Fighting Arizona Drivers on Very Wet Freeways

By Tom Morrow

     I thought California drivers were maniacs while hurdling down wet streets and freeways, but you've probably never experienced anything like Arizona desert dwellers sailing jammed-pack drive-time freeways. I had that experience Friday morning.

   I was to be at a television station for an interview about my latest two novels. But, I thought I was gong to a "radio" interview. The station was supposed to be at 4646 E. Camelback Rd., in Phoenix, but when I found nothing but rich people's homes. (Through the pouring rain I could see they were dwellings that I couldn't afford). 

     I called directory assistance and found out the station was at 7760 N. 16th St. By this time I'm running late. I got to the address, but discovered the real address was 7740 N. 16th. I arrived with 10 minutes to spare before the interview. But there was a problem -- it was to be a "TV" interview. Where were the studios? Back across town at 4420 E. Camelback -- two blocks from where I was originally.

    Imagine if you will, Phoenix morning drive time -- bumper-to-bumper in a downpour. Needless to say, I wasn't going to make it by 8 a.m. I arrived at around 8:20. The producer understood because the radio station had called ahead to alert them of my dilemma.
    "Don't worry, we're going to tape your segment for airing next week," was the calm, polite response.
     Luckily, the interview was with an old friend, Pat McMahon, whom I have known for more than 40 years. It was a 10-minute segment and it was over. My blood pressure returned to normal, I ventured back onto the streets. Thinking things would calm down because it was after nine, I boldly entered Phoenix traffic. It wasn't any better.
     Let no one tell you California drivers are the worst. Phoenix has them beat by a mile and 20 mph.

     Check out my new web site where you can buy my books, as well as browse more than 100 titles at Inkwell Productions.com. Buy both Haunted Bones and Nebraska Doppelganger at:
www.tomorrowsnovels.com

   Below, find Chapter 7 of my novella, Dark Angel.

Chapter

6

       When it rains it pours. As Danny and Shamus were returning to the main station, a call came in on Danny’s cell phone. Another murder, but this time it was a far different kind.

       Danny asked his old partner to stay with the sniper case while he looked into this new death. Stein already was on the scene. It appears it could be a domestic violence crime, but, then again, maybe not.

       Stein was at the front door of an ocean-front home on The Promenade, a 10-block partial residential avenue skirting the Pacific Ocean. The house was a Sears Roebuck mail-order kit home that had been built in 1899. Such structures were popular back in the early 20^th century. You ordered the house of your dreams disassembled. It was shipped from Chicago via rail freight, then the new homeowner was left to figure out how to piece everything together. Somehow it worked.

       Harriet and Homer Dobbins had been married for nearly 30 years, according to Stein. The husband, who is 83 years old, is a retired medical doctor. At approximately 5 o’clock in the morning, the husband called 9-1-1 to report a break-in, a stabbing, and a shooting. His wife, 85, had been beaten to death, and Dr. Dobbins had received a gunshot wound to his right side. He had been taken to Tri-City Medical Center where he was reported in fair condition.

       “I’ll stay here at the scene, why don’t you go on over to the hospital and see if you can question the husband as to exactly what happened,” Stein suggested to his senior partner.

       “Good idea. In the meantime, check for any signs of entry and/or a struggle,” Danny said. “I understand the husband wasn’t able to tell us much when the paramedics arrived.”

       “Yeah, he was reported barely conscience,” Stein said, scribbling notes and directing the forensic team to photograph the entire crime scene. “Hey, be sure and have forensics bag and tag the doctor’s clothes,” Stein said as Danny walked back to his car.

       “Yeah, yeah. I’ve done one or two of these before,” he laughed, shaking his head. Stein was relatively new to homicide. He’d been in the dicks for about three years, but only the last year with Danny, who now was the lead detective in solving murders.

       At the hospital, Danny found his way to the emergency bay where Dr. Dobbins was being treated. He was conscious and talking with a hospital physician when the detective walked into the room. A uniformed officer was there taking a report. He looked up, pulled him aside and began telling Danny as much as he knew at this point.

       “According to the doc, someone broke into the home, shot him, and beat his wife to death,” the officer whispered.

       Danny looked a bit incredulous upon hearing this.

       “Why weren’t both of them shot?” he asked.

       “Dunno,” was the reply.

       “Can he talk?” Danny inquired.

       “Yeah, that’s how I got that much outta him.”

