Big-city police forces tended to have female officers.
A guy on parole for murder shot one, a New York City cop, with her own gun while she was at the scene of a domestic violence incident. Another was shot during a bank robbery in Washington, D.C. One was stabbed in a drug sting gone bad outside Austin, Texas. Two were killed responding to calls regarding suspicious circumstances. Four were killed while arresting a suspect. Three were killed during routine traffic stops. Two were murdered when their home problems followed them to work, one in Atlanta by a husband and one outside San Diego by a boyfriend. Vining couldn’t see how women who could kick butt in their work lives had let that happen. Love. Killed because of love.
Eleven died in vehicular accidents, the number one killer of police officers.
Then there was Johnna Alwin of the Tucson Police Department. The memorial page on the TPD Web site said she had been ambushed and murdered and little else. Vining called the TPD and asked to speak to the lead investigator. She was put through to Lieutenant Owen Donahue. She told a half-truth, saying she was investigating an ambush of a Pasadena, California, police officer who was brutally attacked but survived. She was searching for similar crimes, trying to determine if the assault was isolated or if they were looking at a serial killer.
Donahue was grudgingly accommodating. Alwin was a detective working undercover to bust a doctor, an internist, who was selling restricted prescription drugs out of his office. Three years ago on a Sunday afternoon in January, Alwin received a call from her informant, Jesse Cuba, a janitor in the doctor’s building, saying he had information. It was Alwin’s day off, but she called the watch commander and reported that Cuba wanted to meet her in the medical building where he worked. Cuba was a heroin addict on parole for possession. Alwin had met him on the fly and alone before and considered him harmless.
When Alwin didn’t return, a patrol car was sent out. The officers found her in a storage closet in the basement. She’d been stabbed seventeen times.
Donahue told Vining that he wouldn’t be much help to her because they’d solved Alwin’s murder. Jesse Cuba was found dead of a heroin overdose in the seedy motel room he rented by the week. In his room, police found Alwin’s purse and jewelry. The purse had Alwin’s blood on it. Other suspects didn’t pan out. Case closed. Donahue wished her well with her investigation.
Vining hung up. There was no reason for her to second-guess Tucson’s investigation, but something about the case bothered her.
Two years later, Vining was stabbed responding to a suspicious circumstances call reported by a man who identified himself as a realtor watching over 835 El Alisal Road while the owner was away.
A year after that, Officer Frankie Lynde was murdered.
And Vining had a panic attack at the scene.
She stood by the coffeemaker, sipping the burnt brew that powdered creamer and sugar did nothing to improve. She saw Lieutenant George Beltran in Early’s office. He glanced at her and she felt certain they were talking about her. Then Kissick joined them.
She downed the rest of the coffee, tossed the cup, and was returning to her desk when Beltran caught up with her on his way out.
He shook her hand. “Hey, Nan. How are you? Good to have you back.” Beltran had wavy dark hair and a thick mustache that were starting to show gray. He was medium height and naturally slender in a way that made him look taller than he was. He had a broad smile and an easy manner. He handled the media well and consequently served as the PPD’s liaison. He enjoyed the spotlight.
“I’m good, Lieutenant. Nice to be back. Thanks.”
It was a pleasant interchange but it put her on edge. Before she reached her desk, Kissick stuck his head out the door of Early’s office and asked her to come in.
“Have a seat,” Early said.
Kissick was leaning against
A guy on parole for murder shot one, a New York City cop, with her own gun while she was at the scene of a domestic violence incident. Another was shot during a bank robbery in Washington, D.C. One was stabbed in a drug sting gone bad outside Austin, Texas. Two were killed responding to calls regarding suspicious circumstances. Four were killed while arresting a suspect. Three were killed during routine traffic stops. Two were murdered when their home problems followed them to work, one in Atlanta by a husband and one outside San Diego by a boyfriend. Vining couldn’t see how women who could kick butt in their work lives had let that happen. Love. Killed because of love.
Eleven died in vehicular accidents, the number one killer of police officers.
Then there was Johnna Alwin of the Tucson Police Department. The memorial page on the TPD Web site said she had been ambushed and murdered and little else. Vining called the TPD and asked to speak to the lead investigator. She was put through to Lieutenant Owen Donahue. She told a half-truth, saying she was investigating an ambush of a Pasadena, California, police officer who was brutally attacked but survived. She was searching for similar crimes, trying to determine if the assault was isolated or if they were looking at a serial killer.
Donahue was grudgingly accommodating. Alwin was a detective working undercover to bust a doctor, an internist, who was selling restricted prescription drugs out of his office. Three years ago on a Sunday afternoon in January, Alwin received a call from her informant, Jesse Cuba, a janitor in the doctor’s building, saying he had information. It was Alwin’s day off, but she called the watch commander and reported that Cuba wanted to meet her in the medical building where he worked. Cuba was a heroin addict on parole for possession. Alwin had met him on the fly and alone before and considered him harmless.
When Alwin didn’t return, a patrol car was sent out. The officers found her in a storage closet in the basement. She’d been stabbed seventeen times.
Donahue told Vining that he wouldn’t be much help to her because they’d solved Alwin’s murder. Jesse Cuba was found dead of a heroin overdose in the seedy motel room he rented by the week. In his room, police found Alwin’s purse and jewelry. The purse had Alwin’s blood on it. Other suspects didn’t pan out. Case closed. Donahue wished her well with her investigation.
Vining hung up. There was no reason for her to second-guess Tucson’s investigation, but something about the case bothered her.
Two years later, Vining was stabbed responding to a suspicious circumstances call reported by a man who identified himself as a realtor watching over 835 El Alisal Road while the owner was away.
A year after that, Officer Frankie Lynde was murdered.
And Vining had a panic attack at the scene.
She stood by the coffeemaker, sipping the burnt brew that powdered creamer and sugar did nothing to improve. She saw Lieutenant George Beltran in Early’s office. He glanced at her and she felt certain they were talking about her. Then Kissick joined them.
She downed the rest of the coffee, tossed the cup, and was returning to her desk when Beltran caught up with her on his way out.
He shook her hand. “Hey, Nan. How are you? Good to have you back.” Beltran had wavy dark hair and a thick mustache that were starting to show gray. He was medium height and naturally slender in a way that made him look taller than he was. He had a broad smile and an easy manner. He handled the media well and consequently served as the PPD’s liaison. He enjoyed the spotlight.
“I’m good, Lieutenant. Nice to be back. Thanks.”
It was a pleasant interchange but it put her on edge. Before she reached her desk, Kissick stuck his head out the door of Early’s office and asked her to come in.
“Have a seat,” Early said.
Kissick was leaning against
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