"A Cop, His Dog and Some Gun Thugs " - Leroy B. Vaughn

Editor's Note: This piece of flash non-fiction blew me away. Not even a brutal Mexican gang war can break the bonds of man's best friend. Thanks for sharing this incredible story, Leroy.

In present times, Sahuayo is a bustling city of approximately 350,000 people located in the Mexican state of Michoacan. The streets are packed with people, and traffic is non-stop from daylight until well after dark.

People stand in doorways and gossip with passing neighbors. Teenagers try to see which car stereo can shake the windows of the little block houses as they drive through the narrow streets, often going the wrong way.

This is a different Sahuayo than the one of 1949, when Everado Ochoa was a town policeman. The town had a population of about 10,000 people and was controlled by five powerful families.

Everado Ochoa had been appointed to the town patrol, as the law enforcement agency for Sahuayo was called at that time, by his uncle, Antonio Ochoa.

Antonio Ochoa was the commandant of the patrol. He had made his bones as a Cristero rebel chief during the rebellion that lasted from 1926 until 1929.

After Antonio Ochoa gained control of the town patrol, he deputized several of his relatives as patrolmen, allowing them to carry guns. They had little or no training in law enforcement, and Sahuayo was ruled with an iron fist.

As an example, Commandant Ochoa appointed his brother, Alfredo Ochoa, to assist in crime fighting in the town. Alfredo Ochoa was working as an off-duty officer at a local event, and was assigned to collect a small fee to use a public toilet. A local man did not feel that he should have to pay to use a toilet and told Alfredo the same. After a brief argument, Alfredo Ochoa shot the man dead.

After that incident, no one argued about pay toilets in Sahuayo.

The Cristero rebellion had been over for 20 years, but killers still roamed the streets of Sahuayo, bent on vendettas. By most accounts, the commandant's nephew, Everado Ochoa, was known as a decent person who was just trying to make a living in the town of Sahuayo.

At that time, Sahuayo was a rural town with narrow streets. There were more horse-drawn carts and donkeys in the town than there were cars or trucks. Everado Ochoa patrolled the streets on foot and knew everyone on his beat. He was a devoted husband and the father of a boy and a girl, both toddlers.

He looked forward to going home at the end of the day and spending time with his wife and kids, as well as his faithful dog, King.

Everado had found King when the dog was a pup. He bartered with the man selling the dog, saying that the bull terrier was the ugliest mutt he had ever seen. The man was going to charge him full price, ugly or not, until he realized that Everado was the nephew of the commandant. All of a sudden the price for King got much better.

Everado's wife didn't want a dog, especially one as ugly as this white bull terrier with the big brown spots and yellow eyes. Still, she knew Everado and King were going to be great friends.

Everado and King were soon seen all over the town, walking the narrow streets. At home, King was at Everado's feet while the patrolman relaxed in his favorite chair. At night, when Everado and his wife went to their bedroom, King followed them. He slept next to Everado's side of the bed.

One day, King was at his usual place by the front door, waiting for Everado to return from his patrol. Everado's wife was in the little kitchen, preparing something eat. Her two little children were at her side.

Everado was only a few blocks from home when a man ran up. He said someone was shooting a gun on a street a few blocks away. There were no police radios at that time in Sahuayo, and most of the citizens did not own telephones or cars. The man was sent to find the commandant. The 20-year-old patrolman headed to the scene on his own.

Everado was shot dead as soon as he arrived on the scene.

Everado's brother, Leopoldo, arrived at the scene before the commandant and his posse. He spotted two men he knew and did not like. Leopoldo shot both men, wounding but not killing them.

It turned out to be a case of mistaken identity. Neither man had anything to do with the death of his brother.

The real shooter was never found. He made his getaway during the confusion caused by Leopoldo Ochoa shooting the wrong men.

The next evening, Everado's wife sat in a corner of the house, wearing all black, as the women of the family prepared food for mourners at the wake. The men gathered on the street in front of the house and drank tequila.

Everado's casket was in the living room of the house on sawhorses. King, the bull terrier, guarded the casket from beneath it.

When the casket was moved from the house to the church for the funeral mass, King followed the horse-drawn wagon through the narrow streets of town.

After the mass, King followed the cortege to the cemetery. The mourners left after the graveside service, but not King. He stayed by his master's grave.

