Historically Speaking

What Our Kids Don’t Know About

History & Geography Is Dangerous

By Tom Morrow           Our schools today, from kindergarten through high school and beyond, are increasingly putting less emphasis on history and geography and more on science and math. While the latter certainly are keys to leading a successful life, young people of all ages have to know where we’ve been and where they’re going, as well as directions (maps) on how to get there.          You’ve heard the saying, (or words to the effect), “If we don’t study history and learn from it, we’re bound to repeat it.” The Roman Empire comes to mind when I look at where our nation is headed. If you’ve studied history and you keep up with current affairs, you’ll know what I mean.          For those of you who watched Jeff Foxworthy’s “Smarter Than A 5^th Grader” a few years back, you’ll recall just how ignorant many adults are, especially when it comes to history and geography. I recall one man, who had a doctorate degree in mathematics, didn’t know that New Mexico wasn’t on an ocean. He guessed “The Pacific.”          A few years ago when I was in the daily newspaper grind, I passed a lead onto one of our advertising representatives about a restaurant in San Marcos, whose owner was interested in our paper. The saleswoman was a twenty-something, bright, cheerful, and eager to be a success. She replied to my tip by asking, “Where’s San Marcos?”          Now, for those of you who don’t remember, I was a daily columnist for the Blade-Citizen. San Marcos is relatively close by to the east of Oceanside. I asked this young woman how long she had been in San Diego County?          “Oh, all my life. I was born and raised in Del Mar.”          Go figure…          Whenever I get the chance, I ask assorted questions of my grandchildren about what they’re studying in school, and I’ll toss in a couple of questions about history and geography. I’m amazed by the homework loads our youngsters are saddled with almost on a daily basis – and, it starts in kindergarten. Recently, I was talking to a fifth-grader in Arizona, who told me that in his class they have some history, but geography wasn’t among his subjects. I asked if he knew what direction San Diego was from Phoenix. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know the capital of Arizona or California, nor how many states in the union.          I recall having geography classes beginning in third grade and going all through eighth grade. By the time I was in sixth grade, I not only knew the annual wheat yield of the Ukraine, but I knew where it was on the map. I don’t mean for that statement to be a boast, but a fact – we received a well-rounded education when I was growing up in Iowa.          From a young age, the only thing I ever wanted out of Iowa was me. I figured I needed a good education about the rest of the world so I could know where I was going. That grounding I received in history and geography came in handy when I joined the Navy. For the next four years I island-hopped from Oahu to Wake Island, to Kwajalein, to Guam, Iwo Jima, Midway, Okinawa, Japan, the Philippines, the Aleutians and I could appreciate the historical significance these places held.          Here’s a test for you: ask your grandchildren or great-grandchildren what body of water is associated with any or all of the above? I won’t insult readers by giving the answer because if you’re reading this, you probably know the answer. But, if your youngsters don’t know, then how sad is that? It’s not their fault, it’s the short-comings of our educational system and it isn’t just here in California, but all across the nation.          As long as school curriculum is dictated from Washington, D.C., then our nation’s educational system will continue to short-change our youngsters in history and geography. But, why should a student have to wait until college to find out the important elements of where we’ve been in history, how to locate the world’s southern-most national capital city and who founded it.

Check out my web site for more information and how to get me books:

www.tomorrowsnovels.com

Below, the next chapter of my novella, "Dark Angel."

Chapter

12

       Detective Danny Saenz was juggling three murders at once, but it was the Dobbins’ case that kept him awake at night. While the two recent sniper killings were disturbing in an interesting sort of way, something kept gnawing at him concerning the Dobbins case. Danny told Lt. Brad Hastings, head of homicide, he wanted to bring in a criminologist from USC to take a reading of the blood spatters.

       “The answers to this case lie in the spatters,” Danny told his boss.

       “That’s gonna cost the department some big bucks,” Hastings said.

       “Well, I think I can wrap up that case in a nice neat bow if I can get someone to verify my conclusion.”

       “And, what might that be?”

       “I think the old man did it,” Danny replied. “But, I need an expert to read the tea leaves – in this case, the blood spatters.”

       In forensic science, reading blood spatters has become an intricate tool in solving many violent crimes. Most of the experts are university professors and researchers. Only the largest of law enforcement agencies can afford to keep a full-time criminologist on staff.

       Danny hesitated from going to a private university such as Southern Cal, but the state criminologist is so much in demand from the hundreds of small departments around this state of 38 million souls, he didn’t want to wait in line in order to solve the case.

       “Give USC a call,” Hastings said. “I’ll figure out how to get it paid for, but the chief isn’t gonna like it.”

       Within two days Danny was informed a USC criminologist would be in Oceanside on Friday afternoon. As promised, Prof. David Cho walked into the squad room, asking for Detective Saenz.

       “That’d be me,” Danny said, extending his hand to the university expert.

