Beyond Tuesday Morning (5 page)

Clay exhaled hard and tossed the empty plastic salad container into the backseat. He was about to take a swig from his iced tea when his radio crackled to life.

“Urgent! Calling all cars!” The code that followed told Clay the unthinkable had happened. A carjacking and fatal shooting at the gas station at Las Virgenes exit and Ventura Freeway. Suspect a twenty-five-year-old Hispanic male, five-ten, muscular, driving the victim's blue 2002 Chevy Tahoe. “Suspect is headed west on 101. Suspect is armed and highly dangerous. Repeat, suspect is armed and dangerous.”

Clay straightened as a rush of adrenaline shot through him. He started his car as he grabbed the radio receiver. He identified himself and confirmed that he was at the location and headed toward the suspect.

Other officers gave their location and stated their intent to begin pursuit immediately and provide backup. But none of them were within ten minutes of Clay's location. He would be first on the scene.

“God, go with me.”

He whispered that prayer every time he took a call, but this time there was urgency in his voice. He'd known, hadn't he? That something would go down today? He flipped his siren on, spun his car around, and darted across the overpass and down the on-ramp onto the westbound lanes of the freeway. The dispatcher's words screamed at him again.
Armed and highly dangerous.
He leaned toward the windshield, both hands on the steering wheel.

Chases were fairly common on California freeways. Chases involving a crazy man who'd already killed one person were not. It took three minutes for Clay to spot the blue Chevy tearing down the freeway, weaving in and out of traffic. This was their guy. But without backup …

He spoke into the receiver again. “This is Officer Michaels; I've got the suspect in sight. How close is backup?”

Another series of crackling noises filled the car. “We've got CHP officers fifteen minutes away. LAPD detectives ten minutes behind you and catching up. Wait if you can.”

If he could?

Too late. The suspect must have seen the red lights and heard the siren. He was picking up speed, darting in and out of all three lanes, jeopardizing everyone on the road. That meant Clay had two choices. Pursue him a few feet from his bumper to help warn drivers he was approaching, or back off until he had assistance. But backing off didn't guarantee the man would slow down or drive more responsibly. He'd just killed a person; he wouldn't mind if someone else died.

Clay decided to pursue. It was his job, and he wouldn't back off just because he was alone.

He maneuvered his patrol car through the traffic until he was a few yards from the suspect's bumper. He could see the man looking over his shoulder, but he couldn't make out his face. Then the man waved his weapon out the window. It wasn't any ordinary handgun; it was an AK-47. The man aimed it at the sky and fired—clear warning that he intended to kill whoever tried to stop him. Clay tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his palms sweaty. Still no backup in sight.

Come on, guys … hurry.

His foot pushed harder at the gas pedal, moving his patrol car even closer to the suspect. He was in firing range, for sure. If the man were able to fire the machine gun at him while still maintaining his high speeds, Clay would already be dead.

Cars were pulling over now, the way he'd wanted them to do. Amazing what the sound of a siren or the sight of a flashing light could accomplish. Clay glanced at his speedometer. Nearly a hundred miles per hour.

At that instant, the suspect darted across all three lanes of traffic, sped up the hill at the Kanan Road off-ramp, and made a sharp, squealing left turn. He bumped two cars traveling in the right lane, but kept going.

Clay pressed the button on his radio receiver. “Suspect has exited the freeway at Kanan Road, heading west.”

“Copy. Backup is closing in, a few minutes away.”

Clay gritted his teeth.
Please, God … I need help. Hurry them up
. He heard no holy whispers or answers. But the strange feeling grew stronger. Whatever was up ahead, he had to be ready.
God, be with me, whatever happens.

They sped past a series of condos and buildings as other cars pulled to the side or darted out of their way. Again the suspect waved his gun out the window, and Clay checked his rearview mirror. Nothing.

They neared the twisting turns of the canyon, turns that would force Clay to slow down or risk flying over the edge. Suddenly the suspect jerked his car onto the gravelly shoulder, kicking up a cloud of rocks and dust. Clay was still close behind him, and for a moment he couldn't see anything. He heard the debris hit his windshield as he slammed on his brakes.

The cloud settled, and he saw the man was out of his car, the assault weapon trained on Clay's vehicle. He was going to fire before Clay had a chance to get out of his car, let alone grab his revolver. The cloud of dust and rocks had been the suspect's cover, and now Clay was trapped.

Here he sat, the barrel of an AK-47 pointed straight at him, and he could only think of one thing:
I knew this was coming.

He ducked just as the man braced himself and fired.

A spray of bullets peppered Clay's windshield, shattering the glass and piercing where he'd been sitting just seconds ago. Clay cocked his revolver, glanced over the dash and fired. He dropped back down as the suspect sprayed another round of bullets. This time they came at closer range, louder, more fierce. The man's footsteps were closing in. Clay gritted his teeth. What could he do? At this close range, he couldn't fire without making himself a target. He raised his hand above the dash and fired blindly. Again the man let loose a burst of gunfire. He was closer now. It was only a matter of time.

How could God let it end this way? Death before he'd ever really found life—the sort of life he'd wanted, with a wife and a family. Senseless death because of a crazy man with an assault weapon. Clay's breathing came in short bursts.
God … no! Help me, please!

At that instant he heard two things: sirens and footsteps, both coming closer. Backup was almost here. A few more seconds and everything would be okay. The man shouted something in Spanish, something about having a bad life.

Anger welled up in Clay. He wasn't going to sit there and wait to be shot at; if he was going down, he'd go down fighting.
God … be with me
. He peered over the dash and spotted the man, ten yards away and closing. The suspect saw Clay too. The man pulled the trigger just as Clay fired once—straight at the man's chest—then ducked to the floorboard area.

