 
Delayed Justice.

By

Marvin K. Perkins

Smashwords Edition

Published by Marvin K. Perkins on Smashwords

Delayed Justice

Copyright 2012 by Marvin K. Perkins

PROLOGUE

Near Bon Son, Vietnam, summer 1969, a Huey helicopter pounded the air over rice patties where Vietnamese women and children worked. Their straw hats blew in the wind as the bird lumbered overhead. A man plowing a new row behind his oxen looked up apathetically. It was a sight he was used to seeing. He continued with his plowing, not knowing that this bird was different. On this hell-bound bird, the Grim Reaper himself rode as passenger.

As the giant machine settled down in a hot landing zone, machine gun and small arms fire peppered it from every direction. 2nd Lt. Frank Desio and his men hastily scattered in standard Marine Corps fashion. After the last man was clear the bird began to rise thrumming like mad thunder. The tropical air shattered with a loud explosion. Just forward of the rotors, artillery fragments tore a ragged opening in the chopper's hull. The bird spun, rotors whining and straining, in an effort to rise. Smoke belching out of the starboard engine, it staggered up and disappeared over a green hill leaving only a writhing trail of foul black smoke across the blue skies of Vietnam.

The marines returned fire and scrambled into the bush outgunned. The thick jungle underbrush whipped them furiously, as they narrowly escaped a barrage of enemy fire in their retreat. Bullets whistled by their heads, mortar rounds exploded blowing up large chunks of earth as the Marines literally ran for their lives.

After a painstaking hour of evasion the platoon finally managed to maneuver themselves far enough into the lush green jungle as to be clear of the murderous barrage. The sky that had been clear all day suddenly darkened and out of nowhere started to piss huge sheets of tropical rain all over the Marines. They pulled their helmets down and their collars up to shield themselves against the unexpected inclement weather.

"Looks like we gave those fuckers the slip," Frank said to his platoon sergeant Roy Harris. "Those bastards had us zeroed in there for a minute."

"You ain't shitting LT. I thought we was goners for sure a couple of times," Harris said pulling his own helmet down tighter.

"Time to get to work. We ain't out here for our fucking health. According to intel there's some scattered villages out here somewhere giving aid to the VC. We gonna find those fuckers and when we do, there's gonna be hell to pay. Get these assholes ready to go."

"Roger that LT. All right third platoon. Mount up. Time to go to work. Let's go."T

The jungle swallowed them up leaving them virtually invisible as they stealthily combed the area inch by inch in search of the enemy villages. Hidden in the bush somewhere was a safe haven for the Viet Cong. Miles of endless green virtually drugged them into doldrums. They were hypnotized as their search continued to what end and when they did not know. And then it happened

A pungent odor suffocated the air with a stench that proceeded a horror even these battled hardened troops had never seen or imagined in their worst nightmare. Birds circled above as the platoon came up on a group of large wooden stakes stuck in the ground. They all stopped frozen in their tracks and peered up at the horror.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," private Harris exclaimed, bending over tossing his guts on the ground.

"Those mother fuckers," Frank said not able to say anything else.

There was silence, even reverence, as they tried their best to process the horrific scene they witnessed. Five soldiers were impaled on huge wooden stakes, their balls stuffed in their mouths. Their bodies were partially devoured presumably by wild animals, entrails hung out from their broken bloodied bodies.

"God what a stench. Those poor mother fuckers. Son of a bitch. Somebody's gonna pay for this, I shit you not. Get 'em down! Get 'em down right fucking now. Mother fuckers. Sarg get some men together and give these soldiers a decent burial. Jesus Christ," Frank yelled and stormed off to be alone for a few minutes.

The soldiers properly buried, Frank ordered the Marines to move out again and continue their sweep of the area.

They came across the village around mid-afternoon. It wasn't really even a village but just a few shacks with two dusty roads intersecting at an old well in the middle. The occupants of this little speck of earth weren't aware that hell was heading their way in the form of a platoon of pissed off, tired, dirty, vengeful marines.

Lt. Desio and his radio operator, Fred Sanders, watched the activity down in the village along with the platoon sergeant and corpsman. They were at a vantage point above where they could see the entire little village. A man was struggling with a big wooden cart filled with straw. This in itself was not unusual but they watched the man a little longer. Damn if he didn't stop the old cart in front of one of shacks. Another man came out of the shack and they pulled a big wooden crate out of the cart and took it in the shack.

"Holy shit", Frank exclaimed. "Did you see that? These fuckers are up to something." He turned to his radioman, Fred Sanders, and said, "Radio our position and tell HQ, we're going to go down to the village and take a look,"He held up his hand and made a fist. "All right, let's move out."

They entered the village with their M-16s at the ready. A pen of pigs squealed loudly as they walked by, a lady was drawing a bucket of water from the old well. When she saw the marines, she dropped her bucket and ran, disappearing into one of the old shacks. She peeked out of a dusty window, yelling to someone inside the shack.

The marines rousted the villagers out of their shacks and herded them into the middle of the dusty road by the old well. They pushed them around, taunting them and even knocking a few to the ground that didn't want to cooperate. They hated even the sight of these zipper heads, burning, deep down murderous hatred. Anger had began to grow, the seed had taken root. With each passing minute the tension escalated, like a ship's line taking heavy strain in a storm, waiting to snap.

They searched the shacks one by one for contraband. When they got to the one where the men had carried the box, they found what they were looking for.

"Looky here, looky here, what I found," Frank said excitedly. He had opened up the crate and found a whole stash of AK-47s. In another box was grenades and yet others were stashes of rice large enough to feed a whole regiment of VC. That meant that a whole butt load of the enemy was nearby, waiting to kill unsuspecting Americans. Frank had to find out where they were camped. It didn't matter what he had to do, he was going to find out . And then payback was going to be a mother fucker, as they say.

First he needed to find out who was in charge. He shot one of pigs and grabbed a little girl by her hair and put his service revolver to her head. "All right, who's in charge? We know you're VC. If you don't come forward, I'm going to start capping mother fuckers, starting with this little girl." Frank wasn't going to kill anybody, he just wanted to bluff the honcho into coming forward.

His ploy worked and before he knew it a man in his thirties, hard as leather, and thin as a rail jumped out of the group. "No kill, no kill, I'm honcho. We not VC."

Frank not at all happy with his answer said, "Bullshit, you're VC. If you ain't, who's all the weapons and rice for? You better tell me or I'm gonna put you in a hurt locker, I bullshit you not."

The honcho still stuck to his story. "We not VC. No VC."

Frank was really getting pissed off now. "Bring that asshole over here." A couple of his men dragged the headman over. He spit in Frank's face, which was not the right thing to do.Frank banged the man in the head with the butt of his rifle, the blood squirted out and the man fell to the ground. Frank yelled at his men, "Get that mother fucker up. Bring him over here and tie him up on this old fence ." His men did as he requested. Frank asked one more time, "I know you're VC, where's your buddies at?

The honcho was still defiant and refused to talk. "We not VC, no VC. Go, and leave us in peace, Yankee dogs. No VC, no VC."

Frank pulled up his blade and stuck it up near the man's eye."I'll cut that mother fucker out, if you don't start talking." He pretended to stick it in his eye but instead cut a big chunk out of the man's face, blood poured down, the man yelped loudly. "I can do this all day, you better get to talking. I'm gonna cut your balls off next. Where is the VC regiment camped?"Fuck you," said the headman,"I not scared to die."He struggled with the ropes that were restraining him. He spit at Frank again.

Frank grabbed the headman's right hand and tied it securely to the old fence rail. "Tell you what I'm going to do. I'm gonna start with this little finger and I'm going to start cutting. When I run out of fingers on this hand I'm going to start on the other one. Then I'm gonna start on them balls, the left one first. Now do you feel like talking ?"

The honcho just shook his head, so Frank began cutting off his fingers, first the little one then the ring finger. Blood squirted everywhere and the man yelled in pain. He again asked the man, "Got something to say." No answer. The man was struggling to free himself from his torment but he was tied too securely. Frank was just about to cut off a third finger.

Little did Frank know that a storm had been brewing while his attentions had been diverted. Several of the marines were getting pissed off and frustrated by the way the whole thing was going. Corporal Willie Reynolds, said to another marine standing in a group next to him, "I bet if we start capping some of these dinks they'll get to talking then."

One of the other marines answered, "You damn right, let's do it."

And just like that it began. It was like something out of a surreal dream, happening in slow motion. The marines opened fire on the villagers who were standing in the street. They tried to run as the shots rang out, but they could not escape their fate. In a few seconds ten or a dozen lay dead in the dusty street. Smoke filled the air and blood ran like water, screams and cries suddenly permeated the silence.

It took a few seconds for Frank, who was busy at his work, to realize what was happening. He was momentarily stunned into inaction by his disbelief at the scene he witnessed. He came to his senses in moments and lowered his M-16 that was on his shoulder. He yelled, "Cease firing, ceasing firing!" But the marines could not hear him over the birage of gunfire. So he did the only thing he could do, he starting firing, on his own men.

Before it was over five of his marines lay dead on the street, intermingled with the Vietnamese villagers. Frank yelled at the marines still standing, "Drop your weapons, drop 'em. Hands in the air." The murderous marines complied, dropped their weapons, and held their hands in the air, dazed as if waking up from a bad dream.

About then the platoon sergeant, Roy Harris, showed up, looking like he'd been out for a stroll. Frank snarled, "Where the hell have you been? You didn't do anything. What the fuck Sarge? "

Truth was he had seen the whole thing go down and and just stood and watched, secretly wanting it to happen."Police the weapons, and help me keep an eye on these fuckers." Harris complied and together they gathered the weapons and formed the surviving participants into ranks so they could keep an eye on them.

The scene was something out of a nightmare, bloody bodies lay everywhere. The smoke and dust was just beginning to clear. Frank stood awestruck surveying the damage in disbelief and horror. He felt like he might puke, a knot as big as a basketball had formed in his stomach. He had seen many horrors in this terrible war, but nothing that even remotely compared to this.

He began to shake uncontrollably and fell to the ground on one knee and prayed to the good Lord to give him strength to deal with the consequences of what had just happened. A thousand things ran through his mind. What was the right thing to do? How were they going to explain this to their superiors? What would the rest of his life be like? What the hell was he going to do? He was the man in charge, it was all up to him.

He called his corpsman, Bill Riley over and told him, "You and Sarge tag and bag our dead. Sarge I want the platoon in formation in five minutes over by the old well. Move it!"

Five minutes later, Frank paced back in forth in front of what was left of his marines,still trying to decide what course of action to take and what to say. He spoke slow, calm and clear. "This whole thing never happened. We were on routine patrol when we ran across this village. We met heavy resistance from a platoon of VC and we took five casualties in a major fire fight. In the course of the battle several villagers were killed. We took the VC prisoners and blew in place the weapons, ammo, and rice we discovered in the village. We will never speak of this day to anyone. Sarg, blow all contraband in place and take all the men prisoner. We move out in five minutes, let's move people."

And that's what happened on that day in 1969, in Vietnam, in that war far away. That was the story Frank and his men would tell. They never spoke of that day to no one.

CHAPTER ONE

BAD DREAMS

It was one of those beautiful winter mornings in San Diego. The type of day that made everybody else in the world wish they lived in "America's Finest City." The people in the rest of the country dealing with snow, frozen rain and bitter cold, could only envy the beautiful southern California weather and hope spring would be coming soon.

Frank Desio had lived in San Diego ever since his discharge from the corps, some twenty five years earlier. He loved his life, his wife Maria, and his daughter Brianna. He loved the sunshine and the beaches and the pretty California ladies. Oh yes, he loved the ladies. He was where he wanted to be and by all rights should have been extremely happy. But reliving his past in the form of terrible nightmares stood in his way.

The bad dreams had started shortly after he returned from Vietnam. He didn't think much of them at first, just something else he had to live with. Frank was a tough combat hardened Marine Corps veteran and no little dream, no matter how horrific was going to get him down. So he just ignored the dreams, assuming they would eventually go away.

Dark menacing figures continued to torment his sleep, he heard the distant sound of gunfire, followed by red blood flowing like a river over dead, mangled corpses. He would scream and wake up in a pool of sweat, gasping for air. They were so vivid and real, they scared the hell out of him.

Along with the horrific nightmares were headaches, so bad he often had to lie down in a dark room in an attempt to get them to go away. He heard voices and screams, his life was hell. He wanted to blow his brains out some days just to make them stop. He had contemplated suicide on several occasions, but he just couldn't put his family through the pain to relieve his own suffering.

Frank and his wife Maria had one daughter, Brianna, who was a junior at UCLA. She was home for the holidays and Frank was enjoying having his daughter there and wanted to spend as much quality time with her as he could. She was the light of his life, daddy's little girl. Seeing her sitting on the couch with Maria reminded him of when she was a child, it seemed like only yesterday, but it was years ago. She had grown up so fast and became a beautiful young lady and needless to say Frank was extremely proud of her.

Maria and Brianna had suffered right along with Frank, having many times through the years been awoken by the sound of his screams in the night. But only Frank, and Frank alone could defeat the demons that had tormented him night and day for all these years. He had never told them the truth about that day in Vietnam, but always said that something terrible had happened and he'd rather not talk about it.

It was a Sunday morning and Frank was sleeping in, as he so often did. Maria was up already and was washing some clothes and making breakfast. Frank was tossing and turning, as if in the midst of a fight with an imaginary foe. He yelled, "No, no! Get away, get away!"

He dreamed he was back in the jungles of Vietnam, in that helicopter that took him to where it all happened. The overhead fan in his bedroom turned into the helicopter blade, whirling round and round, the room began to spin. When it stopped he was in a clearing, M-16 in his hand. He could see unknown figures in the shadows that began to move towards him. As they came closer he recognized them as the bloody corpses of his men and the Vietnamese villagers. They came closer and closer, dragging their rotted bodies slowly towards him. He could smell the horrible stench of death, it burned his nostrils. They began to moan, like a cold howling wind, "You killed us, why did you kill us?" They rose up in the air and flew with increasing speed towards Frank.

Frank discharged his weapon over and over again, but the apparitions would not stop. They flew over him and his body melted and blew away with the spirits like dust. He spun around and around out of control, his body in millions of microscopic pieces.

As usual he woke up screaming. Maria and Brianna came running to see if he was all right. Frank had jumped out of the bed and was standing in the middle of the floor shaking uncontrollably.

Maria grabbed Frank and shook him. "Frank, Frank, are you all right? Frank, honey are you okay?" Brianna just stood at the door in horror. It hurt seeing her dad that way, but there was nothing she could do. They grabbed Frank and hugged him until he came to his senses.

Finally able to speak , Frank yelled in a terror filled voice, "They came for me, and took me away. I can't escape, I can't run from them. I can't hide. The demons, they want me, they're going to devour me. Don't let them take me. Don't let them..." Frank collapsed on the floor. Maria and Brianna helped him back to bed.

He woke up an hour later, managing to get a little sleep, feeling much better but was still badly shaken from the nightmare.

Dragging himself into the shower, Frank let the water run over him for a long while. The hot water turned to cold and he began to shiver. He somehow had hoped that the water would wash away all his pain and troubles, but of course that didn't happen. He did feel refreshed. He toweled off and put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

He could smell the coffee brewing, suddenly very hungry, he made his way down to the kitchen. Brianna had already left to go play tennis with her friends, Maria was sitting at the breakfast bar drinking a cup of coffee. "Coffee, dear?"

Smiling a very weak smile, Frank replied, "Yes, God yes, I'd love some." He sat down at one of the other stools at the breakfast bar. Maria handed him a cup and they sat in silence drinking coffee for a few minutes.

Maria was the first one to break the silence . "Frank, are you taking your meds? 'Cause it doesn't seem like your are. You need to take your meds." She gave Frank a rather harsh look.

Frank took a sip from his cup of coffee, shook his head. "No, not like I should. I don't like the way they make me feel, Maria. I can't concentrate." He gave Maria a look hoping to receive sympathy.

"You've got to take them, Frank," Maria said angrily. " We're getting tired of this shit. All of your nightmares and the yelling. You scared the hell out of Brianna this morning. We can't go on like this. Take your damn meds, Frank."

"Okay, you're right. I need to take my meds," Frank relented. " I've got to get better. These nightmares are killing me. I had a real bad one this morning. I can't go on like this Maria, I'm afraid my head is going to explode. I think I'll give Bill a call, maybe he can see me today."

Maria agreed, "Sounds like a good idea, Frank. But in the meantime, please take your meds."

Frank called his psychiatrist, his old buddy and former navy corpsman Bill Riley, to set up an appointment. Bill pitched a fit, said he had planned to play eighteen holes that day, after all it was Sunday, but finally agreed to see Frank around noon.

CHAPTER II

THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN

Five years prior Frank had started calling his little band of seven survivors the "Magnificent Seven". They were meeting once a week to help each other keep their sanity. Frank thought it was an apt name for a group of ex-marines who were guarding a secret from the rest of the world. A secret that if divulged would threaten their very way of life, as well as their freedom. Needless to say the secret was one each member of the group would kill and sacrifice his life to protect.

As far as they could tell they were the only seven still alive. Five had been killed that day, several were killed in other battles or were MIA and some died of natural causes through the years, while some died under somewhat mysterious circumstances.

Frank Desio was their fearless leader, a successful real estate agent in San Diego, the rock the group had leaned on for strength during the tough years. He had always been the glue that kept the "seven" together, but of late Frank had been having problems which concerned some of the group members. He was having his nightmares again and wasn't taking his meds, and was again talking about going to the authorities.

Roy Harris, was Frank's staff sergeant, and second in command . He had been a career marine and retired in 1977, shortly after the war ended, taking a job at NASSCO working as a ship builder. He had a wife, Emma and a son Roy Jr. Roy was also a strong member of the group, one tough jarhead, that nobody in the group would mess with. He and Frank were best buddies. They were always over to each other's houses, barbequing and talking to all hours of the night. It was also rumored that Roy was starting to have those feelings that they should confess to what had happened that day in Vietnam. He felt he couldn't carry the burden much further and was in dire need of laying it down.

Roy also had another problem that was of great concern to the group. He was a gambler. He gambled on everything from the horses, to cards, to sporting events. The problem with Roy's gambling was he usually lost. Rumor was he was into a few loan sharks around town for a substantial sum of money, and they were getting impatient.

Bill Riley, the Navy corpsman, had went to medical school after leaving the service and became a psychiatrist. Of course all the rest of the group members were his patients. They confided in him and he was the one they talked to about things they didn't share with the rest of the group. He was married for a few years but was divorced. He loved the ladies and living the California life style. Bill particularly loved expensive clothes and cars and most of all money.

Rick Sanchez was just a private, but was one of the marines that killed several of the Vietnamese villagers that horrible day. He carried a heavy burden, probably the heaviest except for Frank. He had gone to college at UCSD and studied accounting and was a well respected CPA in Chula Vista. He had a wife Connie and three sons. He was a deeply religious man and had received absolution many times for his actions that day, praying often for forgiveness. However, he still was not willing to go along with Frank and Roy's idea of telling the truth about that day to the authorities. He felt he had suffered enough, what good would it do.

Willie Reynolds, corporal, was one of Frank's squad leaders. He was the one whose comment had basically started the mailay on that day in 1969. He as well carried a big part of the burden. He too was a deeply religious man. After leaving the Marine Corps in 1980 as a staff sergeant, he became a born again Christian and a minister for a small church in Logan Heights. He had a wife, Dianne, and two daughters. He had got down on his knees everyday for years and prayed for forgiveness for his role in the massacre. He also felt the group had suffered enough and did not want to go to NCIS.

Fred Sanders was Frank's radio operator and good friend then and through the years. He had left the corps shortly after the war ended and went to school at UCLA, majoring in business and finance. He moved to San Diego in the early eighties and opened a barbeque restaurant. He had expanded his business through the years and owned six in various southern California locations. He had a wife, Rosie, and a boy and two girls. He had much to lose if their truth came to light.

Steve Rollins was also a private in Frank's platoon and was one of the shooters. He had left the corps after the war and bummed around for a few years getting heavily into drugs and alcohol, eventually ending up in prison. He had sold drugs and robbed banks to feed his drug habit. He got clean and sober with the help of the group. He did odd jobs to make ends meet and never married or had any children.

So this was the "Magnificent Seven", a hell of a name to live up to. There were many times through the years when various members wanted to come forward and tell the truth. But as Frank had said that day, they would never speak of the events that transpired with no one, a statement Frank himself should well remember. That meant even their wives and children. This was very difficult but necessary. They had to take their secret to the grave. It was the only way. Many of the marines had already taken it there.

I guess at this point they were the "Magnificent Six". One of the seven had already lost his life not even three months prior. Even though his company said it was an accident the group was not totally convinced. They had become increasingly paranoid, some of the group had even said they thought someone had been following them. They agreed it was probably just their imagination, but it made them feel uneasy nonetheless.

CHAPTER THREE

ROY HARRIS

Three months earlier Roy Harris, a welder by trade, entered the gates of NASSCO and made his way to his locker to change into his work clothes. It was a sunny morning in October, Roy looked up in the skies and smiled. "It's gonna be all right man," Roy said under his breath hoping no one heard. "Junior will be okay, don't worry. I hope to God he brings Emma's car back in one piece or I'm gonna kill that boy. Won't take his meds. What the hell

Roy's best friend Freeman Wade, came up behind Roy who was still ranting to himself and slapped him on the back. "Who the hell you talking to Roy. You done lost your rabbit ass mind?"

"It's that son of mine, Freeman. Damn fool ran off with Emma's car this morning. He's off his meds again. No telling what he might do," Roy said shaking his head almost in tears.

Freeman, trying to console Roy patted him on his shoulder and said compassionately, "It's gonna be okay. God looks out for fools and people who won't take their meds. He won't let anything happen him."

"I hope you're right," Roy said feeling a little bit better. "We better get to work or the boss man's gonna have our ass."

"Yeah, you right Roy. Holler at you later."

Roy threaded his way through the shipyard as massive cranes thundered by hoisting pieces of a ship into place where welders like Roy flashed arcs of blinding light, putting the vessel together like a giant jigsaw puzzle.

Finally making it to his work station, Roy finished putting on his gear and gathered up the tools he needed to complete the task at hand. He began his climb up the scaffold, his old arthritic knees creaked as he ascended to the top. "I'm getting too old for this shit," Roy said laughing to himself as he climbed. Step by step he labored up the scaffold feeling like he was climbing a mountain.

He thought briefly about Roy Jr. as he was making his ascent. He had always tried to do right by him, but things just kept going wrong. Roy hoped Jr. was okay and hadn't hurt himself or anyone else. Hopefully he hadn't got arrested or into a fight at some bar. All of these things occupied Roy's mind. "Keep your mind on the job Roy. I ain't trying to fall," he cautioned himself as he approached the pinnacle of his climb.

Roy got almost to the top of the scaffold when suddenly it dawned on him, "Damn, I forgot my welding goggles. Shit, are you kidding me. I left them in my tool box. Get your mind on the job, Roy."

Making it back down to the ground and to his locker he retrieved the goggles and headed back to get to work. He again began his ascent. He said to himself, "Can, I finally get some work now. Pull your head out of your ass, Roy." He reached the top and started to work. It was just another day, other than the worry about Jr.

Roy did his work and finished up for the day, jumped on the blue line heading south and got off at the 24th street station. He walked down the street, grabbed a couple of "In and Out" burgers and headed for the house.

His wife Emma was waiting for him in tears and hysterical. Roy knew before he asked it must be something about Roy Jr., and it must be bad news. He braced himself, but the news was worst than he could have even imagined.

Emma blurted out, "You won't believe what that son of yours has done now."

Roy said in a comforting tone, "Just calm down, Emma. Tell me what has happened."

Emma continued, "You know he ran off in my car this morning. Well I got a call from Paradise Valley hospital a little while ago. Junior's in the hospital. He had an accident, totaled the car, and damn near killed the people in the other car and himself. They said he was driving eighty miles an hour on the wrong side of the street. My God, what are we going to do with him Roy?"

Roy sat down on the couch and shook his head, "I don't know Emma, I really don't know."

Emma still in tears said, "Well we've got to do something. Why don't you talk to your old Marine buddy, the shrink, and see if he can help us out."

Roy reluctantly replied, "Yeah, I guess I could ask, but I'm not sure if he would help us or not. I should have asked him a long time ago. I was just ashamed, and hoped Junior would get better on his own. I guess it's time. There's nothing else we can do."

"All he can say is yes or no." Emma said with a dejected look on her face.

Roy did call Bill Riley and he said he would see Jr. for old times sake, as soon as he got out of the hospital.

They went to bed that night deeply troubled about their son, but optimistic that Bill could help him and ease the burden they had carried for years.

Roy got a good night's sleep for a change and woke up the next morning at five ready to face the day. Emma was already up making Roy's breakfast and packing his lunch box. "Good morning Emma. Sleep well?" He sat down at the kitchen table and took a sip from a cup of coffee that was waiting for him.

Emma said cheerfully, "Yes, I did. It's going to be a beautiful day. I think everything is going to be all right with Junior. That's what I'm praying for. I had a call from the hospital a little while ago, they said Junior was going to be all right. Those poor folks he hit are going to be fine as well."

This took a big load off of Roy's mind. He could go to work that day with a clear head and keep his mind on his work. Roy finished his breakfast , said goodbye to Emma, and headed out the door to the trolley station.

He entered the NASSCO lot, showed his security badge and made his way to the lockers to change clothes. He felt much better and more optimistic this morning. Maybe things would actually get better, he certainly hoped so. His boss came by and reminded Roy, "Don't forget about the safety meeting at ten o'clock."

Roy said, "I'll be there with bells on boss. You know me. I'm all about safety."

Be careful this morning Roy. The wind's kind of high and it might rain."

