The Oceanside Chronicles: Season 6, Episode 6

Nov. 22, 2016
Another day in the life as Max meets with the Chief and a serial killer claims another victim.

All characters and places in this series are fictional.  Any resemblance they bear to actual people or places is purely coincidental.

- - - - - - - - - -

Sgt. Eddie Presser was finished with roll call except for one thing.  “Max,” he said, “before you and Sean go out on patrol you have to go to the Chief’s office.  He’s waiting to see you.”

Max just nodded his head in response.  Sean spoke up. “Both of us? Or just Max, Sarge?”  His voice almost sounded nervous and Eddie found it funny.

“Just Max, Sean,” he replied. “And before anyone worries, no one is in trouble. This has nothing to do with a clown being hit by one of our cruisers,” Eddie gave Mike and Kyle a sideways glance as he said that, “but apparently about the fact Max has finished his year of probation and can transfer if he wants.”  Eddie left it at that.  Silently he hoped Max wouldn’t transfer, but ultimately he knew that if Max wanted to advance his career, he’d be foolish to remain in patrol.

“That’s it,” Eddie finished. “Stay alert. Stay alive.”  The squad recognized his signature end to roll call and got up to file out.  Max and Sean turned right out of the squad room as everyone else went left.  The walk up one level and down the central hallway didn’t take long and soon they were in front of the Chief’s secretary’s desk. Mrs. Patricia Chalmers – usually called “Trish” – was the widow of a former Oceanside PD officer. It was a wellknown fact that the widow Chalmers was a close personal friend of the Chief’s and that she had his ear if there was any departmental business she felt strongly about.

“Good morning, Mrs. Chalmers,” said Max as he approached. “I was ordered to report to Chief Beam.”

Trish raised a finger as if telling Max to wait just a moment as, with her other hand in a very practiced movement, she touched the intercom button on her desk phone. It buzzed and Chief Beam’s voice came through. “Yes, ma’am?”  Max smiled at the “ma’am” part. Chief Beam had a reputation for being polite to everyone and anyone, no matter what, and the fact that a Chief of Police referred to his secretary as “ma’am” demonstrated what kind of man he was.

“Officer Breaklin here to see you, sir,” said Trish.

“Send him in please,” replied the Chief, and then there was a short buzz as the intercom was disconnected.

Trish didn’t say anything. She just indicated Max should enter with a quick jerk of her head in that direction. Then she looked at Sean and with an equally quick jerk of her head, she indicated he should have a seat.  The lack of words made Sean feel as if she didn’t want the sanctity of quiet disturbed, so he sat down without a word as Max stepped over and through the door into the Chief’s office.

Max stepped smartly over to stand in front of the Chief’s desk; stopped and stood at attention, centered perfectly in front of the desk and about two feet away from it.  He started to ‘report in.’ “Officer Max Breaklin, reporting…”

The Chief cut him off with a wave of a hand. “That’s not necessary, Max,” said Chief Beam. He got up from behind his desk and came around, extending his hand to shake Max’s and directing him to one of several chairs arranged around a low coffee table.  The Chief sat down in a similar chair across from Max so the coffee table was between them but they were in an obviously casual setting.

“So, Max,” said the Chief as he sat back and relaxed in the chair, “tell me what you have planned.”  He paused for a second, making an obvious gesture of looking at Max’s uniform, down to his shoes and up to his badge. “I’m thinking you might look better in a SWAT uniform… or maybe a suit…”

Then Max knew what the meeting was about. Eddie had been right. The Chief wanted to know what Max was going to do now that he’d finished his first year on the agency in patrol.  After that first year was complete, officers were welcome – and sometimes encouraged – to apply for a transfer to a different agency.  The fact that Max was being prodded was a compliment.  If an officer was a walking “Charlie foxtrot,” then s/he was usually NOT encouraged to apply for a transfer.  Those who had poor performance in patrol were usually encouraged to stay in patrol until they could straighten out their performance.  Those who excelled and did well… those who demonstrated motivated professionalism were encouraged to move on; to get experience in other duty assignments; to develop their resume in a way that would make them promotable. They were viewed as the preferred future leaders of the agency.  Some of them took advantage of the opportunities and moved on quickly. Others lingered.  Those who lingered were seldom given a second chance to move quickly through the agency’s ranks. Max appreciated both the compliment and the opportunity.