       The detective spent the next hour bringing Professor Cho up to speed on the Dobbins’ case. He then took Cho out to the crime scene to point out the various blood spatters, faint as they were. Danny gave the professor his assessment, that the murderer used some sort of club to beat Harriett Dobbins to death. He pointed out a line of spatters up the side of the wall.

       “Have you used the ultra-violet light on the ceiling?” Cho asked.

       “No,” Danny said somewhat sheepishly. “I was trying to put everything together with the spatters going up the wall.”

       A forensic tech was summoned to the Dobbins’ home. The ultra-violet light revealed small, faint spatters on the ceiling.

       “Your perpetrator probably caused the victim’s blood to be sprayed up the wall and onto the ceiling as he beat her in an arcing motion,” Cho explained, demonstrating by swinging his arms into the bed and back over his head.

       “Do you have a suspect?” Cho asked.

       “Well, the husband is recuperating in the hospital from a gunshot wound,” Danny replied.

       “Who shot him if you think he killed his wife?”

       “That’s just it. I can’t prove he did it. He claims an intruder shot him, then beat his wife. We found a golf driver that might be the murder weapon, but as yet, there has been no gun found,” Danny explained.

       “I’d like to see what evidence you’ve collected from the crime scene,” Cho requested.

       Back at the station, Danny escorted Cho to the evidence room. All of the evidence was laid out on a long table. The blood soaked bedding, the victim’s night gown, photographs taken at the scene, and the husband’s dark red silk pajamas.

       “Get me an ultra-violet light,” Cho directed. When it arrived from down the hall where the field technicians keep their equipment, the lights were turned out in the room and the criminologist went over all of the clothing. He paid particular attention to Doctor Dobbins’ pajamas.

       “See this?” Cho said, pointing out faint blood spatters on the shoulder and back of the pajama tops. “This is proof the husband is the killer.”

       “Damn. How’d we miss that?”

       “Don’t worry. If you hadn’t of been suspecting the husband in the first place, no one would ever think to examine his clothing,” Cho said. “There was a case some years ago back in the Midwest under similar circumstances. I remembered it when I saw the line of blood spatters going up the wall.

       “As the suspect beat the victim, his swings with the murder weapon collected blood on it and it was flung off onto the pajama top, wall and ceiling in an arc. It matches exactly the motion the suspect must have used in beating the victim.”

       Danny had his evidence, now all he had to do was get the good doctor to confess his crime so as to save a long, drawn out trial. With only blood spatters on the pajama tops as evidence, a good defense lawyer could say it was caused when the doctor was attacked by the intruder. No, without the doctor’s confession, it still was a shaky case.

       Danny thanked Professor Cho for his help.

       “Is there anything else I can do for you, detective?”

       “Yeah, I got a couple of sniper murders to solve, but I’m nowhere near having you look at them at this time. In fact, I may never be where I need to in order to figure out who the shooter might be.”

       “Good luck to you,” Cho said has he left the squad room.

       It was Friday evening. Danny told Stein he’d buy the beer. It was time for a kick-back, but he knew the only topic of conversation would be the cases they were trying to solve, particularly the Dobbins murder.

       “Even if we can prove the old man did it, we’re gonna have a tough time convincing the DA to take it forward,” Danny sighed.

       “Yeah and the forensics techs got to the scene after the doc was taken to the hospital,” said Stein. “The uniform on the scene didn’t think to bag his hands for powder residue.”

       Stein added, “According to a neighbor, Mrs. Dobbins’ brother was in North Africa during the big one. Supposedly, an Italian major surrendered his Baretta pistol to him and he brought it home.”

       “Could that be the reason we never found any record of gun ownership?” Danny asked.

       “Could very well be,” Stein said, shaking his head in agreement.

       “We need to go talk with the doc again,” Danny said.

Believe It Or Not Trivia From World War II

By Tom Morrow

If you’re a World War II history buff, you’ll find these reportedly little-known facts especially interesting:

1. The first German serviceman killed in WW II was killed by the Japanese (in China, 1937); the first American serviceman was killed by the Russians (Finland 1940); the highest ranking American killed was Lt. Gen. Lesley McNair by the US. Army Air Corps.  

2. The youngest U.S. serviceman was 12 year old: Calvin Graham, USN. He was wounded and given a Dishonorable Discharge for lying about his age.  His benefits were later restored by act of Congress. 

3. At the time of Pearl Harbor, the top U.S Navy command was called CINCUS (pronounced 'sink us'); the shoulder patch of the U.S. Army's 45th Infantry division was the swastika. Hitler's private train was named 'Amerika.'  All three were soon changed for PR purposes.

4. German Me-264 bombers were capable of bombing New York City, but they decided it wasn't worth the effort.   

5. German submarine U-120 was sunk by a malfunctioning toilet.

6. Among the first troops of the German forces captured at Normandy were several Koreans.  They had been forced to fight for the Japanese Army until they were captured by the Russians and forced to fight for the Russian Army until they were captured by the Germans and forced to fight for the German Army until they were captured by the U.S. Army.

