"The Bag" - Leroy B. Vaughn

The rookie could feel his stomach turn sour, as the watch commander called his name. This would be the second week in a row that he had been assigned to ride with the old guy, and he was hoping to get a new training officer for this week.

He had already spent one week riding with the old harness bull, and he couldn't wait until his probationary period was over. The rookie knew that he would be treated like this, until he paid his dues, which usually took about two years as a cop.

For six nights now, the new guy had walked out of the briefing room and picked up a shotgun at the armory, while Earl had gone to his old Pontiac to remove a big canvas bag from the trunk of the dented car and place the bag in the trunk of the San Jose police cruiser.

No one ever asked him what was in the bag. Earl never bothered to volunteer any information about the contents of the bag to anyone.

They left the yard, headed to their beat, and the old guy said, "You know what I like best about riding alone."

The new guy knew better, but he fell for it and asked what.

Earl passed gas and stated, "You don't have to share your farts with anyone."

It was the 1970s, and San Jose, California, was not one of those cool, laid back bay area towns that the hippies had come out west to hang out in.

San Jose was a gritty, working-class city with a high crime rate. Besides the bay area working stiffs, San Jose had street gangs, outlaw motorcycle gangs and Black Panthers - to name a few of the trouble makers in the city.

Besides those denizens, "now we got this disco shit," Earl told the new guy as they watched a group of men and women in outlandish suits and dresses. They walked in front of the patrol car, at a stop light.

Contrary to the popular song of the 1960s, no one appeared to want to know the way to San Jose, except for its residents.

The rookie pretended to be interested as Earl mumbled on about his time in the Marines, during the Korean War, and about all the
Chi-Coms he had sent to the promised land during the battle at the Chosin Reservoir.

The old harness bull was in good shape for a man of his age, the rookie had to admit to himself. He just needed to shave off the white, dictator-style mustache that he had worn since being promoted to Lance Corporal at the end of the war.

Before they left the station, the watch commander had advised Earl and the new guy to be careful. There was a lot of Black Panther activity in their beat.

The harness bull was telling the new guy about a problem that he was having with his live-in girlfriend. He always referred to this woman as his aunt when talking about her with the other cops.

The rookie pretended again to be interested when he heard something make a zinging sound. It ripped across the roof of the squad car.

"What the hell," Earl said as he heard a second shot. He looked towards the second story of a rundown apartment building.

"Sons of bitches are shooting at us," the old timer said to the new guy as he slammed the cruiser to the curb, jumped out and crouched behind the rear passenger fender.

The rookie started to pull the shotgun from its rack, but Earl yelled, "Leave it, they're outta range." The rookie did not understand why they didn't drive out of the ambush, but he did not waste any time joining the old timer behind the rear fender. They both knew that one of the safest places in a car to be during a firefight was behind a wheel.

"Looks like two guys with hand guns," the old timer said. "Call it in."

There were no hand held radios at that time. The rookie carefully pulled the mike out through the open passenger door and called the station for back-up.

"OK," Earl told the new guy, "Cover me when I say go. Lay down some fire power while I get the bag."

"The bag," the rookie said to himself as he popped up to get a quick glance at the window. The two Black Panthers unleashed a lethal dose of fire at the squad car when they saw the rookie's hat pop up.

The harness bull slapped the rookies hat off before making his move. He gave the signal and the rookie placed six shots into the window, trying to give Earl enough time to get to the trunk and open it. The rookie was amazed. Earl had taken the keys to the car with him, before bailing out.

Earl was back, next to the rookie in no time flat, as the Panthers sent another deadly fusillade into the side of the patrol car.

The rookie had reloaded and was returning fire when he heard the thumping sound of a heavy-caliber automatic weapon. The harness bull knew how to handle the weapon. The rookie never took his eyes off the window until both Panthers went down.

The watch commander rolled to the scene, code three with two squad cars behind him. Under his command, four officers crossed the street and approached the apartment where the shooting had come from.