"Roger that. Will do."

Roy grabbed up his gear and as he headed to the ship a huge super crane rolled by sounding it's extremely loud danger alarm. He watched as the crane lifted a huge section of the ship's super structure into place, a forklift drove by with a load of scrap metal, yard workers walked by heading for various job locations, talking about last night's events and the news of the day. A smile came across Roy's face, suddenly realizing how much he loved his job.

He was finally at his work spot for the day and started the same climb that he had made the day before, He had all his gear and his mind was clear. The wind had died down and the sun was peeping through the partly cloudy skies. A good omen, Roy thought. He felt good about his life and his future. Everything was going to work out with his son. He began to sing an old Temptations song, "My Girl" as he continued his ascent up the scaffold.

Reaching the top, Roy walked out on the platform, like he did every day. He felt it immediately start to give away and in an instant he was falling, he grabbed for a rail but missed, hitting the pavement below in a matter of seconds. His mangled, twisted body lay in a pool of blood.

His co-workers rushed to the scene but there was nothing they could do. Roy was dead. He left his wife Emma, his son Junior, and the remainder of the "Magnificent Seven" to mourn his loss.

After a thorough investgation the safety people at NASSCO ruled that Roy's death was an accident. He was laid to rest at Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery with full military honors.

CHAPTER FOUR

DR. BILL RILEY

Dr. Bill Riley's office, located in a swank medical highrise building in downtown San Diego, oozed class and big money. A majestic structure, it towered over and overshadowed the much smaller and less affluent buildings that surrounded it. The streets were almost empty that morning except for a few cars and a few bums pushing shopping carts. A pair of hookers stumbled down the street, looking like they had a rough night tricking and were finally and thankfully heading for home. The homeless took to their blankets in various doorways and settled in for a couple of hours of needed sleep. It was a cloudy day and a slight mist could be felt in the air.

Bill puttered around his office waiting for Frank to arrive, sipping a bourbon and coke and ranting to himself. "That bastard better have a good reason for dragging me away from my golf game today. Bet he's not taking his fucking meds again. Him and his dreams. He better keep his big mouth shut. I'd hate to have to shut it for him permanently."

A knock at Bill's door interrupted his dissertation. "Come on in Frank.

Frank lumbered in, hair uncombed, clothes dirty and wrinkled, he lay down on Bill's lush leather office couch not even bothering to remove his long since white, dirty tennis shoes.

Bill visually pissed said, "Frank, I know how much you like my couch. Could you at least take your fucking shoes off, for Christ's sake?"

Frank apologized, "Oh, sorry Bill." He sat up, took off his shoes, and lay back down

Bill started it off by saying, "Okay, Frank. Tell me what's so important that you had to drag me down to my office on a Sunday. First off are you taking your meds?"

Frank stammered, "No, no, not like I should Bill. The damn things make me so groggy, I can't concentrate."

Bill yelled, "You've got to stay on your meds Frank. We went over this before. That's why you're having these nightmares."

Frank screamed back at Bill, now sitting up on the couch, "I can't take it anymore. We've got to go to the authorities, it's the only way. We've got to tell the truth. I can't live like this anymore Bill!"

Bill said trying to calm Frank, "We've been over this a thousand times. You did what you had to do. You don't have any reason to feel guilty."

"I know, I know," said Frank laying back down on the couch. "But still I feel guilty. I had a hell of a bad dream this morning."

"Tell me about your dream," Bill said taking out a notebook.

Frank told his story. "I was on the helo heading towards the LZ. It flew through a hazy darkness and spun round and r ound. When it stopped I found myself in a clearing, my M-16 at the ready. I noticed shadowy figures in the distance that started to come towards me. As they grew near I could see that they were the rotted, bloody corpses of the men and women that had died. As they came closer they started to fly. I fired my weapon over and over, but still they came. They swept over me and I was obliterated, turned into a million pieces and I blew away in the wind."

Bill sat and nodded his head , writing on his notepad. "Go on."

Frank was now up and pacing the room. "The demons took me away. They came for me. Nothing is going to stop them. I've got to rid myself of this burden. I can't take it anymore, Bill."

Bill looked up from his notepad and said in the most comforting voice he could manage, "Frank, now you know what you said that day. We would never talk about this to anyone. We all have too much to lose Frank. You've got to get a grip man. And for God's sake please take your meds."

Frank sat back down a little calmer.

Bill pulled a prescription pad out of his desk drawer and wrote Frank a new script. "I'm prescribing you another medication. It's a little stronger. But promise me you'll stay on your medication."

Frank reluctantly said, "Okay, okay, Bill, I promise. I've got to get better."

Frank left Bill's office somewhat relieved and with his prescription for the new medication. He had a new determination to get better, but in the back of his mind he still felt telling the truth was the only thing that was going to save him from the demons.

After he was gone Bill got on the telephone, called all the members and arranged for an emergency meeting of the group at a downtown watering hole.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE MEETING

Around nine that same night the group huddled in the back corner of "Dick's" restaurant and bar. As they took their seats all eyes were on Bill. In attendance was Rick Sanchez, Willie Reynolds, Fred Sanders and Steve Rollins. They noticed Frank was conspicuously missing. and since Frank was their leader, the whole meeting immediately took on a suspicious tone.

Willie Reynolds started the conversation. "What the hell is this meeting all about Bill? And where is Frank?"

Fred Sanders echoed his question, "Yeah, where the hell is Frank?"

Bill held up his hand and replied, "I'm going to get to all that in a minute."

They ordered drinks and food all around, after they were settled in Bill started. "I know Frank is our friend and founder, but I'm starting to have doubts about him. He was on my couch today and I'm telling you, he's going to cave. He's convinced the only way he can rid himself of the demons in his head is to tell the truth. We've got too much to lose. We've got to do something about him."

Rick Sanchez said excitedly, You're the one whose supposed to be keeping a handle on him Bill. After all you are his shrink."

Steve Rollins asked curiously, "What do you mean, do something about him. What can we do?"

Bill replied dryly, "I don't know about you guys, but I'm too damn old to be doing CHL in Leavenworth behind this shit."

The consensus of the group was Bill was right. But they couldn't see harming Frank in any way. He was too good a friend even if he was living on shaky ground.

Fred Sanders weighed in, "You could have him committed. If he were in the nuthouse, then nobody would believe his story. The shit happened over twenty five years ago."

Bill brought everyone back to reality. "It was still murder. It was a war crime for Christ sake. We can still go down for it. I'm not going out like that, I don't know about you guys. Besides, Maria would never agree to have Frank committed."

Everyone agreed something needed to be done, but what was the big question. They adjourned the meeting without making a decision.

CHAPTER SIX

FRANK AND JENNIFER

Frank had left Bill's office around two in the afternoon with a emptiness and a need for compassion. He had been secretly seeing Jennifer Kingsley, a secretary that worked in his office for another one of the brokers, Sam Knight. He gave his good friend and co-worker a call. "Hey Sam, what's up?" Frank asked, not really caring but trying to be polite. "I need a big favor this afternoon. You know what I'm talking about."

"Frank, dude. I'm really getting tired of arranging your rendezvous' with Jennifer. You're way out of line on this thing. You know her husband Buster is one psycho son of a bitch. You better leave that girl alone, Frank." Sam pleaded but Frank didn't want to hear it.

"Come on Sam. I need to see her this afternoon. Help me out here."

"All right, but I'm really getting tired of this shit."

Jennifer managed to slip away and met Frank at the Travel Lodge in Chula Vista. As they lay in each other's arms, she said she needed to talk to him about something important. Frank kissed her again and ran his hand between her thighs. "More important than this?" Frank said in his sexiest voice.

"This is important, Frank, " Jennifer said almost peeved.

"Okay, I'm all ears," Frank said rolling over on his side, propping himself up on his right arm.

"Buster's starting to get suspicious. It's getting harder and harder to get away. I think we're going to have to cool it for a while, baby," Jennifer said.

Frank answered, "We'll figure out a way Jen, we always have. Fuck Buster. I'm not afraid of your piece of shit husband. I'm an ex-marine. I've been through shit you couldn't even imagine. Buster needs to worry about me."

Jennifer reminded Frank, "Buster is a badass mother fucker Frank. I'm telling you, he's dangerous. You don't even want him pissed off at you. We've just got to cool it. Just for a little while, baby."

Frank relented, "All right, I guess you're right. But for how long?"

Jennifer replied, "Not for long. We'll see.

They made love one last time, not knowing how long it might be until they would see each other again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

MARIA

Waiting frantically for Frank to come home that night, and upset he hadn't showed up after his appointment with Bill, Maria had called Bill's office. "Bill, is Frank still there?"

"No, he left hours ago. Something wrong?" Bill inquired trying to act concerned.

"He never came home. I was just wondering where he was, that's all."

She paced the floor knowing in her heart Frank was with another woman. "That bastard's with some slut, I just know it. Why do I put up with his shit? I'm going to kill him if I find out he's cheating again."

Maria took a gallon of butter pecan ice cream out of the freezer and began to devour its contents. Nothing soothed her nerves like gorging herself on a frozen sweet treat. It didn't take long until she was staring at the bottom of an empty carton, thinking about starting on another one, when she heard Frank's key in the door. She looked at the kitchen clock, it was 8.

The innocent look on his face really set off her rage and she was on him as soon as he walked in the door. "Where the hell have you been, Frank? I called Bill's office, he said you left at two. What's her name? I know you've been with some bitch." She threw the empty ice cream container at him, she missed, it rolled on the floor with a hollow sound.

Frank pushed her back and said in his defense, "Hold on, hold on, Maria. I stopped by the office to do some work. I'm sorry, I should have called."

Maria yelled, "That's bullshit Frank. How long do I have to go on putting up with this shit?"

Frank said almost pleading, "You've got to believe me. I was at the office, I swear. After all these years and you still don't trust me."

Maria said sobbing, "You better not be lying. If I find out you're cheating again, I don't know what I might do." Maria dashed out of the living room and went in the bedroom, shutting the door with a loud slam.

Frank grabbed his car keys and headed out of the front door, jumped in his car, pulled out of his driveway with a screech and drove away.

Maria, pissed as hell, called her friend Susan Mize, not able to bear the burden of the drama with Frank on her own shoulders. She'd been there before many times, but that still didn't make it any easier. She cussed to herself as she waited for Susan to pick up the phone. "Hello, Susan," she said holding back the tears. "Maria," Susan replied somewhat surprised, "are you okay?"

Proceeding to tell her what had happened between her and Frank, she described him as the biggest bastard that had ever walked the face of the earth. She said things that should have never been said. The bad thing was she meant every word. "I should kill that bastard. He's worth more dead than he is alive anyway."

Susan tried her best to console Maria and to calm her down, but it just didn't happen.. "Now Maria, you're just upset, you don't mean all those things. Frank isn't that bad now. He can be a prick sometimes but good husbands are hard to come by."

Maria insisted she wanted him dead.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Buster

Buster Kingsley, Jennifer's husband, a once handsome man whose rugged good looks had been eroded by years of alcohol and drug abuse, sat on an old dirty worn couch, smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, and throwing the empties on the floor. He was wearing the same old dirty shorts and Charger's t-shirt he had worn the day before when he sat on the couch doing the same thing. "Where is this bitch, I'm hungry as hell. No account whore, I don't even know why I married that cunt," Buster slurred as he drained the contents of another beer and added it to the pile already on the floor

Jennifer slowly turned her key in the lock and entered the apartment expecting the worst. The stench of stale beer and putrid cigarette smoke almost knocked her down as she came in and tried to ease across the room without altercation.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Buster inquired not really waiting for a reply. "Fix, me something to eat, bitch." He said, pulling up his shirt and rubbing his stomach. "I'm hungry as hell."

"Get the hell off of me, Buster," she snapped. "I just walked in the fucking door." She tried to get to the table to put down her purse and keys but Buster wasn't having it.

"I said where the fuck have you been?" Buster asked again. He shoved Jennifer and pinned her up against the door. He blocked her path momentarily but finally let her pass.

"I told you my mom is sick, I've been taking care of her," Jennifer answered. "Smells like you already drank your dinner. Besides, you've been here all day not doing shit, fix your own dinner."

"You know you're right, I've already had dinner," Buster said rubbing his crotch. "But now I want some dessert." He tried to kiss Jennifer but she pulled away.

"Give me a break. You probably couldn't even get it up you pathetic limp dick fuck. I don't know what the hell I ever wanted with a loser like you," Jennifer said up in Buster's face.

He pushed her back. "You been fucking somebody haven't you? If I find out who it is, he's a dead man. I told you before, if I can't have you, nobody's gonna have you."

Jennifer pushed by him and went into the bathroom and slammed the door.

CHAPTER NINE

Frank

Frank eventually returned home Sunday night after he cooled down, Jennifer was asleep, so Frank slept downstairs on the couch. He knew she was really pissed this time. "Screw her," he thought, "she'll get over it, she always does."

Monday morning arrived all too soon and Frank had to go to the office. He really needed a shower so he crept into his bedroom. Maria was still asleep, thank God. He took a quick one, shaved, put on a clean shirt, and grabbed a suit and tie out of the closet. Maria was still dead to the world. Frank gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. After all he did still love her and always would. True he was a bastard, who couldn't leave the ladies alone, but he always came home to her.

Maria stirred a little, turned over, but remained asleep. Frank snatched his car keys off the dresser and headed for the door.

Frank eased into his late model Mercedes, cranked up the engine, and pulled out of his drive. A retro rock station blared an old tune from the Vietnam War era, hurling him instantly back to those days. A flashback blinded him, he swerved and almost hit an oncoming car. He pulled to the side of the road, sweating like he had just came from a workout at the gym, gasped for air, face white as a sheet.

He sat there for a few minutes trying to catch his breath. The weight of the whole world pressed down on him and for a moment Frank thought he was losing his mind entirely. He spoke to himself hoarsely, "Get a grip, Frank. You've got to get a grip. It's gonna be all right, just stay on your meds." Frank said it, but deep down he didn't believe it, not for a minute.

Feeling better, he pulled back out in traffic and continued his sojourn to his office. It was going to be a good day, it would all work out, Frank had to believe that or he couldn't go on. He pulled into the parking garage and into his assigned parking space.

As he walked into the office his ole buddy Sam Knight had already started the weekly sales meeting. Frank grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk, waiting for his turn to speak. Things were going well, sales were booming and the franchise's listings were growing by leaps and bounds.

Jennifer came out of the back office to make some copies, Frank noticed that she had cuts and bruises on her face. He stared at her intensely, but couldn't say anything. Their relationship was a secret at the office, only Sam knew, or so Frank thought. "That bastard," Frank said to himself. "I should kick that Buster's ass, see how he likes it." His mind was a million miles away when Sam finished up and it was Frank's turn to speak.

"Frank. Frank!" Sam said in an attempt to get his attention. "Frank!!"

Finally coming back to reality from his daydream he mumbled, "Sorry, Sam."

Frank made a rousing talk about how great everyone was doing and how proud he was of all of them. After a few minutes the meeting broke up. Frank couldn't really concentrate, he had to talk to Jennifer to find out what had happened

Peeking in the back office Frank motioned at Jennifer giving her the signal he wanted to talk to her. She knew where to meet him, a coffee shop around the corner, a place they always met to talk away from prying ears and eyes.

They sat in a booth way back in the corner and spoke in hushed tones. Frank was pissed as hell, but tried hard to maintain his composure. The thought of that bastard Buster touching Jennifer, using her beautiful face as a punching bag, was almost more than Frank could bare. "He's going to kill you, Jennifer. You've got to leave him. I can't stand seeing you like this, " Frank spoke angrily, but quietly.

"Now, now Frank, calm down. I can take it. Don't go and do anything crazy. You don't know him. He'll kill me if I try to leave him. He'll kill you too. You don't know him." Jennifer held Frank's hand as she spoke, tears in her blue eyes. "He knows I'm seeing someone. He might not know who, but he knows. We can't see each other for a while, Frank. You better watch yourself."

Frank calmed down a little, waved the waitress over to order them some coffee. "Okay, we'll cool it for a while, but you watch yourself. I love you Jennifer, but I can't leave Maria."

"I know Frank, " Jennifer conceited. She got up and walked out of the coffee shop, leaving Frank sitting, looking hurt, feeling hurt.

A few minutes later, Frank finished up his coffee, went to the cash register and paid his bill.

Frank waited at the intersection for the light to change so he could cross the busy street. His mind was miles away, thinking about Jennifer, Maria, and getting something to eat, he was hungry as hell. His stomach rumbled, needing to be satisfied with his favorite burger. He hummed to himself and watched a fine lady stroll by in a short skirt, walking an ugly dog. A man in a dirty trench coat bumped into him and walked on without saying a word. How rude, Frank thought and cussed at him under his breath

A car was parked down the street, the driver waited patiently for Frank to cross the intersection

The light turned and Frank started across the street.

Screeching out of the parking spot the car headed straight for Frank who was now in the middle of the intersection. The mass of metal smashed into his mortal frame, he careened in the air, and landed ten yards away from the intersection in a bloody, broken heap.

The driver left the scene tires squealing, smoke filled the air, then there was silence for a moment. That silence was broken by the screams of the other pedestrians, who narrowly missed the same fate as Frank.

A crowd of people materialized as out of nowhere and hovered over Frank, all wondering what in the hell had just happened, but not seeing a damn thing. They all stood transfixed, as in a trance, mouths gaping open, motionless.

Someone finally yelled, "Somebody call 911." Then a mighty roar came from the crowd, as if suddenly they had come back from the dead.

The ambulance finally showed up, siren blaring, tires screeching. The paramedics jumped out of the ambulance and ran to where Frank was laying lifeless in the street. They took his vital signs, secured him to a stretcher, and loaded him into the back. It left for the hospital, roaring down the street with Frank's life in their hands.

Pulling into the lot of Scripps Memorial Hospital almost on two wheels, the ambulance stopped on a dime, the paramedics bailed out like the vehicle was on fire. They opened up the back doors holding their precious cargo, by then the emergency room personnel were out in full force, working on Frank as they snatched his almost lifeless body out. The double doors of the emergency room flew open and they were in, racing down the passageway to a waiting OR.

Frank was still breathing, but just barely. He was fighting to hold on as the doctors all but threw him on the operating table and hooked him up. His pulse was faint, blood pressure almost non-existent. "Clear", a doctor yelled as he shocked Frank's heart. Flat line, non responsive. "Clear," the doctor called again. This time they got a pulse, a faint one but building, it slowly acquired speed and strength.

The murderer speeded down the street, thinking that their mission had been accomplished. They parked the rolling full metal jacket, got out, and disappeared unseen by anyone.

Meanwhile back at the scene of the crime the crowd was animated, everyone talking about what they saw or didn't see. Uniformed police were scouting the group looking for witnesses without much success.

Finally an old woman got the officers attention. "I seen the whole thing officer. I was crossing the street right behind that poor man when he got hit. Damn near hit me too."

The officer prompted the old woman for further information. "Did you see what the driver looked like?"

She thought for a second and replied, "No, I didn't see what they looked like, it all happened so fast. But I can tell you one thing. It didn't look like they even tried to stop, to me."

"Was it a man, a woman. What kind of car were they driving, ma'am?" The officer further inquired.

"It was an old car, green or blue, I'm not sure. But I don't know if it was a man or a woman to be honest with you," the old woman continued.

A young black man stepped up and said he saw what happened. " It happened like she said. An old green car came out of nowhere and ran that man down. They didn't even try to stop, like she said. Ran that man down on purpose it looked like to me. I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman either. Probably a man, but I can't be sure."

The officers thanked them after taking their statements. Really not much to go on they agreed. But it was clearly a hit and run, probably an attempted homicide or homicide if the poor man died

Blood stained the pavement where Frank had lay in horrible agony, his fate was in God's hands now.

CHAPTER TEN

Detectives John Carson and Chuck Brown

The consensus was the incident was attempted murder. No way it was an accident. The uniforms had kicked it over to homicide for investigation. Detectives John Carson and Chuck Brown caught the case.

Detective John Carson was a twenty year veteran who had worked hundreds of cases around the San Diego and L.A. area. He was one of the first black police officers in the seventies who made detective. It was quite an accomplishment back in those days. Carson as he preferred to be called had worked his way up to detective first grade and had even taken the sergeants exam a couple of times.

He wasn't exactly a stylish dresser, in fact he still sported some of the suits he wore when he first made detective. He had put on a few pounds over the years, just big boned, he always like to say. He kept a cigar dangling form his lips, sometimes lit, sometimes just hanging, for no particular reason. Carson just liked to chew on one, he said it relaxed him.

Charles Brown or Chuck as he liked to be called, was the antithesis of Carson, young, white, and well dressed. He was high tech savvy, unlike Carson who didn't even know how to turn a computer on, much less how to use one. Chuck had just made detective a couple of years earlier. He had an excellent record when he was in uniform and Carson really liked having him for his partner. Chuck had learned a lot working with Carson, lessons they can't teach you in school.

The two had worked together on a few high profile cases around town, the bond between the detectives was strong, in fact they felt proud to call each other a friend, as well as a partner.

That bright sunny San Diego day found the two standing at the intersection where Frank had been so callously run down, staring at the now blood crusted pavement. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, Chuck wore a pair of Ray Bans, Carson just squinted as they surveyed the scene.

"Chuck, looks like we got nothing here. No skid marks, just this shard of plastic, which could be from anybody's car," Carson opined.

"And the two witnesses the uniforms talked to couldn't even say if the driver was a man or a woman, " Chuck added.

"The only thing they agreed upon was it was an old car. That narrows it down to thousands of cars. Could be anybody." Carson further added, chewing on his cigar.

"But more than likely it was somebody who knew the victim and had a reason to kill him. A little thing called motive. It's the only thing we have to go on, Carson," Chuck conceded.

"No shit, there Sherlock," Carson said dryly, removing the cigar butt from his lips and spitting. "You came up with that brilliant conclusion all by yourself, did you?"

"I was just saying Carson, that it was probably someone the victim knew," Chuck said feeling a little embarrassed.

"In your expert opinion, derived from your many years as a homicide detective, where do you think we should start looking for this person the victim knew? The one who wanted to kill him," Carson said very sarcastically.

Chuck thought for a minute and finally said," I guess his wife would be a good place to start."

"Okay, the wife it is then Einstein," Carson said shaking his head. "Let's go, I'll drive.

Chuck reluctantly handed Carson the keys, looking disappointed and dejected.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Hospital

Frank had been moved out of the operating room to the ICU, after they finally got him stabilized. He was still critical but the doctors were confident that he was going to pull through. He was hooked up to a full gambit of machines; ventilator, cardiac monitor, intravenous lines and a feeding tube. His left leg was broken , it was elevated , he had a mask fitted snuggly over his face. He had multiple bruises and contusions. He was alive, just barely, and thanks to the miracle of modern medicine.

Maria was at his side, sobbing, head in her hands. All the anger she had felt for him just two days prior had vanished. She didn't know what she would do if she lost Frank, even if he was a bastard sometimes, she still loved him very much.

The monitors beeped, Maria pleaded, "Come on Frank, you can do it. Come back to us, Frank." But his eyes were still tightly closed, she took his hand and squeezed it tenderly. She looked up briefly when a nurse came in the room to check his vitals.

The nurse asked compassionately, "Why don't you go home and get some rest? There's nothing you can do here. We'll call if there's any change."

Maria didn't want to leave, she wanted to stay with her husband, maybe he would come to, she wanted to be there if he did. The nurse finished up and left Maria and Frank alone again. She squeezed his hand a little harder. She said a silent prayer and waited.

She must have dosed off, for the next thing she knew the nurse was shaking her. She had visitors in the waiting room, they needed to speak with her, they said it was important. The nurse said they were from the police, detectives she thought.

Carson and Chuck were waiting in the lobby of the ICU when Maria walked in, rubbing sleep from her eyes. They had a look on their faces like they had a thousand questions, and Maria had the answer to all of them. They stood as she entered the room and introduced themselves. She looked confused. She took a seat, they all did.

Carson started the ball rolling. "Ma'am we're sorry about your husband. Is he going to be all right?"

Maria, still groggy replied, " Yes, the doctors think he's going to live, but it's still touch and go right now. What's this all about detectives?"

"Well, ma'am, right now we don't have any leads. We were hoping you might have some idea who might want your husband dead," Chuck asked.

"You mean this wasn't an accident. My God, you're saying some one tried to kill Frank?

Carson continued, "It looks that way ma'am. Did Frank have any enemies, that you know of?"

Maria replied, "Heavens no, everybody loved my Frank. I can't think of anyone who would want to kill him."

She was giving all the right answers but still something didn't seem quite right so Chuck felt compelled to ask, "We hate to ask you this ma'am, just routine, where were you at eleven o'clock this morning?"

Maria replied angrily, "Excuse me, where was I? My husband lies in the ICU clinging to life and you have the balls to ask me where the fuck I was. You think I had something to do with it?"

Carson continued, "Just a question ma'am, where were you? We're just trying to rule you out as a suspect."

Maria said still angry, "I'm a suspect, are you fucking kidding me. If I wanted to kill that bastard, I would just strangle him with my bare hands or blow his brains out." Maria got up mad as hell. She was through talking. "We're done. If you have any more questions you can talk to my lawyer. Now get the hell out of here."

The detectives made their apologies and left her a card. They departed not knowing what to think about Maria Desio, but they were going to check her out

They left the hospital scratching their heads and walked out to their car.

Carson started. "That's one angry woman. It didn't seem that way at first, but then she just snapped. Sign of a woman scorned."

Chuck agreed. "She knows something. But what, is the question."

"I guess we'd best find out, Chuck," Carson said wryly.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Driver

The driver of the vehicle sat alone in a low budget motel. He looked at the telephone sitting on the old beat up nightstand. He peered out of a dirty curtain through an equally dirty window. No one had followed him, but he still had an uneasy feeling someone was watching.

