing for a minute or two.

       “Okay, you’ve got my attention. Are we talkin’ off-the-record? Am I supposed to get involved? Whadda ya want from me? How can I help?”

       “I ran this by the chief. He agrees that you can be a ‘consultant’ on these two cases. You have your retired badge, so you’re almost still a cop. He doesn’t want you packin’ but I’ll be right alongside you most of the time,” Danny explained.

       “Okay, when do we start?” Shamus asked.

       “Just as soon as I can pay for this lunch,” Danny smiled. “Oh, and the chief okayed this expense, but from now on out it’s just you and me. If I recall, you still owe me at least three lunches.”

       “In your dreams, asshole.” Shamus saw Danny chuckling. His old partner has a houseful of kids and a wife who loves to shop, so he never had any more than a fin in his pocket. He was a good, honest cop with a sense of humor and Shamus always was happy to fund their lunches and an occasional beer – but, he always gave the opposite impression as a measure of ribbing Danny.

       “Hey, why not bring me up to speed this afternoon while you take me out to the scene. I want to take a look up on the ridge and see if we can find the firing point,” Shamus said as he tossed a couple of bucks on the table for the perky young 
   

Random Thoughts From a Frazzled Mind

By Tom Morrow
 By this time next week I should have a new web site up and 

running, complete with a blog page. I don't exactly know (at this time) 

how this will work, but when I notify you that my latest column is 

available, like in the past, I'll provide a link that will take you directly to my web site and the column. Again, I'm not sure this will work. Right 

now, all I understand is the "Black Box Theory." Old Navy vets will know what that means: "You plug it in and it works, or not." It isn't really necessary that I understand it, I just need 

to know which buttons to push.

IN THEIR COURT -- Elected officials, both Republicans and Democrats, 

better get off the dime in Congress and straighten out the budgetary and the debt ceiling 

debacle before the next deadlines hit us a few weeks from now. In case they haven't noticed, the next deadline comes within weeks of the 2014 Primary Elections. 

GET THINGS FIXED -- Maybe the leadership on both sides of the aisle of the Senate and the House should take some advice I heard from a couple of talking heads yesterday: 

"Appoint an all-female Super Committee." They said that "...men run for office to get 

elected; women run for office to fix things." Maybe it's time to listen to the ladies. Personally,though I'd hope it would be sans the three Witches of the West.

ENJOY THE READ -- While I'm in the business of selling books, there are some who've 

never read me before, so I'm going to run, chapter by chapter, a novella I wrote a year ago. 

It's a murder mystery set in Oceanside, featuring the two homicide detectives I've created for my first mystery novel, "Haunted Bones." That book now is available at my publisher's 

web site, www.inkwellproduction.com, or at Amazon.com

 Enjoy the first chapter of "Dark Angel" beginning this week:

Dark Angel

By Tom Morrow

Chapter

1

       The murder happened in Oceanside’s Mission
Valley on the city’s east side, baffling police. It certainly appeared to be the work of a sniper. Judging from this particular shot, it was accomplished by a skilled marksman.

          The twilight hour of the July afternoon was fast approaching as the sun was finding its way into the Pacific’s horizon.

        Police officers had cordoned off the entire front yard of an aging, middle-class bungalow.

          “Good riddance,” a woman’s voice was heard from a growing crowd.

          Detective Daniel “Danny” Saenz looked around, but couldn’t identify the source among the spectators.

          “I’m sorry, did someone say something?”

          “Yeah, I did,” a woman standing at the front admitted. “The son-of-a-bitch was a child molester!”

          Danny didn’t say anything, but turned back to the investigation at hand. He motioned to a nearby uniformed patrol officer to get the woman’s name and address. As he continued taking his own notes of the crime scene, Detective Saenz could see the woman was eager to comply. She had a sense of defiance about her and provided the requested information to the young officer.

          Murders occurred nearly every month in Oceanside, but it had been nearly a year since the last such sniper-style killing. Danny’s gut was telling him this was no ordinary murder. The killer was methodical, patient, and skilled at being a sniper. This was the work of a real artist of death.

