FRONTIER STRETCH

by

Ann Lynes

I'd been called out of my cozy bed to investigate the shooting of a known drug dealer. The alley--right in the middle of Frontier Stretch, the local drug dealer and prostitute hangout--where Gilbert Helena was gunned down was hauntingly silent. Only the crickets chirped.

I watched as the identification technician took the man's fingerprints. Officer Clark had already tagged Gilbert's weapon as evidence. Gilbert was shot in the heart; blood stained the front of his white shirt. I'd check on the make of the gun later. Right now, my main concerns were who shot Gilbert, and if there were any witnesses.

I noticed a figure in the background, standing against a wooden fence surrounding someone's home. Frontier Stretch ran from 44th to 50th Avenue on Frontier Street. Grabbing a flashlight from a junior officer, I walked over to the figure. I wondered who would stand there and observe as we conducted an investigation. When I moved closer, I realized it was Officer Hamlin, a veteran on the Force. He was dressed in his dark blue police uniform.

"I saw it happen, Detective." His voice shook. I couldn't tell if it was the wind, or if it was from witnessing a murder. The latter, I hoped. "A man killed Gilbert in cold blood. He walked by and shot him." He kept staring at the corpse. His eyes never wandered.

"Could you tell me what the shooter looked like?"

"It was awfully dark, but I believe he was wearing a light wind breaker with a Colorado Rockies baseball cap." He continued to stare at Gilbert; his hands buried in his pants pockets. "He pulled out the gun from inside his jacket."

"What type of gun?"

"A single-action revolver; I couldn't get a good look. "

I looked over to the scene before taking in a deep breath. "I'm sorry about your daughter. If there's anything I can do..."

He wiped his eyes with his hand. "We find it hard to walk through the house. Her memory is everywhere." Officer Hamlin had found his daughter dead on the floor of her room. The coroner said she had died of a heroin overdose. Hamlin had worked Frontier Stretch for twelve years, watching drugs deteriorate our youth. He never expected his daughter to be one of them. "Thanks for asking."

Responding to his "go on" gesture, I returned to the scene.

    *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Officer Clark walked into my office. He dropped a "baggie" on my desk. In the bag was a bullet. "The Coroner pulled this out of Helena a few hours ago."

Pulling out my desk's middle drawer, I took out a pair of gloves. I put them on, picking the bullet out of the "baggie." I examined the bullet from every angle. "A Browning M1935, Hi-Power."

He sat down in a wooden chair in front of my desk. "You've never failed to identify one correctly."

I looked at him closely. His eyebrows were wrinkled, and black bags were under his eyes. "What's wrong, officer?"

"The Commissioner believes it's a police-issued weapon." He gave me a weak smile. "That makes me uneasy."

I feigned a grin. A Police-Issued? "It would make anybody nervous to think one of our own was involved." But Hamlin said the assailant was wearing a wind-breaker. Then again, he did say it was too dark to see. "Who does the Commissioner suspect?"

"He wants you to find that out."

Of course, it was my job, but sometimes I wondered why murders were the only cases that seemed to pass by my desk. I spent more time with corpses than my own family. I smiled, touching the picture of my two grown daughters and their families. "Tell him I need the fingerprints and DNA results right away, confirming the corpse as Gilbert Helena."

The officer left the room. There were many people who would want to kill Gilbert Helena, relatives of people he'd sold drugs to, people he'd hurt coming back for revenge. Other drug dealers. Just to name a few. I started compiling list of police officers whose children had been arrested for drugs. I figured that would be a start.

That night I found myself at another back-alley crime on Frontier Stretch. This time, a substance was thrown onto the ground. A female body rested to the right of the powder. My guess was that substance was marijuana. From the angle of the body to the powder, it appeared the woman and her killer were fighting over the drugs. The plastic bag was located several feet away.

Just as with the last victim, this one had taken a bullet to the heart. No witnesses. The officers tagged evidence, including samples of the powder and fingerprints.

Questioning people in the neighborhood didn't do any good. They were use to hearing the sounds of so many guns shooting up their neighborhood that they barely paid attention to the blaring sirens of police and ambulances.

Although it was sad, I too was becoming use to the sight of death. Could the two murders be connected? This one seemed to be a clear battle over drugs. I couldn't be sure whether the other one involved buying drugs or revenge. At the moment, I didn't want to link the two. I decided I had to stop a third killing from happening.

We sat in lawn chairs in the backyard of one of the houses behind Frontier Stretch, facing the small camera we had threaded through a hole in the fence. Our surveillance equipment spread out in front of us.

We sat there watching and waiting for two weeks straight. We were able to arrest several drug dealers and buyers in that time. Most were free on bail the next day. No killing took place, though. My partners were getting frustrated and crabby by the time the department called off the stake-outs.

At 3 am, I heard the familiar ring. Without answering it, I got dressed and headed down to Frontier Stretch, hoping I wasn't right. I knew, though, I was.

My heart sank as I saw the police working the scene--sketching it, collecting evidence, dusting for fingerprints. An insider had to be the killer. An insider would know when we had stopped surveying Frontier Stretch.