He looked at the telephone again, wondering should he make the call. He was afraid to pick up the phone, not wanting to know the outcome of his horrendous deed. He would just sit there for a little while, what was the hurry.

Pulling a wad of bills out of his pant's pocket, he lay them on the nightstand. He thought to himself it was a small price for someone's life. Regret and sorrow overwhelmed him. In a moment of weakness he had agreed to do the deed. It seemed like he was possessed. He felt no real anger or hate towards his victim.

He pulled a bottle of pills out of his pocket, they meant more to him than his whole life. The hold they had on him was unexplainable, but undeniable. He held the bottle in his trembling hand for a moment then put it on the nightstand as well. He loved and hated the contents of the bottle, it enslaved him in a prison from which he could not escape.

Again he went to the window, that feeling that someone was watching him intensified. He began to sweat, even though the air condition was up full blast. He paced the small motel room like a caged animal. He thought he would explode.

The sound of a ringing telephone startled him and brought him suddenly back to reality. He just looked at it for a few seconds, too stunned to move. Finally he picked up the receiver.

"He's still alive," a voice said over the phone. " He's in the ICU at Scripps. You know what you have to do." The person on the phone hung up abruptly without another word.

The failed driver looked at the phone, not knowing what to say or do next. He put the phone back on the hook. He sat down on the bed, head in his hands.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A Sum Total of Nothing

Detectives Carson and Brown, huddled in their office, trying their best to make sense out of the little information they had. "We've got a sum total of nothing here, Chuck. A man lying near death in the hospital, two witnesses that didn't see anything but an old blue or green car, and an angry wife."

"The angry wife Mrs. Desio is the most logical place to start. Usually in these cases the anger comes from marital infidelity. Many a man or woman has been killed by their spouses because of this one issue," Chuck said as if he had a great revelation.

"God you're so brilliant, Chuck. Let me write that down," Carson said sarcastically.

"I'm just saying, a jealous wife is always a good suspect."

"Well, we already talked to that bitch, she ain't giving us Jack. She just lawyered up for Christ sake. In case you forgot."

"Think about it Carson. If she didn't have something to hide why would she get so pissed and start talking about getting a lawyer?"

Carson had to agree Chuck might be right. "Let's dump her phone and find out who this lady has been talking to."

The detectives noticed with great interest that she had made several calls to Dr. Bill Riley, especially in the days right before the attempt was made on her husbands life. In prior months there was a pattern of calls between the two as well. Very interesting.

Another thing the detectives found particularly intriguing . She had made several inquiries to the Prudential Insurance Company. It seemed that she had a "piece of the rock" on Mr. Desio worth a cool million dollars. The policy paid double in the event of accidental death. Sounded like a good motive for murder to the detectives.

She had the motive, but did she have the opportunity? Come to find out she was at the gym with a couple of friends when her husband was ran down. That's not to say she didn't pay someone else to do the deed. She had made a lot of phone calls to Riley. The detectives decided to put her as a suspect on the back burner. They would question her again later, but next they decided to go to Mr. Desio's place of business to see what kind of dirt they could dig up.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Real Estate Office

Chuck and Carson's next stop was Frank's real estate office. They felt sure they would fine some answers there. Somebody was going to give it up before they left the office that day.

The office crew looked at the detectives like they owed them money when they walked in the door. Everyone turned away and hid in back offices if they could, like they knew a storm was coming and they were seeking shelter.

Sitting behind her desk the secretary asked the detectives as they came in, "Good morning gentleman, may I help you?" She knew who they were and what they wanted, but she still asked the question.

Flashing their badges Carson replied, "Yes ma'am I'm Detective Carson and this is Detective Brown. We need to talk to everyone that works in this office about the attempted murder of Mr. Frank Desio. Since Mr. Desio is not here, who would be the next in charge?"

"That would be Mr. Knight, I'll call him.," answered the secretary. She gave him a call in his back office and in a few moments he appeared.

"I'm Sam Knight, what can I do for you gentleman?" Sam shook the detectives' hands as they introduced themselves and they went to his office to talk privately. Sam was a very personable man in his mid-forties with salt and pepper hair and expensive designer glasses. He wore a suit that probably cost more than the detectives made in a month. He had one of those business man's hand shakes, the kind politicians use when they're trying to get your vote, and a smile to match.

"I'm sure you are aware that Mr. Desio was ran over yesterday a few blocks from here. But you may not be aware of the fact that it has been determined it was no accident," Chuck informed Sam.

Sam replied somewhat shocked, "Oh my God, are you serious? I had no idea. How can I be of assistance to your investigation?" His tone of voice seemed a little less surprised than his words but not entirely disingenuous. He sat down in his chair and motioned for the detectives to have a seat.

"We need to speak to all the agents and the office staff individually. We know it is a big inconvenience, but it has to be done," Chuck explained. "If Mr. Desio had any enemies here, we need to hear about them."

Sam replied, but not very convincingly, "Frank didn't have any enemies here. Everybody loved Frank." Again his demeanor and body language betrayed his words.

Carson quickly answered, "Well he had one. The one that ran him down and maliciously tried to kill him. So somebody needs to start telling the truth. It is against the law to lie to the police and impede an ongoing investigation. So if you know something, you need to tell us now."

Sam lowered his head and finally conceded, "Okay, okay. It's going to come out sooner or later. Frank was having an affair with one of the secretaries here, Jennifer Kinsley. Her husband, Buster, is very jealous, and a bad ass psycho. I warned Frank he needed to leave her alone, but he wouldn't listen."

"We're looking for someone who drives an old model blue or green car," Chuck interjected. "Does this Jennifer's husband drive a car fitting the general description?"

"I really couldn't say," Sam said apologetically. "I don't know what kind of car he drives. Jennifer drives a late model Honda Accord."

Carson inquired, "Could we speak with Jennifer, Mr. Knight?"

Again apologizing, Sam replied, "I'm afraid she's off today, called in sick. I have her address though."

The detectives took her address and also called all the agents and office staff in one by one. No one drove an old blue or green car or had seen a car fitting that description hanging around the office.

No one knew about Frank's affair with Jennifer or they weren't talking. The consensus was he had no enemies and the thought of someone trying to kill him was unconscionable.

Carson and Chuck thanked Sam Knight and set off to pay Jennifer and her husband a visit.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Frank

Frank's eyes opened partially, slowly, then closed, flickering in the dim light of his ICU room. Maria was still standing vigil at his side, like a good soldier, the good loyal wife. She did not see his eyes open at first. Her eyes were closed as well, swollen from hours of remorseful tears. She couldn't believe, as she had sat there watching Frank cling to life, she had ever wanted him dead. She loved him so much, she could never be mad at him for long. The reality of her wishes was more horrible than she could have imagined.

He stirred and moaned, his eyes fluttered, then they opened with a start. He thought to himself through the fog. "Surely this is a scene out of one of my nightmares, not reality. Where the hell am I? How did I get here? Oh my God, am I really dead? All the tubes, the mask, the monitors and the sounds of beeping and the pain, are they real?" These are the thoughts that consumed him as he lay helpless in his bed.

Frank managed to say Maria's name in an audible but mask muffled tone. " Maria?" She awoke to see Frank back in the land of the living, tugging at his mask, trying to talk to her. "Where am I?" He mumbled, holding his oxygen mask away from his face.

"You're in the ICU at Scripps, baby. Don't try to talk. You were in a terrible accident," Maria said through tears of joy.

The doctor came in the room to check on Frank. He was very pleased to see Frank was awake. He took his flashlight and shined it in each one of Frank's eyes. He checked all the tubes and monitors, then wrote something on a chart he had in his hand.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Desio?" The doctor asked already knowing the answer. "Just try to get some rest. You're a lucky man, believe it or not."

"Like hell, Doc," Frank whispered. "What happened? I can't remember a thing."

"You were ran over as you crossed the street. You don't remember?" The doctor quizzed Frank. "The police say it was no accident."

"I don't remember. Am I going to be all right?" Frank asked.

"Your prognosis is good, you should make a full recovery. As I said, you were very lucky ," the doctor said encouragingly.

"You say it wasn't an accident? What the fuck, who would want to kill me?" Frank whispered, his head hurting like hell.

Maria just sat silent for a while and finally said, "I wouldn't worry about it Frank, the police will get to the bottom of it. You just get some rest."

A nurse gave Frank another shot for pain and soon he was sound asleep. Maria would stay with him through the night.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Jennifer and Buster

The Jennifer and Frank love connection was something that peaked the detectives interest. Her husband Buster was a seedy character and described as a "bad ass". He could have tried to run Frank down in a fit of rage. A jealous husband is always a good suspect. The detectives were about to find out. They would have to be discreet and not tip the lady's hand about the illicit love affair she was having. If the husband didn't know, it was probably better he didn't know, especially not from them.

They arrived at the residence around mid-afternoon. The Kingsleys lived in a ratty looking apartment complex, down a dead end road, in the bad part of Chula Vista. The kind of neighborhood where a bunch of scruffy children play in the streets and stray dogs set up residence. Old abandoned cars sat parked, along with lots of old clunkers that would soon be in an automotive grave yard. The apartment they were looking for was nestled behind overgrown grass and bushes in great need of trimming.

The detectives got out of their car feeling maybe they should keep their hands on their holstered weapons for protection against unknown enemies. They looked both ways and saw no immediate threats. They walked up the sidewalk, Carson almost tripping over a child's bicycle as they made their way to Jennifer and Buster's front door.

Apprehensively Chuck rang the front door, not knowing what to expect, or how exactly they should proceed. Their wait was short, they heard a man's voice yell from inside the apartment.

It was Buster, sounding drunk and mad as hell, "Who the fuck is knocking on my God damned door?"

"San Diego Police Detectives, sir," Chuck replied.

"What the hell do you want?" Buster said as he opened the door a crack.

Carson now getting a little pissed said, "We need to ask you a few questions. Now open the door."

Buster reluctantly opened the door, dressed in an old dirty San Diego Chargers t-shirt and a pair of equally dirty cutoffs. The air was putrid with the smell of stale beer, intermingled with cigarette smoke and sweat. Empty beer cans and trash were strewn all over the coffee table, spilling on a carpet long overdue for vacuuming.

"What's this all about officers? I ain't did shit but sit on this couch all day and drink beer. Last time I checked that wasn't against any laws. So what the hell do you want?" Buster asked, reeking beer breath that would kill a moose.

"Actually we're here to talk to your wife, Jennifer," Chuck explained.

"Why the fuck didn't you say so?" Buster slurred and yelled for Jennifer, "Jen,

Jennifer, you have company." He took his place back on the couch.

Jennifer heard the disturbance and came out of the bedroom, fresh out of the shower. The detectives were extremely surprised at her beauty, considering the slobbering piece of crap husband that slouched on the couch.

Still in disbelief Carson said, "Jennifer?"

"Yes, I'm Jennifer, how can I help you?" Jennifer asked, looking from one detective to the other.

Chuck explained, " I'm Detective Brown and this is Detective Carson. We'd like to ask you a few questions about Frank Desio."

"Frank?" Jennifer, tried to be coy but didn't succeed.

"Yes, Frank Desio. An attempt was made on his life and we're conducting our preliminary investigation," Chuck continued. "We're speaking to everyone in the office and since you weren't at work today, well, here we are."

Jennifer was shocked and trembling, it was obvious she had not heard the news about Frank. "Oh my God, what happened?"

Carson picked up the story at this point. "He was ran over by someone driving an older model car traveling at a high rate of speed. He is in the hospital, lucky to be alive. We're asking everyone if they know of anyone who drives an old blue or green car and might wish Mr. Desio harm."

Jennifer was still trembling and trying to maintain. She knew Buster was listening and even in his seemingly drunken state, he heard and understood everything. "Oh God no, everybody loved Frank," Jennifer said almost in tears.

"How about you Mr. Kingsley, what kind of car do you drive?" Carson had to push the envelope, not getting anywhere with Jennifer.

"I don't have a fucking car or a fucking driving license. I don't know this Frank Desio or give a shit if anybody ran over his ass. All I know is I didn't." Buster testified in his defense. "Now is there anything else you assholes would like to know before you get the fuck out of my house?"

"Sir, I don't think we like your tone. We are conducting an attempted murder investigation and if you fail to cooperate, we might just have to haul you downtown, if you get my drift, " Chuck snapped.

"Well fucking take me downtown, partner, you little prick, see if I give a fuck," Buster still continued to babble.

"All right enough of this," Carson exploded. " We will take you downtown, and we'll take the long way, if you know what I mean, partner."

Jennifer strangely came to Buster's defense, "He didn't have anything to do with it. He's too drunk and lazy to get up from the couch, let alone try and run over anyone. He was here all day yesterday and all day today, I'll testify to that."

"Okay, we're going to leave it at that. Here's one of my cards, Mrs. Kingsley, in case you think of anything or if you just want to talk," Chuck concluded and they were just about to leave.

Buster still not willing to let it alone, further spouted his drunken rhetoric, "What would she want to talk to you about you little preppy fuck? What, you trying to get with my wife right in front of me? You don't know who you're dealing with here. I'll...

"Enough Buster, enough," Jennifer pleaded. "I'll let you gentleman know if I think of anything that can be of help. Good day."

Carson and Chuck, let themselves out with a look on their faces that said "what the heck just happened here."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Driver

The driver sat for what seemed like days with his head in his hands. How had he been so easily manipulated. He started to loathe himself for his weakness, for his sickness.

He was no murderer, he knew that. And yet he tried to take another man's life. The drugs had such a hold on him, they had turned him into someone he didn't recognize any more. He had did a lot of crazy things in his life, committed petty crimes, been arrested dozens of times and even did a few months in the county jail, but this, this thing was not him.

The phone once again rang, bringing him back to reality. He just sat and stared at the phone, refused to pick up the receiver, refused to play this deadly game anymore. It was time to take a stand and there was but one way out. One way his clouded, confused mind could conceive. He'd show the man on the phone. It had to end right here in this motel room, right at this moment in time. It was not too late.

He pulled a 9mm Berretta out of his waist band. It felt cold in his trembling hand. The pistol seemed like an old friend, a comfort in his time of need. It was just a piece of metal, but it was his one and only salvation. He rubbed it's coolness on his face.

Taking his bottle of medication off the nightstand, he opened the lid and peered inside. The bottle was almost full, more than enough to give him the courage to do what had to be done. He poured out a handful and crammed them in his mouth, washing the contents down with a large gulp of whiskey. He sat back in the chair and waited for the pills to take effect.

The pills proved to be stronger than he had realized, he convulsed, and collapsed on the floor dead. The pistol he had caressed for comfort, dropped to the floor with a thud, and there was silence and peace.

The phone rang again, no answer.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Plot Thickens

The detectives both sat scratching their heads in their dingy, poorly lit office. Again they were back to that sum total of nothing point. No suspects, lots of motive and opportunity, but still no solid leads. They were obviously overlooking something, but what? They had interviewed everyone they could think of, checked and cross checked phone records, nothing.

In their moment of utter despair the phone rang. Carson answered, "Detective Carson, may I help you?"

It was a detective from another precinct with some starling news. A suicide victim had been found in a crummy motel room in a crappy part of town. The victim's name according to his driver's license was Roy Harris Jr.

"So why the hell are you calling me about some stiff who killed himself?" Carson fumed.

The detective on the other end of the phone explained. A car registered to a Emma Harris, same National City address was parked out front. The car was an old green Cadillac with front end damage and blood all over the bumper.

"Well why didn't you say so?" Carson almost yelled from the news. He hung up the phone, "Chuck, we got us a lead. In fact we got the perpetrator of the crime. And one other thing, he's dead. Signed, sealed and delivered, oh yeah!"

"What are you talking about?" Chuck replied, quite curious.

"They found a suicide victim in National City, who was driving an old green Caddy with front end damage and blood on the bumper. Looks like our boy," Carson said, still excited.

The detectives headed over to the crappy motel in National City. What they would found at the hotel would both baffle and confuse them more than help them.

As they pulled up to the motel they saw the old Caddy sitting out front, old and green, with front end damage, just as described.

The detectives entered the motel room not knowing what to expect. A 9mm Berretta lay beside the victim, however there was no visible evidence of a gunshot wound. These types of wounds tend to be easily recognizable by a big pool of blood and brain matter in the vicinity of the dead body, and a gaping hole in the head. This individual looked like someone who just laid down for an afternoon nap.

The coroner's office, forensic people and National City Detectives, were on the scene. One of the detectives informed Chuck and Carson, "The pistol hasn't even been fired. There's a magazine with 15 rounds and one in the chamber unused. It would seem the victim had planned to shoot himself, took a bottle full of pills to soothe his nerves, but never got the chance to blow his brains out. I'm sure housekeeping at the motel appreciated that favor." He sort of laughed sarcastically, but Chuck and Carson didn't see the humor.

Noticing a big wad of bills sitting on the night stand, Chuck nudged Carson, "Check this out Carson, that's a lot of cash." He did a quick count, whistled and shook his head. "Five thousand bucks, damn. Now where would a guy staying at a crappy motel get five thousand dollars?"

"How the hell would I know? Maybe he won the lottery today or something who knows." Pointing at the stiff Carson said almost laughingly, "and our friend here ain't talking.

An empty medication bottle sat on the nightstand next to the cash. The prescription was for Clozapine, the doctor's name on the bottle was Bill Riley. "Dr. Riley, there's that name again," Chuck said showing his partner the bottle.

"Could be coincidence, but you know how I feel about them. We better check him out, and see what he knows about this mess," Carson said dropping ashes from his cigar on the floor.

"Yeah, you're right."

"I'm so glad you agree ole wise one. But first I think we should check out the vehicle, see who it belongs to, and if the owner knows anything."

The car was registered to a Emma Harris who was probably the victim's mother or wife. So the detectives headed over to National City to talk to this Emma Harris. After that they would see if they could catch up with Dr. Bill Riley. Strange his name would pop up again. Maybe he could explain what type of issues his patient was dealing with that resulted in him offing himself and what him and Maria Desio had been talking about these past few months.

Mrs. Harris lived in beautiful National City, California, just a stone's throw from the U.S. Naval Station at 32nd Street and only a couple of miles from the crappy motel where Roy Harris Jr. was found dead. The detectives always hated to be the unlucky individuals to tell the victim's love ones of their untimely demise. All the crying and the fake caring, and the usual "sorry for your loss" line, which always sounded so disingenious. But it was a part of the gig so the detectives readied themselves for the ordeal.

The neighborhood was middle middle class, but the yard was well kept and the house was in good repair. The detectives pulled their unmarked unit up in front. They paused in the car hoping maybe something would happen, anything to keep them from having to go knock on the door and break the devastating news to Mrs. Harris. They had made a couple of calls and found out the victim was in fact her son, her only son as matter of fact. Maybe lightning would strike their unmarked unit, or a tsunami would rise up and wash them away. A giant bug might come and eat them whole or the world might come to an end, it could happen.

However, after a few minutes nothing in fact did arise, so Carson and Chuck got out of the car and dutifully headed towards the house. They somehow did feel sadness, not being totally callus men like some in their profession. Chuck knocked on the door, or rather tapped on the door. No reply. He tapped again with the same result.

Carson yelled, "Son, knock on that door like you got a pair, let me show you." The wood door was open letting air into the house through the screen. Carson pounded heavily on the door. There still was no reply. He was just fixing to knock again when out of nowhere a huge German Shepherd , with a head as big as a basketball, jumped against the screen door growling fiercely. Carson jumped back in terror, Chuck took too many steps backwards and fell off the porch on the grass. The huge animal was still barking and banging up against the screen, adding to the chaotic scene

Chuck was picking himself off of the ground and Carson was regaining his composure when Mrs. Emma Harris finally made it to the door. She yelled at the dog, "Rocco, Rocco stop all that barking, behave yourself. Get in your room." The dog dutifully obeyed and disappeared from the door. Then meekly she asked, "Well, who are you gentleman? May I help you?"

The detectives introduced themselves, showed their shields, and politely asked if they could come in. They asked was the dog safely secured in the bedroom and Mrs Harris assured them "Rocco" was safely detained.

Mrs. Harris, asked the detectives to have a seat on the couch and she pulled up a chair from the other side of the room. It scraped on the hardwood floor as she drug it into place. She sat down looking from Carson to Chuck and back. "This is about my car, right?" She inquired. "I know it was my son who took it, but I had to report it stolen, insurance and all. So, where did my no good son leave it this time? That boy, I swear, I don't know what I'm going to do with him. Hope he ain't killed anybody "

"Well ma'am, this is about your car, in a way," Chuck started. "I'm sorry there's no better way to tell you than just come right out with it. Your son, Roy Jr. is dead. They found him in a motel not far from here, dead of an overdose of his medication."

Mrs. Harris started to cry , she was not making this any easier for Chuck. She pulled a tissue out of her pocket and began to wipe the tears from her face, that flowed form her eyes like a river. She couldn't help but ask, " But what does this have to do with my car? You said this was about my car, then in the same breath you say my son is dead."

Carson stepped in to elaborate, "Yes ma'am, you see, your car was used in the attempted murder of a Frank Desio. Your son was in possession of said vehicle, which was parked in the motel lot when he was found. We believe he was the one who tried to kill Mr. Desio. He subsequently took his own life, probably remorseful for his actions."

"You say Frank Desio?" Mrs Harris asked, still wiping tears. "Frank Desio is a good friend of the family, he and my husband served together in Vietnam."

Chuck continued, "Do you know of any reason why your son would want to kill Mr. Desio?"

"Heavens no, everybody loved Frank. Junior didn't know him well, just to see him. He knew who he was and all. Frank used to come over to the house all the time when Roy Sr. was still alive. But Junior had no reason to try to kill him," Mrs Harris added.

"We found a prescription bottle on the nightstand. Was your son being treated for depression or bi-polar disease?" Chuck asked.

"Yes, I'm afraid he was crazy as hell. Those pills Dr. Riley gave him seemed to make him worst. He had gotten out of control of late, since his daddy died. He seemed to lose all desire to live. He was so lost, I didn't know what to do with him. Dr. Riley said he was making progress, I don't know," Mrs Harris continued.

"So Mr. Harris Sr. is deceased, did I understand you correctly?" Carson inquired.

Mrs. Harris answered, "Yes, he's been dead about three months I guess, I don't know. He died in an accident on his job. He was a welder at NASSCO. They say it was an accident, but I still don't believe it. He worked for that company for twenty years and never had so much as a scratch. But they say it was an accident. Paid me double on his insurance, that's all I know."

"So your son, Junior, did he take the death of your husband well? Did he blame anyone for his death? Did he feel, as they said, it was an accident?" Chuck asked, fishing for information.

Mrs. Harris answered vaguely, "I don't know. He became real distant after his father's death. Then he started seeing Dr. Riley and taking them pills, and after that we didn't much talk at all."

"When was the last time Mr. Desio was over to house and was it a routine visit or did something unusual happen?" Carson probed.

"It was a few days before Roy Sr. died. They were in the back bedroom, but I eased up on them and heard what they were saying. I guess you could say I was being nosy, but I wanted to hear. I felt I had a right to know, " Emma continued. "They were talking about their days together in Vietnam. Both of them were involved in a massacre in a small village." It was very painful for her to tell the story, she paused and then proceeded. "They said a number of villagers had been killed and some of the marines were killed too. They had lied about it ever since, afraid of what might happen to them and the others involved. My husband and Frank wanted to go to the authorities. They had carried the secret of the cover up for over twenty five years. It was making them crazy."

Quite confused by the story Chuck asked, "So did your husband ever go to the authorities about the incident?"

"That's the thing, Roy died a few days later. He never got the chance," Mrs. Harris replied. "They even had a club called the "Magnificent Seven". It was a group whose members lived locally that served in the same unit in Vietnam. I never understood the name, just thought it was a name they liked."

She got up from her chair and retrieved a picture off the living room wall. She showed it to the detectives, pointing out each individual in the process. "This is my husband Roy. This is Frank and Dr. Riley."

"So, Junior's doctor was in the same unit as your husband and Frank in Vietnam?" Carson asked.

Mrs. Harris answered matter of factly, "Yes, of course, he was the corpsman or "Doc" as they used to call them."

"Just one more question," Chuck intervened. "When your son was found at the motel, he had five thousand dollars in cash in his possession. Do you have any idea where he might had gotten that kind of money?"

"Lord, five thousand dollars?" Emma said really at a lost. "That boy never saw five thousand dollars all total in his whole life. Never had a job, never had any money. No, I have no idea."

"Okay," Carson said, "I think we have enough for right now. We'll be back in touch if we have anymore questions. And again sorry for your loss."

The detectives said their goodbyes and left Emma Harris a card so she could call them if she wanted.

They left the Harris residence knowing more than they wanted to know. They had hoped this case would end here.They were hoping they would find all the answers, to all the questions they had, and tie this case up in a neat little bow. Fat chance, now they had uncovered a whole new set of questions to be answered. They even had a doubt in the back of their minds that Emma's husband Roy's death had been an accident. Call his death a homicide and add the attempt on Frank, made for a nice little case of conspiracy.

Chuck and Carson had some new questions to ask when they caught up with the good Dr. Riley. Maybe he's the one that gave his unbalanced patient five thousand bucks to run down poor Frank Desio. Maybe the wife, Maria, had given the boy the money to kill her husband. It was time to pay Dr. Bill Riley a visit. Time to rattle his cage, shake it and see what came out.

Carson looked at his watch, "Hell it's supper time, Chuck. I think Dr. Riley will keep until tomorrow. My wife is making my favorite, roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy and corn on the cob. The hell with this case tonight, I'm hungry.'

"I know what you mean I could eat a horse, as they say," Chuck said.

"Hell, we're not having horse, but how about some roast beef?" Carson inquired.

