Chasing Deception Read online

  CHASING DECEPTION

  A Novel

  Dave Milbrandt

  © 2013, 2014 by Dave Milbrandt

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 1-49284-747-X

  Cover design by Mark Bowden

  Author photo by Lynn Milbrandt

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are use fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2007, 2013 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  To Lynn,

  whose steadfast love and support

  carried me through when I had lost faith

  in this story and, at times, myself.

  Acknowledgements

  Five weeks fifteen summers ago, I feverishly pounded out the first draft of the novel you are holding in your hands. Full of ambition, but bereft of wisdom of how the publishing world works, I assumed my book would be published in short order. In the ensuing decade and a half, I discovered the gift of patience and have learned much more in the rewriting of this book than I did that summer nearly half a lifetime ago.

  Along the journey, many people have helped me, and this book, mature and develop. My family, for its seemingly inexhaustible amount of assistance, encouragement, prayer and support, deserves my first measure of thanks. To the original critique group with whom I shared the bare bones of this work, all I can say is that your recommendations for improvement and drastic revision were right, no matter how little I wanted to hear them at the time. All these years later, I am grateful for your straightforward advice. I also must thank my two technical advisers, Lt. Tim Grinstead and Capt. Lee Hollowell, who helped me maintain an air of authenticity when it came to police procedures and my friend Beth McLaughlin, PhD, who made it sound like I really knew northern Indiana, rather than the fact that I had visited once nearly a decade ago.

  If a rough draft can be likened to a patient in an emergency room, then my mother-in-law, Dixie Corlett, and my wife, Lynn, were the metaphorical ER doctors who worked to “save” the manuscript from an untimely demise. And, when my book needed more work, my friend and noted author, Joe Bentz, swooped in like the skilled wordsmith that he is and nipped and tucked here and there to make the work shipshape. Deep thanks are also in order for Mark Bowden, whose graphic design genius can be seen on the front and back covers. The very friendly and always efficient staff in the copy and print department at my local Office Depot deserve some recognition as they have printed so many versions of my manuscript they probably know my novel better than I do.

  And this work would not be anywhere but on my computer if it were not for the prayer and support of The Niños. This eclectic, creative bunch of Spirit-filled artists nursed my soul with fellowship and food. Last, but not least, the fine folks at Classic Coffee in downtown Glendora, California, who provided both a great atmosphere to write and edit a book and more than a little inspiration for the Classic Grounds coffeehouse mentioned in the novel, deserve a measure of praise as well.

  Now, go ahead and jump into this little tale. Here’s to hoping you keep turning the pages to find out what happens next.

  Dave Milbrandt

  Southern California

  Thanksgiving 2013

  1

  8:17 a.m. Thursday, May 22, 2008

  Jim Mitchell needed to get a confession out of someone this morning and he knew flashing a nice smile and wearing the perfect tie were just as important as asking the right questions.

  Scanning his closet, the 32-year-old reporter paused as he fingered a black tie with an aqua swirl before settling on the Disney tie with subtle outlines of miniature Mickey Mouse ears on a slate gray background. The latter was a gift from his uncle and not really his style, but he knew the finance clerk for the city of Rancho Cucamonga was a Disney fan.

  He was betting the tie would spark a friendly conversation about the clerk’s latest trip to the amusement park. That should put her in the mood to respond to subtle questions about allegations her boss was helping certain businesses avoid fees for zoning violations in exchange for dinners at expensive restaurants. Jim had even heard a member of the council might be involved. He hoped a morning scrutinizing stacks of paperwork and chatting up the clerk would produce the proof he needed before confronting the city manager.

  He knotted and straightened his tie by rote as he walked into the office/dining area of his one-bedroom loft to better hear the chatter between police officers and dispatchers spilling from the radio scanner next to his computer. Some of his fellow reporters at the Southern California Courier chided him when they learned he listened to his scanner while eating his morning corn flakes sweetened with a teaspoon of turbinado sugar. But several of his stories had begun as he ate his cereal and read his morning copy of The Washington Post while keeping an ear tuned for any developments. He also got a complimentary copy of the Courier at home every day, but he usually saved reading his own paper for when he arrived at the office. He was running a few minutes late, which was rare for Jim, so in lieu of a bowl of corn flakes he opened the cupboard next to the refrigerator and snatched a cereal bar from its box.

  I’ll pick up a Double-Double and fries from In-N-Out for lunch, Jim told himself as he placed the breakfast bar in the front pocket of his USC Trojan leather messenger bag. The bag had been a graduation present for himself after he earned his master’s degree from the university’s prestigious Journalism school eight years ago.

  “-stu-student reported with a gun on campus. Repeat: All available units, there is a 415 in progress at 100 South Warrior Way, Emerald Valley High School, student reported with a gun on campus.”