At first, the new widow did not notice King missing. One of the brothers brought him home after finding him in the cemetery at Everado's grave.

King did not sleep or eat after the death of his master. He sat at his spot near Everado's chair, as if he were waiting for the young patrolman to come home from work.

Three months after the funeral, Everado's wife came out of her bedroom and found King dead near Everado's chair. King, Everado's faithful companion, was two and one-half years old.

Thirty-three years after the death of Everado Ochoa, his brother, Leopoldo, died from complications after being shot several times in the knees. Unknown assailants shot him in his second-hand store in Los Angeles, California. Fifteen-hundred miles from Sahuayo.
 
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Leroy Vaughn is a retired law enforment officer from southern California. He and his wife, Cecilia, lived in central Mexico for more than three years. This story was written after interviewing several surviving members of the Ochoa family. His short stories have been published in 10 magazines in the U.S. and Mexico.

"The Real Bruce Lee" - Leroy B. Vaughn

May 13, 2003 was a regular work day for me. I woke up early, went into the kitchen to make tea and have a bowl of cereal before I left for work.

I turned on the television to listen to what passes for news in Los Angeles.

The news readers were doing the usual, talking about events that had occurred in southern California in the last few hours.

I was sort of listening to the news reader when I heard, "Deputy killed in Indio." It had been 22 years since I had worked in Indio. I didn't think there was much of a chance that I would know the officer that the news reader was talking about.

I sat in my chair and waited for the commercial to end. The news came back on and I looked at a picture of a deputy who I had trained when he was a rookie and I was a field training officer.

Bruce Lee was a good trainee and had visited me in Los Angeles in 1981, after I had screwed up by leaving the sheriff's office.

I had introduced him to my new captain, who thought that I was kidding when I said, "Skipper, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Bruce Lee."

The captain thought that he was going along with the joke. He replied, "Bruce Lee, I've heard of you before."

The news reader went on to say that Bruce had answered a disturbing the peace call in La Quinta, near Indio. A suspect named Kevin Diablo (real name) confronted Bruce at the scene and took Bruce's baton away from him, inflicting several blows to Bruce's head and neck, causing severe trauma that killed him.

The 23 year old suspect was known to have mental problems, but the news did not say if anyone told the sheriff's dispatcher that fact when they called the station.

A back-up deputy arrived to find Bruce's motionless body on the ground and was confronted by Mr. Diablo, who was yielding Bruce's baton.

The deputy fired his service weapon and killed the deranged man.

It was a sad day for me as I drove to work, listening to the radio. Trying to find any information about Bruce Lee's murder.

I would later find out that Bruce Lee had recently transferred back to Indio to work in patrol after spending time as a traffic accident investigator in a contract city not far from Indio.

I was unable to attend Bruce's funeral. He was buried on his 46th birthday.

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Leroy B. Vaughn is a retired law enforcement officer from Southern California. He has written several short stories, true and fiction. He has had stories published in 10 magazines in the U.S. and Mexico.

Image courtesy of dcubilla.

"The Criminal Did WHAT!?" - John Hansen

(The following is not my own experience, nor did I bear witness. I read about this on www.about-crime.com and after laughing out loud, decided to turn it into a humorous true crime story. Hope you like it!)

August 2010

It is a sultry summer afternoon and a group of young boys – all of who are younger than the age of 18 – decide to spend their time robbing a house. They are your classic dimwitted gang of rebels in need of making yet another idiotic mistake. And that’s just what one of the group’s members, a young boy, did.

This young criminal is looting the stranger’s attic of all old jewelry and trinkets that appear to be of value, dreaming of riches and good fortunes, when he turns to leave. But he realizes something. He locked himself in the attic. 

In his daze, he forgot to make sure he had a way out; he, instead, simply shut the door behind him. He struggles with the lock, tries kicking the door open and screams for his friends. Nothing. They can’t hear him, he assumes.

So our genius criminal waits there, cursing at his own idiocy, for some time until he finally realizes he has a cell phone in his pocket. Oh, what do you know? Because his fellow unintelligent thieves could not hear him, he decides to call the one person he knows he can already rely on, the one person who will always be there for him. 

Who, the police? No, not the police. He calls his mother. What else would a young boy do in a crisis situation as such? Mommy picks him up hours later and although she is furious, she doesn’t turn him in. That would be the neighbors’ job days later.

