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.