Marc – Day twenty-six

I knocked on the door of the Captain’s office. He looked at his watch, acknowledged my presence, and then waved for me to come in. “Enter!”

I pushed the door open. “Morning, Captain.”

“Surprised you came in today. Didn’t expect to see you for a week. Since when do you get in here at the ass crack of dawn? It’s 6:05.”

“I’m headed to breakfast. I knew you’d be here, so here I am.”

He stood. “Before you get started on whatever you think you might need from me, I’ve got a question for you.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Ballistics came in on the five men from the drug house. Three were killed by the same weapon, a .45 H&K SOCOM that was reported missing from the Navy Armory in Coronado several years ago. The two other men were killed by two separate weapons, a 9mm and a .40 cal. Those weapons have no trace data. We both know that SEALs are trained at Coronado. Is there anything you want to tell me about a missing Navy SEAL pistol?”

“No, Sir.”

He rubbed his temple with his fingertips and then met my gaze. “Is it a mere coincidence that I have a Navy SEAL in my employ, and three of the men at the drug house were shot by one hell of a marksman with the same aforementioned pistol, which, coincidentally, came from the Navy Armory on SEAL island?”

I gave a dismissive shrug. “Sounds like a hell of a bunch of coincidences, Top.”

He tossed his hands in the air in mock frustration. “You know what? I’d dismiss it and say some turd gangbanger ended up with a stolen weapon, but it’s clear that’s not what happened here. Someone went into that home, popped two of those shit birds before they had a chance to get their hands out of their respective pockets, and then shot the third right between his tits. After the fact, the same man – with the same pistol – dumped nine more rounds into him just because. A few of which, I might add, were in his nut sack. For a man to kill that many men that quick – and make it out alive – tells me he’s either a trained assassin, a former frogman, or he spends a hell of a lot of time practicing.”

He wanted me to comment, but I had no intention of feeding his curiosity.

“Sounds like one of your brethren at work,” he said.

“Might be one of yours,” I said with a smile. “I’ve seen a Marine or two that could hold their own. Not all of them are violent drunks with five ex-wives, you know.”

“Fuck you, Watson,” he said dryly.

“We made a deal before this all got settled,” I said. “I held up my end. Did you take care of what I asked you to?”

“You know what? I did.” He reached over his desk, picked up a manila envelope, and tossed it to me. “One of those I take no exception to. One, I highly question. If the one I highly question becomes--”

“It won’t.”

“Watson, I mean it. If that document--”

“It won’t.”

I turned toward the door. “I appreciate this.”

“I appreciate those nine little girls being with their families. One last thing,” he said.

I spun around. “What’s that?”

“Did I read your report correctly? One of those dead shit birds stumbled outside and left a blood trail on the side walk?”

“Found him in the yard,” I said. “Craziest damned thing I’ve ever seen. Looks like he was trying to walk out to his truck.”

“Another left a blood trail through the back yard?” he asked.

“Found him in the middle of the yard, by a shitty old barbeque grille. I’m thinking he was going to cook his last burger.”

“Sounds to me like at least two members of your rival gang were wounded.”

“DNA says otherwise,” I said. “Blood in the front yard and at the back door are from the deceased.”

“Let me guess. You took those samples?”

“Affirmative.”

“Off the record, Watson. Who killed these men?”

“Off the record?”

“Off the record.”

“Rival gang,” I said.

“Will your report reflect that?”

“It already does,” I said. “See you next week, Top.”

“I can’t fucking wait.”

* * *

I lowered myself into the booth and let out a sigh. After I adjusted my silverware, I placed my folded newspaper in the center of the table.

Charlee lowered her book. Her eyes searched my table. “You forgot to unfold it, Atticus.”

“Am I that predictable?”

She set the book aside. “Same thing every day. Silverware, newspaper, then the ketchup deal. Did you finally realize there’s no sense in unfolding it?”

“I’m hiding something in it.”

She craned her neck to get a better view. “Something other than more newspaper?”

“That is correct.”

She shifted her gaze from the newspaper to me and narrowed her eyes. “Interesting.”

Jacky stepped between us and handed me my cup of coffee. “Good morning, Marc. The usual?”

I smiled. “Good morning. Yes, please.”

“It’ll be up in a few.”

“Thank you.”

As she walked toward the kitchen, I looked at Charlee. “What are you reading?”

She tapped her finger against a paperback. “The Heart and the Fist.”

She finally found one that I hadn’t read. I was impressed. “Never heard of it. What’s it about?”

“A humanitarian.”

I didn’t sound much like her. I wrinkled my nose and stared. “That’s it?”

“He became a Navy SEAL. When he got out, he started an organization that helps wounded veterans. War is brutal, just in case you didn’t know.”