          In his 10 years on the Oceanside Police Department, Danny Saenz had seen a lot of violence and killings, but nothing like this one. It was too precise – very pre-mediated.

          “Maybe that gal’s onto something if this guy was a child molester,” Patrol Sgt. Lynn McCallister said, walking up to the detective.

          “It just may be,” Danny replied, slipping his notebook into the inside breast pocket of his coat.

          There wasn’t much for the forensics team to do other than examine the body. The weapon and the sniper were a long way from this place. There was a small hole in the center of the victim’s forehead and not much left of the back of his skull.

          “Put a request in for the coroner to look especially careful to see if he can determine the trajectory of the bullet,” Danny directed the lead forensic specialist.

          “Right-Ohh,” the technician acknowledged.

          Danny determined the victim, Hans Schlicter, lived at the home in front of which he was found. A neighbor confirmed the man reportedly had been in prison for child molestation, but had been out for the past year. And, even though it appeared Schlicter had been living a quiet, model life, no one in the neighborhood would have anything to do with him.

          “Someone sure didn’t want him around,” Danny thought to himself.

          Back at the station the homicide detective, who had just celebrated his 33^rd birthday, began writing and filling in the blanks of a seemingly endless, but ubiquitous report, which accompanied any violent death. Even though there wasn’t much to go on or write about, a certain number of blanks had to be filled with verbiage. Given the choice, paperwork is one aspect of police work this homicide detective would eliminate, even if most of it was done on a computer. The detective bureau had a secretary to do those tasks.

          Detective Danny Saenz was a fifth-generation Mexican-American. His ancestors came to the United States in the mid-1800s as merchants, settling in Los Angeles

          Danny was a tall, slender man with a light olive complexion. While he spoke fluent Spanish learned from his grandparents, he could neither read nor write the language proficiently. His English was impeccable with not a hint of an accent.

          He had piercing green eyes, which set him apart from the average Latino man. While he was proud of his Mexican heritage, he was pure American – through and through.

          Danny thought to himself: “What else is there to say? The guy’s name, address, age, date. Person or persons unknown blew half his head off. Dead! End of story.”

          Danny recalled the sniper killing of last year was also a “head shot.” That victim was a known gang leader, drug dealer, and suspected of running guns from south of the border north to affiliated gangs in Los Angeles. The gun-running charge was dropped when he copped out to a drug charge.

          “In their own right, both were less-than-stellar citizens,” Danny grunted to his partner, Joe Stein, who joined him in the office while the report was being filled out.

          Stein was a likeable fellow. Always neatly dressed and wore a necktie each and every day. Danny and most of the other officers in the “dick’s” bureau wore sports jackets if it wasn’t too hot, but a necktie? Never, unless it was to a funeral or retirement party.

          Stein was the grandson of a German Holocaust survivor from World War II. He had heard the horror stories of how the Nazis forced Jewish citizens like his grandfather into the death camps. Joshua Stein survived only because he was a good diamond cutter. Nazi officers had a need for such talents after plundering nearly every nation in Europe. Stein maintained a quirky and dry sense of humor, which everyone secretly liked, but wouldn’t admit it to his face.

          “Is anyone gonna miss that clown?” Joe queried.

          “Hey, partner, no matter how much of an asshole a guy is, there’s always someone out there who loves ‘em.” Danny could feel his tongue touching the inside of his cheek. A sinister smile was forming.

          “Joe, you remember another sniper shooting we had sometime back – maybe a year or more ago?”

          Stein thought a minute.

          “Yeah, right. Didn’t O’Rourke work that case with you before he retired?”

          Shamus Alonzo O’Rourke is a retired homicide detective. He spent nearly 30 years with the OPD, half of them investigating murders. A Vietnam veteran, O’Rourke came to the department after serving eight years in the Marine Corps. While he was a detective, Shamus would never have been accused of being a slave to fashion. He bought most of his clothes at Walmart, and what he couldn’t find to fit him there, could be obtained for a small fee at Goodwill or Brother Benno’s.

