an earlier call to 911 relating to the case. It came in at 11:45 p.m. from an angry boatyard owner who called to report that one of his boats was missing and probably stolen.
"Your name, sir?"
"Donor Miller."
He spelled it for her, at her request.
"You own the missing boat?"
"Goddamn right I own it, that one and five others just like it. Tell 'em to look for a black-and-white checkered boat with a number six on it. That's my boat, goddammit."
The dispatcher who directed Sergeant Crouse to look for a possible intruder on the water didn't know about that call, and so Crouse didn't know that at 2:30 A.M. he had spotted a boat that had been reported stolen. Neither were they informed that Mr. Miller called back at 2 A.M. to cancel his earlier complaint.
"False alarm," he told the 911 operator. "Boat was here all the time, goddammit. One of my idiot employees put it in the wrong slip."
"You want me to cancel your request for an officer, sir?"
"Oh, hell, yes."
It is department policy to send an officer to check out 911 calls, even if they are later canceled. It's a well-intentioned policy, intended to prevent the sort of situation that occurs when a gun is being held to the head of the person who is calling 911. The Bahia Beach police like to make sure everything is copacetic, by sending an officer to the door to inquire, "Are you sure everything is all right, ma'am?" Or, sir. But it is only rarely carried out, because there simply aren't enough officers to handle all the false alarms, plus the legitimate requests, too. A small-boat theft was a low-priority crime, anyway, especially for the night shift. Despite departmental policy, no police officer drove out to make sure that the boatyard property and the people on it were as secure as the owner claimed they were.
It appears then, that Natalie died sometime between 11:55 P.M., when Mrs. Noble put down her binocs to pick up the phone, and 2:30 A.M., when Broyle Crouse spotted the boat near the bridge.
3
Raymond
Ray Raintree has escaped from the county courthouse.
By the time I finally get home tonight, I know enough about how he pulled it off to be able to write about it, although I can't get further than two paragraphs into it without having to stop and take a few calming breaths.
I write, on my laptop this time:
He rolled off the gurney and grabbed the deputy's gun out of its holster just as the elevator door was opening on the basement level. It was cramped in the courtroom elevator, with barely enough room for all four people who were standing, plus the gurney with Ray. He took advantage of the tight space to create maximum panic and pain. As he came up from his roll, he flailed his arms around wildly, hitting people in their faces hard, causing them to cry out and to raise their arms to protect themselves rather than acting to prevent him from escaping.
Once he had the gun, he flailed it around, too, striking everyone in his path with the hard hurtful metal weapon. Blood was flying as he grabbed Leanne by the front of her suit and jerked her off the elevator with him, leaving carnage behind them. Like a wild animal with a victim in its claws, he came out of the elevator pushing his lawyer before him.
Both paramedics fell bleeding and screaming out onto the floor.
The doors closed, sending the stunned and wounded deputy back up.
I stop writing, needing to get up and walk around a bit. The man has sent four people to the hospital in conditions ranging from fair to critical. The poor deputy will need reconstructive facial surgery and they still aren't sure if bone fragments entered his brain. The paramedics have broken facial bones and gruesome bruises going clear to their bones, while Leanne English has a broken jaw and a dislocated shoulder from the way he manhandled her before releasing her several hundred yards from the courthouse.
I go back to my computer, and try again:
When the paramedics can talk coherently, they report their conclusion
"Your name, sir?"
"Donor Miller."
He spelled it for her, at her request.
"You own the missing boat?"
"Goddamn right I own it, that one and five others just like it. Tell 'em to look for a black-and-white checkered boat with a number six on it. That's my boat, goddammit."
The dispatcher who directed Sergeant Crouse to look for a possible intruder on the water didn't know about that call, and so Crouse didn't know that at 2:30 A.M. he had spotted a boat that had been reported stolen. Neither were they informed that Mr. Miller called back at 2 A.M. to cancel his earlier complaint.
"False alarm," he told the 911 operator. "Boat was here all the time, goddammit. One of my idiot employees put it in the wrong slip."
"You want me to cancel your request for an officer, sir?"
"Oh, hell, yes."
It is department policy to send an officer to check out 911 calls, even if they are later canceled. It's a well-intentioned policy, intended to prevent the sort of situation that occurs when a gun is being held to the head of the person who is calling 911. The Bahia Beach police like to make sure everything is copacetic, by sending an officer to the door to inquire, "Are you sure everything is all right, ma'am?" Or, sir. But it is only rarely carried out, because there simply aren't enough officers to handle all the false alarms, plus the legitimate requests, too. A small-boat theft was a low-priority crime, anyway, especially for the night shift. Despite departmental policy, no police officer drove out to make sure that the boatyard property and the people on it were as secure as the owner claimed they were.
It appears then, that Natalie died sometime between 11:55 P.M., when Mrs. Noble put down her binocs to pick up the phone, and 2:30 A.M., when Broyle Crouse spotted the boat near the bridge.
3
Raymond
Ray Raintree has escaped from the county courthouse.
By the time I finally get home tonight, I know enough about how he pulled it off to be able to write about it, although I can't get further than two paragraphs into it without having to stop and take a few calming breaths.
I write, on my laptop this time:
He rolled off the gurney and grabbed the deputy's gun out of its holster just as the elevator door was opening on the basement level. It was cramped in the courtroom elevator, with barely enough room for all four people who were standing, plus the gurney with Ray. He took advantage of the tight space to create maximum panic and pain. As he came up from his roll, he flailed his arms around wildly, hitting people in their faces hard, causing them to cry out and to raise their arms to protect themselves rather than acting to prevent him from escaping.
Once he had the gun, he flailed it around, too, striking everyone in his path with the hard hurtful metal weapon. Blood was flying as he grabbed Leanne by the front of her suit and jerked her off the elevator with him, leaving carnage behind them. Like a wild animal with a victim in its claws, he came out of the elevator pushing his lawyer before him.
Both paramedics fell bleeding and screaming out onto the floor.
The doors closed, sending the stunned and wounded deputy back up.
I stop writing, needing to get up and walk around a bit. The man has sent four people to the hospital in conditions ranging from fair to critical. The poor deputy will need reconstructive facial surgery and they still aren't sure if bone fragments entered his brain. The paramedics have broken facial bones and gruesome bruises going clear to their bones, while Leanne English has a broken jaw and a dislocated shoulder from the way he manhandled her before releasing her several hundred yards from the courthouse.
I go back to my computer, and try again:
When the paramedics can talk coherently, they report their conclusion
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