I nodded slowly as if absorbing her statement. “I’ll make note of that.”

“It’s awful, and he puts it all out there in a way that’s just like, here it is, like it or not.” She reached for the book, but didn’t pick it up. “I respect people like him.”

I found it interesting that she respected him, and I wondered if it was the humanitarian side of him that won her heart, or the warrior side. “Why is that?”

“The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature,” she said. “It’s a true story, kind of an autobiography. The author is selfless. He risked his life, over and over, to do something he thought might help others. Others that he didn’t even know. How can you not respect that?”

The quote from the book sparked my interest enough that I wanted to read it. “He sounds like a great man. How far along are you?”

“Just starting. It really sucked me in. They’re in Fallujah, Iraq.”

I fought in the first and second battles of Fallujah. It was the most brutal close quarters combat the Navy SEALs had ever seen. Face-to-face fighting was much different than volleying shots back and forth while taking cover behind a building, vehicle, or rock. The two battles were a much more personal type of warfare than anything I’d even endured. I wondered if I knew the author, and decided more than likely, I did.

“What’s the author’s name?

“Eric Greitens.”

He was a SEAL Lieutenant, and I did know him. I smiled. “Sounds interesting.”

“You said that already.”

Jacky slid my plate on the edge of the table.

“Let him eat, Charlee,” Charlee sneered.

Her mother shot her a glare. “I mean it.”

“I always do, mother.”

Jacky looked at me. “She’s got an attitude the last few days,” she whispered. “Tired of being locked in the house.”

“Did she get in trouble?”

She leaned over my table. “She said you told her to stay there.”

“Oh. Well, she can leave now. I’ll explain everything to her when I’m done.”

She motioned toward my plate. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

I ate my breakfast, thinking the entire time about the selfless acts of others. Nick Navarro and his men acted selflessly. After we talked on the night of the raid, I was quite certain he knew MS-13 didn’t tag his building. I suspected he felt compelled to complete the mission because of the little girls.

Whether he cared to admit it or not, he was still a SEAL at heart. The facade that he sheltered himself behind wouldn’t allow most to realize it, though.

I pushed my plate to the side and sipped my coffee. Charlee sat anxiously at her booth with her knees pulled to her chest and her eyes fixed on my newspaper. I suspected her mind was going a hundred miles an hour scanning the possibilities of what she believed was hiding within the pages.

I peered over the top of my cup. “Do you have any trophies at home?”

Her focus shifted from the newspaper to me. “Trophies? Yeah, a few.”

“Where do you keep them?”

“Mom has a place. In the living room. Why?”

I lowered the cup. “Just wondering.”

I pushed my plate to the side and moved the newspaper to the center of the table. Her eyes followed my every movement.

“What exactly is in there? Can’t be much.”

“Not much at all.”

She extended her tanned legs and began to wag the toes of her sneakers back and forth. Her eyes slowly narrowed to slits. She’d ironed her hair straight, and appeared to be a few years older than her age of thirteen.

I unfolded the paper, and gazed down at the framed document.

In referencing the detailed information personally provided to a detective that subsequently led undercover officers to the location where nine kidnap victims were being held, the San Diego County Sheriff’s Office, namely the Gang Task Force, extends its hand of appreciation to you.

Selfless acts such as this, by citizens such as you, exemplify the relationship that the SDCSO hopes to develop with all citizens. Furthermore, it speaks volumes regarding the selflessness of the person who comes forward with said information.

Acts such as this do not come easy. They require courage, and expose the provider to certain inherent risks. Know that the bravery you have so fearlessly expressed does not go unnoticed.

The value we place on individuals such as you cannot be expressed enough. We reserve hope that the presentation of this award suffices to summarize our thoughts and feelings.

From the families of the nine living victims, and, namely from the San Diego County Sheriff’s Office, we thank you.

Signed,

Captain Gene Sprague, SDCO Gang Task Force Supervisor

I grinned after reading it, and then looked at Charlee. With her knees bent and her feet propped beneath her butt, she craned her curious neck in my direction.

I folded the newspaper over the award and arched an eyebrow slightly. “Join me?”

“Come over there?” she asked excitedly.

I slid a few feet to the right and slapped the seat cushion beside me. “Right here.”

She pounced from her seat. After two long strides, she landed in the seat beside me. Her eyes darted from the newspaper to me, and back. The cushion began to shake. I grinned and glanced beneath the table.

Her knee was bouncing nervously.

“So, what is it?” she asked.

I unfolded the newspaper. “See for yourself.”

Her eyes shot to the document.

After reading it, she gasped. “The thing from the news? The girls? Oh. My. Gosh. This is crazy. Are you serious right now? That guy?”