7. Following a massive naval bombardment, 35,000 United States and Canadian troops stormed ashore at Kiska, one of Alaska’s Aleutian Islands. Twenty-one soldiers were killed in the assault on the island. It could have been worse if there had actually been any Japanese on the island.   

8. The last marine killed in WWII was killed by a can of spam.  He was on the ground as a POW in Japan when rescue flights dropping food and when supplies came over, the package came apart in the air and a stray can of spam hit and killed him!

-----

Since the Christmas-giving season, I been receiving a lot of nice compliments and good reviews of both my latest mystery novel, “Haunted Bones,” and my earlier WWII novel, “Nebraska Doppelganger.” Both are available with free shipping at:  www.tomorrowsnovels.com

Here’s the next chapter of my novella, “Dark Angels:”

Chapter

11

       Merle Sanbourne was still shaking from his new-found power. In fact, it was keeping him awake and his wife noted his unsettled demeanor.

       “Are you alright?” she asked.

       “Oh, ah, yes, I’m fine,” he replied. “I just am concerned about a couple of things at work.”

       He was hoping she wouldn’t ask him what they were – and, she didn’t.

       Sanbourne pondered whether or not to place any more classified ads in the newspaper. He recently had a near-encounter with gang-’bangers in the parking lot of one of the shopping centers near his home. A group of black youths had gathered around a group of cars. At first he thought they were trying to steal one of them, but then he realized there was another across the way selling some sort of drugs. He sat in his car, watching. More than a half-dozen people passed by the youth. It appeared to be an exchange of cash for some sort of drugs. Merle was surprised by his clientele. At least two women, both of whom looked as though they were housewives, and, probably mothers. Others were younger people from teen-agers to what could have been college-age twenty-somethings.

       “The scourge of drugs in our society, especially among younger people, is eating away at the fabric of the nation,” Merle thought to himself. He didn’t consider himself a so-called flag-waver, but on the other hand, drugs are a threat to everyone’s well-being.

       Through his thoughts, Merle talked himself into placing another classified ad. All he had to do was wait for that morning paper to be delivered reporting another sniper death.

----------------------------------------

       While the homicide rate in Oceanside exceeded what it had been for each of the past two years, Danny thought this latest report might be a good thing. While murder is still murder, no one on the OPD or in the neighborhoods were complaining about the absence of molesters and gang activities.

       “The problems are still with us, just not as visible or obvious as they were because of these sniper killings,” Stein reckoned.

       Danny agreed.

       Nearly two weeks had passed since the first sniper shooting and the Dobbins’ murder, when on his way home one evening Danny got a call on his car radio that another sniper attack had occurred. When the dispatcher gave him the address, Danny realized the crime scene was some seven blocks from the earlier sniper shooting.

Danny pulled up to the scene where a crowd already had gathered. Stein was there directing uniformed officers to keep the crowd back. Among the spectators were several gang-’bangers. This time, there were two TV reporters and their cameras.

“Can you give us any details?” one of the reporters asked as Danny made his way through the crowd.

“I just got here,” he replied. “When I know something I’ll try and pass it along.” He lied. Danny hated the press, especially TV reporters. They were more interested in how they looked on camera than they were at gathering the facts of a story.

       “What happened?,” Danny asked Detective Stein as he walked up to where the victim was lying.

       “Well, Jesus Santos, here, got himself shot,” Stein said, looking again at the victim’s I.D., “That’s his name according to his driver’s license. Anyway, ol’ Hey-Zeus was talkin’ with a bunch of his homeys when suddenly his head blew apart.”

Stein added in his usual drowl fashion: “Someone around here doesn’t like gang-’bangers.”

       Danny pulled back the sheet the field tech team had covered the body with. Stein was right. It was a head shot. Small hole going into the forehead -- big hole on the other side.

       “This guy was dead before he hit the ground,” Stein reckoned.

       From the looks of the victim, he appeared to be the target of the same sniper as Hans Schlicter was some 10 days previous. This crime scene also was at a private residence, only in the backyard of the victim’s parents’ home. Stein already had determined the slug had passed through the victim’s head and probably was embedded into a wooden fence to the north of where the target was standing.

       “We were just talking. We weren’t hurtin’ nobody,” one of the ‘bangers told Danny in Spanish. “We weren’t doin’ nothing.’”

       The ‘banger’s voice had a tone of innocence with a touch of “poor little us.” Another of his buddies standing nearby was grousing to the effect, “Wait’ll we get the S-O-B that done this.”

       Danny paid little attention other than to say, “It probably wasn’t from what you were doing today, but it obviously had something to do with past activities.”

       There was little for the field techies to do other than take plenty of photographs of the body and portions of the fence where the slug was suspected of being embedded. Uniformed officers and Stein were taking statements from all of those who admitted to being present when the victim fell.

       Danny directed Stein to see if he could retrieve the bullet from the fence, if, in fact, it was there.

       “Found it!” Stein said. He motioned for one of the forensic technicians to carefully remove it after several photographs were taken.