Weighing his words carefully, Max told the Chief what he wanted to know.  “Sir, I have no intention of loitering in patrol.” The Chief nodded in acknowledgement of the statement. “But I didn’t think it made sense to apply for a transfer to SWAT until they announced the next tactical class.” Again the Chief nodded.  Max continued. “It’s my understanding that the tactical class serves as a sort of selection process for the SWAT team.  So, when the tactical class is announced, I’ll apply for it and, pending a positive review from the instructors, I’ll apply for a transfer over to special operations.”

The Chief was quiet for a minute, processing what Max had said. “Fair enough, Max,” Chief Beam finally replied.  “I just don’t want to see you stagnate in patrol.”  He paused and smiled before continuing. “And I’m glad to hear you don’t want to transfer to Beach Patrol.”  That was the closest the Chief would come to cautioning Max about his relationship with JP.

In reply, Max just chuckled.  “No, sir. I have no desire to patrol in the sand.  Been there. Done that,” he said, referring to his time in the Navy, as a corpsman, attached to a Marine Expeditionary Unit – now called Raiders again – and deployed to the Middle East.  “I think the bigger challenge might be the day when Officer Porter decides she wants to apply for SWAT.”  Max was talking about his fiancé, Jessica Porter – or ‘JP’ for short. She was as much of a fitness buff as he was and took her performance on the agency very seriously.

The Chief chuckled along with Max.  “I can see where that might cause the agency an issue,” he said.  “But we’ll deal with it if it ever happens.  In the meantime, I appreciate you letting me know what your plans are.  I’ll make sure you’re advised when the next tactical class is scheduled.” The Chief stood up as he finished his statement, indicating that the meeting was over.

Max stood as well, and extended his hand for a shake, “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your personal interest and support.”

The Chief nodded as he shook hands.  “Stay safe, Max,” was all he said as Max left his office.

As Max and Sean walked out to their patrol vehicle, Max filled Sean in on the conversation.  “Tactical officer’s class?” Sean asked.  He hadn’t really looked at the training schedule and had close to zero interest in the SWAT team, so he had no idea of the process to get on it.

As Sean drove, Max texted JP to let her know about the conversation in the Chief’s office and then he explained to Sean about the tactical officers class.  It was a three week course that focused on fitness, shooting skills, and high risk building entries in the process of warrant services.  It gave a basic understanding of breeching and the various equipment/techniques used.  It went in depth where small team tactics were concerned. It also included training on vehicle assaults, hazardous environments and more. The maximum allowable class size was thirty officers and the Special Operations division of the agency provided eleven instructors: one lead instructor and ten assistant instructors. That allowed for a 3-to-1 instructor-to-student ratio.  The top ten students in the class were invited to attend SWAT school whenever the next one was scheduled.  So, in essence as Max understood it, the Tactical Officers class was part of the selection process for the SWAT team.  An officer had to apply for and successfully complete in the top one-third Tactical Officers class if s/he wanted to apply for the SWAT team. If an officer was one of the top ten in Tactical Officers class then when the SWAT team had an opening, those pre-qualified officers could apply. They’d have to pass a fitness test and a shooting qualification course and they could have no use-of-force complaints in their personnel file to qualify for SWAT school.

Max was pretty sure he’d have no problem with any of it… but the question remained: when was the next Tactical Officers class going to be?

- - - - - - - - - -

“Homicide. Detective Coleman. May I help you?”  It was some variation of Lieutenant Dick Coleman’s standard method for answering the phone.

“Griggs, Coast Guard,” was the response.  Lieutenant James Griggs, Coast Guard Criminal Investigative Service. Coleman knew that Griggs was calling to get or share information about the serial killings that had happened, apparently on boats, up and down the east coast.  In this case, Coleman was happy that he’d have something to share as well.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” said Coleman.  “What’s new?”

“Not much on my end,” replied Griggs.  “I was hoping you might have something for me.”

“As it happens,” said Coleman, “I was going to call you shortly.  One of our marinas did report having the ‘Different Flavors’ docked for five days. I showed photos of Doug and Stan to all of the marina personnel, but none of them claim to recognize either of the men.  One bartender in the marina’s yacht club bar did recall seeing them.  He was full of information. Unfortunately not much of it is, as yet, useful.”

“Meaning?” said Griggs.  He wanted to be sure he had a clear understanding.