Even though one murder is too many, this year Oceanside enjoyed a very low homicide rate for most years, this one being no different. There were more bicycles stolen than any other notable crime in the city. Middleburg and San Martinez, as well as Hidden Valley, nearly always surpassed Oceanside in violent crime statistics. The Mexican gang element was entrenched throughout the larger cities of SoCal and growing in the poorer sections of Oceanside where it was difficult to tell the players without a program – undocumented or legal residents.

Undocumented aliens seemed to have the edge of responsibility for crimes committed throughout Southern California. But, not too many years ago that wasn’t the case. Nearly all of the folks heading north from Mexico and points south were poor, but hard-working, honest farm workers who just wanted to make a good living. Most of them returned home as soon as they had saved enough money to live well in their homeland.

          In recent years, however, more and more of the criminal element from big Mexican cities were migrating Estados Unidos infiltrating large and medium-sized cities, organizing or taking over gang elements. Drugs were the big draw, and the gang ‘bangers were quick to seize upon that aspect. The Gringo thirst for illegal substances was the perfect reason for coming to Estados Unidos. While the vast majority of those undocumented people were here to do honest labor, a growing criminal element throughout Southern California was overshadowing them. Yet, the homicides were usually among the gangs and other criminal element who killed each other. However, those numbers now were down dramatically. The reason? The gang lords behind prison walls directed their young gang-’bangers on the free side of the wall to “cool it.” Too many murders were bad for business – the drug business, so the edict was passed by the mentors to their young followers.

          “Do you remember who the victim was on that murder last year?” Saenz asked of his partner.

          Joe sat down at his desk and skimmed through a computer file, searching the perp’s name.

          “You ain’t gonna believe this,” he said, staring at the computer screen. “That guy last year was an accused child molester. The charge was dropped when he copped out to the selling of drugs.”

          Shamus O’Rourke had been a training officer for Danny. Since retiring, Danny didn’t get to see his old partner as often as he’d like, but figured it was time to pay a visit.

         

Random Thoughts From a Frazzled Mind

By Tom Morrow

   AGE DISCRIMINATION? -- In my effort to sign up for a popular computer video calling program, my information kept being "rejected," saying that they "couldn't register" me. After a number of attempts I started looking closely at my stats. I knew my name was correct; my e-mail address was okay. I was pretty sure my sex was right, and I certainly knew my date-of-birth. So I started playing with my stats. Finally, I changed my year of birth from "1939" to "1959." Voila! It went through. I guess if you're 74, they figure you're to dotty to negotiate their video program. I realize that my mug probably won't come over on the receiving screen as handsome as I would if I were 20 years younger.

   LET IT SINK OR SWIM -- The Republicans are making a big mistake by being so stubborn over this mess in Washington. We all know they'll cave in the end. Meanwhile the voters are getting P.O.ed at them. I say leave the so-called "ObamaCare" alone and let it run it's course. If it works or fails, it was the Dems that shoved it through and the Supreme Court signed off on it. It's the law of the land. If it fails big time, which I believe it, it'll be the Dems who'll take the heat. As time draws closer to the 2014 Mid-Term elections, the GOP is likely to be remembered as "obstructionists" instead of "constructionists" -- to their determent.

   NEW MYSTERY NOVEL -- My latest novel, "Haunted Bones," has just been released and is available at Amazon.com and Inkwellproductions.com. The story is set in Oceanside where a series of mummified bodies are discovered in an old seaside resort hotel that is being torn down. Okay, so I stretched things a bit. There were two old seaside resorts built in the late 19th century and early 20th century, but both have been gone for many years. Still, it makes for an interesting murder mystery to be solved by two of Oceanside Police Department's homicide detectives.

   ADD BOOKS -- Speaking of books, you can find the works of more than 80 authors, yours truly included, online at www.inkwellproductions.com. If you go to that website, click on the "Affiliate" button at the top of the Home page and learn how anyone can earn money with no investment. If you're interested in the program and sign up, use my name as the "Referring Affiliate."

Until next time, stay tuned...