       “Let me try something,” Danny said, walking over to the fence. He picked up a thin piece of wood from alongside the fence. It was straight, about three-feet long. It appeared to be a piece of wallboard molding.

       Danny stood in front of the fence, facing the victim. He held the stick out from his nose, aiming it straight over the body. He estimated where the young man had been standing. The victim, Jesus Montoya, was about 5’, 7” tall. Danny lifted the stick upward, over the roof of the house. The same ridge as the first sniper victim was in the background.

       “That’s where our guy was shot from,” Danny told Stein. “See that pine tree on the top of the hill?”

       Stein shaded his eyes, squinting slightly.

       “Yep, I do.”

       “I estimate the shot must have come from just to the east of the tree –‘bout 6 or 7 hundred yards, at least. The shooter might have even used the tree as a steadying point,” Danny said. “I’ll get Shamus and go up there right away. You stay here and make sure everything that’s possible is gathered. Also, get statements from the ‘bangers who were here. Since it’s one of their homeys, I’m sure they’ll have plenty to say.”

       Danny Saenz called for another field tech to meet them up on the ridge, close to where they were on the previous sniper shooting.

       “It’s odd that we have two sniper killings within two weeks and both were from nearly the same location,” Shamus said as they approached the pine tree Danny had seen from the backyard where the victim was killed.

       They could see the field technician’s car driving up the ridge road coming from the opposite direction.

       “When I was a lot younger, we used to come up here, park, and make out with our girls,” Shamus recalled.

       “That was way before my time, old man,” Danny said, chuckling.

       “Hey, it wasn’t that long ago.”

       “Long enough,” the young detective quipped. “I’m surprised you can remember back that far.” It seemed like old times, Danny and Shamus working together again. He fondly remembered how Shamus patiently taught him the ropes of being a good homicide detective.

       “Things are never as they seem,” Shamus always would caution Danny. “It’s always what or whom you least expect.”

       When the forensic tech arrived, Danny directed her to go over a wide area, specifically where Shamus and he reckoned the shooter must have been when the shot was fired.

       “A good sniper always looks at his terrain,” Shamus told her. “Look for anything. In particular, look for grass or weeds that might have been disturbed in the last few hours. If you find something like that, look closely for footprints.”

       Danny added that even though the area was fraught with tire markings, he said it might be possible to separate out his car and the tech’s car from any others since the police department uses a specific brand and tread for every vehicle.

       “We’re going back to the station. Let me know if you find anything,” Danny said as he and Shamus got back in the car.

       “Yeah, and break out one of those new military scopes that measure distances and see if you can determine how far that shot must have been,” Shamus added.

       “How’d you know we had those scopes?” the tech asked with a puzzled look.

“Hey, I’m an old detective from way back. I know how to get in the know.”     

       Back at the station, Danny and Shamus found Joe Stein waiting for them in the squad room.

       “Whadda ya find out about our vic?” Danny asked.

       “Well, his real name is Jesus Manuel Rodriguez. That driver’s license at the scene was a phony. His family knows him as “Little Jessie;” his gang buddies call him “El Zorro.” He’s 18 years old, has been arrested only once, for possession of marijuana, but he’s suspected on a bunch of shit,” Stein replied. “I think the reason they call him ‘El Zorro’ is that he’s out-foxed us many times.”

       “El Zorro?” Danny had heard of him, but had no idea the gang leader was so young. “So, ‘the fox’ finally got caught.”

       “Yeah, and it doesn’t sound like this little fox made it into the hen house,” Shamus chimed in with a chuckle.

       “Our big challenge now is to find out who the ‘hound’ is that brought him down,” Danny mused.

       “I think the bigger question is why was ‘he’ the target?” Shamus asked. “I mean someone must have really had it out for this guy.”

       “Maybe it’s what he represents – you know, being a gang leader,” Stein said.

       “Naw, it’s gotta be more than that,” Danny countered. “Have you checked with the dicks in the gang detail to see what’s the name of his home boys?”

       “Yeah, matter-of-fact I did,” Stein replied. “They’re known as ‘The Conquistadors.” Our guys in vice say that gang is heavy into dealing.”

       “That could be significant,” Shamus said, looking at each of the two detectives. “Maybe someone’s kid got messed up with drugs and …”

       “Well, how do you explain the earlier sniper shooting of a child molester?” Danny asked.

       “Maybe we have a vigilante on our hands,” said Stein. “Someone who’s tryin’ to clean up the neighborhood, and is taking a shortcut to do it. ‘Suppose he wears a mask when he goes out hunting?”

       Danny ignored Stein’s stab at humor.

       “I can’t say that anyone is gonna miss either of these assholes, but, we can’t have our citizenry going around and playing Lone Ranger, now can we,” Danny said with a grin.

Where Did Those Monikers Come From?

Where did that name 

originate from?