It is funny, amazing and all-the-more unnerving to see how entirely ignorant and dimwitted some people are. You would think that a boy of that age would at least watch TV, right? The news? A magazine? A book, even? 

But it would appear that this is not so. I mean c’mon people, if you want to rob someone’s house, wouldn’t you at least think first? Maybe check to make sure you have suitable means of escape? Apparently not.

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John Hansen is a crime author and blogger. His website is The Incessant Droning of a Bored Writer.

A True Ghost Story

In honor of the Halloween holiday, here's a true ghost story that happened to me. Have any of your own? Share them in the comments.

Sleepwalking a Thin Line

by Benjamin Sobieck

Sleepwalking can be an unsettling byproduct of an otherwise peaceful activity. The line between dreaming and reality is thin as your eyelids. But I never knew how thin until a dream stepped into my reality.

The spell of tinkering on the Internet proved too alluring late one sleepless night I was home from college. To keep from disturbing my parents, I turned out the lights and closed my bedroom door completely before firing up the computer. I never drifted off to sleep in this time, not even for a moment.

A couple hours later, I clearly heard the knob on my bedroom door turn and unlatch. The door swung open exactly as if manipulated by a person. It even stopped before the knob hit the wall.

My parents? I looked up. No mom. No dad.

But something was standing there. The shadow of a person - a darker-than-night outline - appeared in front of the door. The apparition did not have discernible features. It looked like a human-shaped black hole. I sensed it was looking at me.

Within a few seconds, it dissipated. The door remained open. Most people would have panicked. I didn't. I recognized this shadow person.

But before I allowed myself to process this, I wanted to be sure one of my parents hadn't opened the door.

I walked out of my room and into the hallway. My dad snored away from inside one of the bedrooms. I went to the living room where my mom dozed. The blankets curled tight around her still body.

I am an only child. We had no indoor pets at the time.

Maybe a sudden draft opened the door? No. I had latched the door completely. It wasn't going to just drift open. Something had to turn the knob to open the door.

I went back to my room, still not frightened. In fact, I felt a sense of closure. I would never see that shadow person again. I can't explain how, but I knew that now.

A bit of history.

For many years prior to this incident, I was a hardcore sleepwalker. For those who haven't experienced sleepwalking, what you do in your dream is what happens in reality. For example, I once had a dream about trying to wake someone up. In reality, I was shaking my parents as they slept.

Most of the time, though, the same dream played out again and again. I'd walk to my bedroom window and look out into the woods. I'd see a small black figure warbling off in the distance. The more I watched, the closer it came. Soon I would make out the shape of a person. A "shadow person," if you will. The darkness that made up this figure stuck out against the backdrop of the night.

The shadow person would come out of the woods and into the lawn. It would then circle the house. Almost like it followed a path. I'd track it from window to window.

Remember, I thought this was a dream. Except I really was walking from window to window.

It progressed to the point where I would turn lights on to try to get a better look at it. That would wake my parents, who would try to get me to "snap out of it." When you sleepwalk, you appear normal. Almost like a high-functioning zombie. But there's a veil of sleep that keeps you from being truly conscious.

Once I came out of that dream and into reality, I'd be confused. I couldn't see the shadow person anymore. I could only see one of my parents saying, "Go to bed, Ben, you've been sleepwalking again."

I'd tell them about the shadow person. They'd say something more reasonable. I yielded to the likely explanation it was all a product of my sleepwalking. But the line between reality and dreaming during a sleepwalk is so thin, I couldn't help but wonder.

On the night I stayed up late on the computer, the situation reversed. My "dream" turned the knob, opened the door and stared at my fully conscious reality.

I still don't know what to make of all this. The past offers a possible clue, albeit a far-fetched one. The previous owner died on the property. Not of old age, but of drowning in a hot tub.

Care to take a guess where that hot tub sat before it was torn down?

Outside. In the yard. Near the woods. A storage shed now stands in its place. I never saw the shadow person at that storage shed, though.

Years later, my wife and I lived in the basement of that house - a product of the bad economy and me needing a kidney transplant. My wife would recall a man's face looking at her through the window late at night, after I'd fallen asleep. Where? From the direction of the storage shed.

Months after we moved out, I received a call from the house's security alarm company. Something had tripped the motion detector in the hallway outside my old room. No one was supposed to be home, which is why I got the call. The police conducted a search and found nothing.

