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.