By Tom Morrow

There isn't a more personal possession that is near and dear to most Americans than their automobile. As a result the names of some cars have become household words. But the origin of the various monikers are either unknown or of a strange mythodology.

  For you younger readers here's how some of today's rolling stock originated.

Chevrolet: Louis Chevrolet was a race car driver and designer who founded the company that later emerged with General Motors.

 Oldsmobile: Entrepreneur R. E. Olds started the Olds motor vehicle company in 1897. The company eventually was merged into the General Motors family. During the mid-20^th century, a popular truck, the REO, using Olds’ initials as its moniker, was produced.

Rolls-Royce: Sir Henry Rolls founded his company in 1903 in England. Charles Royce publicized and promoted the handcrafted cars.

Mercedes-Benz: Carl Benz is believed to have been the first to invent the automobile back in 1879. Mercedes Jellinek was a young girl whose father was a German diplomat and investor in the Benz Company.

Buick: David Dunbar Buick, a Scotsman, sold his failing Buick motor company to William Durant in 1908. Durant used it as a cornerstone of what would become the General Motors empire. Buick ended up so poor he couldn't afford a telephone, let alone a car with his name on it.

Ford: Henry Ford wasn't the first to build an automobile, but he was the first to figure out how to mass-produce vehicles using his innovation and development of the assembly line.

Nissan Sentra: According to company officials, this model is the Nissan company’s mainstream or central car. The word Sentra sounds like central, as well as century, which evokes image of safety. It's that simple.

Volvo: Simply put, it's Latin meaning “I roll.”

Camaro: When General Motors first came out with its sports car in 1967, officials said it meant “Pal” in French because the first mission of the new car was to be a “close companion” to its owner. However, a French auto executive pointed out that Camaro not only doesn’t mean anything in English, it has no meaning in French as well.

Nova: Although it was designed to be a “stellar of a seller” for Chevy, when the first units were introduced in Mexico, its somewhat superstitious public wasn't too receptive to the new model. In Spanish, “No va” translates to “no go.” But over the years, tradition has prevailed. If it's a Chevy, it works, making it one of the top vehicles of choice for most Mexicans.

http://www.tomorrowsnovels.com/

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

If you missed any or all previous chapters of “Dark Angel,” go to http://www.tomorrowsmusings.com/ to find all of my previous columns and chapter.

Chapter

11

       Merle Sanbourne was still shaking from his new-found power. In fact, it was keeping him awake and his wife noted his unsettled demeanor.

       “Are you alright?” she asked.

       “Oh, ah, yes, I’m fine,” he replied. “I just am concerned about a couple of things at work.”

       He was hoping she wouldn’t ask him what they were – and, she didn’t.

       Sanbourne pondered whether or not to place any more classified ads in the newspaper. He recently had a near-encounter with gang-’bangers in the parking lot of one of the shopping centers near his home. A group of black youths had gathered around a group of cars. At first he thought they were trying to steal one of them, but then he realized there was another across the way selling some sort of drugs. He sat in his car, watching. More than a half-dozen people passed by the youth. It appeared to be an exchange of cash for some sort of drugs. Merle was surprised by his clientele. At least two women, both of whom looked as though they were housewives, and, probably mothers. Others were younger people from teen-agers to what could have been college-age twenty-somethings.

       “The scourge of drugs in our society, especially among younger people, is eating away at the fabric of the nation,” Merle thought to himself. He didn’t consider himself a so-called flag-waver, but on the other hand, drugs are a threat to everyone’s well-being.

       Through his thoughts, Merle talked himself into placing another classified ad. All he had to do was wait for that morning paper to be delivered reporting another sniper death.

----------------------------------------

       While the homicide rate in Oceanside exceeded what it had been for each of the past two years, Danny thought this latest report might be a good thing. While murder is still murder, no one on the OPD or in the neighborhoods were complaining about the absence of molesters and gang activities.

       “The problems are still with us, just not as visible or obvious as they were because of these sniper killings,” Stein reckoned.

       Danny agreed.

       Nearly two weeks had passed since the first sniper shooting and the Dobbins’ murder, when on his way home one evening Danny got a call on his car radio that another sniper attack had occurred. When the dispatcher gave him the address, Danny realized the crime scene was some seven blocks from the earlier sniper shooting.

Danny pulled up to the scene where a crowd already had gathered. Stein was there directing uniformed officers to keep the crowd back. Among the spectators were several gang-’bangers. This time, there were two TV reporters and their cameras.

“Can you give us any details?” one of the reporters asked as Danny made his way through the crowd.

“I just got here,” he replied. “When I know something I’ll try and pass it along.” He lied. Danny hated the press, especially TV reporters. They were more interested in how they looked on camera than they were at gathering the facts of a story.

       “What happened?,” Danny asked Detective Stein as he walked up to where the victim was lying.

       “Well, Jesus Santos, here, got himself shot,” Stein said, looking again at the victim’s I.D., “That’s his name according to his driver’s license. Anyway, ol’ Hey-Zeus was talkin’ with a bunch of his homeys when suddenly his head blew apart.”