       “Doctor Dobbins, I’m Detective Saenz, how ya doin’?”

       The old man nodded in the affirmative.

       “I think I’ll live.”

       “That’s good news, sir. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

       “Well, sir, I awoke when I heard a noise in the other room from our bedroom. I got up and went to where I heard the noise. It sounded different than what our cat usually makes – he’s always prowling around throughout the night.”

       “Yes, I understand. We have three at home,” Danny responded.

       “Well, I was confronted by this big black man. I’m here to tell you it was scary. I asked him what he thought he was doing. He just pulled a gun and shot me.”

       “Were you unconscious at that point?”

       “No, not completely, but I think I heard him beating on Harriet in our bedroom, then I passed out and don’t remember anything else. How is she? Is she okay?”

Danny looked at the other police officer, who had just completed his report.

       “I’m afraid I got some bad news, sir. Your wife was killed.

       The old man got a strange look on his face, then shook his head side-to-side.

       “Poor Harriet, the dear,” was all he said.

       “Well, that’s enough for now, sir. We’ll talk more when you feel like it.”

       “Thank you, young man,” the old doctor said. “I hope you get this guy.”

       Then Danny turned back.

       “By the way, do you think you could identify him? You know, pick him out of a line up?”

       “Oh, I don’t know. It was dark and so was he. I remember thinking at the time that he looked very much like that man who sells insurance on television,” he replied.

       “Well, we’ll talk later.” Danny left the emergency bay and pulled the attending physician aside as they walked down the hall.

       “How badly is Doctor Dobbins hurt?” he asked.

       “Well, as you guys would say, ‘it’s only a flesh wound.’ A lucky shot, really – it went clean through, missing all vital organs,” the ER physician explained. “He should be able to go home in a couple of days.”

       Danny walked back to his car, pulling out his cell phone to call Stein.

       “Hey, you still at the Dobbins’ crime scene?”

       “Yeah,” came the reply over the phone.

       “If you haven’t found it, try retrieving the slug that shot the doc. From the looks of it, it would either be somewhere in the floor or low on a wall in the dining room where he was shot.”

       “Yeah, the field evidence tech already found it. Looks like a .25 caliber. Maybe from a Barreta,” Stein speculated.

       “Okay. Have ‘em check it against any previous gunshot crimes we have, maybe we’ll get lucky. I’ll see you back at the station in a couple of hours. I gotta meet Shamus on this other thing.”

       Back on O’Rourke’s yacht, Danny found his old partner sitting on the deck sipping a beer.

       “Any more progress on the case we’re working?” Danny asked.

       “Where do you get this Lindbergh stuff – ‘we?’”

       Danny had a puzzled look on his face.

       “You’re probably too young to know about that. When Lucky Lindy crossed the ocean blue in his ‘Spirit of St. Louis,’ he always said ‘We did it,’ meaning he and the plane,” Shamus explained.

       “You aren’t that old either,” Danny growled back.

       “Yeah, but we had history when I was in school. They don’t teach much of that nowadays.”

       “I had history. I know about stuff,” Danny smiled, getting himself a brew out of the ice chest Shamus kept just inside the cabin.

       “You probably think Santa Anna won at the Alamo.” Shamus chuckled.

       “Well, he did,” Danny said with fake indignity, then taking a long swallow of beer.

       “Naw, it was a strategic maneuver by ol’ Sam Houston so as he could defeat the pompus bastard and take Texas from Mexico. Why anyone would want that sand trap beats me,” Shamus teased.

       “Yeah, right,” Danny replied, taking another slug of beer.

       “So, how’d it go with your new case?” Shamus inquired.

       “It was a shooting and beating down on the beach,” Danny replied.

       “Who?”

       “Some retired doctor and his wife.”

       “What’s the name?”

       “Dobbins – Homer and Harriet Dobbins.”

       “Hell, I remember him. He cut out an ingrown toenail I had once back about 20 years ago. Pretty good doc as I recall. Real popular in town. A member of just about every organization you could think of – always getting his name in the papers,” Shamus recalled. “Are they alright?”

       “He is. Just a clean-through flesh wound by a .25 caliber slug. The wife’s dead – beaten with some sort of club.”

       Shamus thought for a moment.

       “Why shoot one and beat the other?” he pondered aloud.

       “That’s my question. Something’s not right about this one.”

       “Ya might ask around and see what kind of marriage they had,” Shamus suggested.