In the dead of night, I drove to the house and investigated for myself. I replayed the memory of that door opening. Something told me there was a connection. I found nothing. No signs of forced entry. Not a single other alarm tripped. Whatever happened took place only in that hallway.

Are these events all a product of imagination and coincidence? I'll never know for sure. Ever since my brother died in the home we lived in many years prior, I've felt connected in some ways to "the other side." Perhaps this deceased owner recognized that and wanted to contact me. I have no idea.

It's tempting to interpret your latter years through the lens of the paranormal if you believe something supernatural happened in your younger years. I may be fooling myself.

Or maybe that doubt is fooling me. Sleepwalking is still a mysterious phenomenon. Perhaps my state of mind let me meet this shadow person on its own plane of existence. One where it's damned to a perpetual walking sleep in those woods. I wonder if this shadow person thinks it was all a dream, too.

But I won't explore it any further.

Ever since that night, I never sleepwalked again.

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Benjamin Sobieck is the author of the crime novel Cleansing Eden. His website is CrimeFictionBook.com.

Audio: Law Enforcement Officer Stakes Out Haunted Crime Scene

In this segment from the podcast, "Jim Harold's Campfire," a law enforcement officer stakes out a haunted crime scene. It's spooky, and I had to share it here. "Ned" tells his story at the 8:08 mark.

"Author Takes Ride in Police Car (In a Good Way)" - Jennifer Chase

One of the most exciting and rewarding experiences that I’ve had as a crime fiction writer was the opportunity to participate in a police ride-along.  I have observed patrol, K9, and detective investigative duties for various police agencies throughout the state of California.

For those of you that aren’t familiar with a police ride-along, it’s a program through city and county law enforcement agencies that allow adult citizens to accompany and observe police officers out on patrol.

The main purpose of a Ride-Along Program is to improve police and public relations by familiarizing citizens with the complex and unpredictable nature of police work. It can also be a great introduction to daily life on the police force and it will enlighten most participants on local crime activity. Most people who participate in the program are generally interested in becoming a law enforcement officer, concerned local citizens, students, and of course writers. It you have viewed the popular television show “Cops”, it’s quite similar to that in regard to the type of calls police handle on a daily basis.  

I feel that this program is important to help bridge the gap between citizens and the police. It helps to dispel the typical stereotypes that are sometimes taken as fact. I can honestly say it was a great experience for me. I felt very honored to be able talk and ride with some of our finest. My appreciation goes out to these men and women of law enforcement.  They do a great job.

I just have a few important points that I want to convey if you do decide to go on a police ride-along. It will ensure the best possible experience for you.

1. Be professional and reserved.

2. Wear appropriate clothing.

3. Be respectful of your host police officer and your surrounding situations.

4. Take plenty of notes.

5. Bring a bottle of water and some type of energy bar just in case.

6. Be observant, relax, and have a great time!

The police ride-along has been an invaluable tool for me in my writing experience. It has helped me to give realism to my novels by being able to observe police procedures, listen to actual radio codes and experience all types of calls for service.

If you’re interested in participating in a Ride-Along Program contact your local police agency and find out the details.  Every police department varies slightly on the requirements, procedures, days available, and length of ride.

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Jennifer Chase holds a bachelor degree in police forensics and a master's degree in criminology. In addition, she holds certifications in serial crime and criminal profiling. She is also a member of the International Association of Forensic Criminologists. She has authored three thriller novels: "Compulsion," "Dead Game" and "Silent Partner."

In addition, she currently assists clients in publishing, ghostwriting, book reviews, blogs, articles, screenwriting, copywriting, editing and research. Her website is http://www.authorjenniferchase.com.

Submissions Sought

Happy Friday the 13th, everyone!

Just putting the word out that "Fingerprints" is on the hunt for submissions. I've received some the past few weeks that didn't work out for one reason or another. Figured I'd put the word out so it doesn't get dusty around here.

I also figured it'd be tough to find a regular stream of submissions (especially in this specific niche), but that's OK. You can't make up non-fiction.

So if you're looking to submit, click here to check out the guidelines.

Thanks!

-Ben

Photo: A Crime Story Told in Needle and Ink

"Authorities relied on a chest tattoo that depicted the murder scene to apprehend and convict a California gang member for a deadly shooting.

