stopping just behind the driver. Instead of the driver's license he'd requested, the man came up with a Luger–pointed at Stovall's heart.
Stovall could see that the man was wild-eyed and shaky, likely to shoot. He kept his voice and his eyes steady as he spoke. "Look … you don't know me too well—so I'll give you a chance to point that in another direction. …"
The driver's finger tightened on the trigger, and Stovall could almost hear his mind deciding what to do. They stared at each other for five … ten … fifteen seconds, and then the gunman laid his weapon down on the seat beside him and surrendered.
Had things gone badly, the Salem Police Department would have lost one hell of a cop.
Stovall was the top marksman in the department for eighteen years, and still shoots an occasional 98 or 99 on the FBI's PPC course. One night, he was staked out in the hallway of a building where a rash of burglaries had occurred. After a boring night, he heard the tinkle of broken glass somewhere in the building. The would-be burglar met Stovall in the hall, where the officer flashed his light into the man's face and challenged him. The suspect broke and ran into a room, locking the door behind him. Stovall aimed at the shadow behind the glass door and fired his .38. He then heard a crash, followed by the sound of running feet.
Stovall thought he had missed the man, until a doctor in a Salem hospital's emergency room reported that a man had come in for treatment of a "nail wound." Stovall went to the hospital and recognized the man he'd seen for a split second in the rays of his flashlight. The burglaries stopped, and the thief recovered at leisure in prison.
Promoted into the detective unit after only five years on the force, Stovall availed himself of all training opportunities. He has a certificate in legal medicine from the Harvard University Medical School, has had many hours of study at Willamette University's Law School, and studied police business administration at the International City Managers' Association Institute of Training in Chicago. He has attended the Southern Police Institute in Louisville, Kentucky, and schools on visual-investigation analysis and link-analysis-charting techniques given by the California Department of Jus52 Ann Rule tice. He has also studied advanced psychology and hypnosis. And he is an expert photographer and a licensed pilot.
A dog-eared square of paper is always tacked where Stovall can see it above his desk: "THE ELEMENTS OF SCIENTIFIC PROOF MUST BE PRESENT TO ESTABLISH AND SUBSTANTIATE A SCIENTIFIC CONCLUSION."
And Jim Stovall has solved some homicide cases that defied solution, by meticulous attention to detail, by seeking and eventually finding that minuscule bit of physical evidence that starts the first ravel in a case that seems impenetrable.
When a lovely twenty-three-year-old woman was beaten and stabbed to death in her bedroom in Salem, Stovall determined that the bludgeon weapon was a broken soft-drink bottle, its green fragments glittering in the sheets that covered her.
Every man the girl had ever known or dated was located and questioned, and all of them were cleared. Then the victim's mother remembered a seventeen-year-old boy she had encountered on the street. "He said he'd been away for a year, and he mentioned to me that he would like to call my daughter and come over to see her sometime—but I don't think he ever called or came around, because she never mentioned him."
Jim Stovall recognized the youth's name—he'd been arrested for minor juvenile offenses and there was a warrant out for him on a burglary charge. When he was taken into custody, he grudgingly let the detective have his clothing and shoes for lab examination.
There were a few specks of dark red on the suspect's clothes—too little to classify as to type. But in the heel of the youth's shoes, Stovall saw a tiny sliver of green glass.
At the Oregon State Crime Lab the shard of glass was
Stovall could see that the man was wild-eyed and shaky, likely to shoot. He kept his voice and his eyes steady as he spoke. "Look … you don't know me too well—so I'll give you a chance to point that in another direction. …"
The driver's finger tightened on the trigger, and Stovall could almost hear his mind deciding what to do. They stared at each other for five … ten … fifteen seconds, and then the gunman laid his weapon down on the seat beside him and surrendered.
Had things gone badly, the Salem Police Department would have lost one hell of a cop.
Stovall was the top marksman in the department for eighteen years, and still shoots an occasional 98 or 99 on the FBI's PPC course. One night, he was staked out in the hallway of a building where a rash of burglaries had occurred. After a boring night, he heard the tinkle of broken glass somewhere in the building. The would-be burglar met Stovall in the hall, where the officer flashed his light into the man's face and challenged him. The suspect broke and ran into a room, locking the door behind him. Stovall aimed at the shadow behind the glass door and fired his .38. He then heard a crash, followed by the sound of running feet.
Stovall thought he had missed the man, until a doctor in a Salem hospital's emergency room reported that a man had come in for treatment of a "nail wound." Stovall went to the hospital and recognized the man he'd seen for a split second in the rays of his flashlight. The burglaries stopped, and the thief recovered at leisure in prison.
Promoted into the detective unit after only five years on the force, Stovall availed himself of all training opportunities. He has a certificate in legal medicine from the Harvard University Medical School, has had many hours of study at Willamette University's Law School, and studied police business administration at the International City Managers' Association Institute of Training in Chicago. He has attended the Southern Police Institute in Louisville, Kentucky, and schools on visual-investigation analysis and link-analysis-charting techniques given by the California Department of Jus52 Ann Rule tice. He has also studied advanced psychology and hypnosis. And he is an expert photographer and a licensed pilot.
A dog-eared square of paper is always tacked where Stovall can see it above his desk: "THE ELEMENTS OF SCIENTIFIC PROOF MUST BE PRESENT TO ESTABLISH AND SUBSTANTIATE A SCIENTIFIC CONCLUSION."
And Jim Stovall has solved some homicide cases that defied solution, by meticulous attention to detail, by seeking and eventually finding that minuscule bit of physical evidence that starts the first ravel in a case that seems impenetrable.
When a lovely twenty-three-year-old woman was beaten and stabbed to death in her bedroom in Salem, Stovall determined that the bludgeon weapon was a broken soft-drink bottle, its green fragments glittering in the sheets that covered her.
Every man the girl had ever known or dated was located and questioned, and all of them were cleared. Then the victim's mother remembered a seventeen-year-old boy she had encountered on the street. "He said he'd been away for a year, and he mentioned to me that he would like to call my daughter and come over to see her sometime—but I don't think he ever called or came around, because she never mentioned him."
Jim Stovall recognized the youth's name—he'd been arrested for minor juvenile offenses and there was a warrant out for him on a burglary charge. When he was taken into custody, he grudgingly let the detective have his clothing and shoes for lab examination.
There were a few specks of dark red on the suspect's clothes—too little to classify as to type. But in the heel of the youth's shoes, Stovall saw a tiny sliver of green glass.
At the Oregon State Crime Lab the shard of glass was
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