“Meaning that he provided us information on how many times he saw the men in the club, and the fact that they seemed to be social with nearly everyone.  He THINKS that they left the club one night with a young woman but he can’t give us a description of her other than ‘kinda petite and cute.’  I believe his exact description was, ‘fun looking in the kind of way you knew would be trouble the next morning’.”  Coleman chuckled morbidly.  “Of course, if she’s the one who killed, cooked and ate them, the bartender may need an award of his observation skills.  Unfortunately, his description is insufficient to get any kind of identification from.  We’ve got people going through the surveillance videos around the marina and we’ll check with other patrons as we can to see if anyone knows anything else.  I’ll keep you apprised.”

“Good enough and thanks, Lieutenant.  Much appreciated,” said Griggs.  “I’ll give you a call next week?”

“Sounds good,” replied Coleman. “If anything of value pops up before then, I’ll let you know.”

The men hung up and Coleman sat back in his chair looking at the file open on his desk.  Whoever that young lady had been, IF she’d be the person who killed Doug and Stan… was she still in Oceanside? Or had she gone with them up the coast? If she was still in Oceanside, then there was a good chance she wasn’t a problem.  If she went up the coast with them, then there was a good chance she was a serial murderer / cannibal.  If that was the case, Coleman was damned glad she was up the coast and not in his city.

- - - - - - - - - -

Tracy Ladde was troubled.  It wasn’t that she was facing any particular challenge in life or that she was unhappy with anything in particular; it was more that she couldn’t point to anything in her life – in recent days anyway – that was creating happiness for her. On the one hand, she had found and joined a fairly interesting social group in Atlantic City. The group didn’t even have a name per se, but was tight knit by virtue of how unique it was. It was composed of people ranging in age from late-teens to early forties, who worshipped death personified as Thanatos.  Thanatos was considered a god of peaceful death and Tracy recognized that might be what was nagging at her. She was honest enough with herself, because she felt no guilt in it at all, to admit that she took great pleasure from the planning and execution of… well, the execution of people. She LIKED killing.  But more than that, she liked everything that led up to it. She LIKED meeting new targets, evaluating them, getting to know them, partying with them, playing with them and then, after having done the best she could to make their last day(s) on earth as enjoyable as possible, killing them.  It was a side benefit to her that she enjoyed experimenting with different recipes and eating parts of them as well.

Tracy had known, after the first time she ever killed anyone, that people would be hesitant to suspect her. After all, she was just a ‘cute little blond’ to so many people, and thanks to Hollywood, society suspected middle-aged dark haired men of being serial killers; not petite perky blonds.

Life in Atlantic City was going okay for her and she still had plenty of cash left that she’d taken from Doug and Stan’s boat. What she didn’t have – and she knew she’d have to find sometime soon – was her next target.  The Thanatos-worshipping group was providing her a playmate here and there, so her sexual appetite was being satisfied, but her thirst for blood and fresh meat… THAT hunger was growing and she knew that once she fed it, she’d likely have to leave Atlantic City.  Since it was getting close to winter, she’d probably head back south.  Hitchhiking down Interstate 95 would be easy. After all, plenty of men were happy to pick up a sprightly blond woman.

- - - - - - - - - -

It was the body of the fifth missing child in recent months. A jogger had called it in and patrol units had responded.  Detective Lieutenant Andrea “Andi” Desalis and her partner, Detective Sergeant Jacob “Mac” MacGregor had responded along with the forensic team. Sgt. Eddie Presser had responded as well and was struck by how close this location was to where his squad had encountered, shot and killed Mark Correll – “the Banana Man” – a little more than a year before. The memories were still fresh in his mind.

>>> At a distance of less than ten feet, JP hit with both rounds… but The Banana Man / Mark didn’t seem to slow down at all.  He was still coming.  She pulled the trigger again… and again…  four large caliber rounds truck him – she was pretty sure – in the torso… and he was STILL coming.  She clearly saw the knife now but was confused by the fact that she couldn’t hear her rounds.  Firing a gun is LOUD but she couldn’t hear the shots.  Somewhere inside her head, her edged weapons defense training kicked in and she started moving sideways as she tried to keep her gun online and in line with her flashlight.  She was distracted by the thought that Max was on the ground. She’d seen him hit in the throat. WHY WOULDN’T THIS GUY JUST FALL DOWN??