"[Anthony] Garcia's tattoo captured the night of the shooting, from the Christmas lights outside the liquor store to the bent light post in the store's parking lot to the convalescent home called the Rivera, next door to the liquor store. The scene shows a chopper spraying bullets on a victim. Garcia's gang nickname is 'Chopper.'"

(Source)

(Photo source)

"What's the Difference? True Crime vs. Crime Flash Non-Fiction" - Benjamin Sobieck

Friday is normally the day for new stories, but seeing as there's a break between submissions (it is Easter weekend), I figured I'd throw in some food for thought.

I've received tremendous feedback after starting "Fingerprints." Readers love the stories and concept. There are plenty of great flash non-fiction 'zines out there, but none focused exclusively on crime.

Hence the term "crime flash non-fiction." But aren't they really "true crime" stories? That's something readers wanted to know.

Although all the stories here are true and about crime, they're not "true crime." They're "crime flash non-fiction." The difference is how each handles the narrative.

The true crime genre chronicles events from a journalistic perspective. The crime event happened, then someone researched and memorialized it in various media. The narrative component is there, but it's secondary to the journalistic component.

The opposite is true with crime flash non-fiction. The narrative component comes first. Because of this, it's much more personal, and written from the perspective of someone who experienced the crime event. The journalistic component is secondary.

That allows crime flash non-fiction more room for creativity and catharsis.  The titles can get funky ("Trap Zombie"), serious allegations can take a light-hearted bent ("Public Enemy Number One") and the criminal events don't have to be earth-shattering ("The Heart of Saturday Afternoon").

That's the difference. The story matters. The ability to tell it in an engaging way matters. The way it affected the storyteller matters.

With true crime, facts matter. The who, what, where, when and how take the front seat.

Don't get me wrong, I love true crime. It's just not quite what "Fingerprints" is about.

Be well and have a Happy Easter!

"The Heart Of Saturday Afternoon" - Paul D. Brazill

Back in the Seventies, Sir Elton John apparently considered Saturday night to be "alright for fighting" - and I bet you those platform shoes could give you a good kicking too - but what the hell did he do on a Saturday afternoon? Maybe Elton, like me, spent most of the time wandering around a grey and nondescript shopping centre with a couple of other waifs and strays?

There were usually three of us: me, Theso (David Theasby) and Norman (Kevin Norman). Theso had a face so acne scarred that it looked like a chewed up toffee apple. Norman had a big barrel chest and long arms that reminded me of the character Monk from the Doc Savage books. Other odd sorts hung around - such as my nephews Kevin, Wayne and Lee - but we were the hardcore!

The usual walk centred around record shops - including Boots The Chemist! - and would segue into a trip to Woolworth's "pick n mix" sweet section, which we called "nick" and mix. Shoplifting from department stores, in fact, was one of the main activities. Did anyone actually ever BUY a Pan Book Of Horror Stories? The only one ever to get caught was Theso, who was taken to court for stealing a packet of jelly.

The shops, though, were full of the mercenary eyes of staff and busybody customers. The Laughing Gnome was a super-short Asda shelf stacker who never laughed. Mr. Barba also worked at Asda and had earned his nickname because, the moment you walked through the shop door, he would stutter "Ba-ba-ba basket over there."

Our nemesis - Dr. Doom to our Fantastic, er, Three - was a beige-suited Woolworth's under-manager with a Freddie Mercury 'stash who, the moment he saw us, would escort us straight back out of the shop. At some point we found out that he was called Mr. Whiffen, which of course earned him the nickname Cuddy Wiffer - local slang for left-handed.

The Battle Of Britain of our war with Cuddy was when we found his extension number and got my six year old nephew to phone and call him a c***.

Halcyon days, of course.


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Spinetingler Award nominee Paul D. Brazill was born in Hartlepool, England - yes, the place where they hung the monkey. He is currently on the lam in Bydgoszcz, Poland. 

He started writing short stories at the end of 2008. Since then, his stuff has appeared in loads of classy print and electronic magazines and anthologies, such as A Twist Of Noir, Beat To A Pulp, Crime Factory, Dark Valentine, Needle, Powder Burn Flash, Thrillers, Killers n Chillers, and Radgepacket Volumes Four and Five. He writes an irregular column for Pulp Metal Magazine and he even has a story included in the 2011 Mammoth Book Of Best British Crime. So it looks like he's getting away with something, eh?

His blog, You Would Say That, Wouldn't You? is here: http://pdbrazill.blogspot.com/