Chuck asked somewhat surprised, "So you're inviting me over to eat?"

Carson just laughed and headed towards his house. It had been a long day.

CHAPTER NIGHTEEN

Rick Sanchez

The sun was just peeking through the clouds to start another beautiful day in Chula Vista, California. Rick Sanchez and his wife of twenty years, Connie, were sitting down to eat breakfast when the phone rang. It was Bill Riley of all people. "Hey, Rick, just wanted to update you on Frank. He's out of intensive care and in a regular room, looks like he's gonna make a full recovery."

"That's great, Bill, good to hear that," Rick said chewing on a piece of bacon.

"Just wanted to let you know. Sorry to interrupt your breakfast. By the way, what time are you leaving for the office this morning?" Bill inquired.

"Regular time, why?"

"Oh, I thought you might have time to stop by and see Frank. That's all. Holler at you later."

Connie looked at Rick curiously, "Who the hell was that, this time of the morning?"

"Bill. Just letting me know how Frank was doing."

"Oh, that's nice. How is Frank doing?

" He better. He's out of the ICU. Looks like he's gonna be fine.

"Glad to hear that. I like Frank. That asshole Bill...

"Now Connie, be nice. He asked me one curious thing, though. He wanted to know what time I was leaving for the office. I told him, regular time. When I asked him why, he said maybe I might want to stop by the hospital to see Frank

"He's an odd fellow, I always said that."

The couple settled back into breakfast mode and their conversation drifted away from Bill Riley to everyday concerns such as bills and their oldest daughter's bad marriage.

Their oldest, Veronica, had married a real bonehead. This guy was the worst, refused to work, drank way too much and was sometimes abusive. Rick had threatened to kill him on a few occasions, just trying to scare him, but he didn't listen. The bad thing was Veronica was pregnant with her first child. This made the whole situation twice as bad. It was at the point where the girl was probably going to have to come home. Rick and Connie hoped and prayed the marriage would work out, they had to believe.

The couple joined hands and prayed a very fervent prayer for their daughter. They prayed for good health and blessings over their household. They hoped God would hear their prayers. Veronica desperately needed help. They said Amen and it was time for Rick to get ready to go to the office.

Rick grabbed a quick shower, brushed his teeth, shaved and was picking through the closet looking for something to wear, when Connie came in the bedroom. "Have you seen my blue suit?" Rick inquired, still looking through the contents of the closet.

"That shabby old thing," Connie said playfully. "Yes, I put it in the cleaners yesterday. Just wear the brown one. I think you look very handsome in it."

"Okay, you talked me into it," Rick said, giving his wife a kiss on the cheek. "You always did have good taste in clothes. Now help me pick a tie."

"Very well," Connie said, grabbing a nice striped one from Rick's tie rack. "I think this one will do nicely."

"The striped one it is. A decision has been made," Rick said giving his wife another kiss, this one on the lips.

"Hold on there, buster. You've got to get to the office, so don't start something you don't have time to finish," Connie said, smiling a somewhat sexy smile.

"I could call the office and tell them I'm running a little late." Rick said, stroking Connie's hair.

"Get to work, we'll play later," Connie said, starting to leave the bedroom.

"I'll hold you to that," Rick said, still trying to hug his wife.

She broke loose and left the bedroom. Rick finished getting dressed and headed downstairs. It was another routine day for him. He had a good job, with a very good firm in downtown San Diego. He was blessed with a beautiful wife and three great kids. All his prayers had been answered. Except for the situation with his oldest daughter, his life was perfect. Of course the tragedy of Vietnam was always with him and always would be. No matter how much he prayed and asked for forgiveness, the guilt was with him constantly. He hoped God forgave him and he tried to live the best life he could.

He gave Connie a big kiss and hug. He headed out the door towards his car, parked in the driveway, singing to himself, laughing about the playful incident with Connie. He was thinking about how much he loved her. She was his rock.

Connie opened the door abruptly. It seemed Rick had forgotten his briefcase and she was trying to catch him before he left. A scene she couldn't imagine greeted her. Rick was laid out on the driveway, gasping for air. She screamed, " Rick, Rick, honey are you all right? Rick!" She went to him and shook him but he was unresponsive. She ran inside and called 911.

Rick died on the way to the hospital. The prognosis was heart attack.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Bill and Maria

One good turn deserves another, the old saying goes. Maria and Bill had started seeing each other a few months earlier. She didn't love Bill, far from it. She just did it to spite Frank. The whole thing really repulsed her, but on some level she found the affair extremely exciting. The sex was great she had to admit. The guilt was a whole different matter. She still loved Frank, but she hated him at the same time. So when Bill approached her with his plan, she had mixed feelings for sure.

Bill had only started seeing her so he could manipulate her and bring her in on his murderous plot. He wanted Frank dead to silence him once and for all but also he knew about the big life insurance policy Frank and wanted some of that cash.

After sex when they lay in each other arms, Maria would bitch about Frank. "Fucking Frank and his whores, I hope they all die and burn in hell, Frank along with them. That bastard. God I hate him."

Bill would stroke her hair and tell her what she wanted to hear. " It's all right baby. I'm here for you. You know that. That sorry ass Frank. He should pay for the way he's treated you."

The whole ugly truth came out one night. They were in bed talking when somehow, but purposely, Bill confided the dark secret Frank, him, and the others had been carrying all those years.

"Oh, my God! That's terrible. I had no idea." Maria said shocked and crying

"It was a terrible thing, true enough, but all of us have too much to lose if Frank spills the beans. It was a long time ago but it was a war crime. We'll all go to prison, including Frank. So you see I can't let him do that. I won't let him."

Plans, good ones at any rate, take months to develop. This one was no different. Bill didn't just one night say, "Hey, let's kill Frank and collect his insurance money." The whole devious plot developed in slow motion, in increments, little by little. It was originally just a seed, that was nourished and grew. Maria didn't even realize she was being used, Bill was very clever and skillful at his craft. He was a psychiatrist, after all. He manipulated people for a living, so this was an easy thing for him to do, and he did it well.

But even good plans don't always work out and this one had been botched from the very beginning. Frank was still alive. Bill gave Maria a call to break the news. Maria was beside herself with anger that the whole thing had been handled so badly. "I told you it was bad idea to use one of your patients to do the job. You can't depend on pill head, maniac depressant, psychos. What were you thinking, Bill? Now what are we going to do?" Maria droned on, seemingly for days.

"They can't connect Junior to us. I was his doctor so quite naturally he would have medication with my name on it. I paid him cash in old bills. The police can't prove a thing," Bill assured Maria. "You worry too much."

"You better be right. I'm glad Frank is still alive. I shouldn't have let you talk me into to this shit," Maria said, getting madder by the minute.

"I'll handle it, " Bill said.

"You better," Maria replied, then hung up.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Dr. Jeremiah Morton

The city morgue was quiet and serene at one o'clock in the morning, just the way Dr. Jeremiah Morton, Senior City Medical Examiner liked it. No distractions, no annoying phone calls, just dead bodies, each with its own distinct story to tell. Most would think the lab after midnight to be a morbid and even creepy place, not Dr. Morton. He thrived in this macabre environment, looking like a character from Creep Show, he fit right in.

His silhouette resembled Alfred Hitchcock, reminiscent of the old television series popular in the nineteen fifties. He had a huge nose, bulging red tinged piercing blue eyes, and a double chin that made his face look like it was folded over his extremely thick neck. His body was short and squat, and he walked with a waddle, muttering to himself as he went from corpse to corpse. He sometimes spoke to the dead, asked them questions. They never answered.

This night he had on the table a victim by the name of Rick Sanchez. A corresponding name tag was secured on the toe of his left foot as a reminder of his identity. Dr. Morton didn't need the tag however, he knew all his guest's names by heart. "So Mr. Sanchez, how did you come to be on my table tonight? I see from your chart, your alleged cause of death was heart attack. How boring. I think not."

Seems the doctor remembered a case where a colleague had killed his wife by inducing an air embolism. The victim, his unfaithful wife, appeared to have died of natural causes. She had gasped for air shortly before her demise and seemingly died of cardiac arrest. But the medical examiner became suspicious. He noticed a small needle marked on the poor dead woman's neck.

So when he did the autopsy, he immersed the body in water. He dissected the veins leading to the heart and found the cause of death, an air bubble. The technique is similar to plunging a bicycle tube in water and looking for the bubble indicating where the hole is located. The bubble traveled through the veins to the heart and caused the woman's death.

What brought this to Dr. Morton's mind was in fact a small mark on the victim's neck. Upon further examination with a magnifying glass, proved to be indeed a small needle mark. Very interesting, Dr. Morton thought. "Now where in the world would you get a needle mark on your neck?" He inquired of Rick Sanchez, who of course didn't answer.

He proceeded with the autopsy and he did indeed find an air bubble. This along with the needle mark on the victim's neck, led him to the ultimate conclusion that this individual was murdered. So much more interesting than a plain ole heart attack, he thought. His morgue needed a little excitement, it had been quite dull of late.

The police would have to be informed, there would be an investigation. He would get to testify in court about the cause of the victim's death, he loved it. Dr. Morton had been a witness in court many times, but he never grew tired of it. Going to court was the only excitement he had in his otherwise mundane excuse for a life.

Poor Dr. Morton had never married, or really had a girl friend. He always said he wished he had been blessed with a little good looks, instead of only brains. He was a very lonely man, which is why he always preferred to work nights. The thought of being home alone night after night was very distressing to him. The one thing that kept him going was he was extremely good at his job. How many coroners would have caught an air embolism?

The next morning he would give his old buddy Carson a call. He and Carson had worked many cases together through the years. He knew him before he made detective, still a rookie in uniform. Carson would get to the bottom of this mystery.

Chapter Twenty two

Chuck and Carson

Downtown San Diego was a peaceful place early that morning. The sun was just peeping through the clouds, a few cars ventured out as well as a few joggers. The bums were just waking up, some pushing huge shopping carts filled with various and sundry recyclable items. The less industrious were foraging through trash cans in search of breakfast. A scruffy little dog wandered aimlessness down the street, just missed getting ran over, he finally sought refuge in the safety of the sidewalk.

Detective John Carson pulled into the SDPD lot, showed his badge and drove his old 1976 Coupe Deville into the garage and found a spot. He got out of his old classic car, ambled over to the elevator and pushed the button. He was waiting patiently when Chuck came roaring through in his Porsche 911. He quickly found a parking spot and ran over to join Carson, who was still waiting patiently for the elevator to come.

He waved at Carson, flashing a big smile. He was dressed immaculately as usual, and patted Carson on his shoulder. "You ready to solve this thing ? I got a good feeling today is the day," Chuck beamed.

"What are you so damned cheerful about?" Carson grumbled.

"Why not? It's a beautiful day, I had a great meal last night. I sure appreciate that, tell Veronica thank you again for me," Chuck said excitedly.

Carson replied, "Glad you enjoyed it. I'll tell Veronica. I hope you're right about the case, cause I'm about burned out on this one."

The detective's office was pretty much deserted, only a couple of diehards busy working on case files and drinking hour's old coffee from Styrofoam cups. They nodded at Carson and Chuck as the two entered the office, looking like overworked zombies propelled by windup mechanisms.

Chuck jumped on the computer and started to work, checking his e-mail, while Carson pored pointlessly through a stack of papers. Chewing on a cigar butt, he mumbled to himself and cursed under his breath. "Damn freaking case, piece of crap. Wished I'd never heard of "

His ramblings were suddenly interrupted by a ringing phone, the tone sounded exceptionally loud in the otherwise quiet office. "Detective Carson, may I help you?" Carson muttered.

"Hell yeah, you can help me. I'm on fire, can you come and put me out?" The voice said on the other end.

"Who is this? I don't have time for jokes, it's too damn early in the morning," Carson bellowed.

Dr. Morton laughed and replied, "This is Dr. Morton over at the morgue. Just trying to have a little fun."

"Oh, hi, Doc. Thought it was some wise ass. I was just fixing to light you up," Carson said, still a little peeved. " To what do I owe the honor of your call, this morning?"

"Got one on the table just for you. A Rick Sanchez, allegedly a victim of a heart attack. But in the course of my autopsy I have discovered he was actually murdered, a victim of an air embolism," Morton explained.

"An air what?" Carson stammered.

"An air embolism. The victim was injected with a large quantity of air, which caused an air bubble that traveled to his heart and caused the poor man's death." Morton further explained. "I immediately thought of you, Carson."

" I appreciate you thinking of me, but my partner and I are knee deep in another case," Carson protested.

Dr. Morton, a very persuasive individual, eventually talked Carson into coming over to the lab to take a look.

Carson and Chuck entered the morgue apprehensively. All the dead bodies, covered with sheets gave them the creeps. No matter how many times Carson made this sojourn into the undead, it still reminded him of a scene from one of those old horror movies. The kind where the dead get reanimated and rise up and start eating the living.

Chuck felt pretty much the same, he was newer at the game than Carson, and just tried to remember it was a part of his job, as unpleasant as it was. It didn't remind him of an old movie, the dead bodies just threatened the contents of his stomach might not remain there.

Before they could get more than a few steps from the door, Dr. Morton came waddling up with a cheery good morning. His greeting seemed somewhat out of character considering their surroundings. "Good morning, detectives. So glad you could make it. Boy do I have a good one on the table over here. Can't wait to show you, " Dr. Morton beamed. "Carson, who have you brought with you, I don't believe we've met."

Carson went on to introduce Chuck in a dutiful manner and indicated he was very busy and could we please get on with the proceedings.

Morton did proceed and in great detail describe the manner in which poor Rick Sanchez had come to meet his death. He bragged about how "not many coroners would have caught this and he was the best." The detectives listened, the technical talk bored them, but they got the idea. This was no heart attack, it was murder.

"This had to have been done by someone who really knew what they were doing. A physician, or other trained medical personnel, perhaps a professional hit man," Morton went on, and on.

Finally Carson had enough and interrupted the doctor. "We got it, we got it. The man was killed, okay. Do you have a name for a next of kin, and an address?"

Dr. Morton gave the detectives Rick's address and said he had a wife, Connie.

Carson and Chuck thanked him, said their goodbyes and left the house of death, scratching their heads. Little did they know as they made the walk to their unmarked unit, this case would be the first in more to come.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Connie Sanchez

"Hello, I'm Detective Brown and this is Detective Carson from the SDPD," Chuck said, standing along side Carson at the residence of Connie Sanchez. "We're here about your husband Rick. May we come in?"

Connie stood awestruck momentarily, but finally said, "Yes, of course officers, come on in."

The house was immaculate considering the fact she had just lost her husband. There was a table full of food presumably brought by well wishers. A subtle air of gloom permeated the room, the lights were dim, death was present. Connie wore no makeup, her face lined with tears, bloodshot eyes sat above bags as big as suitcases. Her hair was unwashed, but somewhat combed, she spoke almost in a whisper from a soul tired to the bone. Her clothes were wrinkled and she looked like she hadn't slept in days.

"What's this all about?" Connie inquired. "I've just come from making funeral arrangements, the burial is in two days, can't this wait?"

"Ma'am we're sorry for your loss and we know this is a bad time, and no what we have to say can't wait," Carson hastened to say.

Connie pointed to the couch and invited Chuck and Carson to have a seat. She inquired if they would like some coffee or a soda, they declined. She sat down in a chair across from them.

Chuck started. "As we said this is about your husband, Rick. He was presumed to have had a heart attack. That was the assumption at the time of your husband's death. However, the autopsy revealed something else. Your husband was in fact murdered."

A look of abject horror and disbelief came over Connie's face. "Murdered? Oh my God, that can't be true. I thought he just had a heart attack, that's what they said. Murdered, who would kill Rick,? Oh dear Lord." She buried her face in her hands and cried uncontrollably.

"We're so sorry to have to tell you about this, Mrs. Sanchez," Carson continued. "Did your husband have any enemies that you now of?"

Connie was still crying, but finally gained control enough to shake her head and say,"No, my husband didn't have any enemies, that I know of. He was a Christian, God fearing man. The best man I ever knew. Oh, my God, who would want to harm my Rick?" The tears started to flow again, it would be a while before they could continue.

Connie finally was able to go on, it was very apparent that the detective's questions had made a bad situation even worst. The death of her husband had been traumatic enough, but now that Rick's death had been ruled a homicide, it was even more painful. The thought that someone would kill her husband was unfathomable, something she just couldn't wrap herself around. Murdered, he was murdered, who would do such a thing and why? She had no answers, as Carson and Chuck continued with their questions.

"Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around the house, shortly before you found Mr.Sanchez laying, gasping for air on the driveway?" Chuck asked, really hating to go on.

Connie answered, "No, I didn't see anyone. It was just a normal day. I didn't go outside until I found Rick." She burst into tears again,

While the detectives were waiting once again to continue, Chuck let his eyes wander up on a mantle place, filled with numerous family pictures. He was thinking what a nice family these people had been, and what a shame the husband had been killed, when a picture caught his eye. A picture he knew immediately he had seen before. It was the same picture of the so called "Magnificent Seven" he had seen at the Harris residence. How odd.

He punched Carson and pointed in the direction of the picture. A strange look came over the detective's face, a look like a door had just opened up. It was an "aha" moment, one that opened up a whole new line of questioning. Mrs. Sanchez was recovered, so Chuck continued.

"Mrs. Sanchez, I couldn't help but notice the picture on your mantle, the one of the seven men in marine corps' uniforms," Chuck inquired, pointing at the picture. Which one is your husband?"

Connie nonchalantly replied, getting up to retrieve the picture. "Oh, that's a picture of my husband and his old marine corps buddies." Pointing at Rick in the picture, she continued, "That's Rick right there. They called themselves the "Magnificent Seven", I never did understand why, they just liked the name, I guess."

Carson pointed at Frank's image and inquired. "Did you know Frank Desio? Somebody tried to kill him, just two days ago."

"Yes, I heard about it. He and Rick were good friends. Poor Frank," Connie said, lowering her head

Chuck pointed at the picture, "Do you know him?"

"Yes of course, that's Dr. Riley. He was Rick's psychiatrist, I think he needs a shrink, if you ask me," Connie said with a harsh look on her face.

"I hate to ask this question, ma'am, but was there bad blood between Dr. Riley and your husband?" Carson asked.

Connie answered, looking at Carson strangely, "No, not at all, they were best of friends as far as I know. Do you think he had anything to do with Rick's death. I didn't like him at all, myself, but Rick said he was a former marine and they stuck together no matter what." Connie stopped for a minute, with a look on her face like she was trying to remember something, "You know, the morning Rick died, Dr. Riley had called to give an update on Frank, which wasn't strange in itself. But, Rick said he had asked him what time he was leaving for the office. I didn't think much of it at the time, but now."

"Well, Mrs. Sanchez, we don't know what any of this means at this point, we're just beginning our investgation," Carson said in conclusion. "I think we have imposed on you enough for now. I'll leave you one of my cards. If you think of anything else or just want to talk, give me a call."

The detectives said their normal goodbyes and again told her, "sorry for her loss." They meant these words, both Carson and Chuck were good men who cared about people. They felt genuine remorse for the death of this poor lady's husband and for Frank Desio, laying in the hospital. It was time to visit Dr. Riley. All the evidence pointed his way, a single finger pointing directly at him.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

Dr. Bill Riley

Dr. Bill Riley was just finishing up with a session when the detectives barged into his office. His secretary tried to detain the two, but they would not be dissuaded and burst into Bill's private office, scaring the hell out him and his patient.

"Wait a minute, you can't just barge in my office unannounced. Who the hell are you and what is the meaning of this intrusion?" Dr. Riley said, knowing good and well who they were. He had been expecting them, but he still didn't want them to think they had the right to push their way in his office unannounced , while he was with his patient too. He felt he deserved more respect than that. The hell with some detectives from the SDPD.

The detectives flashed their shields and Carson did a brief introduction. They watched as the terrified patient left the room, noticeably traumatized from their abrupt and unannounced intrusion.

"We'll be asking the question here, doc," Carson growled. "You just sit your happy ass down on your couch there. This might take a while."

Bill sat on the couch, looking like he was the patient and the detectives were his doctor. He was noticeably nervous, sweating in the air conditioned office, and fidgetting with his hair. He looked back and forth from Carson to Chuck, not knowing where the assault was going to come from first. The detectives just looked at him for a minute. "So what's this all about?" Bill finally broke the silence.

"I said we'll be asking the questions," Carson said again. "For starts, did you know your patients are dropping like flies? Two of them are dead and a third lies in the hospital knocking on death's door?"

"I... I don't have any idea what you're talking about," Bill stammered.

"Well let us break it down to you, doc," Chuck continued. "A Frank Desio who we understand is a patient and close friend of yours is in the hospital, a victim of a hit and run accident. Another one, Roy Harris Jr. lies in the morgue, seems he committed suicide. He is joined at that same location by Rick Sanchez who was murdered under somewhat bizarre circumstances. Any of this sound familiar?"

Bill, didn't know what to say, he just sat dumbfounded for a few seconds. Finally he said, "Junior and Rick are dead? I had no idea. When did all this happen?"

"They were your patients, right, doc?" Carson inquired, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, but I had no idea," Bill played dumb.

"Where were you Monday around noon? How about yesterday morning, say at six o'clock?" Chuck grilled Bill.

"I don't remember." Bill said, but not very convincingly.

"Look, you can answer our questions here or downtown, you make the choice," Carson said, almost yelling.

"Monday, I was with a patient, I think. Yesterday morning, uh, I was at home," Bill said.

"You think you were with a patient, Monday. You've got to do better than that. We needs names and a witness, like your secretary, for instance. And yesterday morning, can anyone confirm your story that you were at home?" Chuck joined the questioning.

"I'd have to check my appointment book, and my secretary was out to lunch. I'm afraid I was alone yesterday morning. So I don't know what to tell you. Do you think I had something to do with trying to kill Frank and the death of Rick? Is that what you're saying?" Bill asked.

"We think you had a lot to do with these events, quite frankly," Carson interjected. "We can't prove any of it, yet, that is. We heard all about your little club, the "Magnificent Seven", and we know all about what you guys did over there in 'Nam. Frank was going to spill the beans, so you hired Roy Harris Jr. to run the poor man down with a car."

"Then you killed Rick Sanchez outside of his own home. His poor wife found him dying on his driveway, gasping for air," Chuck joined in."And now you've got the nerve to sit here and say you don't know what the hell we're talking about."

"I want my lawyer. I'm not saying another word," Bill said getting pissed. "You can't just come in here and accuse me of murder. You have no proof. I didn't kill anyone."

"Yeah, you get that lawyer, you're going to need 'em. 'Cause we're gonna be back with the evidence and a warrant for your arrest," Carson bellowed, trying to sound much more angry than he was.

"Get the hell out of my office. This interview is over, gentleman. You come back when you get that proof, or should I say, if you get that proof, cause I didn't do shit," Bill yelled.

"Oh, we'll be back, you can bet on that. We'll show ourselves out. You have a nice day now," Chuck said sarcastically.

The detectives showed themselves out, leaving a shaken Dr. Bill Riley in their wake. He just sat on the couch for a long while, too upset to even move. He knew they couldn't prove anything, but they seemed to know the whole story. He wanted to call Maria, but he was afraid they were monitoring his calls. His phone calls, oh hell. What about all the phone calls he had made to Maria and to Junior as well. Did they know about all of them? He was sure that they did. And that big mouth, Emma Harris, telling the cops about their secret club and what happened in Vietnam. Damn, Bill was afraid he was in deep shit. He was going to need a big shovel to dig himself out of this mess.

Meanwhile Carson and Chuck were discussing their interview with the good doctor in their commute back to their lovely downtown San Diego office. They both felt the interview went well. They had sufficiently rattled his cage. Oh, he was scared now, they could tell. Now is the time when suspects like him do stupid stuff. And when he started to do that stupid stuff, the detectives were going to be there, watching and listening.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Bill and Maria

"They just barged right into my session, I was with a patient, for Christ's sake," Bill cried to Maria, who joined him at a secluded back booth of a coffee shop in Chula Vista. "These bastards know everything, I'm telling you, Maria."

"Calm down, Bill," Maria said, hoping to soothe Bill's frayed nerves. "Knowing and proving are two different things. Sure they probably know we talked on the phone a few times. You were Junior's doctor, so what. They can't connect us to the money they found at the motel. Junior's dead, so he can't tell them you put his ass up to the shit."

Bill was somewhat calmed by Maria's words, but he still was terrified of what unknown things the detectives might discover. He was not as careful as he should have been. One thing that had shocked him was when the detectives had said Rick Sanchez was dead.

"You know Rick Sanchez, don't you Maria?" Bill inquired.

"Sure he was a member of you guy's little group of murderers. What about him?" Maria said, somewhat at a loss.

"Did you know he was dead?" Bill asked. "And the weird thing is, those detectives think I killed him."

Maria was totally shocked. "They think you killed Rick? You didn't kill him did you?"

"No, no, I didn't have anything to do with it. But they think I did. I don't have a clue who killed him, but it scares the hell out of me. I still have doubts about Roy Harris' death being an accident and now this. I don't know, Maria," Bill said, looking very nervous.

Outside the restaurant sat Chuck and Carson, sipping on stale coffee, and eating day old donuts. They had been on stakeouts many times together so they knew the drill. Hours of boredom, followed by more hours of boredom, sometimes resulting in action, but most of the time not. But following Bill was the only alternative the detectives had. They had no other leads. They knew Bill and Maria were involved, they had the motive and opportunity, but they were lacking that one little nagging thing, proof. They had no solid proof.

This meeting of the two lovers didn't prove anything but infidelity, a good motive for murder but obviously not proof that they were involved. The detectives felt if they continued to follow Dr. Riley he was going to do something dumb.

