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Four Years Earlier
December 8, 1976
Sacramento, California
The clerk looked up as the customer walked into the store. The clerk hadn’t seen him before. The customer wasn’t a local boy and not that old, maybe fifteen or sixteen, but he looked different, like he had seen a lot more than your usual sixteen year old. It was his eyes, tired, like a man who had seen life from the bottom side. He was dark, probably Hispanic, thought the clerk. The boy looked nervous; his eyes darted around the store as if he was looking to see if anyone was there. The clerk could feel himself getting edgy, and it wasn’t long before the clerk knew why the kid made him nervous. It was when the kid pulled out the gun. The pointed gun instantly got this clerk’s attention, and it also caused him to hit the silent alarm.
There is something about a .45 caliber automatic that you have to be aware of, especially when you pull it out: The old Army issue .45 is a touchy weapon. You carry it half-cocked; that is, if you are planning on using it. Most people who aren’t familiar with guns tend to put their finger on the trigger when they pull a gun. This usually isn’t a problem because most guns won’t go off with just a little pressure on the trigger. I wouldn’t recommend that you try that because I said “most guns.” But there is one gun which you never want to put your finger on the trigger of unless you are ready to fire, and that weapon just happens to be a .45 automatic. Many people have learned this the hard way, and the kid in the Sacramento convenience store became one of them. He pulled the gun, and before he could say it was a stickup, the gun went off. Oddly, it was the second time he had made the same mistake. The first time he shot himself in the leg. Robbery was definitely not his strong suit.
The next thing Raul Lopez knew, he was surrounded by police officers, and he quickly came to a new revelation: He was alone. The man who brought him to the store, his getaway driver, had left him. As he was handcuffed, it seemed that everyone around him was talking at once. The cuffs hurt like hell—but they did not cause Raul as much discomfort as the thought of telling his mother what had happened.
The clerk watched from behind the counter as the police pulled the kid up from the floor. His heart still hadn’t slowed down. The smell of burnt gunpowder was now added to the smell of stale coffee and the jumble of odors that made up a convenience store.
5
Never Piss Off a Mother
Two Days Later
December 10, 1976
Fresno, California
Detective Sergeant Art Tabler sat at his desk in the office of the Fresno County Sheriff Detective Division, Crimes Against Persons. In the trade, that basically meant robbery/homicide/rape, not to mention the usual non-fatal Saturday night knifings. One could describe Tabler by saying his face was eminently forgettable. But that wouldn’t reflect the reality of the man. He was one of those people who looked like he worked some regular job, nothing distinctive or special, the kind of guy that you would walk by on the street and never notice. He wasn’t fat but he wasn’t thin. His face was fleshy but not round. What hair he had was dark but not gray. In fact, he was basically bald. That much you would remember; Art was definitely bald. If it weren’t for the fact he was bald, you wouldn’t remember much of anything about Art Tabler—unless, that is, he was asking you questions while you sat in a chair. Then you would remember Art Tabler forever, because you would most likely be under arrest for murder and he would be reeling you in like a fish. He had that way about him. Nobody ever really saw it coming until they heard the click of the cuffs.
Tabler picked up the report in front of him. It was about a call from the Sacramento sheriff’s department. Officers there had a robbery suspect in custody and, believe it or not, like most criminals, he had a mother. The reason the Sacramento S.O. contacted Fresno was because they had talked to the mother. Not only was she angry that her boy was in custody, she had a story to tell. Somebody had put her boy up to a robbery and then abandoned him, leaving him to fend for himself, and she wanted to get even.
You never want to piss off somebody’s mother by mistreating her kid. Even lousy mothers are, at some point, protective about their kids. Must be instinct. Yes, some mothers beat their kids half to death and then cry when the cops take their kids away from them. This mother was no different—with a few minor exceptions. Barbara Carrasco was in prison in Alderson Federal Penitentiary in West Virginia, and Barbara Carrasco wanted to talk about a murder. She wanted to name names. Like I said, never piss off a mother by hurting her kid.
The name that Carrasco gave up was Clarence Ray Allen. Tabler thought about it. This was the kind of case that his old partner, Art Christensen, should handle, and that thought reminded him of one of the downsides of being a sergeant; you no longer had a partner, now that you were a supervisor. He missed the field and he missed sitting around with Christensen, telling each other lies, but he had made his choice. You had to know when it was your time to come in out of the field. And, ten months ago, his time had come. Now he made a note and stuck it in Christensen’s box, telling Art to see him as soon as he came in. It wasn’t long before Christensen was at the door, along with his new partner, Tommy Lean.
There are many ways I could describe Christensen but all of them would start with the word “gaunt.” He was tall and he was thin. Actually, thin isn’t quite how you would describe him. Thin would mean that there was some beef on him but not much. With Art, there was skin on him and that was about it. Christensen’s nickname was “Blade,” but that was not because he carried a knife. It was because he was about as thin as a knife blade and the name distinguished him from his former partner, Art Tabler. Otherwise it would have been Art and Art so nobody would know who you were talking about. Blade didn’t mind what you called him, although Art Tabler did. Christensen was one of the last of the old-time sheriff’s officers, part cowboy, part good ol’ boy, and part wolf. One of the first things I learned about Art Christensen was that however he perceived the person he was talking to would dictate the role he would play in responding to that person—cowboy, good ol’ boy, or wolf. Most people were misled by his demeanor. They underestimated him. It was a serious mistake. His teeth weren’t straight and his light brown hair was always slicked back with Brylcream or something else that held it in place like Elmer’s Glue. Brylcream used to be big back then with people over forty, but you have to remember, “back then” was over thirty years ago. Yes, Blade was definitely a good ol’ boy. He liked his friends, he liked his wife, and he liked his horse. He always made it clear that he liked his wife best—but he liked his horse a lot.
Standing next to Blade was Tommy Lean. The contrast was clear. Blade favored cowboy shirts, jeans, and boots. Tommy looked like a poster boy for surfers. Lean was just like his name, tall and with the leanness of a college athlete, which he had been. He had blond hair that fell over his forehead that he routinely pushed back with his hand. He liked Hawaiian shirts and loafers. Unlike Christensen, during most of the year he carried his nine-millimeter automatic in a shoulder holster, which made his Hawaiian shirt bulge and look a little out of place, but in the winter he covered it with a coat. In the summer, Tommy conceded that a shoulder holster made people nervous, so he would wear a hip holster and drop his shirt outside his pants.
There was a difference in the way the two partners carried on their interrogations. Blade approached interrogation like he was circling his prey. Lean approached interrogation in a very laid-back manner, and he kept the intimidating demeanor to a minimum. By any stretch, they were an odd pair, the seasoned and cynical homicide detective who could look right through you and the younger detective who would ask how you were doing right
