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     As I sprinted up to the front door, I jammed on the brakes – abruptly confronting the brutal, true nature of law enforcement.  What I was about to witness would alter me for the rest of my life.

     Lying on his back in the entrance – with the glass door held open by his body – was a large Black man, late twenties, who had to be at least Six-foot-five, and weighing in at 250 pounds.  He was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt with jeans and sneakers.  He had also been shot above the left eye by a snub-nosed, .38 caliber, revolver. 

     And here, dear reader, was where the true horror began.

     Although his eyes were closed...the Black man was still alive!  At once finding myself in a macabre nightmare, I observed his mouth open widely - resembling a gaping fish - and gulp in a lung-full of air...then exhale and shudder violently while emitting a rasping death rattle.  He continued this grotesque display again and again without letup – his body fighting hopelessly to stay alive.

     Why hopelessly, dear reader?  The horror continues.

     Pushing aside my initial shock, upon further examination, I made another horrifying discovery.  A type of gelatinous substance, the color of raspberries, was oozing out of the bullet hole above his left eye and, since his head was tilted slightly left, this substance was forming a perfect upside-down cone on the dirty concrete. 

      After standing dumbly there for a full ten seconds, my horrified mind finally sorted out what I was seeing.  Prompting a desire to lift my skirt and runaway, screaming my head off, like a bitchy little girl!

     That’s right, dear reader, I was observing brain matter being pumped out of his head through the bullet hole!  Apparently the .38 slug had spun around inside the Black man’s skull – scrambling his brain to jelly. 

     Obviously the man’s heart – probably the size of a locomotive – hadn’t gotten the word that the organ responsible for all manner of conscious and unconscious thought – the very propellant of life itself – was hopelessly shot to shit.  Instead of shutting down, the heart diligently kept on pumping – pushing the scrambled, aforementioned organ out onto the concrete.  It would continue pumping – fighting for life – another five hours before giving up.  As for me, I’d carry this man’s death the rest of my life amongst other assorted emotional baggage – ultimately becoming the igniter of my worst nightmares.

     Helplessly I scanned my immediate area for someone to render aid to this dying man.  There wasn’t another soul in sight. 

     Reluctantly, I stepped over his body and entered the liquor store.  At which point I was hit by the strong odor of rum, bourbon, Scotch and brandy - all mixed together as my feet crunched on broken glass in pools of booze.  I froze for a moment, as the realization struck me that there had been one hell of a gunfight inside this store – stray rounds evidently breaking a number of bottles.

     It was enough to make an alcoholic weep, dear reader.

     I scanned the empty store – to my right was the vacant cashier’s counter – spread out in front of me were endless rows of racks bearing all manner of alcoholic beverages.  Down the west wall, to my left, stretched an empty aisle that ended at an office in the store’s rear.  Through the opened office door I detected movement inside – wanting to find out what was going on I headed in that direction. 

     I had nearly covered half the distance to the office, when, once again, I slammed into another facet of this brutal crime scene.  Off to my right, at the far end of an intersecting aisle, lay a woman’s body.  She was sprawled face down, with one shoe off, wore a lavender blouse with a paisley skirt and had shoulder-length dark hair.  I couldn’t detect any blood or wounds at this distance.  At first I hoped she was merely resting – except that sinking feeling in my left testicle told me she was dead.

     It wasn’t until the next day, dear reader, that I found out what had killed this woman.  The dying man, lying in the store’s front entrance, had shot her in the back with a Browning 9 mm. 

     The bullet had glanced off a vertebra, turning it upward at an 80-degree angle, causing it to travel up the trunk of her body and bury itself in the bottom of her heart.  She was dead before she hit the floor and, because her heart was shutdown, she didn’t bleed out.  This store employee was in her mid-forties and somebody’s mother - her only crime was showing up for work today.

     Continuing my journey down the store’s west wall, putting this disturbing scene behind me, I came to the office’s entrance.  Inside I observed Sgt. Andy kneeling next to another woman with shoulder-length salt and pepper hair, also in her forties, in a torn calico dress and seated on a chair.  Andy’s back was to me, while the seated woman faced towards me, but had her face buried into the good sergeant’s right shoulder as she wept.  Andy had his arms around her – attempting to comfort her.  Amid the tears, I heard her mumble, “They...they were going to put a bullet in my head...and dump me in a bayou.  God bless you, officer.  God bless you...”

     Beyond them I could see outside through the opened back door.  On the ground lay the two perpetrators - still on their bellies with hands cuffed behind them.  A newly arrived uniformed officer was going through their pockets, while his partner covered them with his drawn weapon.  The uniformed officer that had exchanged shots with them - from behind the Mustang – was conducting a search inside the perpetrators’ Camaro.

     There was activity inside the office in the left corner, so I stepped inside to get a better view, and discovered the first uniformed officer on the scene.  He was rendering medical attention from a first-aid kit to a white male of medium height, about 30, with dark hair, who was naked to the waist.  The uniformed officer was tending to a gunshot wound, which had left a long crease across the man’s chest.