Bill and Maria sat in the coffee shop for at least an hour, engaged in a heated, sometimes animated conversation. They agreed that they shouldn't meet anymore, at least for a while in case they were being followed. Bill told Maria goodbye and headed out of the restaurant alone.

Chuck and Carson, still sitting in their unmarked unit across the street, watched Bill get into his late model BMW and pull slowly into traffic. Carson cranked up and eased in behind Bill, a few cars back. Where the hell is this guy going now the detectives wondered. It didn't take long for them to realize where Bill was going. He was heading for National City and as they followed, he pulled up in front of Emma Harris' place. Bill was making the rounds. He got out of his car, walked to the front door, and was let in the house almost immediately. Apparently the good doctor was expected, he disappeared inside the house.

Driving past the house and turning around, the detectives parked down the street on the other side, so as not to be seen. Again they set up shop and waited for Bill to make his next move. The fact he paid Emma Harris a visit was not in itself suspicious, since he was her son Junior's doctor. So they waited and in about fifteen minutes, Dr. Riley came storming out of the house, looking mad as hell, got in his car and roared off down the street.

Struggling to keep up, Carson cranked up and hurriedly followed Bill, who was by now heading south at a high rate of speed. They followed as best they could until Bill pulled up at another residence the detectives knew, the home of Connie Sanchez. Bill was making his rounds for real . Again, coming to visit a woman who had just lost her husband was not in itself incriminating.

Once again Carson and Chuck parked down the street and waited. It wasn't long until Bill immerged from the house, got in his BMW and roared off like a bat out of hell. This guy was on a mission, but up to this point nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

But all that was going to change. His next stop was NASCCO. Bill pulled up across the street on Harbor drive, right across from the entrance of the shipyard and parked.

Chuck and Carson pulled on down the street, made a u-turn, and parked as well, at a spot giving them full view of the scene. They waited as Bill waited, but it wouldn't be long before the action began.

A man wearing work clothes, walked out of the shipyard lot, waved at Bill and crossed the street to lean in his car for a talk. He was a Latino man in his mid-twenties, dirty from his day's toil in the shipyard. He was looking none too happy to see Bill and they were engaging in a heated conversation.

Pictures were being flashed by the detectives with a telephoto lens, hopefully they would be able to identify this character. They watched almost in disbelief as the conversation continued. This could just be a patient of Dr. Riley or an old acquaintance, but the detectives didn't think so, as they watched intently. This could be a breakthrough moment they were experiencing. The break they had been looking for since they began this case. They were itching at the chance to bust this smug ass doctor in his fancy sports car. They watched for a while, and were further amazed to see Dr. Riley hand the Latino man an envelope. This seemed to calm him down and shortly the conversation was over. The man headed back across the street to the shipyard and Bill cranked up and was on the move again.

What was in the envelope? Carson and Chuck had their suspicions of course, but there was no way to know for sure. Their guess was it was hush money. The Latino man had did the deed for Bill and now he was fleecing the doctor for some additional cash. Made sense, but there was still that little nagging thing, proof.

Where was this guy going now? He certainly had been a busy boy. The detectives followed to find out. This time led to disappointment, as Bill continued on to downtown San Diego and his office.

Chuck and Carson had work to do. Who was the Latino man at the shipyard and what if anything did he have to do with this murderous business? It was starting to look more and more like the death of Roy Harris was no accident. After all the detectives concluded, he along with Frank were planning on going to the authorities about the tragic episode in Vietnam. Sounded like a good motive for murder to the detectives. But what about Rick Sanchez, how did he fit into this puzzle, why did anyone want him dead?

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Another Piece of the Puzzle

In another part of town, La Jolla, to be exact, a doctor sat in his private office in deep thought. He had told his receptionist to hold all calls. He doodled on a piece of paper on his desk, writing down names over and over again. He thumbed through a book stopping periodically to study more closely the contents of certain pages.

The doctor seemed very upset and agitated as he continued to peruse the book he was reading. He finally got up and started pacing frantically around his office. He paced for a while, then sat back down to his book once again. About half way through he stopped at a page that seemed to soothe him somewhat. He started taking notes on the pad he had been doodling on, filling up a couple of pages before he was finished.

He closed up the book, grabbed his note pad and stormed out of his office, telling his receptionist he would be gone for the rest of the day. She tried to protest, but he waved her off and hurried out of the office. The doctor jumped in a late model Mercedes and drove off at a high rate of speed.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

Raphael Fuentes

The NASSCO shipyard was unusually quiet, no horns and bells, only the clanging of metal and sparking of welding apparatus. Raphael Fuentes drew his day's tools from the issue room and started across the yard to a USNS ship that was almost complete and ready to be launched. He was a young man, rather slight in build, with a mustache and a neatly trimmed goatee. Working for the shipyard had been his only choice when he got out of jail. There weren't a whole lot of job opportunities for young Latinos in San Diego, especially if you had a criminal record.

Raphael had gotten into some trouble when he was younger, stealing cars and selling drugs. He did a year in city for assault and possession of an illegal hand gun. He was involved in gang activity before and after he went to jail, something that was almost impossible to avoid in the neighborhood where he grew up.

To make matters worst, Raphael was also diagnosed as manic depressant and suffered from clinical depression. He had met Dr. Bill Riley while he was incarcerated. Bill used to see patients at the jail one day a week as a tax write off. Raphael was doing better as long as he stayed on his medication, and had been lucky enough to land the job at the shipyard on a probationary basis after he got out of jail. He wanted more than anything to leave the violence of the street gangs behind.

His pathway to his goal had not been an easy one. There were many of his old home boys that didn't want him to succeed. They kept trying to pull him back into the life. He wanted more for himself and for his girl friend Giselle and the baby. He had a son Raphael Jr. he loved more than his own life. They deserved a decent life away from the gangs, the violence, the drugs and the poverty.

To this end, Raphael sometimes did things he shouldn't in an attempt to provide for his family. His justification was simple, it was all about family, they came first and foremost. He struggled to be able to afford his medication which was costly, but necessary. Without his medication and the help of Dr. Riley he would be lost. He still remembered the days before he met him and terrible feeling of being totally out of control. The depression, the thoughts of suicide and even homicide that plagued him now was a thing of the past. He owed the doctor a lot. A debt he couldn't even to begin pay with no amount of money, he felt an overwhelming allegiance to Dr. Riley.

He needed special help, mentally and financially. He had begged Bill to meet him on his break. Thankfully the doctor had agreed.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Carson and Chuck

Chuck and Carson were once again back at the office , milling over their leads and theories. "This Doctor Riley is behind the whole thing, Carson. I'm certain of it." Chuck pleaded his case, but Carson wasn't buying it. "He hired Roy Harris Jr. to kill Frank and that Latino kid to kill the father, Roy Sr. Think about it Carson, both of the victims were threatening to go to the authorities about the Vietnam thing."

Carson bit down hard and on a fresh cigar, trying not to be too harsh with his partner. "That's all well and good genius, but where's the proof. It's just a little thing, but it's kind of important. And what about Rick Sanchez? How does he fit in your neat little scenario?"

"Haven't figured that out yet. But I bet Riley had something to do with it."

"When you figure it out, be sure and let me be the first to know. "Cause right now I ain't got a clue."

Bill Riley was a slimy, smug son of bitch, who was probably guilty, but they still had no real proof, only conjecture. They would continue to follow him and monitor his calls, but for right now they needed to find out who the young Latino man Riley was talking to across the street from the shipyard.

With great ease they found out who Dr. Riley had been speaking to with the assistance of the shipyard personnel department. With a little coaxing they managed to get the home address of Raphael Fuentes and headed to his house to have a little talk. They had a few questions for this young man and they were hoping he had some answers.

Raphael lived in a Latino neighborhood in a rough part of San Diego called Logan Heights. They passed by the infamous Chicano park where several young men with jail house tats played basketball, while others stood in a group passing a bottle around. Some young ladies pushed their babies in strollers, while the bigger kids ran along side playing joyfully. One youth was busy tagging a wall with his gang sign, another young man looked on giving him moral support. It was just getting dark as the detectives pulled up in front of his modest home that ran along the back side of the park.

A group of likely gang members stood on a street corner and eyeballed the detectives as they eased cautiously out of their unmarked unit. Carson and Chuck both had their hand on their concealed weapons as they made it across the yard and knocked on the door of the Fuentes household.

They could hear loud music playing in another room and the sound of a man and a lady in a heated argument. They knocked the door again louder and finally a Latino woman in her mid-forties peeked out of the window and inquired who was knocking.

The detectives flashed their shields and identified themselves. "We need to speak to Raphael Fuentes," Carson yelled.

"What is this all about, officers?" The lady inquired with a harsh look on her face.

"Ma'am, we need to talk to Raphael. Is he home?" Carson further explained.

The lady reluctantly let them in and called for Raphael. After a minute or so he finally appeared from a back bedroom. He was shirtless, bearing numerous jailhouse tattoos and multiples scars from a violent life. He was pencil thin, but muscular and hard. The expression on his face was defiant, as he leered at the detectives like he would just as soon kill them as look at them. "What the hell do you pigs want? I did my time, can't you just leave me alone?" Raphael asked almost pleading.

Chuck started, ignoring Raphael's bad attitude, "We needed to ask you a few questions about your relationship to Dr. Bill Riley. Are you a patient of his?"

"Yeah, what if am? Is that a crime or something? Why don't you just cut to chase. What is this really all about?" Raphael said defiantly.

Carson jumped in, "Okay, let's do cut to the chase. We are investgating the possible homicide of an individual by the name of Roy Harris, a former employee of NASSCO, just like yourself. This Mr. Harris was a good friend of your doctor, Dr. Riley, who we saw handing you an envelope and engaging in a heated conversation with you just yesterday across from the shipyard lot. Would you like to tell us what was in the envelope and what your conversation with the doctor was all about?"

"That's none of your business. It's private and I don't have to tell you shit. So why don't you get the hell out of my house?" Raphael yelled, still defiant.

"We understand all that patient, client confidentiality bull, but you not answering the question makes you look even more guilty," Chuck added.

Quickly joining the questioning, Carson said, "How much did Dr. Riley pay you to kill Roy Harris? I hope it was enough."

"God, I can't believe you guys. I didn't have anything to to with killing anybody. I'd asked Dr. Riley to see me yesterday. The only time that we could work it out was during my afternoon break. I asked him to borrow some money, okay? We had a big argument about me not taking my meds. That's all it was about, I swear," Raphael said, hoping the detectives would buy his story.

"So we're supposed to believe your doctor was just lending you some money out of the goodness of his heart, right," Carson interjected. "C'mon you can do better than that Raphael. Tell us the truth. Why was he really giving you the money?"

"Damn it, here's the truth. I did some work on the doctor's condo and he owed me some money. We were arguing about how much he still owed. He was trying to short change me, the cheap bastard," Raphael changed his story somewhat.

Chuck, still not believing his story said, " That's a little bit more believable, but we still don't buy it.

"Too bad, that's the truth, I swear. Do I need a lawyer, 'cause I got one, a good one. In fact I'm done talking to you clowns. Get the hell out of here," Raphael said, getting pissed.

"Yeah, we'll go, but we ain't through with you, not by a long shot. We'll be back, so maybe you better call that lawyer of yours," Carson added.

Raphael said in conclusion, "Later gentleman, it's time for our dinner, so please show yourselves out."

The detectives did show themselves out. They felt it was a good first interview and the real story was still left untold. In time it would be revealed, but for now they'd keep a watchful eye on this young man. They decided to go back over to the shipyard the next day and see if they could uncover any further evidence that Roy Harris' death had been murder, not an accident like their report had said. They might need a court order, but they very much wanted to take a look at the accident report. They also wanted to interview the other workers that were there that day. It was a long shot but sometimes they pay off.

Of course the detectives still had the murder of Rick Sanchez to investigate, a case they had no leads on. They knew it had been done by a highly skilled individual, which left them with thousands of possibilities, none of which led them to anywhere. They decided to do a canvass of the neighborhood to see if anyone had seen anything or anyone suspicious that morning. More than likely no one saw or heard anything, but they had to start somewhere.

It was getting late and as darkness set in the weary detectives decided they had did all they could for one day and headed home. Carson to his wife Veronica and a delicious home cooked meal and Chuck to his bachaelor abode and a TV dinner. They had much to consider as they made their ways home, but one thing was sure they had a lot of work to do. That's what tomorrows are for.

Chapter Twenty Nine

The Doctor

In a remote workshop the doctor frantically worked on a device, stopping periodically to receive further guidance from the notes he had meticulously made. He was constructing a device, one that would surely cause great death and destruction. He worked tirelessly at his craft, driven by an almost overwhelming passion.

On the wall was a single picture of a smiling woman. It seemed to be almost a shrine, set up to look over his little workshop. The picture was old but had been treated with great care and respect. The lady's eyes were haunting, compelling, and beautiful. The doctor looked at the picture periodically, almost as if he were asking for her approval in the task he was performing.

Many years of anguish showed on the doctor's face, deep lines earned by years of hardship marked his weathered features. He carried a heavy burden that permeated his very soul deep to the core, a burden that had been his life for many years.

He finished hooking up all the wires and the timer to the explosive material and carefully placed it in a box. The time was at hand for him to further his lifelong project. Destruction and death was his mission and he would not stop until the job was completed.

His wife's picture looked down on him approvingly . He gently touched the picture as if she was still in the land of the living, as a tear streamed down his cheek. "It will soon be done and your soul can rest in peace," the doctor said wiping tears from his face.

Grabbing the box he hurriedly left the workshop, jumped in his car and roared off. He had important work to do.

Chapter Thirty

The Shipyard

The streets were alive with the hustle and bustle of the early morning commute as Carson and Chuck pulled into the NASCCO lot and flashed their badges at the security personnel, who nonchalantly let them in the yard. They found a parking spot and got out, and headed for the main office.

The yard was in full working mode, sparks flying from welding jobs high up on scaffolds, big cranes busy hoisting mammoth pieces to be put in place, and the unnerving sounds of the accompanying horns and whistles. Huge forklift trucks made their way across the lot carrying heavy loads, shipyard workers in hardhats and safety harnasses walked and talked as they made their way to awaiting ships in varying stages of completion.

An annoying bell tinkled, announcing the detectives' arrival as they entered the shipyard main office. A somewhat chubby, middle aged Latino woman sat behind a desk eating a doughnut and talking on the phone. She looked up from her pastry and conversation long enough to give Carson and Chuck a short wave of admission. "Have a seat, I'll be with you in a minute," she managed to say in between bites.

The detectives obediently took a seat and waited for the secretary to finish her call. The office was small , the walls were lined with all manner of safety awards and community involvement plaques. On the secretary's desk was a picture of her and presumably her husband and two teenage sons. At long last she finally got off the telephone.

"We need to see the personnel manager, please," Carson said bruskly.

"What is this concerning? May I help you?" The secretary replied taking another bite of pastry.

Chuck replied, showing his detective's shield, "No, this is an important matter concerning an ongoing investigation. We need to speak to him personally."

The secretary made a call reluctantly, and shortly a stocky, balding gentleman appeared from a back office. He walked with a limp, huffing and puffing as he made his way like he had just climbed a large flight of stairs. He had a handkerchief in his hand and was mopping his brow as he approached the detectives and stuck out a clammy hand to introduce himself. "I'm Doug Fredricks, the personnel manager, how can I help you gentleman?"

"We need to talk to you in private about the incident involving the death of a Roy Harris, a few months ago," Carson said, after they finished shaking hands.

They proceeded to a back office and continued their meeting behind closed doors. This was just the sort of thing that can spread quickly, so the detectives didn't want anyone to find out that they were looking into the case as a murder. Of course they didn't have any concrete proof that Roy Harris' death had been murder and not an accident like the shipyard's report had stated. They just had that gut feeling and Carson's gut was usually pretty reliable in such matters.

"Mr. Fredericks, we are here concerning the death of Roy Harris. We have new information that leads us to believe that his death was not an accident. We need to see all related reports concerning the matter and speak to all the individuals who were working that day," Chuck laid it out.

"That is a matter for our legal department, gentleman," Fredricks replied still wiping his face. " I can however put together a list of the individuals who were working that day and make arrangements for you to interview them, if that would help."

"Actually, that would be very helpful, Carson interjected. "And when could these interviews be scheduled?"

Fredericks sat for a few seconds, looked at detectives curiously and replied, " I'll set up as many as I can this morning. How would that be?"

The detectives went to get some breakfast at a nearby joint and returned an hour later ready to begin the interviews. They really didn't expect much, but maybe someone saw something suspicious that day, at least they hoped. They were basically on a fishing expedition, since the incident was ruled an accident. The only problem was they didn't even have any bait. Not even a lure.

The first interview was an older African American gentleman who claimed he knew Roy Harris well and went on and on about what a shame a good man like him had to die. Though a sympathetic testimony, not anything to help the detectives in their quest.

A heavy set, mannish looking woman was next. She didn't know Roy Harris at all, but was awful sorry nonetheless about his untimely demise. She of course didn't see anything suspicious on the day in question. The interviews were going pretty much how the detectives had predicted.

An interesting fact came out in the next interview of a long time employee of the yards, Scott Peters. Although he had not seen anything personally, he said he had had a bad feeling ever since the incident that something just wasn't right. He had worked the scaffolds for twenty five years and had never seen or heard of one falling. "We build those damn things too carefully. Afterall our very lives depend on the integrity and strength of the structure. It's just so unlikely that a scaffold would completely collapse like they claimed it did," Scott pleaded his case.

Most of employees interviewed thereafter , even though they had not seen what happened personally did agree it was unlikely that a scaffold would completely collapse.

Curious and perplexing as this information might seem, it still wasn't proof of wrong doing. But it certainly was some food for thought.The next individual the detectives interviewed looked to be just what the doctor ordered. He claimed to have actually seen somebody tampering with the structure on the day in question. Why didn't he come forward sooner of course was the first question that needed to asked.

His name was Emilio Rodrigues, a big burly Mexican, with lots of tatoos on his arms. He spoke with a heavy street accent, behind dark shades that hid his eyes from revealing the truth. "I wasn't going to say anything, but since you homies are here asking about the shit, I might as well tell you. I knew this dude you guys are asking about, Mr. Harris. He was a hard ass, but he was cool. He pretty well kept to himself. The day he got killed I seen this young Mexican cat up on the scaffolds alone. He looked out of place, but I didn't think anything about at the time. I thought homeboy was just getting an early start. But now that you're asking, he could have been tampering with the scaffold, rigging it to fall."

What was this young man's name?" Carson hastened to ask. "Why didn't you mention this on the original investigation.?"

"Hell nobody asked, they just closed the case and called it an accident. I didn't want to get my homeboy in no shit, so I just kept my mouth shut, "Rodriques explained. "Dude's name is Raphael, Raphael Fuentes."

"If in deed this Raphael Fuentes was messing with the scaffold, what reason would he have for killing Mr. Harris?" Chuck inquired.

"Hell if I know, but there had been some talk around the yard that Mr. Harris was into some heavy dudes on some bets he placed and couldn't pay. But I don't know if that's true or not," Rodrigues said in explanation.

So it was back to Fuentes again. Something seemed a little too easy to the detectives for some reason. Rodrigues coming forward at this point and making an eyewitness claim that he saw Fuentes messing with the scaffold on the day in question was suspicious. This guy just didn't seem like the type to be volunteering information in a police investigation. He was an obvious ex or current gang member of some sort. Maybe there was a connection between Fuentes and Rodrigues. Some bad blood between rival gangs was certainly a possibility.

Carson and Chuck finished up with the rest of the crew, not really learning anything new, and headed over to the Sanchez neighborhood to do a canvass, hoping to find someone who saw anything suspicious on the day Rick Sanchez was killed. This was a definite long shot, however it was the only one they had.

They weren't through with Rodrigues, his story didn't sit right with the guys and they were going to check it out, you better believe that. They also still wanted to take a look at the accident report and the pictures of site where it happened. The shipyard probably wouldn't turn them over easily, especially if a coverup was involved. But they would get them, one way or the other.

Chapter Thirty One

The Canvass

Canvass is a old method of looking for clues and witnesses that has been proven time and time again to be effective. However, this being the case, Chuck and Carson still didn't relish the idea of knocking on a hundred doors looking for a needle in a haystack. But alas, they had no other choice. This had been a well thought out and planned attack. The perpetrator had been meticulous in his planning and execution. If there were any witnesses they were going to be difficult to find. Such was the detectives' task as they pulled into the upper middle class neighborhood around noon to begin their quest.

As with most of these types neighborhoods in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, the streets were deserted. The inhabitants tend to keep pretty much to themselves, venturing out only for necessities, living their lives behind the confines of their dwellings. Unfortunately for the detectives as well, they rarely even know their neighbors names much less any other pertinent information concerning their day to day lives.

A single late model Audi passed as the detectives pulled to the curb and parked. The inhabitant of the vehicle was a lady, struggling to put on her makeup and care for an infant carefully placed in a car seat in the back. She didn't notice the noon time guests as they got out of their car and approached the first house to begin their search.

Behind door number one, nothing. The detectives beat and rang the door but to no avail. A perfect start to a perfect evolution they thought, things could only get better and they did. The next door they knocked proved to be the one they were looking for, as incredible as it might seem.

A beautiful, middle aged lady, peered out of her window and inquired as to whom was knocking at her door. The detectives introduced themselves and she consequently opened the door far enough to give a cursory glance at Carson and Chuck. She apparently liked what she saw and opened her door fully, looking at her visitors curiously. She was clad in nothing but a two pieced bathing suit, sporting a tan she apparently had been working on at the detective's unexpected arrival.

She spoke with a Southern accent which seemed out of place, but nonetheless extremely provocative. "Yes, could I help you gentleman." She peered over the top of her designer shades and batted her baby blues at the detectives.

Chuck, of course, always the ladies man, started the ball rolling. "Yes, ma'am were making inquiries into the murder of one of your neighbors, Rick Sanchez. We are looking for persons who might have seen anything or anyone suspicious on the morning of his death. That would be two days ago, to be exact."

The lady in the bikini, pulling her hair back off of face, stood thinking for a few moments. "Oh, Mr. Sanchez, I didn't know he was murdered. Oh my God! Poor Mrs. Sanchez. I don't know what I would do if someone killed my husband."

Carson hastened to get into the fray, "Did you see anything unusual on the morning in question, ma'am?"

"Well let me think," she said, still pulling at her hair. " I do remember seeing a small, funny looking man getting out of black Mercedes a couple of days ago. I was going out for my morning power walk. This guy had on a jogging suit and a sweatshirt with the hood pulled tightly over his head. And dark glasses. Very dark shades on. I had never seen him before. He looked out of place for some reason. I remember thinking that at the time, but I didn't really give it much thought."

"Can you describe this man a little better than just funny looking? You say he was short about how tall. Was he white, black, Hispanic, Asian or could you tell?" Chuck fired off questions, hoping for a more detailed description.

Bikini lady, tugging at her top and scrunching her nose said, "I don't know maybe five foot six and weighing a buck fifty maybe. I think he might have been Asian, but he could have been Latino. I can't say, I didn't really look at him, to tell you the truth."

"And the car. What about the car?" Carson prompted.

"Oh, yeah, the car," she continued. "It was a black Mercedes S300 with a license plate that said 'Dr. D.' or something like that. I just happened to notice. Does that help at all?"

Leaving the bikini clad beauty behind, Carson and Chuck knocked on another fifty or so doors. Most of the occupants were not home and the few that were didn't see anything. They had hoped someone else had seen this mysterious "Dr. D". Unfortunately they were not that lucky. They had a lead, as weak as it was. Someone owned a black Mercedes with that custom plate. It would be easy to trace

Chapter Thirty Two

Fred Sanders

Beautiful Coronado California lies just across the bridge by the same name from the impoverished area of San Diego known as Barrio Logan. It is in stark contrast to the ghetto area in such close proximity. Huge million dollar mansions and smaller, but just as affluent homes dot its landscape.

The city is home of the U.S. Naval Base North Island, where the awesome aircraft carriers make their berths. Near the base many retired admirals live, choosing to spend their twilight years close to the ships that they love so much, and to the navy that afforded them the opportunity to now retire in the lap of luxury.

Here also lived one of the Seven, Fred Sanders. He was Frank Desio's radioman and close friend in Vietnam, as well as years later as a member of their secret club. He had left the Marine Corps shortly after the war and like many former sailors and marines had chosen San Diego to be his home. He had came from Memphis, Tennessee originally, and making good barbeque was in his blood. He had grown up eating and making this great dish and had decided to bring it to San Diego.

He had saved some money while he was in the corps, enough to open up a tiny little restaurant near the 32nd street Naval Station. Because of it's close proximity to the base and the outstanding barbeque, the place soon became a hit with the sailors from the base as well as the people of the surrounding neighborhood. A year later he opened another one in downtown. It became a big hit as well and he was on his way.

Fred met his wife Rosie while a student at UCSD, the prestigious university in one of southern California's most affluent towns, La Jolla. He was majoring in business and finance, her in pre-med. She graduated and went to medical school at the university's school of medicine and later became a pediatrician. The couple dated for a year or so and married in the mid-seventies. They had three children, a boy and two girls of whom they were of course immensely proud.

It was another beautiful southern California morning as the couple sat at the breakfast table having a leisurely meal. Rosie was off that day and Fred didn't have to be at the restaurant until ten. The children had already left for school and the Sanders had the big old four bedroom home to themselves, which was a rare event. One they fully intended to take full advantage of this particular morning. They were still in love after twenty years of marriage, a fact they were very proud of.

Their breakfast conversation had come back to something they had been discussing a lot, where their oldest daughter would attend college. "Rosie, I still think Ashley should go to UCSD. It was good enough for us. Why does she need to go to some Ivy league school? And financially, it would save us thousands of dollars if she stayed at home."