Even as another spray of bullets ripped through his car, Clay heard the sirens getting louder. His heart pounded. He listened, but he couldn't hear the man coming closer. Had he shot him? Had he actually killed a man? The sirens were right behind him now, and he heard two cars pull onto the shoulder, then the sound of doors slamming. A voice yelled, “Police, don't move!”

Someone was running up from behind, along the passenger side of Clay's car. It could be the suspect, but not likely. Still, Clay aimed his revolver at the opposite door just as Detective Joe Reynolds flung it open and looked inside. “Michaels, you okay?”

“The suspect?”

“He's dead.” The officer was a black man, a former attorney who'd grown tired of the corporate world and took up police work. He was a detective now, one of the best. He worked the west end and had an office down the hall from the lunchroom. Clay considered him his closest friend in the department.

“I … I killed him?”

“You did everyone a favor.”

Clay's body shook as relief worked its way through him. “A few more seconds and …”

“What'd he do, pull over and come after you?”

“Yeah.” Clay set his gun on the seat and pushed himself up. “The guy … he was crazy.”

“Must've been flying over a hundred.”

“He was.”

Reynolds was still out of breath. “We got here fast as we could. He was dying on the ground, still reaching for his weapon when we pulled up.” He ran his fingers over the bullet holes scattered across the front seat. “Someone must be looking out for you, Michaels. AK-47s don't usually miss.”

It was true. Even though he'd ducked into the floorboard, he should've been hit. Weapons like the assault rifle spray their bullets, and one easily could have ripped through the dash and killed him. “I was praying the whole time.”

Reynolds cocked his head. “I'd say the Big Guy heard you.”

Clay glanced around and saw another officer, one he didn't know as well, in his patrol car on the radio. Probably calling for someone to come get the body.

Clay looked at the covered figure lying a few yards from his car. Nausea rushed up in his belly. “First time I ever shot a suspect.”

“They'll want you to take some time, a paid leave.” Reynolds studied him. “Part of the investigation.”

“Right.” He'd had no choice, of course. The man would have killed him if he hadn't shot. In a situation like that—with a crazed suspect running at you, firing a gun—Clay had been taught there was just one way to do it: shoot to kill.

“You okay?” Reynolds brushed the glass off the passenger seat and sat down beside Clay, his feet hanging out of the car.

“Yeah, I guess.” He couldn't take his eyes off the covered body. “I don't like how I feel.”

“Look, Michaels—” Reynolds stared straight ahead, as though remembering something far away—“I've been on the other side of this game.” He looked at Clay. “Let's say you miss. Let's say ol' crazy man takes you down instead of the other way around. He could be out on the streets shooting again in twenty, fifteen if the circumstances were right.”

“Fifteen years?”

“I saw it all the time when I wore a suit and tie. All the time.” Reynolds glared at the place where the body lay. “No cop likes to shoot his gun. But in this case it was your life or his and, well, let's just say things worked out right today. You handled him better than the courts could've.” He gave Clay a halfhearted shove in the shoulder. “Of course, you didn't hear me say that.”

Reynolds climbed out of the car and shut the door. Clay wasn't shaking anymore, but the ache in his stomach hadn't gone away. A man was dead because he'd fired his gun. The thought sank in. He'd killed a man on the job; the possibility that always exists for an officer had actually happened.

Clay looked down. He still had shattered glass on his pants. He climbed out of the car, dusted off the crumbly pieces, and leaned against his door. Reynolds was right. It was his life or the suspect's. And if he was honest with himself, in a small way it felt good to fire the gun at a man who'd already killed someone, who'd put every driver they'd passed on the freeway at risk. Yes, things had worked out for the best, and if he were faced with the situation again, he'd respond the same way.

But a man lay dead on the ground because of him. No matter how good and right his actions were, he still felt sick.

It took an hour for investigators to arrive and collect data, and for the body to be removed and taken to the morgue where an autopsy would be performed. During that time, Clay learned more information about the man. He'd crossed the border south of San Diego two days earlier, killing two border patrolmen in the process. Witnesses said they saw him heading south, and when police dogs lost his trail, the search was called off.

No one knew how he'd gotten from San Diego to the San Fernando Valley, but he stayed beneath police radar until the carjacking.

An investigating officer took a statement from Clay and assured him the process was routine. “Your car's shattered with bullets, Michaels. Don't sweat this for a minute.”

When Clay got back to the office, Reynolds spotted him and nodded. “They want to see you in the office.” He paused, his eyes full of concern. “After that, come see me. I have an idea.”

The meeting with the brass was what Clay expected. He was being placed on paid leave until an investigation could be completed. Probably two to three weeks. He was already heading out of the office when his boss stopped him.

“Michaels.”

“Yes, sir.” Clay felt better than before, but he still didn't have an appetite.

The man tapped a pencil on his desk. “We all hate when this type of thing happens.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But in this case, I'm glad your aim was on.” He leaned forward, eyes intense. “It would've killed me to lose you, Michaels. You're one of the best. Take the break and when you get back, if I have anything to do with it, you'll get a promotion.”

A promotion? He'd wanted that since he started with the department. He should be celebrating with a victory fist or a shout. Something. But in light of the day's events, Clay managed only a sad smile. “Thanks, sir. I appreciate that.”

The man's eyes clouded. “Don't beat yourself up, Michaels. You did the right thing.”

“Okay.” Clay held the man's gaze a few seconds more and then turned and headed through the door to Reynolds's office. He shut the door behind him.

“Paid leave?”

“Two or three weeks.” Clay shrugged. “When I get back my office might be across from yours.”

A grin played out across his friend's face. “I
knew
it. They asked me last week who I thought was ready.”