She looked at me with widened eyes. “I helped find them?”

“The information you provided led the detectives right to them.”

“Were you one of them? The detectives?”

“I had some involvement in this case, yes.”

She exhaled, and slumped into her seat. “They all died, didn’t they? The guys?”

I draped my arm over her shoulder. “This is privileged information, not to be shared, okay? It will come out in the news in about a week, but no one knows yet.”

Her eyes shot to me. “What is it?”

“This case was an odd one. The way it unfolded was unique, but in the end, it was probably what was best for everyone, especially the detectives involved. Here’s what happened. The men in question kidnapped each of the victims and they were being held in a home on the east side. In that same house, a vigilant gang got in a shootout with them. The kidnappers were killed in the gunfight that ensued. A detective, acting on the information you provided, was going to the house in question at roughly the same time. Upon arriving, he scared the vigilant gang and they fled the scene. His subsequent search of the residence produced the dead kidnappers, and the girls, all of which were alive.”

“A vigilant gang killed them? Why?”

“I suppose they were seeking justice. Trying to make the world a safer place. It’s not conduct I necessarily agree with, but I’ve learned to look at it no differently than I look at the food chain.”

“What do you mean?”

I drew a long breath. My presentation was important. If done properly, it should relieve Charlee of feeling responsible for the deaths, and allow her to feel prideful for her actions.

“The vigilant gang is a predator, and the kidnappers were their prey,” I explained. “In the food chain, the grasshopper eats the grass. The grasshopper is then eaten by the snake. The snake is caught and eaten by the hawk. The hawk then deposits his spoils from his meal onto the earth, which feeds the grass. The grass then grows to feed the growth of yet another grasshopper. The chain is endless. The vigilant gang is the hawk. The kidnappers are the snake.”

“So, the vigilant gang was after them anyway, right?”

“That is correct.”

“And, the vigilantes didn’t know about anything that I’d said?”

“They did not. They were acting on their own.”

She looked at me. “Just because they knew those guys were crappy people?”

“Correct.”

She reached for the award. “So, my information led the detectives to the girls. They were saved because of me?”

“That is also correct.”

She lifted the frame and gazed at the award. “This is freaking awesome.”

“I’m proud of you,” I said.

“I’m proud of you, too. Even if you didn’t have much involvement.”

I shrugged. “Maybe next time.”

She tilted her head to the side, and rested it on my shoulder. “I like you, Atticus.”

“I like you right back, Scout.”

“Can we tell my mom?”

“I think I need to.”

She looked up. “Speak of the devil.”

Jacky walked up the booth and shook her head. “What do we have here?”

I motioned toward the other side of the booth. “Have a seat?”

She slid into the booth and looked at me with eyes of uncertainty. “What’s going on?”

I inhaled a deep breath, exhaled, and began. “Nine girls were kidnapped recently. One of the suspects had prominent tattoos, and was evading the authorities. A week or so ago, I explained to Charlee how we were looking for him, and she said she’d seen a similar man at the 7-Eleven on Pala Vista. Based on the information she provided, the store’s video was searched. Information was obtained in the search that led detectives to find the girls, and return them to their subsequent families. In short, Charlee’s provision of the man’s description was instrumental in rescuing the girls.”

Her eyes shot to Charlee and then to me. “My little Charlee?”

“Your little Charlee.”

She extended her arm across the table and turned her palm upward. Charlee reached for her hand.

Charlee slid the award across the table.

Jacky’s eyes fell to it. After reading it, she wiped her eyes with the tips of her fingers and then looked up. Her eyes were wet, and her face wore a quivering smile.

“I’m so…I’m so proud of you,” she stammered.

Charlee beamed. “Thank you.”

She dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “No more going to the 7-Eleven alone, though.”

“Okay.”

Jacky looked at me. “Thank you, too. For telling her to stay home until this was settled. I wish you would have said something to me, though.”

“I should have. I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven.”

She took one last look at the award. “I need to show this to Gene. And Marco.”

“Don’t get any grease on it,” Charlee warned.

She stood, looked at the award, and smiled. “I won’t.”

Charlee sat with me for some time, and then got up and moved to her booth. After situating herself in the seat, she pulled her knees to her chest.

She cocked her head a little. “So, this relationship you’re in. Are we ever going to get to meet her?”

I shot her a look. “We?”

She motioned toward the kitchen with her eyes. “I told mom. She’s hoping to meet her, too.”

I finished my coffee, folded my newspaper, and then stood. “We’ll see.”

She gave a flippant wave of her hand. “I know what that means.”

I tossed $30 on the table. “What’s it mean?”

“It means probably not.”

When I was a child, we’ll see was indicative of uncertainly.

And, that’s what I was.

Uncertain.