       “Well, they’ve been married 30 years. That’s a long time.”

       Shamus got up and opened another beer.

       “Yeah, but maybe the doc had a belly full of whatever,” he said, sitting back down on his deck chair.

       “Something’s just not right about it. The gunshot wound is puzzling. A flesh wound. A doctor would know where there would be no vital organs, wouldn’t he? Dobbins said he was shot by a big black guy – said he looked like the fellow who is a TV pitchman for the car insurance company,” Danny recalled.

       “Ah, hell, whadda ya expect. Most of us white guys think the brothers all look alike,” Shamus said with a straight face.

       “Yeah, that’s what you guys always say about us Mexicans as well, but, hey, amigo, you whiteys all look alike to us as well,” Danny fired back, chuckling.

       “Let’s get together tomorrow at the station on this sniper thing. Give it some thought and we’ll go over what forensics found,” Danny said as he climbed off the boat onto the dock.

       “Take care, it’s a dangerous place out there,” Shamus said with a smile. “I heard that once on TV, so I guess it’s true.”

       “Yeah, right,” Danny said over his shoulder as he walked down the dock and back to his car.

 

 

Traveling, Reading, Signing My Latest Novel, 'Haunted Bones

Readings and Signing for Haunted Bones:

I’m off on a book tour this next week. First up is a reading and signing event at the Book Carnival in Orange, between 2 to 5 p.m., on Sunday, Nov. 17. Next, I’ll be in Phoenix being interviewed on the Pat McMahon radio show at 8 a.m., on Friday, Nov. 22. On Nov. 30, I’ll be at the Dog-Eared Page bookstore in Phoenix. If any of you are in the vicinity of any of these events, drop by and say hello.

What I’m Thinking Now:

For the 2016 Presidential campaign, there’s little doubt the Democrats will run a woman, most likely Hillary Clinton. If the GOP wants to win, they’re going to have to meet that challenge with a strong Republican woman/women candidate(s). Here are two highly-capable women now leading their states: Gov. Nikki Haley of South Carolina and Gov. Susana Martinez of New Mexico. Condolesa Rice is a good possibility, but definitely not Sarah Palin – mention of her name causes a fire storm in many quarters. For 2016, is definitely going to be the year of the woman. We’ve got some good choices to go up against Hillary.

---

There’s little or no chance of “ObamaCare” being repealed in the foreseeable future. Those opposing it should just sit back and watch things unfold. If it works, so be it. If it collapses, then the nay-sayers were right and the GOP will be the big winner in the next two elections.

My Readers Write:

Hi Tom,

Took advantage of a total “day off” this weekend and decided to spend a few moments with “Haunted Bones.” What a pleasant surprise! The few moments went into hours of full engagement.

I found myself totally immersed in the book. Local references took me to the scenes as if I was part of the investigating team. I was looking for the clues to help solve the crimes. Next morning I almost searched the newspapers for news on the case.

I think those detectives deserve a sequel.

 Loved it! Congratulations

Joe Villela, Oceanside

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Buy your copy of “Haunted Bones” with free shipping at:

 tomorrowsnovels.com

My earlier novel, “Nebraska Doppelganger,” a World War II thriller, also is available at: tomorrowsnovels.com”

A bonus on my web site (above link) you’ll find a complete booklet, “Write You Life Story,” a few idea for writing autobiographies and biographies.

Below, find the next chapter of my novella, “Dark Angel.”

Chapter

5

     Merle Sanbourne operated a small one-chair barber shop in downtown Oceanside. There was a constant babble of jokes, rumors and political pontificating flowing through the air inside his shop. These days a lot was being said about the strange shootings by a sniper in town.

          “From what I’ve seen thus far, I think the guy’s got the right idea,” said one balding customer, who was having what little hair he had trimmed. “In fact, if I knew who he was, I’d offer to buy his ammunition.”

          Merle Sanbourne’s clientel tended to lean conservative in politics, and more times than not, “red-neck” in their social attitude. The shop reflected his own true feelings, but while most everyone knew what they were, Merle seldom commented on anything – occasionally shaking his head to whichever the direction of consensus would take the conversation.

          Merle was finding it hard not to chime in, but he learned a long time ago it was best to keep his opinions to himself. Most, but not all of those who frequented his shop, thought alike. Arguments were frequent; sometimes the discussions got pretty heated.