Stein added in his usual drowl fashion: “Someone around here doesn’t like gang-’bangers.”

       Danny pulled back the sheet the field tech team had covered the body with. Stein was right. It was a head shot. Small hole going into the forehead -- big hole on the other side.

       “This guy was dead before he hit the ground,” Stein reckoned.

       From the looks of the victim, he appeared to be the target of the same sniper as Hans Schlicter was some 10 days previous. This crime scene also was at a private residence, only in the backyard of the victim’s parents’ home. Stein already had determined the slug had passed through the victim’s head and probably was embedded into a wooden fence to the north of where the target was standing.

       “We were just talking. We weren’t hurtin’ nobody,” one of the ‘bangers told Danny in Spanish. “We weren’t doin’ nothing.’”

       The ‘banger’s voice had a tone of innocence with a touch of “poor little us.” Another of his buddies standing nearby was grousing to the effect, “Wait’ll we get the S-O-B that done this.”

       Danny paid little attention other than to say, “It probably wasn’t from what you were doing today, but it obviously had something to do with past activities.”

       There was little for the field techies to do other than take plenty of photographs of the body and portions of the fence where the slug was suspected of being embedded. Uniformed officers and Stein were taking statements from all of those who admitted to being present when the victim fell.

       Danny directed Stein to see if he could retrieve the bullet from the fence, if, in fact, it was there.

       “Found it!” Stein said. He motioned for one of the forensic technicians to carefully remove it after several photographs were taken.

       “Let me try something,” Danny said, walking over to the fence. He picked up a thin piece of wood from alongside the fence. It was straight, about three-feet long. It appeared to be a piece of wallboard molding.

       Danny stood in front of the fence, facing the victim. He held the stick out from his nose, aiming it straight over the body. He estimated where the young man had been standing. The victim, Jesus Montoya, was about 5’, 7” tall. Danny lifted the stick upward, over the roof of the house. The same ridge as the first sniper victim was in the background.

       “That’s where our guy was shot from,” Danny told Stein. “See that pine tree on the top of the hill?”

       Stein shaded his eyes, squinting slightly.

       “Yep, I do.”

       “I estimate the shot must have come from just to the east of the tree –‘bout 6 or 7 hundred yards, at least. The shooter might have even used the tree as a steadying point,” Danny said. “I’ll get Shamus and go up there right away. You stay here and make sure everything that’s possible is gathered. Also, get statements from the ‘bangers who were here. Since it’s one of their homeys, I’m sure they’ll have plenty to say.”

       Danny Saenz called for another field tech to meet them up on the ridge, close to where they were on the previous sniper shooting.

       “It’s odd that we have two sniper killings within two weeks and both were from nearly the same location,” Shamus said as they approached the pine tree Danny had seen from the backyard where the victim was killed.

       They could see the field technician’s car driving up the ridge road coming from the opposite direction.

       “When I was a lot younger, we used to come up here, park, and make out with our girls,” Shamus recalled.

       “That was way before my time, old man,” Danny said, chuckling.

       “Hey, it wasn’t that long ago.”

       “Long enough,” the young detective quipped. “I’m surprised you can remember back that far.” It seemed like old times, Danny and Shamus working together again. He fondly remembered how Shamus patiently taught him the ropes of being a good homicide detective.

       “Things are never as they seem,” Shamus always would caution Danny. “It’s always what or whom you least expect.”

       When the forensic tech arrived, Danny directed her to go over a wide area, specifically where Shamus and he reckoned the shooter must have been when the shot was fired.

       “A good sniper always looks at his terrain,” Shamus told her. “Look for anything. In particular, look for grass or weeds that might have been disturbed in the last few hours. If you find something like that, look closely for footprints.”

       Danny added that even though the area was fraught with tire markings, he said it might be possible to separate out his car and the tech’s car from any others since the police department uses a specific brand and tread for every vehicle.

       “We’re going back to the station. Let me know if you find anything,” Danny said as he and Shamus got back in the car.

       “Yeah, and break out one of those new military scopes that measure distances and see if you can determine how far that shot must have been,” Shamus added.

       “How’d you know we had those scopes?” the tech asked with a puzzled look.

“Hey, I’m an old detective from way back. I know how to get in the know.”     

       Back at the station, Danny and Shamus found Joe Stein waiting for them in the squad room.

       “Whadda ya find out about our vic?” Danny asked.

       “Well, his real name is Jesus Manuel Rodriguez. That driver’s license at the scene was a phony. His family knows him as “Little Jessie;” his gang buddies call him “El Zorro.” He’s 18 years old, has been arrested only once, for possession of marijuana, but he’s suspected on a bunch of shit,” Stein replied. “I think the reason they call him ‘El Zorro’ is that he’s out-foxed us many times.”

       “El Zorro?” Danny had heard of him, but had no idea the gang leader was so young. “So, ‘the fox’ finally got caught.”