     Okay, dear reader, let’s rewind the tape and discuss this gentleman that was naked to the waist.  He was an off-duty officer who, by pure dumb luck, had stumbled into the perpetrators’ felonious enterprise.  Being his day off he was wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt-jack with dark slacks, and had decided, on the spur of the moment, to pick up additional beer for a barbecue he was hosting that afternoon.  Upon entering Bert Wheeler’s, he removed his dark glasses, stuck them in his shirt pocket, and instantly recognized something was wrong – the cashier’s counter was empty - there wasn’t a soul in sight.  The perpetrators had previously rounded up the two female staff, and taken them to the back office to rob the safe.

     Movement at the rear of the store, to his left, then caught the off-duty officer’s attention.  Looking in that direction he located the two White female employees, in their forties, walking towards him.  Behind them, holding guns trained on their backs, were three Black males in their twenties – the “perps.”

     In a panic, the dark-haired female hostage suddenly broke and ran down a side aisle.  What later turned out to be the perpetrators’ leader - the six-foot-five dude – without any warning, or hesitation whatsoever, shot the fleeing woman in the back.

     Upon witnessing this brutal act, the off-duty officer went for his snub-nosed .38, in the waistband holster under his shirt-jack (HPD policy required all off-duty officers to be armed).  As he did this, the other two perpetrators opened up on him with their 9 mm semi-automatics.  A lot of bullets began snapping past his body, smashing bottles of booze behind him, while one bullet grazed his right cheek and another grazed the middle finger of his right hand.

     At this juncture, it occurred to the off-duty officer that it might be a good idea to grab some cover.  So be dove behind the cashier’s counter - as he did a bullet creased his chest - knocking out a lens of the dark glasses in his shirt’s pocket.  Powered by a massive injection of adrenalin - the off-duty officer didn’t stay put.  Instead, he scrambled for the east side of the huge liquor store – using racks of beverages for cover.

     In the meantime, two of the perpetrators hustled the other female hostage out of the store, along with the loot in a canvas bag.  They tossed the hostage onto the Camaro’s back floor, and the bag of money after her, then climbed into the front seats – leaving both of the coupe’s doors open – and waited for their leader.

     Except the perp’s leader – the big dude – stopped at the front door and hesitated.  It was paramount that he nail the off-duty officer - the sole legitimate witness to his murder of the brunet hostage.

     This was when a minor miracle occurred, dear reader.      

     The off-duty officer popped up from behind a rack of booze - caught the perpetrator in the front doorway off-guard – aimed at the perp’s torso, and fired one round from the two-inch barrel of his revolver. 

     Because of his adrenalin over-load, the off-duty officer jerked the trigger – causing his .38 bullet to drift upward as it traversed the 27 feet.  Amazingly - just before it altogether missed its intended target – it happened to catch the perpetrator at an angle above his left eye, causing the bullet to spin inside his skull and not exit.  The big dude collapsed in the doorway like a 250-pound sack of potatoes.

     The perpetrators in the Camaro saw their leader fall, shifted into first gear and took off – leaving both doors open.

     In spite of this, “our” off-duty officer was pinned down inside the store.  Since felons of this type had the nasty habit of driving out of sight – then stopping and waiting for their pursuer – taking him out with a shotgun blast when he stepped outside. 

     So instead of pursuing the perpetrators, the off-duty officer went to the cashier’s counter and tried to locate a phone to call for backup.  While he was doing this, much to his surprise, he spotted a police blue & white zipping past the front entrance in pursuit of the perpetrators.  He had no idea that we – in the helicopter – had already launched backup.

     Stepping over the dying perpetrator in the doorway, the off-duty officer snatched up the dying man’s 9 mm, then sprinted down the building’s west side after the police cruiser.  The building was the length of a city block and, after traveling half its distance, a young local cowboy materialized out of thin air, ran up to the off-duty officer and handed him a 12-gauge Winchester pump, saying, “Y’all might be a needin’ this.”

     Holstering his .38, and shoving the 9 mm in a pocket of his slacks, the off-duty officer took the shotgun and continued running.  The young cowboy vanished.

     Upon reaching the northwest corner of the building, the off-duty officer found the uniformed officer, in the police cruiser, exchanging shots with the two perpetrators in the Camaro.  Peering around the corner, the off-duty officer could detect the perpetrators through the Camaro’s back window, but not the hostage – she was still on the floor in the back seat.  Lining up on the Camaro, he fired the shotgun and blew out the back window.

     Immediately following that - the second police car arrived on the other side of the Mustang - its officer also commenced firing at the perpetrators.  At that point the “perps” wisely threw in the towel.

     As I stood quietly in Bert Wheeler’s office, observing the drama being played out about me, the off-duty officer’s gaze fell on me, as the uniformed officer treated his bullet wound.  He nodded and cracked an embarrassed smile.

     I nodded and smiled back, then motioned towards the window behind him, and asked, “Would you like a lift to the hospital?”

     Sgt. Andy warming up our 300B.

     The off-duty officer glanced behind him, and spied the inert police helicopter waiting patiently outside in the parking lot.  He did a double take, then, appearing appalled, looked back at me and said, “In that little puddle-jumper?  Are you outta your cotton-pickin’ mind?  Don’t you know those things are dangerous, boy?”

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     Over a six year period I would work with 36 different law enforcement agencies.  With regards to dedication and professionalism, Houston P.D. proved to be the absolute best.

     As for their “Air Support Division,” they would build it up to the second largest in the U.S. It personally swells my heart with pride to know they accomplished this on the training foundation which I laid out for them.

          

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