The rookie was reloading for the second time when the watch commander put his hand on his shoulder and said, "It's all right, Johnson, why don't you hand me your weapon."

Johnson was confused, but the old timer told him that it was OK. The old timer knew that it was standard procedure to take officers' weapons after an officer-involved-shooting. He also handed his weapon over to the watch commander.

"Holy shit, Earl, is this a B.A.R.? the watch commander asked as he accepted the Browning Automatic Rifle from the harness bull.

"Sure is," the old timer replied. "I lugged this baby all the way across North Korea. It's what you might call a war souvenir."

"Well, Earl," the watch commander said. "There's two dead suspects upstairs, and the good news is that you have enough time with the department to retire."

"I'd like to have my B.A.R. back," Earl said as the watch commander carried it to his police vehicle.

"After the coroners inquest Earl," the watch commander replied.

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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 from Wikipedia

Interview with Les Edgerton, Author/Ex-Con

Les Edgerton's The Bitch is one of the most arresting crime novels I've read this year (no pun intended). It chronicles ex-con Jake Bishop's attempts to avoid "The Bitch," a slang term for "habitual criminal." It's similar to the Three Strike Rule. Jake already has two strikes when a prison buddy calls him up for one last job.

The yarn itself was compelling on its own, but I suspected I was reading a story-within-a-story. Author Edgerton served time in the same prison as his Jake character. His colorful past is already well-known in the crime fiction world, but I still wanted to pick his brain. How much of the story was true?

Fortunately, the author was more than happy to do an interview. Here it is, unedited and unfiltered. Just 100% pure Edgerton. Read the whole thing. His real-world answers could put fiction to shame.

P.S. Click here to buy The Bitch on Amazon. It's available at all other fine e-retailers, too.

* * *

BEN: It's impossible not to compare the lead character in The Bitch, Jake Bishop, to yourself. You both did time in Indiana's Pendleton Correctional Facility, for example. Was The Bitch catharic to write?

LES: First, a small correction. When I was in prison, it was “Pendleton Reformatory.” Only, it wasn’t a “reformatory,” but one of the two Indiana maximum prisons, the other one being Michigan City. The only difference between them was that cons 30 and younger were sent to Pendleton and cons older than 30 went to Michigan City.

The “correctional facility” is a recent name change and nowadays they have a juvie facility in addition to the main prison. While I was there, then-President Johnson conducted a national study and concluded that Pendleton was “the single worst prison in the U.S.”

And, it was. There were eight riots during my stay, not including the one I walked in on when first sent up.

As to your question, Ben, writing it wasn’t much in the way of a catharsis at all. For a couple of reasons.

One, I’ve written about my experiences there in many of my previous novels and short stories, and so the “catharsis” value has pretty much been exhausted by now.

And, two, I’ve never lost a lot of sleep over my experience there. I was a criminal and going to prison is just part of the deal of being “in the life.” That “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the time” is pretty much the way it is. Just a part of the job description. Criminals are pretty good at compartmentalizing things and when you’re in the joint, you’re in the “zone” and not outside, on the bricks in your mind, and when you’re out on the bricks, you don’t waste a lot of time thinking about the joint.

I see a new breed of criminal today on TV where these guys are crying when they get caught. What kind of punk cries?

BEN: One of the themes throughout The Bitch was having to make a bad choice in the pursuit of something better. For example, kill Person X to save Person Y, yet create a new problem with Person Z. It's almost like the game is rigged. Does this reflect your view of the world, that we're doomed to a certain fate no matter what we choose?

LES: Ah! So you’re asking me if I have a Calvinistic view of life—that predestination thingy!

Well, on Monday’s I think that, and on Tuesdays I don’t. On Wednesdays, I don’t care.

To be honest, on most days I don’t care. I have a different vision of morality and God and all that. Most days, I fit the definition of a nihilist quite accurately. Expediency is what gets me through life.