       “Yeah, and it doesn’t sound like this little fox made it into the hen house,” Shamus chimed in with a chuckle.

       “Our big challenge now is to find out who the ‘hound’ is that brought him down,” Danny mused.

       “I think the bigger question is why was ‘he’ the target?” Shamus asked. “I mean someone must have really had it out for this guy.”

       “Maybe it’s what he represents – you know, being a gang leader,” Stein said.

       “Naw, it’s gotta be more than that,” Danny countered. “Have you checked with the dicks in the gang detail to see what’s the name of his home boys?”

       “Yeah, matter-of-fact I did,” Stein replied. “They’re known as ‘The Conquistadors.” Our guys in vice say that gang is heavy into dealing.”

       “That could be significant,” Shamus said, looking at each of the two detectives. “Maybe someone’s kid got messed up with drugs and …”

       “Well, how do you explain the earlier sniper shooting of a child molester?” Danny asked.

       “Maybe we have a vigilante on our hands,” said Stein. “Someone who’s tryin’ to clean up the neighborhood, and is taking a shortcut to do it. ‘Suppose he wears a mask when he goes out hunting?”

       Danny ignored Stein’s stab at humor.

       “I can’t say that anyone is gonna miss either of these assholes, but, we can’t have our citizenry going around and playing Lone Ranger, now can we,” Danny said with a grin.

A Child's Eye-View of Retirement

The Minds of Children

By Tom Morrow

 Just before Christmas break, an elementary school teacher asked her young students how they would spend their holidays. One of her students wrote the following:

“We always used to spend Christmas with Pa Pa and Na Na. They used to live in a big brick house, but Pa Pa got retarded and they moved to Florida, so now they live in a place with a lot of other retarded people. They all live in tin boxes. They ride in big three-wheeled tricycles and they all wear name tags because they don't know who they are. They go to a big building called a wrecked hall. But if it was wrecked they got it fixed because it's all right now. They play games and do exercises there, but don't do them very good.

“There is a swimming pool there. They go into it and just stand there with their hats on. I Guess They don't know how to swim.

“As you go into their park, there is a doll house with a little man sitting in there. He watches all day so they can't get out without him seeing them. When they sneak out they go to the beach and pick up shells.

“My Na Na used to bake cookies and stuff, but I guess she forgot how. Nobody cooks they just eat out. They eat the same thing every night, Early Birds. Some of the people are so retarded that they don't know how to cook at all, so My Na Na and Pa Pa bring food into the wreck hall and they call it pot luck.

“My Na Na says Pa Pa worked all his life and earned his retardment. I wish they would move back here but I guess the little man in the dollhouse won't let them out.”

Quite quotable:

“The two most beautiful words in the English language are check enclosed.”  --- author Dorothy Parker

“Don't tell my mother that I'm in politics. She thinks I play the piano in a brothel.” ---Author Jack Higgins, from one of his novels.

Fox news commentator Bret Hume once observed: “An old lawyers’ adage says when your weak on the law, argue the facts. When your weak on the fax, argue the law. When your weak on both, pound the table.”

The great Yogi Berra on what it takes to win: “You give 100 percent in the first half of the game, and if that is not enough, in the second half you give what's left.

World War II's Little Known Facts:

More U.S. servicemen died in the Air Corps than the Marine Corps. While completing the required 30 missions, an airman's chance of being killed was 71 percent.

Generally speaking, there was no such thing as an average fighter pilot. You were either an ace or a target.  For instance, Japanese Ace Hiroyo Nishizawa shot down over 80 planes. He died while a passenger on a cargo plane .

 It was a common practice on fighter planes to load every 5th round with a tracer round to aid in aiming. This was a big mistake.  Tracers had different ballistics so (at long range) if your tracers were hitting the target 80% of your rounds were missing.  Worse yet tracers instantly told your enemy he was under fire and from which direction.  Worst of all was the practice of loading a string of tracers at the end of the belt to tell you that you were out of ammo. This was definitely not something you wanted to tell the enemy. Units that stopped using tracers saw their success rate nearly double and their loss rate go down.

When Allied armies reached the Rhine, the first thing men did was pee in it.  This was pretty universal from the lowest private to Winston Churchill (who made a big show of it) and Gen. George S. Patton (who had himself photographed in the act). 

For some good reading, try these two novels:

Below, find my web site link for last minute “Holiday Shopping.” Both of my novels, “Nebraska Doppelganger” and the mystery novel, “Haunted Bones,” for free shipping:

http://www.tomorrowsnovels.com/

Here’s Chapter 10 of my novella, “Dark Angel.”

Chapter

10

       Shamus was at Danny’s desk when the detective arrived back at the station. This time his old mentor was dressed for business – slacks, shoes, socks, but he still was wearing an Aloha shirt. Danny thought it looked like the same shirt as the day before. But, don’t they all look alike? More and more Oceanside men were wearing them, almost year ‘round, as if it were the city’s status symbol or uniform. It definitely was that particular fashion statement for Shamus.