          Another customer sitting, waiting for Merle’s chair to be empty, agreed, shaking his head, not taking his eyes from the sports page he was reading.

          “They ought to give the guy a medal,” said another.

The barber was dying to confess his part in the day’s news, but knew it was information he’d take to the grave. Not even his wife would ever know.

          “You must really be happy about that molester fella getting’ knocked off,” another customer reckoned.

          Sanbourne looked down his glasses at him, said nothing, going back to the grooming task at hand.

          “Sorry, Merle. Didn’t mean to open up any old wounds,” the customer said when he realized his remark probably made Merle think of the dark days after finding his daughter raped and bludgeoned to death. The culprit was never found.

      Yes, he was delighted with the public service the sniper was performing. In fact, Sanbourne considered the man, whoever he may be, an angel sent from heaven.

Merle Sanbourne remained dumbfounded at his new-found power in directing the death of another human being, no matter how evil they might be. His mind seemed to explode with possibilities in searching for other crimes against society that could well fit this method of elimination, no matter how naïve it may seem. Sanbourne couldn’t stop pondering what sort of person this executioner was who delivers this seemingly righteous justice?

Sanbourne thought of myriad crimes he’d like to eliminate. Bank robbers? Burglars? Wife-beaters? Too many to contemplate. The mind boggles, he thought. But, none seemed to reach the magnitude of the child molester.

Suddenly he thought of another – drug pushers. The chatter continued in the barber shop, but Merle’s mind was elsewhere, but his scissors continued their task at hand.

 If drugs could be eliminated, even to a small degree, society would be the better for it,” he thought. Who fits this description in today’s world? Of course, gang-bangers. It didn’t matter what color or ethnic group, Mexican, Black, even Anglo gangs all pushed drugs to young people, Sanbourne thought. And, plenty of them are getting off, scot free. The scissors continued mowing the follicles on the head at hand.

What about sending a question to the PO box in Holtville?

Sanbourne had not destroyed the two-page letter as he was supposed to do. He re-read it and found a line he had missed on his original read:

For questions, send brief verbiage to Holtville; for answers see Tuesday’s edition of daily Blade under “Personals.”

He thought about his proposal all day and into the evening. Around 2 o’clock in the morning, Merle awoke from a sound sleep and decided to pose the following question:

“Angel: Should drug-pushing gang-’bangers be held accountable?”

He put on his surgical gloves, loaded a fresh piece of paper into his printer and composed the question on his computer. After printing it out, he eliminated it from his word processor.

The next day he dropped the question into the mail, only this time he took it to the Vista Post Office so as not to create a pattern.

Sanbourne mailed his question on Thursday. Waiting until Tuesday’s paper seemed like an eternity.

“Had he opened a new can of worms?” he wondered. Maybe not unless he sent further information. There were five days in which to contemplate this life-and-death question.

Tuesday morning Sanbourne heard the newpaper hit his driveway as the Blade carrier drove past his house. It was 4:30 a.m., right on time.

Merle slipped on his pants and scurried out to the front of his driveway. He would have gone out in his underwear, but Mrs. Caldwell across the street might be out watering her lawn. The old woman got up early in the morning, so she could get her nose in everyone’s day break business.

Sanbourne picked up the rolled paper, slipped off the rubber band as he walked back into the house. Stretching the newspaper across the kitchen table, he began poring over the classified section. Suddenly he spied the answer he sought in the Personals. “Angel agrees.”

That was the message -- short, sweet, and very simple. Anyone else reading the notice would have no clue as to its meaning. Placing a classified ad in the “Personal” columns of any newspaper could say and mean anything. A lot of weird folks use this method to communicate. It’s doubtful the classified sales clerks would even question this or any other message. If Merle were more techno savvy the message could have been delivered via e-mail, but that would be too easy to trace. This is a better method.

Merle realized the next move was up to him. He’d have to come up with likely candidates who needed removing from society. He’d have to select those who either have evaded arrest and/or conviction and prison, or those getting light sentences. There were a lot of the latter with state budgetary constraints being what they were.

“For god’s sake, they’re emptying out minimum security prisons to save money,” he thought. “That might be a good place to start.”