"I agree Fred, but it's her education. She should be allowed to go where she wants to go. I'll miss her too, babe." Rosie put the breakfast dishes in the sink and went over to Fred who was finishing up his second cup of coffee and gave him a tender kiss on the cheek. She sighed and said tenderly, "We've just got to accept the fact that our little girl is grown, and let her make her own decisions."

Fred pulled Rosie close, returning her kiss, "I know, I know. But it's just so hard to let my little girl go." He hugged her tighter and gave her a passionate kiss on the lips.

They made love like newly weds, kids on a prom date, it was wonderful. Their problems faded into the background for those few minutes. Nothing mattered but the two of them, their bodies entwined in incredible passion, totally lost in the moment. It was amazing how they could be so in love after all these years.

Rosie lay in the bed, not wanting to get up, as Fred showered and started getting dressed for work. His task complete he walked over to bed and kissed Rosie at first on the forehead and then deeply on the mouth. "Don't start something you don't have time or the ability to finish there buster," Rosie said playfully. She gave Fred a long, deep kiss and pushed him away gently. "Go on to work and let me get some rest. I'm exhausted," She said yawning.

Releasing his hold on Rosie, reluctantly, Fred grabbed his car keys and started downstairs when he remembered something. His attorney was coming over that morning with important papers for her to sign. He just wanted to remind Rosie and to tell her goodbye and say again how much he loved her. He tenderly kissed her on the cheek and again made his way down the stairs.

The house was quiet, which was unusual for this time of the morning at the Sander's house. Fred looked upstairs as if to tell his wife goodbye one more time, and grabbed his keys off the hook where they always hung. He sighed, really hating to leave. Looking at his watch he decided he better pick up the pace or he was going to be late.

Down the street the doctor waited patiently for Rick to come out of his house. He had planted his deadly package underneath Fred's car. Once more he was going to play his game of death. Once more another good man was going to die. The doctor waited. He didn't mind, he was a man on a mission.

He watched as Fred came out of his door and got into a late model BMW. What a shame to blow up such a fine vehicle, the doctor thought as Fred started up his car and pulled out of his drive. The doctor followed at a distance, not wanting to alert his prey that he was being hunted.

The streets of Coronado were jammed with cars, that were jammed with people going God knows where. The doctor didn't want to risk blowing his package in heavy traffic, killing innocent people, after all he wasn't a monster. No he didn't want collateral damage, so he would wait until his victim's car was alone before obliterating it and it's occupant.

Following a couple of car lengths behind the doctor waited for the right moment, oh it was going to be magnificent. He had long loved blowing things up. The explosion, the resulting fire, and the pure devastation was such a rush to him. He watched as the BMW turned down a small street, now was his chance. He took the detonating device off the passenger seat of his car. It was time. Time for Fred Sanders to die.

Fred drove leisurely down the street, smiling about the morning's encounter with his beautiful wife of twenty years. Rosie always did bring a smile to his face. He sang along with an oldie playing on KYXY, a local easy listening station. He had it all, he thought. A beautiful wife, a great business, and three great kids, who could ask for more.

He made the turn on the little street in Imperial Beach, where his newest restaurant stood proudly, number six, and his largest to date. Fred was immensely proud of this one. He admired the business from a far as he approached, noticing how his sign displayed the day's specials and how it looked from the street.

Someone was following him, but he didn't notice. He was much too busy admiring his eatery to look in his rear view and see the hand of death stalking him.

The explosive device sat dormant underneath Fred's car, waiting to be pressed into action. A charge of C-4 big enough to blow a large building, connected to a remote switch, it waited for a signal, the wait would soon be over.

Out of nowhere Fred's BMW exploded into a huge ball of flames, the remnants of the car flying in the air with a deafening sound followed by silence, except for the crackling of the flames that engulfed the twisted vehicle. Fred had been hurled out of the vehicle like a cannon shot, his charred body flaming and smoking as it thudded on the pavement a hundred feet from the metal carnage. The scene was devastating. Another member of the Magnificent Seven was dead, four were left.

The doctor watched from afar as emergency vehicles arrived on the scene and snuffed out the huge fire that raged on for what seemed like hours. He watched them load the charred body in the coroner's van with a sense of great satisfaction. He could check another one off his list. The list was getting short now indeed. Soon his work would be done.

Chapter Thirty Three

Dr. Morton

Charred remains laid on Dr. Morton's autopsy table, the smell was horrendous but he was oblivious as he went about his work. Muddering to himself, he rinsed off the body and began picking through the flesh. "My friend it saddens me to see you like this. Wish we could have met under different circumstances. I fear the only conclusion I can draw here is you died from the explosion. Not very exciting but true nonetheless."

Dr. Morton took photos of the deceased's teeth for dental identification. It was presumed that the charred body was Fred Sanders, but he wanted to make a positive identification. It was fruitless to do any further examination because for sure the victim didn't die of natural causes. From the devastation of the body, it was obvious the cause of death was no accident. Death had been caused by an explosion of enormous magnitude. In short he was looking at another homicide.

After finishing up his evaluation and reports Dr. Morton placed the burnt remains in a body bag and securely zipped it up. His work was done, nothing else he could do. He would give his good friend Carson a call. The doctor knew he would find the individual responsible for this poor man's untimely demise.

Chapter Thirty Four

Frank

Frank Desio pushed his call button for the nurse to come and render assistance. He was still in an enormous amount of pain. The morphine drip was doing some good but he still needed something extra for the pain. He was oblivious to all the mayheim that had transpired while he lay helpless, near death for what seemed like years.

Maria and Bill and of course his daughter, had been by to visit, but they didn't tell Frank about the deaths of his beloved club members, former brothers-in-arms. Maria had started to act distant, preoccupied. This whole ordeal had weakened an already shaky situation. The frequency of her visits had diminished, down to only stopping by every couple of days for a few minutes.

The bodies had started to pile up. Roy Harris, Rick Sanchez, and now Fred Sanders had gone on to meet their maker. The killer or killers, along with who was behind the attempt on his life, were still as of yet a mystery.

The nurse finally showed up and gave him an additional shot for pain. Frank felt almost ashamed for his weakness of needing and wanting the pain medication so badly. He had always thought of himself as one tough son of a bitch, and was troubled by his dependence on a substance, even one that brought him such welcome relief.

Dinner that night was as usual bland and unappetizing; Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes without salt or pepper and of course no butter, and green beans that were tasteless and had the consistency of rubber. Frank had managed to choke down a few bites of each entrée and had placed the tray on the table. He was feeling a little better and now all he wanted to do was sleep.

Welcome sleep began to overtake his body. Soon he would be totally unconscious. One thing about the medication, it had completely stopped Frank from having the terrible dreams he had been plagued with for so long. Maybe that was part of the reason he loved the drugs so, the peace the medication gave him was worth any price.

Frank was indeed totally out of it as the nurse and a doctor came in to check on him. They checked his vitals and saw that he was doing fine, getting some much needed rest. The doctor was new but no one paid him any attention. Afterall he had on the white coat with the stethoscope around his neck. Why would anyone question his presense?

The nurse left the room and the doctor stayed, checking Frank's chart and just staring at the patient who was oblivious to him. He went over, checked the I.V. and shook his head like all was well.

Then something very curious happened. The doctor pulled a syringe out of his pocket, checked for an air bubble, squirted the contents out of the needle and bent over to administer a shot into Frank's right arm.

Frank stirred as the needle entered his arm and the contents were deposited therein. The weirdest thing happened. As the drug was surging through his body, Frank suddenly came to consciousness and was appalled by what he witnessed in those brief moments. He thought it was a nightmare, as usual. Surely what he saw was not real.

Standing over him was a figure he knew somehow. He recognized the apparition, no it couldn't be. He must be hallucinating from all the drugs. That's what it was, it had to be. He was barely conscious but he managed to point a finger at the figure that leaned over him and utter a single word, "You?"

And just as quickly as Frank had suddenly awakened, he was back in a deep sleep once again. Maybe he would not return from this rest. He slipped deeper and deeper as the individual who administered the lethal cocktail turned and quietly left the room, leaving Frank spiraling into the darkness.

The nurse just happened to come into his room for something she had forgotten to check. She noticed Frank was in a deep sleep. Just as she had suspected he would be after the additional medication she had given him. She smiled to see him resting so peacefully. She had grown very fond of Frank in the few days he had been her patient. She fluffed up his pillow and made him more comfortable.

But suddenly her smile turned into horror as she checked the monitor for his vitals. His blood pressure had dropped drastically and his pulse had slowed to thirty beats a minute. Frank was dying right before her eyes. It was up to her to save his life. Still looking at the monitor she watched and listened as her patient flatlined.

She pushed the call button repeatedly for help and ran to get a defiberator and grabbed an oxygen mask to put over Frank's face. She ripped Frank's gown open and hooked up the shocking device. She yelled, " clear", out of habit, although no one had showed up to help as of yet. The current surged through Frank's body, twitching from the electricity but there was still no response, he was still flat lining.

Luckily the attending pysician and two additional nurse arrived and they sprang into action. They were losing their patient. They had to act fast and decisively.

The doctor who caused all of the disturbance eased down the back stairs unnoticed. His work here was done.

Chapter Thirty Five

Carson and Chuck

The smell of burnt flesh still permeated the air as the detectives entered the morgue once more as per another request from Dr. Morton. Carson, admittedly was getting a little tired of getting calls from the coroner about yet another homicide, the detective's plate already being full of unsolved cases. They of course didn't know who the charred victim was who was laid out like human barbeque on the good doctor's autopsy table.

"Meet Fred Sanders," Dr. Morton said as the two detectives looked at the remains on the table in horror. "He got himself burned up and blown the hell in a car explosion. It was no accident, I can assure you."

"Damn doc, can you let us solve one homicide before you call us on another," Carson growled. "We are really swamped."

Doctor Morton replied matter of factly, "Just thought you might be interested in this one, that's all."

"And why might that be, doctor?" Chuck just had to ask.

Morton gave sort of of a half laugh and throat clearing reply. "Seems this individual was driving a car at the time of his death that was registered to a Dr. Bill Riley. I think you might know him."

"Are you shitting us?" Carson said, not believing what he just heard.

"I shit you not," Morton replied.

Chuck said, echoing Carson's sentiments, "Damn. Unbelieveable."

The detectives didn't know what to think of this latest development. They had seen enough of Fred Sander's charred body and dead bodies in general, to last them a lifetime. They said their goodbyes to Dr. Morton and gladly left the morgue. The stench of burned flesh would linger with them for quite sometime thereafter. So many dead bodies, so little time.

It was clear to Chuck and Carson that they were dealing with a pyshcopath. One that was bent on the destruction of a select group of men, namely the men who had served in Vietnam with Frank Desio and Dr. Bill Riley.

Dr. Bill Riley, his name kept popping up. Could just be coincidence, but the detectives didn't believe in those.

Would a murderer blow up his victim while he was driving a car that belonged to him? Seemed unlikely, but still possible. A pyscho might do almost anything. He might, but since the car was demolished and the victim was burned beyond recognition, there of course was no evidence linking anyone to the crime.

Riley had been the number one suspect all along. He had the expertise and the motive to perpetrate these heinous crimes. He had the most to gain from the deaths of the individuals that lay in the morgue and in their graves. Time for another visit, but they were sure by this time his mouth piece was likely to be involved and the good doctor wasn't going to do any talking.

That being the case they decided to run down the lead the pretty tan lady in the bikini had given them. "Dr. D" was the name she had said was on the personalized license plate. Easy enough to check through the DMV website which the detectives had access to of course.

Back at the office, Chuck punched in the information while Carson looked on, still trying to figure out how computers worked. He was an old school kind of guy and data bases and computer programs were a mystery to him. But Chuck, he was in his element when it came to this sort of thing. He quickly brought up the personalized plate and the corresponding information. The plate was registered to a Doctor Ben Wyen of La Jolla. An Asian guy, just like bikini lady had first said. Interesting the detectives thought, but not anything to get too excited about.

They had an office address so they decided to pay Dr. Wyen a visit. Maybe they could catch him off guard and he might confess to all the crimes. More than likely he was just in the neighborhood visiting a friend or was just out for a jog. It's a free country, a man can jog pretty much any where he wishes to do so.

The address was in a swank highrise office building in beautiful La Jolla, where the rich people of this area of Southern California live, work and play. It was a gorgeous day as the detectives parked their unmarked unit and walked in awe towards the office complex. This doctor was in the money for sure. He had to be to afford an office at this location.

Carson had always been intimidated by the rich and luxury. He was a simple man who never made more than $60,000 a year in his life. Chuck on the other hand loved the life the rich led and dreamed of being wealthy himself someday. He was an aspiring screenplay writer, who hoped to make it big in Hollywood someday. Everybody's got to have a dream.

Entering the address, the interior didn't disappoint. It was every bit as plush and luxurious as the exterior. Marble floors that shined like polished glass greeted them along with walls that looked as if they were made of precious metal. Real paintings, not prints were placed carefully on the walls overlooking their entrance into the building with style. Chuck pushed the up button and the the pair waited patiently for the elevator.

Ding went the elevator bell as the door opened. Even the elevator oozed prosperity, the detectives noted as they entered and Carson pushed the button for the fifth floor. They waited patiently for the elevator to reach their destination in silence looking up at the display showing the floors as they went by.

The door opened to the fifth floor, one filled with numerous offices. Dr. Wyen's number was 506, to the left as they got off the elevator. A receptionist sat at her desk busy working on her computer and talking on the phone as the detectives entered the plosh offices. She motioned at them to wait for a moment until she was free to help them.

Momentarily she was off the phone, a beautiful young blond, blue eyed beach bunny, showing cleavage the detectives couldn't help but notice but tried to ignore. She spoke with a somewhat "valley girl", but at the same time intelligent accent. "Could I help you gentleman?" She tossed her blond hair back from her face as she spoke.

Chuck, of course jumped in to make the introductions. "Yes you could ma'am." He proceeded to introduce himself and Carson and told her they needed to speak to Dr. Wyen.

Through the course of Chuck's conversation with the lovely receptionist, the detectives learned that the doctor was a plastic surgeon who did work for the rich and famous, including some movie stars.

Dr. Wyen came out after a few minutes wait. He was short and thin, but strong looking Asian man in his fifties. His hair was short cropped like a military man. He had a noticeable scar under his right eye that was so hideous it betrayed his own profession. They also noticed he had two fingers, the little and ring finger, missing off his right hand. It seemed odd and out of place in the luxurious surroundings with nothing but beauty and perfection.

"I'm Detective Carson and this is my partner Detective Brown," Carson said by way of introduction holding out his hand. They all shook hands ceremoniously and the doctor recommended that they go to his private office where they could talk away from prying ears and eyes.

"What is this all about gentleman?" Dr. Wyen inquired as they got settled into his private office. "How can I help San Diego's finest today?"

"We are conducting a homicide investgation into the murder of a Rick Sanchez, who was killed a few days ago. He lived on the 500 block of Sycamore Street in Chula Vista. Did you know him Doctor?" Chuck inquired.

"No I don't believe I know him, why?" Wyen replied looking somewhat confused.

"A witness saw your Mercedes 300S with the license plate "Dr. D" in the neighborhood the morning Mr. Sanchez was killed," Carson continued

Laughing, Dr. Wyen answered, "Oh no, I wasn't in the neighborhood to kill anyone, I have a patient on that street. I just stopped by to check on her on the way to the office. You can ask her if you like. I'll give you her name. Oh, that's rich."

"Murder is not a laughing matter Doctor. We will check with your patient if you don't mind. Just to eliminate you as a suspect, of course," Chuck said somewhat peeved.

"I will have my receptionist give you her name and address. I am really very busy. Will there be anything else? You can see yourselves out, I have an important call to make. Good day gentleman." Dr. Wyen dismissed them like they were school children being let out for recess.

Licking their wounds and trying to recover their pride, Carson and Chuck left the offices of Dr.Wyen, plastic surgeon to the rich and famous movie stars. What had just happened in those offices the detectives couldn't help but marvel, as they headed towards their car. Being a cocky bastard wasn't a reason to consider someone a murder suspect but this doctor had a mesmerizing quality they couldn't quite put their fingers on for some reason. The receptionist had given them the name of his patient the doctor said he was visiting the day Rick Sanchez was killed. They had no doubt the alibi was legitimate. They would check it out nonetheless.

Chapter Thirty Six

Emilio Rodrigues

The bloated body of a young Latino man washed up on the shores of Imperial Beach, He had been dead, from the looks of the damage to the corpse, for a few days, but it was hard to tell. He was a big man with lots of jailhouse tats, one prominent one said Rodrigues and was written in bold letters across his broad shoulders. Probably a gang banger, most likely the victim of gang violence associated with the drug business.

Small children playing on the beach, building a sand castle, had to their horror discovered the body. It was a grizzly scene for sure, especially for small children. The body covered with sea weed, and in its bloated condition, looked like some kind of a monster, especially to the little ones who were unfortunate enough to stumble across it that morning.

They immediately ran to tell their folks who were lying on a beach towel, catching rays, enjoying the beautiful Southern California morning. So much for this family's nice day at the beach. They watched in horror as the coroner's department people loaded the hideous corpse into the meat wagon, and drove away down the beach. .

The next stop for the death machine was the coroner's office. Dr. Morton no doubt would be interested to see his latest vistor and uncover the mystery of their untimely demise. He had been very busy of late, just the way he liked it.

Many corpses draped in white sheets, name tags dangling, crowded the coroner's lab. One individual was stirring in the dark of night, none other than Dr. Morton making his rounds visiting with the newly dead. There were many types of individuals of various sexes, ages and ethnic backgrounds laid out in peace. They all got the same care and consideration in Dr. Morton's house. They were all his good friends.

Emilio Rodrigues was one among many lying on a table waiting to tell his tale of how and under what circumstances he came to be in this place of final resting. Dr. Morton visited with a few other guests. One gentleman died of a heart attack or so his chart said. A little girl's mangled body lay on her final bed, a victim of a car crash, very sad. An old lady died of natural causes, she was ninety. These were just a few of his guests that night, along with Emilio.

Dr. Morton immediately was drawn to this particular sojourner into the after life because he appeared to have a broken neck. Not something you see that often the doctor muttered to himself as he began his examination. This guy's injuries could have been the result of a fall. A accident perhaps, but how did he end up in the ocean? Maybe he was a victim of his own making, a suicidal individual who took a plunge off the Coronado bridge into the chilly waters below.

Maybe he was killed somewhere else and then dumped into the ocean. The doctor would get to the bottom of the situation, he always did. He carefully examined the victim's neck and discovered that it had been twisted with great force. Not the sort of thing that would happen if our stiff had been a victim of his own demise. This was the sort of thing done by a martial arts expert. A violent twist that probably caused death immediately.

Upon opening up the chest and examining the lungs Dr. Morton discovered that there was no water in the victim's lungs. This meant that he was dead when he was tossed into the ocean. Another peculiar thing the doctor noticed was ligature marks on the body's lower legs like a weight or something had been tied to them. But dead bodies have a tendency of breaking free from weights sometimes in the violent ocean currents, especially when they are secured by someone unfamiliar with that sort of work. Someone didn't want out friend's body found, that was obvious.

The official finding once again would have to be homicide. "What's going on in this town?" Morton asked himself as he continued to covort with the dead. "So many murders, more than I've ever seen at one time. And poor Carson and his partner Chuck are up to their eyeballs in dead bodies."

Dr. Morton had no idea at the time this victim was related to the rest. He was just another Latino kid probably a result of narcotic related activity. Someone with an expertise in killing had done the deed on this young man. It could have been a hit by one of the big Mexican drug cartels that had been gaining a foothold on the Southern California drug market.

This was a matter for the detectives to discover, his work was done until the next dead body arrived, which wouldn't be long the way things had been going. He turned out the light and bade his guests a good night. It was time for his supper, a special time of evening when he would hole himself up in his tiny office and enjoy meal of his own preparation. The doctor considered himself to be quite the cook. He always said he would have been a world class chef if he had not decided on the medical profession instead.

Chapter Thirty Seven

The Body Count

As Dr. Morton had so aptly put it, Carson and Chuck were up to their eyeballs in murdered bodies. They needed a score card to keep up with the dead. They sat perplexed at their downtown office trying to sort the whole dilema out. A chart of the dead was posted up on a board so they could peruse them at their leisure, occasionally adding information as the case developed.

On the board were Frank Desio, attemped murder, presumably by Roy Harris Jr. now deceased. Probably paid to do the job. Suspects were Dr. Bill Riley and Frank's wife Maria. Roy Harris made the list as well. The only suspect was Raphael Fuentes, a patient of Dr. Bill Riley. Next was Rick Sanchez, dead under unusual circumstances. The canvass had uncovered one lead, Dr. Ben Wyen, supplied by the bikini lady. His alibi turned out to be be legit, so they didn't think he had anything to so with the murder. However, Mrs. Sanchez had said Bill Riley had called the morning of her husband's and asked what time he was leaving for the office, very strange.

Last but certainly not least was Fred Sanders. He was blown to hell in his car which turned out to be registered to Dr. Bill Riley. Obviously, he was at the top of the detective's list of suspects. Riley had the motive and the opportunity. The whole Vietnam thing was a good motivation for the killing of Frank and Roy Harris, but what about Sanchez and Sanders. Their murders didn't seem to fit in with the other two. The detectives never found out anything in their investigation that lead them to believe Sanders and Sanchez had any plans on disclosing their actions in Vietnam to the authorities.

Just then the phone rang. It was the hospital. Apparently there had been another attempt on the life of Frank Desio. How bizarre. The good news was that Frank had survived and was going to be fine. An unknown doctor had administered an overdose of morphine to Frank. Luckily a nurse came in and through her quick actions and the response of the other nurses and the attending physician had miraculously saved Frank's life.

Frank was awake and coherent and was wanting to talk to Chuck and Carson. He said he had some very important information he needed to discuss with them. He said he knew who tried to kill him.

You didn't have to tell Chuck and Carson twice about a good lead. This could be the break they had been waiting for and in an instant they were out the door heading for the hospital.

Chapter Thirty Seven

A Break At Last

Frank was resting quietly surrounded by his doctor and nurses when Carson and Chuck arrived to hear what he had to say. They didn't have a clue as to what his testimony would be but they needed a break in this case desparately.

Waiving them into his the room, Frank asked the doctor and nurses if he could be left alone with the detectives, they reluctantly granted him his wish. He was looking very unconcomfortable in his bed hooked up to all manner of lifesaving and sustaining devices. He started to speak but could only manage a whisper. He motioned for the detectives to come closer. "I saw him," Frank said just barely audible.

"Who did you see? Go on, Mr. Desio." Carson said motioning at Frank to try and go on.

"But I thought, no it couldn't be. It must be a dream," Frank said with a look of terror on his face. "You, I said. That's all I could say, and pointed my finger at him."

Chuck asked Frank to continuue. "Who was it? Who did you see?"

The answer was something that both amazed and perplexed the detectives. They had assumed he would say Dr. Riley or maybe even Maria, Frank's wife. She was not present at the hospital and under the circumstances this seemed odd to Carson and Chuck.

"It was him," Frank said wild eyed. "No, it couldn't be. But it was. It was the Vietnamese guy we tortured in the village back in "69. It had to be him. He had a horrible scar on his face, just where I cut him. And when he raised his hand to his lips two of his fingers were missing. I had cut his fingers off, trying to get him to talk. It was him, I swear, it was him!"

Carson said hoping to sooth Frank's nerves. "Now, calm down, Mr. Desio. Are you sure that's who it was? You were heavily medicated."

"You got to believe me. It was that fucking guy from Vietnam. He's come back to kill me, to kill all of us, " Frank cried out, pleading for the detectives to believe him.

Chuck said in a further attempt to calm Frank. "Okay, okay, we believe you Mr. Desio, don't we Carson."

Carson shook his head in agreement, but at the same time didn't believe what Frank was saying, or didn't want to believe. How could that be. A man from a small village in Vietnam was now in San Diego killing ex-marines, How absurd, but it could be.

Seemingly at the same time, the detectives looked at each other with a strange realization. The description of the murderer sounded like someone they had just interviewed. An individual who's alibi had cleared him. He wasn't much of a suspect anyway. "The plastic surgeon to the rich and famous," Carson and Chuck said almost in unison. Then they both shook their heads in disbelief.

Frank continued to ramble on about the ghost who had tried to kill him. Eventually his medication caught up with him and he fell into a deep sleep. He needed his rest. He had been through a lot, a brush with death so close he could reach out and touch the reaper. He had cheated death twice in the last few days.

Not knowing what to believe at this point, the detectives eased out of Frank's room and walked unsteadily down the hospital corridor, still reeling from the bizarre news they had just heard. They walked in silence across the hospital lot to their unmarked unit. If what Frank had just said was true and that was questionable, they needed to check a little further into the background of Dr. Ben Wyen. He certainly fit the description Frank had given, an Asian man with a hideous scar and fingers missing from his right hand. Could be our guy. They certainly were going to take a hard look at him.

Chapter Thirty Eight

Bill Can't Escape His Fate

Bill Riley was just finishing up with his patients for the day. Mr Langley was spilling his guts while laying prostrate on the doctor's couch. Bill looked at the official time clock on the wall and saw it was five o'clock. It was the end of Langley's session and the end of another long work day. He bid his patient adieu and receeded into a back office he used for a bar for a little taste before he headed home. He had a big night planned with a flight attentant he had met a few days ago.

He poured himself a Crown Royal and sat back in his easy chair to enjoy it's contents. A big smile came over his face as he thought about his prospects for the night. Ah, life was good he thought to himself as he took a sip of Crown. He was the man, he had it all. He had the money, the women, and a great life.

Draining the contents of his glass, he put the empty in the sink and headed out of his office. His receptionist was still there finishing up some work on the computer. She smiled and told him to have a good evening. He would, there was no doubt. It was going to be a great evening.