  The words “student” and “gun” snatched his attention. Jim recognized the voice of the Emerald Valley police department’s morning dispatcher. He interviewed her last spring as part of a story on the department’s 100th anniversary. She had been on the job for a nearly a decade, starting when her son began kindergarten at Mesa Ridge Elementary. Last year, Eric was finishing his freshman year at Emerald Valley High…

  He muttered a mild expletive as he realized the hitch in her voice revealed she was not just a dispatcher, but a frightened mother horrified at the thought her son was in danger.

  He grabbed the handle of his bag with his left hand as he powered down the iMac with his right. Flipping off the lights and scanner, Jim left his loft and flew down the stairs to the detached garage where his 2006 silver Honda Accord was parked.

  Jim lived in a loft above a family-run coffeehouse in the Old Towne section of Emerald Valley that recalled the fictional Bedford Falls in Frank Capra’s It’s a Wonderful Life. While the rest of the town had a more contemporary vibe, Jim liked how even the new businesses that moved into this part of the city preserved the same friendly customer service that was common when he grew up here in the ’80s. Normally he would get his 20-ounce café au lait, but duty called. Besides, the adrenaline high that accompanied a breaking news story always woke him up better than any cup of coffee ever could.

  Turning left from his back alley onto Second Street, Jim pressed the button on the Bluetooth ear bud he had fished out of his bag to speed-dial his editor’s number.

  “Metro desk, Dan Palms.”

  “Hi Dan, it’s Jim Mitchell. A couple of minutes ago I heard a call on my police scanner about a student with a gun at Emerald Valley High. I just left my place and I’m about 5 minutes away.”

  “Whoa.”

  “Is there anybody in Photo you could send out? I have my point-and-shoot, but t
he zoom lens leaves something to be desired.”

  As Dan paused for a moment, Jim could picture him poking his head up from his cubicle and glancing toward the photo department on the other side of the room.

  “I see Katie back there. I’ll see what she has and we’ll send someone else out if she can’t make it.”

  “OK. I’ll call with an update when I can.”

  “Sounds good. Hey, Jim, are you sure this is not a training exercise of some kind?”

  Jim reflexively shook his head even though they were talking over the phone and not in person. “I know the dispatcher who broadcast the call. Her son is a sophomore at the high school. I could tell by her voice that this is the real thing.”

  “Fair enough.” Dan ended the call.

  As Jim travelled east on Emerald Valley Drive, cars slowed in response to the traffic break at Warrior Way, the street that led into the high school parking lot. He slowed as he approached an officer who was stopping any non-emergency traffic from entering the lot. As he lowered his driver side window, Jim flashed the media credentials hanging from a lanyard around his neck.

  “Hi, I’m Jim Mitchell from the So Cal Courier. Where can I park?”

  “Along the curb just past the entrance.”

  “Thanks. Who’s the commanding officer on the scene?”

  “Sergeant Taub is up at the front of the school, sir.” The officer pointed to her right.

  Jim raised his window and proceeded to park. He slung the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder as he closed the door and set his alarm.

  Passing a patrol car on the northwest end of the parking lot, Jim surveyed the scene at the school he had graduated from nearly 15 years prior and saw several more police cars in the faculty parking lot. Two ambulances and three fire/paramedic trucks clogged the drop-off lane dividing the student and faculty parking lots. Two black-and-whites sat in the bus drop-off lane adjacent to the steps in front of the school. He estimated there were at least eight squad cars, including one blocking the access road along the southern edge of the classrooms.

  He approached the entrance to the 1,500-student school, which featured a larger-than-life mural of a Warrior painted on the wall of the disabled access ramp. Four officers were pooled at the bottom of the school’s steps talking to a man in his late-40s dressed in a white shirt, green tie and tan slacks, holding a walkie-talkie. Noting the absence of a badge and the fact he was listening rather than leading the discussion, Jim assumed he was the school’s principal.

  Pulling out his notepad and pen, Jim introduced himself to an officer standing by the mural, who pointed him in the direction of a nearby cluster of police and fire officials. Sgt. Benny Taub frowned, stepped away from the group and turned down the volume of the walkie-talkie’s remote microphone attached to his epaulette before beginning their conversation.

  “I know who you are, Mr. Mitchell. Do you know you ruined a man’s career with the trash you wrote about him?”

  Jim sighed. Being an investigative reporter kept him in perpetual hot water. He knew if he got Sgt. Taub too riled up he would escort Jim off campus and someone else would be writing his story.

  “Hank Layton was an excellent officer—”

  “You and I both know Captain Layton had been taking bribes from drug dealers for years.” Jim took a breath before continuing. “Listen, there’s no need to get into that right now. I’m just trying to find out what happened here.”

  The officer offered the details in a matter-of-fact tone. “We received a call at 8:24 a.m. that a lockdown had been initiated on campus because of reports of a student with a gun. We arrived on the scene about five minutes later and began a room-to-room search of the campus. There are no reports of a shooting, but we still have not found the suspect. We still have about two-thirds of the campus left to search.”