       “I’m glad you’re here,” Danny said to Shamus as he walked into the squad room. “I’ve been giving our sniper case a lot of thought. Maybe we should keep a close eye on known molesters and areas where snipers just might lie in wait to shoot at ‘em,” he said.

       “It’s a nice idea, but it won’t work,” Shamus told his one-time partner. “Do you have any idea how far a good sniper can shoot? The record is 1.5 miles by a Canadian soldier during the Afghan war,” he said. “But, those fantastic distances didn’t start showing up until World War II.”

       Shamus explained that Soviet and German snipers were strategic weapons during the fighting on the Eastern front. The most famous of the German snipers was Major Erwin Konig, who supposedly squared off against Soviet sharpshooter Vassili Zaitsev, a Russian farmer, who became a crack shot hunting rabbits as a boy. Zaitsev is credited with having 114 enemy kills during the Siege of Stalingrad.

       According to a TV documentary, Major Konig was sent to Stalingrad to hunt for Zaitsev, who was creating havoc by knocking off high-ranking German officers. Supposedly it was a duel to the death. At the end of the hunt, both sharp-shooters had each other in their scopes. Zaitsev fired first, hitting Konig with a shot down the scope and into his eye.

       But, as impressive as that shot was, probably the most stunning record was made by a female sniper during World War II, Lyudmila M. Pavlichenko, a Ukranian peasant girl. She killed 309 German troops, including 36 enemy snipers.

The most successful of all World War II snipers was Fyodor Okhlopkov, an ethnic Yakut. He is credited with as many as 429 kills during the winter war between Soviet and German armies on the Eastern front. By comparison, Allied snipers scored a small percentage of these numbers.

       Many of the Soviet-German sniper feats were recorded during the Siege of Stalingrad, as portrayed in a partially fictional Hollywood film, “Enemy at the Gates.”

       “It takes a highly-trained sharp-shooter to do that kind of work,” Shamus explained. “The most important aspect, other than being a good shot, is patience. A sniper may lie in wait all day just to be able to take one shot.”

       Shamus went on to say that even though sniper rifles have been developed to the point they’ll hit their target more than a mile away, during World War II, Korea, and even in Vietnam, a lot of Marine and Army snipers preferred to use the old World War I-era Springfield .303 bolt-action rifle.

       “It was far more accurate and lighter in weight. It did the job,” he concluded. “I would say that all indications point to our sniper friend using a Springfield. The retrieved slug bears that out. It could have been fired from another weapon, but my guess is it’s an old “oh-three.” Besides, it’s far easier to conceal than a more modern sniper weapon.” 

       Danny joined the department 10 years ago after a four-year stint in the U.S. Navy. He attended the police academy after taking community college.

       He not only is the first one in his family to graduate from college, but the first to join a law enforcement agency. Oceanside Police was perfect because he grew up in the city, graduating from Oceanside High before joining the Navy.

       Shamus O’Rourke was an enigma to most of his fellow officers when he worked at the department. Most just knew he had been in the Marine Corps. Few, if any, knew where he grew up or anything about his family.

       Numerous attempts on Danny’s part failed to expand that knowledge too much farther. Since retiring, Shamus kept pretty much to himself, but, he and Danny had many philosophical discussions over more than a few beers.

       Shamus had two secrets and Danny was the only one who knew the basics and little more: he had been in the thick of battle during the Vietnam War, and, he had been married twice with one daughter by the first wife. Probably the reason neither of the marriages lasted is because of the tragic death of the daughter. At age 7, she was abducted, molested, and murdered when Shamus was still a patrolman with the OPD. That much was recorded. Shamus never mentioned his daughter; barely mentioned his first wife; and jokingly referred to the second as a mistake that continues to have a friendly relationship.

       Nothing was said by either for a moment or two. Finally, Danny broke the silence.

       “Do you think our sniper here in town is on a vendetta, trying to right some wrong?”

       “Could be,” Shamus replied. “One thing’s for certain – if he doesn’t want to be caught you aren’t going to find him.”

       “Why do you say that?”

       “From the evidence so far, this guy is military-trained, and that means he knows things about camouflage and hiding tactics that you haven’t even thought about,” Shamus explained.

“You remember us walking up on the ridge?”

       Danny shook his head in the affirmative.

       “Well, he could have been within a few yards from us and we’d never know it.”

       “Do you think he was?”

       “Naw. He probably parked his car down on a street on the south side of the ridge. He did his business, then slipped down the hill and made his getaway. If he were to have been seen by anyone, which is doubtful, he could always use excuses as “I’ve been target shooting” or “hunting.”

       “Even though it’s illegal to fire a weapon in town?” Danny asked.

       “No doubt he’d be so innocent about the situation, probably no one would question it.”

       Shamus got up from sitting on the corner of Danny’s desk.

       “I’m going now. Rest assured, though, we haven’t seen the last of this guy’s work,” Shamus concluded. “And, believe me, this guy considers what he’s doing as an obligation.”