The elevator bell dinged announcing it's arrival and Bill got on to take the ride down to the parking garage. The elevator was empty except for an old man who smelled like stale cigars. The two passengers nodded at one another, not saying a word just looking up at the display, watching the floors go by.

Bill exited the elevator after waiting for the old man to get off. He watched him amble down the walkway of the parking garage and pulled a cigarette out of his coat pocket and lit it. He took a big drag, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs and blew it out forcefully. Bill looked at the cigarette in his hand and coughed violently. "These things are gonna kill me some day." He took another puff and said, "Ah what the hell." He took a few more drags, dropped the butt on the pavement and stamped it out. He headed for his BMW that was parked in his assigned spot not far from the elevator.

Singing an old Beatles song, Bill strutted across the parking lot like a peacock. He was the man and one particular flight attendant better look out tonight, cause "big Bill" was heading her way.

There was someone in Bill's back seat, but he didn't notice as he got in his car. He was too busy noticing himself to notice. He couldn't have stopped what was about to happen even if he had realized death was hiding in his back seat. It was time for him to meet his maker.

Before he knew what hit him, a gun with a silencer was placed against his head and two rounds were pumped into his brain. Bill slumped over in his seat in a pool of blood. So much for his great evening with the flight attendant, all his hopes and dreams were squashed in an instant.

His assassin slid out of back seat, got into a waiting vehicle and drove out of the parking garage unnoticed.

Chapter Thirty Nine

On The Hunt

Chuck and Carson were on the trail of the killer now, as unfathomable as the whole thing seemed, they had to follow where the trail led them. The plastic surgeon to the stars, this Dr. Ben Wyen, seemed an unlikely suspect. Frank's remembrance of his attacker could just be a drug induced dream. But he was so certain that what he saw was in fact real.

The first order of business was to somehow discredit Wyen's alibi witness. If they could do that the detectives could put him at the scene of Rick Sanchez's murder. They were in their unarked unit heading over to do just that when the call came in on Chuck's cell.

Dr. Bill Riley was dead, the voice on Chuck's cell informed him. He hung up and sat in silence for a few moments, not believing what he had just heard. Carson looked at him like he had lost his mind and Chuck finally broke the news.

Carson sat in silence himself for a few moments and finally said, "You've got to be kidding. There's goes a perfectly good suspect. Shot in the head execution style, my God. What the hell are we dealing with here Chuck?" But he knew what they dealing with and he knew they better catch him and quick, the list was getting shorter. They'd better find out where the remaining members of the "Magnificent Seven" lived and put 24 hour a day protection on them until they caught this maniac.

If indeed this Dr. Wyen was the one, his guilt was not going to be easy to prove. He hadn't left a shred of evidence as of yet. In fact there was no evidence that Wyen was even a suspect. They had to discredit that alibi witness, but that really wasn't proof of anything other than the doctor was a liar. They had to start somewhere so they continued enroute to the witness's house.

Pulling up to the residence they noticed something odd. There was an undue amount of mail stacked up at the mailbox. Might mean something, could mean nothing. Carson and Chuck parked their unit and went up to the house to investigate.

The door creaked open upon their first knock revealing an unexpected scene. The house was a mess, papers strewn everywhere. The occupants had seemingly moved out and in a big hurry from the looks of things. No one was at home the detectives discovered as they walked through the residence shouting, "Police detectives, is there anyone home?" at the top of their lungs. There was no answer. The whole scene gave the detectives the creeps. .

As they entered the back bedroom they noticed what appeared to be signs of a struggle and a small stain on the carpet that was possibly blood. The closet door was open like someone had just been in it, but nothing seemed to be disturbed. Car keys and a cell phone laid on the dresser and a lady's purse sat on the bed which was meticulously made. The curtains were closed and the bathroom light was on.

After a search of the entire home Carson and Chuck conceded that no one was home, living or dead. They were relieved that there were no more dead bodies at least. They had enough of those, but the fact still remained, something had happened to the lady of this house and more than likely it wasn't good. They sent some uniform officers to do a canvass of the neighborhood in hope the neighbors had seen suspicious activity in or around the home.

Someone wanted this poor lady silenced for good. It wasn't for sure she was dead but more than likely she was the way this case had been going. Seemed anyone connected to this case somehow ended up dead.

The detectives decided to go back to square one and start with the very first murder chronologically, Roy Harris. He was where the whole chain of events had started. Frank Desio's first attempted murder was not a part of this chain, however the detectives were convinced the second attempt was. The subsequent murders of Rick Sanchez, Fred Sanders, Bill Rilley and the disappearance of a alibi witness were all connected.

Emilio Rodrigues and Raphael Fuentes were the two persons of interest Chuck and Carson wanted to take a look at first. Something about these two characters didn't seem quite right. Both of their stories needed to be placed under closer scrutiny, especially Rodrigues. Why would he volunteer information about the death of Roy Harris several months earlier and point the finger at a possible rival gang member, Raphael Fuentes. The whole thing seemed just a little too convenient, but not proof of anything unfortunately.

The residence of Rodrigues was deep in the Latino hood not far from the Coronado bridge onramp. There was a group of "essays" working on a low rider car as the detectives pulled up in front and got out of their unit apprehensively. They were obviously cops, even though they weren't in uniform, everyone knew who they were.

Inquiring about Rodrigues from the group in front, yielded them nothing but hard looks. Of course at first no one had seen Emilio. But finally thinking the whole thing was funny, a big burly Mexican, wiping grease off his hands, broke the news to the detectives. What he told them shocked the hell out of them and at this point it took a lot to do that.

Seems Emilio Rodrigues was dead, they found his body after it washed up on the beach with a broken neck. It struck the group of gang members as funny that the guy they were looking for was dead and the detectives didn't even know it.

Chuck and Carson couldn't believe it, another potential suspect/witness dead. What next? That's exactly what they discussed as they drove away. "Damn," Chuck said shaking his head. "Everybody's dead Carson, what the hell? We got no one left to question."

"Let's give this Raphael Fuentes another shot. Maybe he knows something about the death of this Rodrigues. What have we got to lose?" Carson said also shaking his head.

"I hope to God he's not dead, is all I've got to say," Chuck hastened to say. They needed somebody left alive to give them some answers.

Chapter Forty

The Doctor

The doctor sat alone in his bedroom, nursing a gin and tonic. He had been a busy man but his task was not yet complete. Two members of the group he laughingly called the "walking dead" were still alive. And he had also learned that the leader of the murderous group, Frank Desio was still alive. "Damn it," he said taking a another drink and slamming his hand down on a night stand stand next to his bed. "That bastard just won't die. I'll make sure next time."

He looked at his right hand and the two missing fingers, their absence had been a constant reminder of an event that happened some twenty five years ago. An event that shaped his whole life, that gave him a reason to live. After his wife had been killed he wasn't sure if he could go on. But he found a good reason to live, revenge.

The scar on his face looked even more hideous the more gin he drank. It too was a constant reminder. He could have had it fixed in a simple surgical proceedure, but he wanted it to remain as a symbol of what had been done to him and as a motivation to complete his mission. He had made a promise to his dying wife that day and he would keep it.

Looking at the chart on the wall he read the names of the two remaining murderers, Willie Reynolds and Steve Rollins. Then he would make sure that bastard Frank Desio, the leader, the 2nd lt., was dead, and then he could die in peace,

The doctor had been diagnosed with prostate cancer six months earlier. His time to complete his mission was short, he had to be meticulous in his planning, methodical in every action. The clock was now his enemy, he must hurry but cautiously ever so cautiously. He could not be apprehended by those bumbling detectives before he completed his life's mission. Those two detectives, what a joke. He laughingly said of them, "They couldn't even catch a cold, much less catch me." You see the doctor had a sense of humor, he wasn't just an unfeeling, brutal killer.

His life had been good, he had achieved great wealth and notoriety. But his heart was empty for he had never remarried, he could never find another woman like Kim-Le, she was his one and only soul mate. With all his money and fame he never had a moment of pure happiness, only hate and a revengeful spirit that raged within. All he had left now was the task he had vowed and was determined to complete.

The remaining members would be more difficult to eliminate, he knew. The police were suspicious of him, but really didn't have a clue. He had to be very careful. Time was getting short and he knew his illness would soon overpower him and leave him incapable of completing his mission.

He finished his drink and poured another hoping to dull the rage and pain. Maybe he should just kill the two keystone cops that were stalking him. They would just put two more on the case, two more that might even be talented enough to give him real problems. Besides killing cops was never a good idea. No use getting the whole SDPD pissed off at you. Cops were like that. Let an average citizen get killed and they really could give a shit. Kill a cop and they would hunt you to the ends of the earth. Very peculiar attitude, the doctor always thought, but true nonetheless.

Becoming an American citizen was not easy for a Vietnamese back in the seventies, but he managed to do it. He had managed to save enough money to make it to California in the late seventies and worked hard. Wyen put himself through college in La Jolla, the prestigious UCSD and attended medical school there as well. He always thought later when he became a plastic surgent it was ironic considering his own hideous appearance.

Through the years he managed to track down the members of the platoon that ravaged his village in 1969 and killed his friends and his beloved wife. It was not easy, it took years, but through patience and hard work and the help of the computer he managed to find every one of the murderous bastards. He found their leader as well. 2nd Lt. Frank Desio was the one he wanted the worst. He was in command and if he had been a stronger leader, the whole terrible thing would have never happened.

The gin and tonic was taking over his mind at last. It always managed to take a little bit of the edge off his anger. Somehow he had to get to the remaining two members and the Lt. He had noticed, of course the police didn't notice him noticing that they had posted unmarked units at the residences of his last two targets. He knew there would be a guard or maybe more at the hospital watching over Frank Desio. These last three were going to be difficult. He put down his glass of gin, there was much work to do.

It was late and the doctor was tired to the bone. He lay down on his bed, not even bothering to take off his clothes and fell asleep. Tomorrow would bring a new day. Willie Reynolds would die next and although it wouldn't be easy, his time was coming.

Chapter Forty One

Carson and Chuck

Carson and Chuck were totally exhausted from the day's hunt and decided to head for their respective abodes. Veronica had a special meal planned for Carson that night and maybe and little something else. It was Veronica and his silver wedding anniversary. Twenty five years of wedded bliss, it was hard to believe they were still together after all these years. After all it's not always easy being married to a cop. But Veronica was the best and she always made it work, even through the toughest of times.

Chuck had a date with a Charger cheerleader he had met at Junior Seau's club a few nights ago. He always dated attractive women, something of which Carson was somewhat jealous, though he wouldn't admit it.

Both of them wanted to forget about the case they were working on for the night. Hopefully the next morning wouldn't greet them with yet a another dead body and another murder to solve.

Veronica was waiting for Carson as he turned the key in his front door and entered his upper middle class home. It was the complete opposite of Carson's disheveled appearance. It was tastefully decorated and meticulously clean. Veronica kept it that way. She was a light skinned Afro-American beauty in her mid-forties, dressed in a sultry evening gown and immediately gave Carson a big passionate kiss. "Happy Twenty Fifth wedding anniversary sweet heart," she said giving him another big kiss.

"Happy wedding anniversary," Carson said shyly giving her a big bear hug.

The table was set with candle light and their best china. There was a bucket of champagne chilling and soft music was playing in the dimly lit dinning area. "Why don't you take and a shower and slip into something a little more appropriate for the occasion," Veronica said softly, oozing sexuality.

The couple had a beautiful evening together and Carson actually did forget the case even if it was just for a little while.

Chuck picked up his date around eight. She was of course radiant in her evening attire and Chuck marveled to himself, how he got such beautiful women to go out with him. They were heading for the gaslight district in downtown San Diego for a night of dinner and dancing by the beautiful Pacific Ocean. Maybe later on Chuck just might get lucky, he often did and the thought brought a big smile to his face as he opened the car door for his lovely guest for the evening.

Nicole Langston was her name. A blond haired, blued eyed, beach bunny type that Chuck found particularly attractive. She was a student as SDSU, majoring in psychology of all things. Brains and beauty, an unbeatable combination in Chuck's opinion. Could he pick them or what, he thought as he shut the door behind her, noticing her particularly lust derriere as she got into his sports car. It was going to be a great evening. No dead bodies, no murders to solve, only Chuck and Nicole.

They did have a great evening and Chuck was able to forget about the case for a little while. But come the morning it would be right there in his face.

Chapter Forty Two

The Next Morning

Carson and Chuck's tails were dragging the next morning as they sat at their desks in silence, each in their own little world. The night before had been a welcome respite but the morning brought them back to reality and the multiple murder case that seemingly had no end. At least there had been no further reports of dead bodies connected to their case during the night.

They looked at the board with all the names of the victims. The twists and turns of this case was enough to make you dizzy. Their main suspect Dr. Riley was now a victim and the alibi witness was missing probably dead as well. They had one loose end, Raphael Fuentes, but they didn't think he knew anything, however the detectives liked to be thorough so they would pay him another visit.

Then of course there was "Doctor D", the plastic surgeon to the rich and famous, Dr. Ben Wyen. He had been identified by Frank Desio as the one who came into his hospital room and tried to kill him. Of course Frank was subject to bad dreams and was heavily medicated at the time. Frank could have been hallucinating that he saw the man he had tortured in Vietnam and this doctor just happened to have a big scar on his face and two fingers missing. Coincidence, Carson didn't believe in those, so you can bet Wyen was their suspect number one.

They checked on the surveillance teams at the hospital and at the homes of the other two members of the seven, Willie Reynolds and Steve Rollins, and were assured that their protection was in place. The last thing they wanted was the body count to increase. They also put a tail on Wyen, just in case he was the perpetrator of these heinous murders. No way in hell they were going to let this scenario play out any further, not on Carson and Chuck's watch.

Continuing to look at the board hoping to discover something they had missed, they sat there for what seemed like a hour, but was in fact ten minutes, in a trance like comma, just staring. They hoped the board would speak to them and give them the answer to the mystery, but after ten minutes, they still had no answers.

"Let's go see if we can hunt down Raphael Fuentes. I don't think he knows anything but we've got to start somewhere," Carson finally broke the silence.

Chuck agreed and they headed to the door once more in search of one shred of evidence that would link "Dr. D" to the crimes.

Chapter Forty Three

Willie Reynolds

The church was small, but it's membership was enthusiastic. The minister, a heavy set Afro-American in a cheap suit, was whipping his congregation into a frenzy of "Hallelujahs" and "Amen's." He wiped the perspiration from his brow and continued preaching, the Christians in the pews fanned themselves.

"The wages of sin is death," exalted the minister, Willie Reynolds. He preached on fervently as his wife Dianne, echoed his sentiments from the hard wooden pew. She was a rail thin, dark skinned lady with graying black hair. Clapping and praying out loud she encouraged her husband's every word. Sometimes, getting up and running around the church, if the spirit struck her that way. Other times she would speak in tongues and fall on the floor convulsing. Willie seemed not to even notice but kept on preaching and stirring up the crowd.

In the basement an unwelcome visitor set about his work. He was rigging up an explosive device with enough C-4 to blow up this little church and several more. It was of course "Dr D". The doctor of death was practicing a trade he had learned a long time ago and had sharpened through the years. He had learned about demolition of all sorts when he was in the army of North Vietnam. He had studied the craft intensely since those days and was extremely good at his work.

Finishing up with the device, he eased out of the church to wait for the church members to depart. After all he wasn't a monster, who relished the killing of innocent people. He just wanted the murderer. He might have to take the minister's wife with him, but if possible he would even spare her life.

He could hear the singing stop inside the church and knew it wouldn't be long before the members would be flooding out of the front door of the church. They would talk for while and then the preacher would go back inside. He had studied Willie Reynolds' habits over a few Sundays. He was a creature of habit, and this creature was going to meet his maker shortly.

While he waited the doctor smiled and laughed to himself about how easily he had eluded the buffoons who had been assigned to tail him. What a joke. And the guys that were supposed to be watching the minister were too busy eating donuts and drinking coffee to notice him. They didn't know who they were dealing with, but in a few minutes they would find out.

It seemed like an eternity, but sure enough the front doors of the little church opened and the membership came spilling out. They were laughing and talking, patting each other on the back and shaking hands. The minister stood in a position of prominence and bid farewell to his flock as they filed through. One by one they came by telling the preacher how much they enjoyed the sermon and talking about whatever. One couple even invited Willie and his wife to Sunday dinner, fried chicken and the fixings, which Willie graciously accepted.

The doctor waited in his hiding place with his remote detonator for the right moment. He saw the preacher man go back in the church alone. His wife luckily for her got in a car with a young couple and sped away. The time was near, the excitement of the kill had begun.

Willie, inside of the little wood church, kneeled at the alter to pray. Little did he know it would be his last. He prayed fervently and with great zeal, it was time for him to go to Glory.

Out of nowhere the church went up in a ball of fire and horrendous destruction. The explosion shook the neighborhood for miles, debris flew everywhere. A ball of fire shot hundreds of feet into the air, smoke poured out of the rubble and covered the neighborhood in smoky blackness.

The cops assigned to watch the reverend spilled coffee on their cheap detective suits as the mayhem woke them from a coma, the glass on their unmarked unit shattered. They watched the scene in horror, unable to move for what seemed like minutes but was only seconds.

Dr D. watching from afar was pleased with his work, another name could be crossed off the list. His job was almost done and he could die in peace.

Chapter Forty Four

The Aftermath

In the aftermath of the huge explosion the church was a pile of unidentifiable rubble, smoking and black. The scene was a chaotic maze of fire, emergency vehicles and of course a hundred police cars. Uniformed officer and plain clothes detectives surveyed the smoldering scene. Among the crowd was Carson and Chuck. They were on their way to see Raphael Fuentes when they got the call. He would have to wait for now.

Luckily there were only a few injuries and one death, poor Willie Reynolds. A charred body was later found inside the church. It was unrecognizable, but presumed to be the pastor. This was obviously the work of a pro. The church was blown precisely with minimum damage to any of the adjacent buildings.

The paramedics were finishing up treating the detectives that were watching Willie Reynolds for minor lacerations from the shattering glass when Carson and Chuck made their way over to speak to them

"What the hell happened here guys?" Carson barked. "You guys were supposed to be watching this guy. And yet right under your doughnut eating noses somebody comes in and blows up the whole fucking church. What the hell, were you guys doing here?"

"We didn't see shit," one of the detectives answers in their defense. "We were watching the church and all of sudden all hell broke loose."

"You didn't see anybody suspicious hanging around the church?" Chuck inquires of the two battered detectives. "Like maybe a little Asian guy with a scar on his face, missing two fingers?"

Shaking their heads, the two detectives continued to plead their case. They were watching the church intently and didn't see anyone or anything out of the ordinary until the explosion.

"Where's the two assholes who were supposed to be tailing the doctor?" Carson asked, still mad as hell and getting madder. The two detectives pleaded ignorance on that as well, saying they hadn't seen them.

"Damn!" Carson said. "This slimy bastard gave them the slip. Shit! Chuck, see if you can raise those two idiots on the radio, and find out what happened."

"Okay, boss," Chuck replied meekly, and went to their unmarked unit to use the radio.

Fire department personnel continued overhauling the fire, sifting through the rubble to see if there were any more dead bodies or anything else of interest. The smoke still belched out of the little church as the fireman continued their work.

Yet another dead body and no suspect. Well one, but there was still no way to connect him to the explosion, nor any of the other crimes for that matter. This "Dr. D" was going to be harder to catch in the act than the detectives originally thought. Oh, this guy was good, but they had to better.

Chuck called the hospital to make everything was okay with Frank Desio and found out all was secure at the hospital. He told them to be especially deligent and not let their guard down even for a minute. Someone wanted Mr. Desio in the worst kind of way and would stop at nothing to accomplish his mission.

There was nothing else they could do here, Willie Reynolds was dead and that was that. There was one more name on the list, a Steve Rollins. He was a homeless derelict who lived at various shelters in downtown San Diego and was known to frequent Saint Vincent DePaul's most days for breakfast.

Chapter Forty Five

Raphael

It was getting about dark when the detectives pulled into the Logan Heights neighborhood to ask Raphael Fuentes a few questions. They didn't think he knew anything about "Dr. D" or any of the murders they thought he was involved in, however they thought he might know something about the untimely demise of Emilio Rodrigues.

The detectives had that same uncomfortable feeling as they pulled up in front of Raphael's house. Gang bangers on the corner eyeing them, low rider cars easing up and down the street, made for a tense scene.

Once again, hands on their concealed pieces underneath their suit coats, Carson and Chuck slid out of their unit and walked apprehensively towards the door. They looked in both directions to make sure the thugs that were on the corner remained there. No problem, the coast was clear. They breathed a collective sigh of relief and relaxed a little. Bad idea.

All of a sudden the front door of the Fuentes' residence flew open, two tangled bodies flew out. The bodies, one of them Raphael, were involved in a street brawl right in front of the detectives. It spread from the porch out into the lawn and was in full effect, kicking, punching, clawing, a hell of a fight. The detectives rushed in and with great difficulty managed to pull the two apart.

When the dust settled, the other individual involved in the tussle turned out to a be a rather attractive, but rough looking Latino lady with strikingly large breasts. She had long dark hair that flowed over her blouse which was partially ripped from the altercation. She had on "Daisy Duke" shorts that revealed a pair of gorgeous brown legs. She started back at Raphael, but Chuck pulled her off, holding her back with a big smile on his face.

The scene now settled down, Carson and Chuck convinced the pair to go back in the house which was a total wreck. Calmer heads finally prevailed and everyone got seated amid the rubble and the detectives started asking the questions they came there to ask.

Chuck couldn't keep his eyes off of the young lady while he and Carson questioned Raphael. Her breasts were simply incredible, large and nicely proportioned. They couldn't be real Chuck couldn't help himself from thinking.

"What the hell is this all about Raphael?" Carson barked. "We come here to ask you about Emilio Rodrigues and find WWIII in progress. I know you heard about his murder, so tell us everything you know about it. And don't say you don't know anything, cause we know better."

Esperandza Gomez, the attractive Latino with the luscious breasts, sat on the couch next to Raphael looking at him like she still wanted to kill him, but she seemed as interested to hear what he had to say as the detectives were. Raphael hung his head down for a minute and then looked Carson straight in his face. "I didn't kill him, if that what you two clowns are thinking," he said finally. "Yeah, I heard about it, scared the hell out if me. I know who did it. I can't prove it, but I know. She knows too," looking over at the lady.

"Okay, who do you think killed Emilio? Chuck inquired. "We can't wait to hear this can we Carson?"

Raphael took a sip off a beer that had been sitting on the coffee table undisturbed. "About a year ago, Esperandza was my girl. Things were going great for a while, but she ended up fucking my best homey at the time, Emilio. Stupid bitch." Esperandza started to get up again, but Raphael pushed her back down on the couch hard. "Needless to say me and Emilio had a falling out. We had a few fights, but just fists and shit, no guns or knives. Deep down we were still close."

Chuck and Carson weren't saying anything, just listening, wondering where this tale was going to lead. Chuck still couldn't take his eyes off Esperandza, those breasts, those legs. Carson elbowed Chuck to get his attention so they could continue. "Okay, you guys had a few fights, but you were still close, okay," Chuck managed to say.

"Tell them about the freak., Dr. D," Esperandza said sarcastically. "Though I have to admit, the mother fucker does do good work," she said firmly grabbing her breasts with both hands.

"Yeah, we met that asshole in a club in Cabo. He's a real freak for Latino chicks. He bought us a few drinks and shit and as the night went on he offered Esperandza a lot of money to go to his hotel and have sex with his freak ass. We were drunk by then, and it was a whole lot of money so she went. That's how the shit started, but it didn't end there," Raphael said, starting to look pissed off again.

Carson and Chuck listened intently as Raphael continued his story. The whole thing was unraveling in a way they hadn't expected but they liked the direction it was heading..

"Turned out this so called doctor lived in La Jolla and was a plastic surgeon, a really rich dude. He started seeing Esperandza on the regular. He was into some freaky bondage masochistic shit. She didn't like doing it but, damn, the dude was giving up big cash, so she kept on seeing him. As part of her payment he gave her those fake ass titties, very nice work I'll have to admit," Raphael continued, looking at the lady next to him.

"You say Emilio got involved with Esperandza at some point?" Carson inquired.

"Yeah, I finally had enough of the shit and kicked her to the curb. Soon as I did Emilio picked up on her quick. Starting hitting it from the jump. He didn't care about her thing with the doctor, he just wanted to fuck her, you know?" Raphael said, looking at Esperandza harshly. "Emilio started doing odd jobs for the doctor. Like I said the freak was rich. He got Emilio hooked on some serious shit, the kind you can't buy on the street. Between the drugs and the money and the sex, the doctor had him in deep. But what they didn't know was the doctor was a cold blooded killer. He paid Emilio to rig the stanchions on the ship so they would fall. Emilio killed Roy Harris, but he wasn't in his right mind."

Chuck and Carson just sat nodding their heads, what they were hearing was unbelievable.

Raphael took another couple of pulls off of his beer and continued. "Emilio and Esperandza finally came to their senses and wanted out of "Dr. D's" games but he wasn't having it. That bastard killed Emilio, I'm sure of that. Emilio threatened to go to the cops. The doctor said no way he was going to allow that shit. He killed him, I'm telling you, and now he's looking for her. That's why she came here."

"So when you played these sex games with the doctor where did you go? Do you where he lives, Esperandza? Chuck asked still checking her out.

"I don't know the address, but I can show you how to get there. It wasn't his house, it was an old warehouse he had converted into a shop. He had all his toys there in the bedroom, and some other stuff, he kept locked in another room," Esperandza said looking at Chuck intently. "He never would let me see what was in the other room."