She pulled the trigger again.  There was no sound. She felt the vibration of the hammer falling.  She felt the recoil of the weapon.  She actually saw the hole appear in that gray/yellow sweat suit top and she saw the man react to the impact.  But he still wasn’t stopping. He still wasn’t falling.  That knife in his hand was still coming toward her.  Just as she was pulling the trigger again, but before she felt the hammer fall and recoil, she felt a pressure wave hit her from her left and out of the corner of her eye she saw what seemed like a HUGE flash of light.

The Banana Man / Mark actually stopped now but JP kept moving. He was still too damned close for comfort and he wasn’t falling down. He’d just stopped.  To her left, taking a better look now, JP saw Eddie with a shotgun leveled at the suspect.  As she looked, he was just pushing the pump action forward again and the empty yellow hull of the fired round was spinning in the air, disappearing behind her.

The scene seemed a frozen image in time.  JP still had her flashlight and gun up, both aimed high at the subject’s chest.  Eddie was beside her with his shotgun online and she idly realized that he was using the light from her flashlight to aim the weapon.  Max was up on his knees now but still not in the fight.  Bill was… where the hell was Bill???  The thought screamed into her mind. Where was her partner?

So slowly that he seemed to be moving like a turtle crawling through near frozen molasses, The Banana Man / Mark started to raise the knife.  He was still on his feet and took a step forward as he did so.  JP looked at his face and saw pure animalistic rage in his eyes.  There was spittle around his mouth, some of it foamy.  For some reason in her mind she thought, “rabid,” but that was because of the foamy mouth.  She heard Eddie screaming something beside her, but even though she didn’t register hearing the shots, her ears were ringing and she could barely hear Eddie.  What she couldn’t clearly hear was Eddie screaming, “Drop the knife! Don’t make us shoot you again!”

- - - - - - - - - -

The Banana Man / Mark didn’t listen.  All he felt was hate and rage.  He couldn’t believe that a woman had been the beginning of his downfall and another woman would be the end of it.  He was like an animal who knew it was dying and just wanted to crawl away into a hole to let his life ebb out in peace.  He couldn’t do that though.  These THINGS in front of him just wouldn’t let him be.  With all the energy he could muster he dove into one last ditch effort to take out that hateful woman in front of him.  All of his rage; all the anger he’d been living with; all of the hatred he had for everyone who didn’t do something to help him was poured into that final, violent gasp of life.  The knife swung up and he lunged again.

- - - - - - - - - -

Eddie pulled the trigger on the shotgun just as JP pulled the one on her handgun again. The twelve gauge round hit The Banana Man / Mark high in the chest.  JP’s round hit him in almost the exact same place.  The energy delivery was enough that the man stopped… his arm slowly dropped…  JP actually saw his eyes glaze over and then he began to sag as he fell.  It seemed to take forever to her.  Time seemed to be moving so slowly.  The second that it took him to crumple to the ground seemed to take ten or fifteen seconds to her.

And then he was down; almost fetal on the ground but not quite on his side and not quite face down either. The knife was still in his hand.  JP knew the protocol.  Whether they THOUGHT the threat was over or not, he got handcuffed.  It was simple officer survival management. Handcuff the bad guy.  JP started to holster her weapon and step forward but she vaguely heard Eddie yell, “Not yet!”  She looked startled and then looked at Eddie. Why didn’t he want her to approach?

Max was on his feet.  There was a mean red abrasion across his throat and neck, but he looked okay other than that.  “Let Max handcuff him,” Eddie yelled.  Why was he yelling?  Oh, yeah.  Because of the gunfire.  JP didn’t think she’d heard any of it. She was perplexed by the fact that it had seemed not to exist in spite of the fact she KNEW she was firing and she FELT the blasts from Eddie’s shotgun.  Her ears were ringing so loud she could barely hear Eddie and then she wondered if he could even hear his own voice outside his head.  She finished holstering her handgun even as Max approached.  Eddie kept the shotgun online.  Only when Max actually had hands ON the bad guy did Eddie lower the weapon’s muzzle, and even then only enough so that he wasn’t indexing Max.<<<

Eddie had to clear his head to shake away the thoughts. He wondered if there was something about this path that attracted violent death but knew he was being silly. That was the kind of thought people had at Halloween… which, he reminded himself, had just past recently.  He shook his head again and tried to focus on the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. It was a better way to think.

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