What about a convict’s so-called rehabilitation? Surely some do, indeed, reform and lead meaningful and productive lives after leaving prison. But, for drug dealers and gang members, there usually is no such thing as rehabilitation. In fact, going to prison not only is a right-of-passage and a kind of badge of honor among gang-’bangers, but it’s like going to a perpetrator’s college of higher learning. Being incarcerated is an opportunity to learn from more senior gang members. It was a nasty system. It’s as though an honest prisoner doesn’t have a chance behind bars. Sanbourne would do what he could to wipe the bad guys from the face of the earth.

“Where to start? How about the newspaper? There always is a plethora of stories and names concerning such things.” He would begin there.

Just then his wife, Helen, walked into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes.

“What are you doing up at this hour, dear?”

“Oh, I couldn’t sleep. I’m just reading the paper to see who did what to whom and what politicians are screwing us now,” he replied.

“Good luck with that,” she said, shuffling over to the sink to fill the coffee maker with water.

“What if by some magic we could eliminate a lot of crime in this world?” her husband pondered.

“Yeah, good luck with that too, Sherlock.”

Sanbourne ignored his wife’s dry sarcasm and continued scouring the morning paper. A new search had begun for more child-molesting and drug-pushing candidates.

The Battle That Saved The Free World!

By Tom Morrow

          Arguably, the “Battle of Britain,” which took place in the summer and fall of 1940, saved the free world from Nazi tyranny.

          After Adolf Hitler’s lighting success in capturing most of Western Europe using the German army’s “Blitzkreig” (lighting warfare) tactics, only Great Britain remained to be harnessed in the Nazi yolk of dictatorship. But all that stood in the way of German domination of England, Scotland, and Wales was the English Channel and the world’s most powerful flotilla: Britain’s Royal Navy.

          At that time, German Luftwaffe (air force) was the most powerful in the world with more than 2,500 fighters and bombers; Britain’s Royal Air Force numbered less than 800 fighters and bombers. Probably around 600 usable aircraft was a more realistic number. Hitler decided that bombing British airfields and demolishing the RAF would be a prelude to a Channel crossing and land invasion from the French coast some 25 miles away.

          Luftwaffe leader and Hitler’s No. 2, Herrman Goering, underestimated the tenacity of the British people’s will to resist and the bravado of RAF pilots. In order to equalize the numbers, British pilots would have to shoot down invading German planes on a four-to-one ratio.

          Hitler was confidant his bombers could overwhelm the British with brute force, knocking out coastal defenses and shipping, eventually giving the Germans air control over the whole of southern England.

          When the initial mission failed to destroy the RAF, Hitler launched a night-time bombing campaign, or as the British called it, “Blitz,” of London. So confident Goering was of his air force’s superiority, he bragged to Hitler that if any British bombs ever fell on Berlin, he mockingly told the Nazi leader that he could call the rotund air marshall, “Meyer,” (a Jewish name considered by the Nazis to be a supreme insult). When the first RAF bombs rained down on Berlin, no one knows what Hitler said to Goering, but it’s a good bet it wasn’t pleasant.

          Hitler under estimated the stamina of the British people and the skill of RAF pilots and their aircraft. While the Me-109 fighter was a fast and agile aircraft, the RAF “Spit fire” was a superior weapon.

          The Brits united under Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s leadership to defend their nation at all costs. They refused to give up, even as their cities were repeatedly bombed. The British had an advantage over the Germans: radar, which they invented. The Brits knew exactly when the Luftwaffe was coming, in what strength and at what altitude. RAF fighters, “Spitfires” and “Hurricanes,” kept German air raids at bay, but at great cost to the RAF. British and German aircraft factories were turning out planes as fast as possible to keep up with the daily destruction. Still, when the Battle of Britain ended, the British had lost some 900 aircraft to the Germans’ 2,300 planes. The RAF had nearly equalled their needed “four-to-one” combat ratio.

          Though the United States had yet to enter the war, President Roosevelt persuaded Congress to approve the “Lend-Lease” agreement, which sent ships, planes, guns, ammo, and desperately-needed food and medical supplies to the beleaguered British people. Historians generally agree that if the British nation had not stopped the Nazi aggression, an attack on North America would have been imminent. That one air battle might very well have preserved our democratic way of life instead of living under a dictatorship.

          One footnote to history – Goering asked his top fighter ace what he needed to defeat the British? Flight leader and fighter ace Adolf Galland replied: “Give me a squadron of Spitfires.” Goering was not amused.

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         Be sure a pick up the latest edition of "The Paper," and read my weekly column, "Historically Speaking," available at restaurants, grocery, and near or on newspaper stands throughout North County.