  “Sergeant, thanks for bringing me up to speed.” Jim smiled to underscore his appreciation for the assistance. “Mind if I listen in as the search continues and perhaps ask the principal a few questions when he’s not busy helping you out?”

  “Fine, but make sure you stay out of the way.”

  Glancing back toward his car, he saw photographer Katie Wallace making her way to him wearing her spring/summer “uniform” of a plain short-sleeved T-shirt, jeans and running shoes. She pulled her red hair into a ponytail before opening her camera bag and removing her digital SLR.

  “Make it past the gauntlet without incident?”

  “I just smiled and they let me through.” She quickly switched lenses on her camera. “They actually like me because I shoot all those community events about the officer of the year and stuff like that. They even buy reprints of my pictures, too. You know, if you were nicer to them—”

  “Et tú, Bruté?” Jim lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Is my reputation that bad? Wait, don’t answer that. Let’s just get to work.”

  Jim walked up to the group of officers standing with the principal as Katie wandered around to get some secondary shots that either might run with the story in print or be featured in the Courier’s online photo gallery.

  Noticing the principal seemed to be free at the moment, he went over and introduced himself. With a shaved head and lanky frame, Allen Pierce retained the build of the cross-country runner he was in high school 25 years ago. Pierce briefed Jim on what had happened so far that morning.

  “First period was almost over when a teacher looked out his door and saw one of our students walking down the hall with a gun. The teacher watched him walk past the classroom and then quickly called the front office to report the incident. At that point, we initiated a lockdown.”

  “And what is involved in a lockdown?”

  “When the bell sounds three times in a row and we announce a lockdown over the loudspeaker, each teacher locks his or her door and has students sit against the far wall. The teachers won’t open their doors for any reason until the office gives the ‘all-clear’ signal.”

  “So how do officers get into the rooms to search for suspects?”

  “We gave the police department master keys to the campus in case something like this ever happened, but this is the first time they’ve ever had to use them.”

  “Do parents know what’s happening?”

  “As you can imagine, kids are texting their parents about the lockdown, so we’ve received quite a few calls. One of our assistant principals just sent out an automated call to parents explaining the situation. We’re asking them not to call the school directly but that we’ll update them when we have more information.” Pierce took a breath. “I called First Presbyterian Church across the street and they’re providing parking for parents who might come here to wait until this is all over.”

  The questions ended temporarily as Jim and Pierce turned their attention to reports coming in from the officers who continued to sweep the campus.

  “Edward-6 and Edward-11 have cleared Q-Quad. Moving now to O-Quad.”

  “Edward-3 and Edward-8 have cleared G-Building. Moving now to H-Building.”

  “Edward-12 here at the gym. Edward-5 and I have a suspect in the boys’ locker room. Requesting backup.”

  Taub clicked on the transmit button on the radio on his epaulette. “Everyone hustle to the gym and assist Chan and Sandoval!”

  Several deputies checked in as they ran to the gym. A few seconds later, Officer Lesley Sandoval gave some additional details.

  “Sergeant, we have a single male teenager with a handgun. We have taken cover behind some lockers and we’re going to try to get him to surrender.”

  Seconds lingered like hours as Jim listened for the expected, and dreaded, gunshots. In college, Jim was reporting on an off-campus protest when someone fired a handgun into the air. He knew gunfire outdoors sounded like short pops and not the cannon-like booms favored by action-adventure films. He also knew from experience that those who chose to initiate a standoff with law enforcement didn’t always walk away. When the shooter was a bank robber, there was
some sort of cosmic justice at work when he lost a gun battle with police. But the thought of a troubled teenager starting a firefight he may not walk away from made Jim a little sick to his stomach.

  Sandoval came back on the radio.

  “Situation secure. Suspect has surrendered. Repeat. Suspect has surrendered.”

  “Were there any shots fired?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  The creases on the principal’s and sergeant’s foreheads melted away.

  A few minutes later the six officers came out of the front doors in a large cluster concealing a 17-year-old boy wearing jeans and a black Adidas hoodie that hid his face from a local TV news crew that had just arrived. Katie scurried up the steps and hopped up onto the edge of a concrete planter and started snapping pictures. After the group passed by her, she kept shooting as the officers and student descended the stairs.

  They quickly put the boy in the back seat of a police cruiser and left the scene, but not before Katie took several photos of the boy. She made sure to get silhouette images through the back window as well a side profile so the paper could preserve the boy’s anonymity if the police chose to follow protocol and not release the minor’s name. Considering the high level of media attention the lockdown would attract over the next few days, it was likely the suspect’s name would get out eventually.

  As the emergency vehicles streamed out of the parking lot, anxious parents flooded in from the nearby church property. The assistant principal used her iPhone to send out an update letting parents know the crisis had passed and school was being cancelled for the remainder of the day. Teens who normally maintained a nonchalant or uninterested air about them in their classes ran to the open arms of their parents.

  “Mom, I was so scared—” a girl said before she burst into tears.