For instance, I don’t perform criminal activities any longer and it’s not because I had some kind of “come to Jesus” moment or some kind of epiphany. I’ve just weighed the pros and cons of performing a criminal act and since I’ve been there (inside the walls), I have a clear idea of what that’s like and so far I haven’t come across a crime whose possible rewards outweigh the possible penalties.

If I ever do, I’m pretty sure I’m off that good citizen dais and out there doing the crime. But, it’ll have to be the perfect crime with an enormous upside. At my age, to go back to the joint is a certain death sentence and I’m not quite ready for that. Incarceration really is a good deterrent once you’ve experienced it.

BEN: On that same note, Jake is sucked back into the world of crime despite trying to get as far from it as possible. Is this a fear you were exorcising through Jake's character?

LES: Not really, but I can understand Jake completely. He’s the guy I could be if I had a moral view of the universe. Except, he’s really kidding himself that he’s a moral person.

In the end, he’s as nihilistic as I am. Not trying to come across as some kind of “badass” hardened criminal type, but I really don’t feel like I have a lot of fears. I’ve done time, been homeless, been shot at, been stabbed, had just about everything you can imagine thrown at me and can never remember feeling anything at the time than the same thing—that what was happening was interesting and would make great material for my fiction.

Detached is the best way to describe my feelings at any of those times. I’ve always thought “what’s the worst that can happen” in any situation I’ve been in, and never has that “worst thing” been all that bad.

It’s the feeling I had when I was in a shootout with what I thought were cops in a grade school and it’s the feeling I had when my call girl girlfriend Cat had stabbed one of my other girlfriends and was trying to eviscerate me. “What’s the worst that can happen here?”

In those cases (and others) the worst was death, and hey… nobody gets out of life alive, so what’s the fuss all about? It’s going to happen to all of us (death) and if you worry about it, it seems to me that you’re kind of… what’s the word?... oh, yeah… stupid. It’s going to happen at some time, so when it does what’s awakened is a feeling of avid curiosity. What’s it going to be like?

BEN: "The Bitch" refers to the slang term for "habitual" criminal, which others refer to as the "Three Strike Rule." Wind up in prison three times, and you're "out" for life. Advocates of these laws say they deter crime. Yet in your novel, it seems to encourage it. Jake will do anything - no matter how extreme - to avoid a third term in Pendleton. Which side of this issue do you fall on?

LES: These “law and order” types—politicians and the media, especially—don’t have a clue what deters crime. Or, rather, I suspect they do, but their agenda isn’t to keep people out of prison. It’s to gain votes for pols (for being seen as “tough on crime") and for viewers and readers (in the case of media.). It’s sexy and it’s popular to appear to exhibit the attitude of “lock ‘em up and throw away the key.” The things they do don’t deter crime in the least.

Here’s what deters crime. Barber school. (I’m using this as an example.) When I was in Pendleton, I had a much higher degree of education than most—I’d graduated high school and spent four years in the Navy and was a radioman and cryptographer. The average educational level of my fellow inmates was about third grade. When most of these guys got out—and most do get out, which straights don’t seem to realize will happen—they have no skills to gain any kind of meaningful employment. Which means, they’ll be on the street again, with no way to gain money for a meal, for a place to crash, for any of that. So, they’ll end up doing what they know how to do. Stick up a 7-11, sell drugs, break into a place.

Well, Pendleton at that time operated under the philosophy of rehabilitation. They actually meant it. The barber school was the best “lick” in the place and inmates fought over getting in. The reason was, the training was the best in the country and as a result barber shop and hairstyle salons were waiting in line to hire us. On the bricks, a guy in a civilian barber school got to cut maybe 1-2 heads of hair a day. He went to school for seven months. In Pendleton, we cut 12-14 heads a day. For at least two years and often a lot longer. When we were released, we were just far, far better at cutting hair than anyone else. Our services were valued and highly. I had to field offers of employment from literally hundreds of places. Guys from civilian barber and beauty schools couldn’t buy a job. They took our leavings, basically.