I called two police officers to the car and asked them to get in. I drove the car toward 50th Avenue--the other end of the Stretch. "Where are we going?"

"We are going to catch a drug dealer."

"We have a murder to investigate."

"If we don't catch this drug dealer, we can't catch our killer." The conversation with Clark was wearing thin. I knew he didn't understand. Heck, I didn't understand. I just had a gut feeling to work with.

At 50th Avenue, I parked the car out of view. We watched for two hours before Clark noticed a drug deal in progress. A man stood back to back with another person. When the dealer turned around, he handed the other person a paper sack.

"Go after him!," I instructed the other officers. Both officers ran down the street.

I waited for them for what seemed like hours before they came back. The drug dealer, hand cuffed, was led to the car by Clark. The dealer had blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Clark's uniform sleeve seemed to be ripped. The other officer limped behind them. It wasn't until Clark jumped in the car that I noticed his "shiner." Obviously, the capture hadn't been an easy one. However, the first step in my plan to catch our killer had been executed.

Sitting across from the drug dealer--a thin-built man with short blond hair, and a freckled face--I realized he didn't fit the image of a dealer. He could have been Beaver or Opie. "I'm Detective Darlene Murphy."

He didn't speak. He folded his hands on the table.

"I'm here to make you a deal."

He stared at me, then at his hands.

"We have enough evidence to put you in jail for a long time. We have the drugs and three witnesses."

He didn't move a muscle. He didn't even flinch.

"I need you to help me catch the person who killed *three* drug dealers." I studied his reaction before continuing, "I need an answer right away."

He pushed his chair back and stood up. Reaching for the door, he turned around. "Can you get me a reduced sentence if I help you?

I nodded, looking back at him.

Walking back to the table, he sat down. "Am I going to be in danger?"

"You'll have my guarantee the area will be surrounded by cops." My heart pounded. My palms sweated. I told him as little as possible. The less he knew, the less he could leak out. One way or another.

    *     *     *     *     *     *     *

My team kept the mission a secret because if word seeped out about this operation, our killer might not show up. We were taking a chance that our killer would target our drug dealer.

We sat in the police car--Clark and the drug dealer in front, Simmons and I in the back. Jack, our drug dealer, allowed Clark to adjust the wires we had attached to Jack's chest. Jack buttoned up his blue shirt.

He swung open the door and walked into Frontier Stretch on foot. I jumped into the front seat with my binoculars to my eyes. Simmons and Clark put their binoculars to their faces too. It wasn't long before a man approached Jack.

Shots rang out, sounding like thunder against the car. We ducked, barely missing the bullets being aimed at the car from behind. Clark and Simmons started shooting back, distracting the shooters as I opened the car door. I managed to dodge the bullets until I got out of firing range.

In all the commotion, the killer was escaping. I told Jack to be careful returning to the car.

Running after the killer, I shone my flashlight in front of me. I guess he started sensing that I was closing in on him because he turned around and shot me. The bullet grazed my arm. Oh God, did it hurt! My breathing became rapid. I aimed at his leg and fired. I wanted to be able to apprehend him alive. He tried to run but stumbled to the ground. I grabbed his gun and his handcuffs.

Pulling his hands behind his back, I locked the cuffs around his wrists. He turned his head to look at me. Once I saw his face, my heart broke. Officer Hamlin. It all made sense--the police-issued gun, the inside information, his daughter's heroin overdose.

Officer Clark ran toward me; Simmons trailed him. "I heard shots--" He drew a breath, looking at Hamlin. "You must have made a mistake, Murphy."

"Help me get him to the car," I yelled at Clark. "Unfortunately, I didn't make a mistake." I held my arm. I glanced down at Hamlin. It must be humiliating to be arrested with your own handcuffs. As the pain of gun shot wound finally set in, I fell to the ground. "Can someone get me to the hospital?"

Clark assisted Hamlin as he hop to the car while Simmons helped me over to a back-up squad car, where I was promptly rushed to Frontier Memorial Hospital.

    *     *     *     *     *     *     *

I remained in my seat. I looked him in the eyes. No need for him to know how much I was intimidated by him. "We caught the killer."

"You could've got yourself killed in the process." He sat back down in his wooden chair. "Give me your gun and badge."

I hesitated before removing my gun from its holster and unpinning my badge. My heart felt as if it had been ripped out, thrown on the ground, and stomped on.

I slid the gun and badge across the varnished desk top. "Although I will admit my methods were unorthodox, I did catch the killer. No one got hurt." I looked down at the white sling tied around my neck. "Well..."

"Three weeks." He opened the door to his office, motioning me out. "Consider it a vacation."

I rose to my feet and walked toward the door, frowning. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"I'll see you in three weeks."

He seemed cold almost as if he had no feelings. I wanted to blame him, to yell and rant about justice prevailing but refrained. I stepped into the hall.

"Murphy." I turned to face him again. "Thanks for solving this case."

I beamed. "You're welcome."