Go to my web site at: www.tomorrowsnovels.com to read about my novels and self-help books. Below, find Chapter Four of "Dark Angel."

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Chapter

4

       Down at the crime scene on Via del Flores, Shamus stood, studying the front yard for several minutes. A few curious neighbors began filing out of their houses, standing in their own yards, trying to determine what the retired detective was doing.

       “Whadda ya lookin’ at?” Danny finally asked.

       “Nothing. I’m just giving the yard a look-see for the benefit of the neighbors. They have to be assured their tax dollars are being spent wisely.”

       Danny was holding in a belly laugh.

       “Besides, you never know who might say something that could be of help,” Shamus said.

       “Lookin’ over where it happened, are ya?” a man said as he strolled into the yard.

       Danny and Shamus looked at each other. Shamus wanted to crack wise, but figured it’d not be appreciated under the circumstances. What he really wanted to say was: “No, I’m trying to estimate how much I’d charge to mow this lawn.”

       That’s what he wanted to say, but instead: “Yes, we are. And, you are?”

       “Oh, hey officer, I’m just a neighbor. I didn’t see the accident, nor did I really know the guy.”

       “Accident?” Danny said in a mocking voice.

       “Well, I guess I shouldn’t have said that.”

       The man identified himself as Carver Woodside, a neighbor who lived one door over to the east of the victim.

       “Did you know Mr. Schlicter well?” Shamus asked.

       “No, no I didn’t. Was that his name? Schlicter?”

       “How long have you lived here?” Danny asked.

       “Oh, golly, let’s see. Well, it’s going on 19 years,” Woodside replied.

       “Schlicter has lived here for more than a year and you didn’t know his name?” Danny asked.

       “Well, you know, I don’t have anything to do with his sort – no sir, I surely don’t.”

       “It’s okay, Mr. Woodside. You can go. If we need you we’ll give ya a holler, okay?”

       Shamus was back in his element.

       Danny admired Shamus for his ability to tell people to shove off and make them more or less happy they were on their way.

       "Hand me those binoculars," Shamus said. Danny complied, reaching into his car and pulled out a set of Zeis binoculars.

The old detective aimed them up at the ridge where the forensic tech estimated the shot might have been fired.

"Well, I can see where an expert marksman with a quality rifle and scope could make the shot," Shamus said. "I'm looking right at the ridge."

"How far ya figure?" Danny asked.

"Oh, maybe 700 or 800 yards."

"You'd have to be a pretty damned good shot at that distance," Danny reckoned.

"Naw. A good Marine sniper can hit a target in the right or left eye at a 1,000 yards," Shamus replied. “You choose which eye."

Arriving on the ridge, Shamus and Danny stopped their car along the side of the hill overlooking Mission Valley. The entire region was visible – the city’s airport, the old multi-screen drive-in theatre, and the venerable Mission San Luis Rey, which has stood since 1798.

       The two detectives stopped approximately where the forensic technician estimated from where the sniper had been shooting. Surely they’d find some sort of evidence that might give them a clue as to whom they were looking.

       They found nothing – nada. There was evidence the area had been traversed by motorcycles and off-road vehicles, but all of the tracks were several days, maybe even weeks, old.

       “I doubt if we’ll find anything around here,” Shamus mumbled. “I figure whoever this is we’re looking for isn’t going to leave any clues like empty cartridge casing, cigarette butts – you know, the usual stuff you see in movies. In reality it ain’t never that easy.”

    Danny agreed.

The two men looked around the area further, taking yellow tape and marking off a large area where they estimated the shooter was when he or she fired their rifle.

"We should get some forensic techs out here to comb this area," Shamus suggested. "It doesn't hurt to go through the motions for the record."

Danny agreed as he got on the car radio to make the request.

"We'll stay here until they arrive," he told the radio dispatcher.

Shamus continued surveying the terrain. It was a sweeping view that took in at least four hundred, maybe more, lower to middle-class homes.

“Ya know, just for grins, if I were you I believe I’d map out where all of the convicted and suspected child molesters live in this area,” Shamus advised.

“Good idea,” Danny agreed.

The district attorney’s office keeps track of such things. Anyone can go online and view maps and street locations of known felons convicted of child molestation.

“It’s not like it used to be,” Shamus reckoned. “These guys and their addresses are right in front of us at the click of a computer’s mouse.”