The result was, about 82% of us stayed on the bricks. We made serious money and got married. Bought homes, joined the Rotary, had kids and coached Little League. Why? Because we had excellent jobs. I was making $500 a week in 1968, which was great money in those days and it went up from there. Legitimately.

And, as great as the barber school was, it was virtually the only program in Pendleton that had this kind of success rate. The reason was we learned a very marketable skill. The second-best lick was the machine shop. Theoretically, guys could learn to be machinists and go out and secure a good job. The problem was, the machinery they learned on was outdated by at least 50 years and so the inmate who’d gone through that program wasn’t much better off than the guy who worked in the laundry or in the chow hall. The barber school program was a huge success and showed what was possible. Very few guys who went through the barber school came back.

But then… civilian barber students started protesting that all the good jobs were going to ex-cons and support for the program went away… Lock ‘em up and throw away the key…

The thing is, nothing the “authorities” do these days deters crime. I can’t think of a single thing. Warehousing criminals is the worst thing to ever happen for a lot of reasons space doesn’t allow me to go into here. What’s needed is a realistic look at criminals and prisons and the wrong-minded approach pervasive in corrections today, but that’s a pipe dream. Too many people making a lot of money off crime and I’m not referring to the criminals.

BEN: "Prison rape" is often the punchline in a joke. The Bitch takes a different approach and details the long-term psychological damage of rapes behind bars. The survivors might be prisoners, but they're still human beings. Is that a point you were trying to make?

LES: First of all, “prison rape” doesn’t go on nearly as much as straights think it does. It’s actually fairly rare. If one were to believe movies, books, and comedians, one would think it’s all that goes on in the joint. And, it doesn’t.

In fact, in my two+ years inside, among over 2,000 inmates, I was aware of maybe 5-10 such instances. There were more going on, I’m aware, but those were all I was aware of. This is one of the biggest myths perpetuated. It’s not a sexual thing—it’s a power thing and most often between blacks and whites. Whites don’t rape blacks as a rule, but blacks will often try to rape whites. In their minds, shows they’re in control.

I got hit on twice in two years. The first was in jail, not prison, so only one time in prison. And, that came about after I got my parole and made the mistake of talking about it. (You don’t tell anyone as there are lots of guys who can’t stand it that someone’s getting out and they’re not and they try their best to fuck up a guy’s parole.) A black guy got in my barber’s chair (a no-no—blacks don’t sit in white barber’s chairs and vice versa, unless one of them’s a punk), and told me he was going to make me his kid.

I’d made up my mind what I was going to do if that ever happened and I did exactly that. Grabbed my straight edge and went after him, trying to cut his throat. Chased him all over the barber school and then Jonesy, a black hack, caught me, ran me into the office, locked the door, and took the black inmate over to his dorm. Jonesy could have written me up—and he should have—but he didn’t, which saved my life as I would have lost my parole and I knew if I had to do the whole five years of my bit, I’d have to kill the dude who fronted me and once I did that, I’d be in there the rest of my life. So, Jonesy saved my life, in my opinion.

The guys who get hit on are guys who are all alone. In Pendleton, that meant guys from small towns who weren’t career criminals before and didn’t know anyone. I was from South Bend and had been pulling jobs for years and knew everybody from South Bend and so had all kinds of buddies who had my back as I had theirs. A good example of what happens is one day a new kid came onto our tier from a small town—Tipton—and he seemed like an all-right guy, albeit naïve, and I kind of took him under my wing. Well, a black dude started romancing him (although the kid didn’t realize what he was doing)—giving him cookies, cigarettes and all that.