Carson had been quiet for a while but finally cleared his throat and asked, "So you'll take us to this warehouse? We sure would like to take a look. We'll have to get a warrant first, of course."

"Yeah, I'll take you right now, let's go. You need to catch this asshole. He scares the shit out of me," Esperandza said, her voice trembling.

"Hell, what are we waiting for? Let's go," Chuck said, as all four of them got up and headed for the door.

Chapter Forty Six

Frank

Frank was doing better, he had been taken out of the ICU and was now in a regular room. All the tubes and life support equipment had been removed. He still had his broken leg in a cast, but he was able to get around pretty good. He at last felt like a human being again. He was not fully aware of all the murders that had taken place and the terrible lost of all but one of the club members.

The nurse had just brought in his supper when Maria suddenly appeared at the door. She looked like hell, her face was red like she had been crying. She came over and sat in the chair next to Frank who recently had regained his appetite was woofing down his evening meal.

She pulled a Kleenex out of her pocket and blew her nose and wiped her eyes. It was obvious she had been wrestling with a major issue and needed to talk to Frank. She hesitated, not really knowing what to say or how to say what she needed to say. "Frank, we can't go on like we were going. I know this is the worst of possible times to tell you this," She wiped her eyes again with an already tear soaked tissue. "I don't love you anymore, Frank. I've been thinking a lot about it, while you've been in hospital. I just can't go on living a lie. You're cheating, and lying I just can't take it anymore. I'm leaving you Frank. I'm going to live with my sister in Phoenix for a while, until I can get through this."

Frank didn't say anything for seemed like an hour to Maria. He didn't know quite what to say . A single tear ran down his cheek, he choked it back and finally managed to reply. "Maria, can't we talk about this later, I mean after I get out of the hospital? I know we can work it out, just let's talk about when I get out, please."

"No Frank, I've made up my mind. It wasn't an easy decision, but I think it's for the best," Maria said getting out of her chair. "Bye, Frank." She bent down and kissed him one final kiss on his forehead, turned and walked out the door.

All Frank could do is watch, as Maria the love of his life walked out the door. "She'll be back," He thought. "She's left before, she always comes back." But deep down in his soul in a place he didn't want to admit existed, he knew it was over this time. This time she wasn't coming back.

Chapter Forty Seven

Steve Rollins

As the sun came up on beautiful downtown San Diego, a crowd of homeless people milled around outside of St Vincent DePaul's homeless shelter waiting for the breakfast meal to be served. Some were pushing shopping carts full of recyclable items, but most were just standing idly in raggedy, funky clothes talking with the other homeless about whatever homeless people talk about.

In the group of derelicts was a down on his luck, ex-con, ex-drug addict, ex-marine corps veteran of Vietnam, and member of the "seven", Steve Rollins. He lit a cigarette butt he had found on the ground earlier and took a drag. He waited in the long line to enter the shelter, his stomach rumbled from hunger, his hand shook as he smoked, he flicked the ashes on the sidewalk, stared straight ahead, eyes vacant.

Steve was ashamed to be in this line of bums waiting for a handout. He was ashamed of his weakness and his inability to kick his drug and alcohol addiction. He had just lost his job again, he had no one, nothing. He had attempted suicide unsuccessfully a few times. What a loser he always thought, couldn't even get that right.

So here he was with this group of down on their luck derelict bums begging once again for a free handout. What the hell, he was hungry. He took a last and final drag off the butt, tossed it on the ground and stamped it out.

He didn't notice he was being stalked, how could he, his stalker was very adept at his work and very careful as well. Dr. Ben Wyen, dressed in old dirty clothes was in the line behind him, waiting for his chance to strike. The doctor smiled to himself thinking he was doing this loser a favor today. Doing something for him, he couldn't or wouldn't do for himself. It seemed oddly amusing, as well as ironic to the good doctor as he waited in the line patiently.

They finally got inside and reached the serving line. A volunteer behind the table dished out runny eggs, greasy bacon and burnt toast to the homeless including Steve and the doctor.

Steve found himself a table and started woofing down the breakfast. It wasn't all that good but he was so hungry, he didn't care,

Sitting a couple of tables over was "Dr. D", picking at his food, watching and waiting for the right time to take care of this bum. The smell of the food made the doctor queasy. After all he was used to the very best and this rancid attempt at the morning meal was nauseating. He moved his food around on his plate, he watched and waited.

Steve finished up his breakfast, sat for a few minutes drinking a cup of stale, lukewarm coffee. He looked around the room at the other participants in the morning's event and shook his head in disgust.

He got up to leave, but changed his mind. His head whirled around, his stomach churned, he all of sudden didn't feel very well. He sat for a while and waited for his stomach to settle. The food hadn't been that good, but he had eaten it many times and it never made him sick before. He just needed a drink, that would make him feel better.

Shortly Steve began to feel better and found the strength to finally get up and leave. He stood up, still feeling a little shaky but slowly made his way towards the door of the shelter.

It was the doctor's cue to get up as well and follow. His time was getting short, he needed to end this thing. This obligation that had dominated his life for the last twenty five years had to end. He watched as Steve got up and followed in behind him at a distance as he went through the door and walked slowly down the street.

Turning down an alley Steve walked a short distance and stopped at a pile of blankets and clothes that lay on the payment against the wall of an old abandoned warehouse. This was his home for now. All his earthly possessions were in this pile of what looked like trash. He unrolled the blanket and laid down to go back to sleep. Hell he didn't have anything else to do. Later on he would go back to the shelter and eat lunch or even get the energy to beg for spare change for his daily bottle of wine.

The doctor watched from a distance, peeking around the corner of a building adjacent to the alley. His prey was helpless, asleep for his last time in a life that was about to end. The doctor looked around, not a soul in sight, the coast was clear as he made his way towards Steve, now fast asleep in his bed roll. This was just too easy, the doctor thought to himself and laughed as he always did right before he struck the lethal blow.

He was in striking distance, close enough to smell his victim, when out of nowhere a man with a huge grey beard and hair to match appeared seemingly out of thin air. "Hey what you doing to my friend?" The bum inquired of the startled doctor.

Instinctively Wyen grabbed the bearded bum and snapped his neck like a twig. He fell like a sack of potatoes limp to the morning pavement, twitched a couple of times and was still. The doctor went back to his business at hand. All the commotion had awaken Steve and his eyes opened with a start. Trying to move he was unable because of a carefully placed knee on his chest. He watched helpless as the silenced muzzle of a 9 millimeter pistol was placed to his head, his eyes bulging, he started to speak, but before he could, two rounds were pumped into his brain.

The doctor could strike this piece of trash off his list. Only one was left. The one that got away. The one he wanted the most, Lt. Frank Desio.

Chapter Forty Eight

Carson and Chuck

Leaving Raphael Fuentes' place like a bat out of hell, Chuck and Carson with Esperandza and Raphael in the back seat headed towards the warehouse where she said "Dr. D" had his playhouse. It was in a bad part of downtown San Diego in the middle of some old abandoned buildings that were soon to be torn down by the city.

No way in hell they would have found this place without help from the lady with the beautiful breasts, courtesy of the man they were looking for. As they pulled up in front they noticed a late model Mercedes parked out in front, looking very out of place in this run down neighborhood.

"That's his car," Esperandza said very excitedly. "I'm sure, that's his car."

Carson and Chuck felt a pang of excitement. They were in striking distance of catching this maniac and putting an end to his killing spree once and for all. But first they had to catch this guy. He was a slippery character and they knew they had better proceed with caution because he was armed and dangerous.

They told Raphael and the lady to stay in the car. They didn't want any innocent civilians getting caught in the crossfire and killed. They also didn't have a warrant or probable cause. Just a minor drawback in achieving their goal, but one that did present a problem. They couldn't just kick the door down. They knew a good lawyer would have any evidence thrown out of court if it was obtained by an illegal search.

What to do, what to do. That was the problem that faced the detectives as they eased up on the front door of the warehouse, guns drawn. They decided to take the direct approach, just knock on the front door and inform the inhabitant they wanted to ask him a few questions. If and that was a big if, he let them in maybe they could find out something through clever interogation that would prompt a judge to issue a search warrant. Wasn't a good plan but it was the only one Carson and Chuck had at the time.

However by the time they got to the door this plan had gone out the window and they decided just to try and kick the door down, which they did try to do, but the door was so solid it wasn't happening. Chuck damn near broke his foot and his shoulder trying. But soon the whole thing was immaterial as out of nowhere, a late model Jeep Cherokee roared around the corner of the building. Driving the vehicle was no other than the good doctor himself, who shot them the bird as he flew by.

"Shit, that's him," Carson yelled as he pointed at the Jeep. "Let's go Chuck, that mother fucker's getting away," he yelled at Chuck, but Chuck was already heading towards their unit. Carson turned and ran as fast as he could, which wasn't that fast, right behind Chuck. Chuck jumped behind the driver's seat waiting for Carson to arrive and started up the car, Raphael and Esperandza in the back seat both yelling,"he's getting away, he's getting away."

Finally Carson dragged himself into the unit huffing and puffing from the run and they took off in pursuit of the Jeep. Chuck was on the radio getting help for their chase and giving dispatch the description of the vehicle, Carson still out of breath and unable to speak. They were losing him, damn it. They couldn't lose him. If he got away they may never find him again. Wyen was smart enough and rich enough to disappear. They had to catch him.

The doctor in his fire engine red Jeep Cherokee took a hard right at the first corner and headed straight down Broadway. They saw him make the sharp turn and followed hoping to catch him as he careened down the straight away. They were gaining on the Jeep when suddenly he made a sharp right down a side street.

Chuck tried to follow but couldn't quite negotite the turn and spun out almost rolling the unit. He turned around tires screeching and smoking to find when he turned down the side street the doctor's Jeep was nowhere in sight. By this time Carson was able to speak and he radioed their backup to see if they had a visual. The answer was not what the detectives wanted to hear. They had lost the Jeep themselves, it was like it had vanished in thin air.

They couldn't believe it, how could they lose him. It wasn't possible, but they had lost him. What the hell were they going to do now? Well at least since the doctor had ran like he did they could get a search warrant to take a look what was inside the "playhouse." They were looking forward to seeing what they might find there. If it was anything like the girl had described it, it should prove to be very interesting. They only hoped there would be some hard core evidence linking the doctor to the murders. They hoped and as soon as the court order arrived they would find out.

Chapter Forty Nine

"Dr D."

Wyen looked in his rear view mirror and started to laugh. He had lost the incompetent bastards. He would have to leave town and quick. He knew they would find out easily where he lived and of course they knew where his office was. He also knew they would get a search warrant and find all the evidence they needed to convict him of the murders. How did they find him? Maybe they weren't quite as incompetent as he thought they were. Nonetheless he had to disappear.

He had a backup plan of course. All good soldiers have a backup plan and he was a good soldier. He was one step away from finishing his mission. He had an alternate apartment under a phony name just in case something like this happened. He had a safe with a bundle of cash and a few guns. He wasn't planning on letting them take him alive. If it looked like they had him, he was going down guns blazing.

Turning down a side street in Chula Vista he looked once again in his rear view to see if he had picked up a tail. Nope, no one insight, just as he had suspected. He laughed again to himself. Damn he was good he thought. "I'll slip out of town and lay low until they give up on finding me, then I'll get that bastard Frank Desio." He said out loud, as he pulled into a large apartment complex.

Chapter Fifty

The Playhouse

After about an hour the search warrant finally showed up. It gave Carson and Chuck the authority to search the warehouse and surrounding area and siege any and all evidence they should find. They were all set and with a battering ram brought by the uniforms to the scene they were finally able to knock down the front door and get into the warehouse.

The place was huge and mostly abandoned. The lighting was poor overall but with the aid of flashlights they could see doors that opened from the warehouse itself. Behind these doors were what the detectives were looking for, it just had to be.

They knocked down the first door they came to and marveled at what they saw inside. It was the doctor's sex playroom that the girl with the lovely breasts had described. She should know having spent countless hours here with the doctor doing God knows what. There was a huge circular bed, covered with a leopard skin comforter, along with mirrors on the ceiling as well as the walls. Lights hung from the ceiling and chains connected to leather restraints. In the closet were all types and sizes of dildos and all kinds of sex lotions and freaky masks, along with hundreds of video tapes with perverted titles. And if all the gear wasn't enough there also was a video camera on a tripod positioned to catch all the perverted action that was happening. What a freak this doctor was but all this twisted shit didn't make him a murderer.

Convinced that they had found all there was to find in the sex room they moved on to the next room. As soon as they opened the door they knew they had hit pay dirt. Inside was a work shop, complete with all types of bomb making gear. Detonators, clocks, blocks of C4, sticks of dynamite, and stacks of books on how to make explosive devices for any occasion. On the wall was the master chart with all the names of the victims. They were all crossed off except Frank Desio. He was the last one still standing.

Carson and Chuck had to find the doctor. He had disappeared, but one thing they were sure of he was going to try and finish the job. He was going to try and kill Frank. They didn't really have to look for him, just sit back and wait for him to show himself. Seemed simple enough, but the doctor was very crafty. Frank had to be guarded night and day. If somehow they let him slip through they may never find the doctor again.

Chapter Fifty One

The Doctor Disappears

Carson and Chuck of course traced the doctor's steps . They were convinced he couldn't just disappear, they would surely find him. Their first stop was his office in the swank building in La Jolla, but his receptionist with the perfect body said she hadn't seen or heard from him. She was at a lost as what to do with his patient load. She however did give the detectives a home address which proved to be a dead end as well.

They dug into his bank account information to see if he had made an ATM withdrawal or used a credit card. Again they came up with nothing. They went through the county property records to see if Wyen owned any other residences where he might be hiding. According to the records he didn't own any other properties, at least not in his name. They checked to see if had used any alias's but came up with nothing. This guy was a ghost and had seemed to vanish into thin air.

The detectives had but one choice. They had to sit on Frank Desio night and day. Sooner or later this guy was going to show up. They knew the doctor wouldn't stop until Frank was dead or he got caught. The detectives were determined the later rather than the former was going to happen. It was not going to be easy but it was the only way.

Frank had just been released from the hospital and was going home. They would park across the street from Frank's house forever if that was how long it took to catch this guy. In the mean time they were still monitoring his bank accounts, hoping he would need cash and then they would have him. Until then they had to play the waiting game. Lots of stale coffee, old donuts, and blisters on their butts from sitting on a hard car seat day after day, night after night.

Chapter Fifty Two

Welcome Home Frank

It was home sweet home for Frank Desio at last. But his return home was bitter sweet. He came home to an empty house. Maria had left him to live with her sister in Phoenix, and his daughter Brianna was away at school. But he was back home, and he was alive.

Still on crutches with his leg in a cast, it was hard for Frank to get around and take care of himself, but he managed. He missed Maria but understood why she left. He had treated her like shit and for that he was sorry, but maybe it was for the best. There was Jennifer, now he could pursue her full time. The only thing he had to worry about was her asshole husband, Buster. Screw him, Frank was still going to see Jennifer, he didn't care. In fact he called her shortly after he got home from the hospital. Frank was ready to get on with his life.

He didn't care for the constant presence of the detectives sitting across the street from his house but he understood and found comfort in them. He would bring them coffee and pastries in the morning and even let them use his restroom if they needed to go. He didn't like being bate for a killer but if it would help catch him he figured that was the least he could do.

Frank was getting a little stir crazy from being confined to the house and ready to get on his normal routine and get back to work as days turned into weeks. Jennifer had started to visit him on a regular basis to help Frank out and their relationship had picked up where it left off when Frank went into the hospital.

A month and a half had passed since the attempts on Frank's life and he was starting to think he was in the clear. This guy had given up, probably left the country or something. That was what Frank was telling everybody that would listen including Jennifer and Carson and Chuck. Everybody was starting to believe what Frank was saying was true. The detectives close watch on Frank and the house had started to loosen up somewhat.

Jennifer had even started sleeping over at Frank's house using the excuse that her mom was sick and she was staying with her. Frank had asked her to leave Buster but she was still afraid of what he might do.

One morning a few weeks later Jennifer was at Frank's as had become her habit. Frank and her had gotten very bold with their relationship. Buster wasn't stupid and sooner or later he was going to find out about Frank and then there would be hell to pay.

Jennifer smiled a nervous smile and sang along to an old tune on her car radio as she drove the few miles to her ratty apartment from Frank's house. She was going to do it this morning. She was finally going to leave that bastard Buster. Just the thought of it scared the hell out of her as she continued to drive and sing and shake from pure fear. Maybe he would just let her go, no not a chance in hell.

As she drove up in her apartment complex she looked apprehensively at her front door. She knew Buster would be there, sitting on the couch probably already having his favorite breakfast, a twelve pack. She convinced herself she didn't care what he said or did, she was leaving him. She couldn't take the abuse and the beatings anymore. Why did she have to leave such a shitty life. She was a good person, she deserved better than a worthless drug addicted drunk. She deserved a good man like Frank. A man who loved her and treated her like a lady.

Buster of course was sitting on the couch drinking beer, smoking a cigarette and watching cartoons on the tube when Jennifer turned the key in her front door and eased it slowly open, hoping somehow the bastard would be gone.

She walked quickly to the kitchen and was just putting her keys and purse on the counter when Buster was in her face. "Where the fuck you been all night, bitch? Who you been fucking? You been with that Frank Desio asshole, ain't you?" Buster yelled smelling of stale beer and cigarettes and spitting with every word.

Jennifer, fear in her eyes stuck to her story. "No, no I've been over at mom's. I told you she was sick."

Pushing her against the kitchen cabinet Buster yelled even louder, "You're a lying bitch. I told you what I'd do if I found out you were fucking around." Buster grabbed Jennifer by her hair and drug her into the living room. He knocked her onto the couch with a well placed blow to her right eyed that immediately blackened and swelled up. She tried to get up and run but he grabbed her again throwing her onto the coffee table that broke under her weight. Again she tried to get up and flee but Buster snatched an empty beer bottle off the floor and banged Jennifer in the head twice, leaving her lying in a pool of blood on the living room floor. She wasn't moving.

That's what you get bitch," Buster sneered as he stood over her seemingly lifeless body. Now for that Frank asshole."

Buster ran into the kitchen, rustled through the cabinet and pulled out a .357 and checked the chamber for rounds. He retrieved Jennifer's car keys off of the counter and ran out the front door of the apartment slamming the door loudly. He jumped in Jennifer's car, cranked up and screeched out of the parking lot.

Chapter Fifty Three

Dr. D

The pain was almost unbearable as Wyen lay in the bed of a seedy motel room in National City. He had managed to hide out from the authorities for three months now, but he was dying and he had a job to finish. This time was a suicide mission, he would complete the final task of eliminating Frank Desio once and for all or die trying.

His thoughts went back to the village of his birth in Vietnam and a terrible day that changed the course of his life forever. He thought about his wife so long departed and the horrific events that occurred in the village the day she died.

He had just finished delivering a load of ammunition and rice for the NVA and sat down to eat a meal of rice and some fish he had caught the day before when the marines entered the village firing, yelling, and shoving the villagers around. He ran out to see what was happening and was herded into the dusty road near the old well with the rest. He remembered the first time he saw 2nd Lt. Frank Desio, a cocky, young Marine officer knowing immediately he was the man in charge.

Tears ran down his face as the anger welled up in him as he thought about the way he was treated. The rifle blow to his head, the deep cut sliced below his eye, the blood and the pain he felt as his fingers were severed from his hand. He could feel the ropes that restrained him and the helplessness he felt as the marines opened fire on the innocent people in the street. The dead bodies had haunted him for years. He had watched his wife shot and after the bloody ordeal was over and he was untied somehow made it to her side to speak to her as she took her final breathes. She made him promise that he would avenge her death and the deaths of the others no matter how long it took.

Even in his condition, sick and weakened from the cancer he found incredible strength to finish the job he had vowed to do so many years ago. It would be easy to sneak pass the detectives that were posted outside of Frank's house. He had been there several times in the last couple of weeks and had noticed the individuals on watch had started to let their guard down. He laughed to himself when he thought about the two bumbling detectives that had been assigned to guard his last and final victim. He decided the time was right to strike. He was dying and he must act now before it was too late.

He checked his pistol and saw that the magazine was fully loaded and ready for action. He didn't even bother putting on the silencer this time. He didn't care if he was caught or killed this time. His mission would be complete or he would die trying.

Stepping outside the door of his motel, he looked both ways, the coast was clear so he walked slowly to an old Ford he had been driving. The cops never look twice at an old man in an old car. He knew the route to Desio's very well. This would be his last trip.

Chapter Fifty Four

Collision

Jennifer had left and Frank was all alone, alone with his thoughts. He was happy for the first time in years and felt things were starting to go his way for a change. This was the day when his lover was going to tell her husband she was leaving him. He smiled and took a sip of coffee as he thought about the love he had for Jennifer. After his divorce from Maria and Jennifer's divorce from Buster was final they would be married. Frank had promised himself he would be true to his new wife. He only hoped that he could.

He peered through the curtains in his living room and saw Carson and Chuck at their usual post. Carson was nodding on the passenger side and Chuck was sitting behind the steering wheel reading a newspaper. Not exactly inspiring confidence, but the two detectives were still on the job after all these months. The killer had probably given up by now Frank thought. He was safe, but he couldn't help but thinking his life was still in danger. All his friends and fellow Marines were dead. He alone was left to tell the tale of what happened that day or take it his grave.

Feeling a little dirty he decided to go up and take a long hot shower. He still had that feeling that the water could somehow wash away his feelings of guilt, but it never did.

Outside in the unmarked unit Carson was stirring from his nap and Chuck had put down his newspaper and was drinking a cup of coffee. He reached in the back seat and grabbed a bag of donuts. "Good morning sleepy head, want a donut," Chuck inquired handing the bag to Carson.

"Yeah, sure, what time is it?" Carson said grabbing the bag and fishing a nice glazed one out.

" It's nine thirty, in the morning. Damn, how can you sleep like that? Chuck asked.

"Years of practice my boy, years of practice," Carson answered smacking on his donut. "You know we should pull the plug on this stakeout. This guy is never gonna show. We're just wasting time here."

Chuck agreed, but said they should give it a few more days. If he didn't show they could shut it down. They had did all they could do. Other cases were piling up on their desks and the detectives had spent too many months on this case already. Maybe they would just have to admit they weren't going get this guy.

After taking another sip of coffee and rustling through his paper for the third time Chuck just happened to look over in the direction Frank's house. All of a sudden a late model Toyota came pulling up out of nowhere, the driver of the vehicle bailed out in a hurry and headed towards the house. "What the fuck!" Chuck yelled waking Carson from another nap. It was Buster and he was knocking on Frank's door and yelling before Chuck and Carson realized what was going on.

"Open this fucking door, Frank. I know you're in there," Buster screamed, beating on the door with his pistol in hand.

Carson and Chuck looked at each other simultaneously and both said, "Gun!"

They bailed out of the car, guns drawn, and yelled at Buster who didn't notice them at first. "San Diego Police Department, drop your weapon," Carson yelled, as the two detectives crossed the street and ran towards the house.

Buster finally noticed the detectives approaching and as he turned he raised the .357 and pointed it at the officers. Operating on pure instinct Carson discharged his weapon hitting Buster in the right leg. "I said drop your weapon," Carson warned again.

Having none of that, Buster fired a bellowing round from his huge cannon just missing Chuck. Having no other choice the detectives fired repeatedly knocking Buster down and leaving him dying in a pool of blood.

Chuck rushed up and kicked Buster's gun that was now laying on the sidewalk away and stood over him as he drew his last breathes. ""I told that bitch, I would kill her and..."

Frank looked out his living room window in horror at the scene that had unfolded in front of his door. He looked at Buster's dead body laying on his sidewalk in disbelief.

An unwelcome visitor took advantage of the drama to sneak in the back way and get the drop on Frank who didn't even notice until Dr "D" cocked his pistol and spoke in a chilling voice. "Lt Desio, we meet again. This time one of us is going to die. I think it is going to be you this time."

Frank whirled around wide eyed shocked to see Wyen in his home and to be looking down the barrel of his pistol. "Oh, my, God! It's you. I knew that was you in the hospital, they all thought I was crazy," Frank said looking for somewhere to run.

"All of your men are dead. Only you remain. Now it is your time to die for your sins. Delayed justice is better than no justice at all," Wyen spoke in an eerie voice, almost a monotone.

"I knew this day would come. I almost prayed that it would. I have been tortured all these years, you just don't know. I am ready for my punishment," Frank cried as he spoke.

"I know you tried to stop your men, but you were in charge. We were soldiers and it was many years ago, but I made a vow to my dying wife. I will make it quick and respectful, soldier to soldier," the doctor said as he raised his pistol.

The front door crashed opened suddenly as Carson and Chuck came tumbling through, not believing the scene that was now unfolding in Frank's living room. They both realized instantly what was happening and starting firing leaving Dr. Ben Wyen lying dead on the floor and Frank standing motionless watching the action in disbelief.

Epilogue

Frank did turn himself in to face what justice he deserved in the matter of the massacre in Vietnam, in a tiny village over twenty five years previous. He couldn't go on with his life as it was. He had to get free from the devils that haunted him no matter what punishment he had to face.

The officers of the court martial board found him not guilty of war crimes and concurred that in killing his own men he had done the only thing he could do. As far as the coverup, they felt he had suffered enough and since he was the only one left they awarded him a dishorable discharge from the U.S. Marine Corps and considered the matter closed.

Jennifer was waiting for Frank as he came out of the courtroom with a big smile on his face. She could see a change in Frank already and it made her extremely happy. After Frank and Maria's divorce became final, Jennifer and him got married. He vowed to be true to her and be a good husband.

The beautiful San Diego sunshine bathed them in glorious light as they opened the door and stepped out on the sidewalk in front of the courthouse. They both thought it was good omen

The End