I warned the kid that he needed to get away from this guy, but he was convinced the black guy was just trying to be friendly. He was. A week later, he’d turned the kid out. Big-time. Not just for himself, but he put the kid on the block. First thing he did was get a ball-peen hammer and knock out all the kid’s front teeth. (Better for blow jobs.) A week after I’d tried to warn him off, the kid was roaming the aisles on movie day, giving blow jobs to other inmates for cigarettes and green, turning them over to his new “friend.” Sad, but he was too ignorant to know when help was offered him.

But, that’s where most rapes come from. It’s just not a common deal at all. It wasn’t something most of us even think about or worry about at all. Seems to happen a lot in movies and in novels written by writers who don’t have a clue.

All that said, I’ve got rape in THE BITCH, don’t I! But, both took place in jail, not prison. One is far more likely to be raped in jail than in prison for several reasons. One, many guys in jail haven’t done time so all they know is from books and movies. So, they try to imitate what they think goes on, especially black guys. Not trying to come across as a racist, but it is what it is.

Second, and more important, guys in jail are hours or mere days away from being under the influence of drugs and that makes you do things and act in ways you wouldn’t when sober. Third, often guys in jail haven’t made the alliances they will in prison and so are more at risk. Jail and prison are vastly different animals.

Your original question was if I was trying to show that survivors or prison rape were still human beings. Well, not consciously. I simply assume they are (still human beings). I think a lot of straights think all criminals are rapists, child-molesters, serial killers and the like. The fact is, the vast majority of convicts are involved in crimes of property more than in crimes of person. Far more guys inside for burglarizing bars and gas stations, for stealing cars, for sticking up 7-11’s, for check-kiting, for assault on the wife who they walked in on as they were banging their best friends, than are in there for the crimes commonly portrayed on TV.

So, yeah; I think most of the guys inside are still human beings. Books, TV and movies are all engaged in sensationalizing prisons and are a long way off from any accurate portrayal. That series on MSNBC is typical bullshit—if a person believed that show, they’d think most inmates are pumping iron all day long or are total nut jobs. Totally unrealistic show, but if they showed the boredom that prison truly is, ratings would plunge.

BEN: You're candid about your colorful past, even writing about it in your bio on your website. Why? As you point out in The Bitch, people can react negatively to finding out one is an ex-con.

LES: For years, I did just that—kept my past secret. Then, I got tired of listening to people who usually had it all wrong. The truth is, most criminals are pretty much like your average citizen. Not that many hang out in strip clubs, have tatts, use drugs and drink like there was no tomorrow. Not that many have killed someone. Not that many have raped or been raped in the joint.

If you took the population of the average prison and set these folks down in the food court of your average mall and dressed them “normally” I doubt if anyone looking at them or listening to them would ever think they were any different than anyone else who might be in the mall. In fact, the average citizen probably talks to an excon every week and doesn’t have a clue. At one time, for instance, I could walk into just about any barbershop in Indiana and almost always someone cutting hair there would be someone I knew from Pendleton. The average lame who came in for their haircut didn’t have a clue. Well, we’re out there in your neighborhood.

Some of us are working in fast food, some are selling insurance, some are working on your car, some are taking your dry cleaning and handing you the pickup ticket, some are managing movie theaters… you name it, ex-cons are doing the same jobs and living the same lives as anyone else. Remember, I was a college prof (still am), was in college and elected student body president, worked as a reporter for The South Bend Tribune, sold Prudential life insurance, worked as a headhunter for an executive recruiting firm—in short, did a whole bunch of jobs that, if you believed bad novels, bad movies, and bad TV wouldn’t be the case. But it is. We’re (ex-cons) are in every segment of life on the bricks and doing virtually any job you can think of.

BEN: Let's wrap up with a lighter question. What would be on the Les Edgerton sandwich?

LES: A tunafish sandwich made with the recipe of this place I used to go to in Bermuda. I’ve never tasted anything like it since. And, I don’t even like tunafish much, but this sandwich was awesome. Second choice, would be fried oysters.

Thanks for having me on, Ben. This was fun!

"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.

-30-


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)