“No ma’am, it looks like an anonymous tip letter. I think it is important.”
She smiled and replied, “Well, the chief will be out of his office for the next week, so if it worries you, I suggest you get it to the Orange County Sheriff’s Office. Wear your uniform and they’ll give you and your envelope the attention that you deserve.”
He backed from the doorway, tipped his campaign hat and said, “Thank you for your time, ma’am. I think I’ll do just that.”
Although it was approaching seven p.m. and his wife was waiting dinner for him, he felt compelled to get the strange communication to the right authorities. Had it referenced transportation, traffic or their infrastructure, he would have left the envelope waiting for the chief to return and resolve the problem, but no, this felt wrong to him: a premonition of epic proportions.
He returned to his cruiser rather than his personal car, to drive the twenty-nine miles to Santa Ana’s Orange County Sheriff’s Office. He thought it would make his visit more official. At the back of his mind, he kept thinking, What if this is a crank letter: a sham? Will I lose my badge? Will I be the laughingstock of the CHP?
Before leaving the yard, he called his wife Barbara to tell her he’d be late. At first, she objected, but after his explanation of the situation, she told him to take his time and do it right.
With her blessing, he left SJC heading to Santa Ana. Fortunately, traffic was light; he arrived forty minutes later.
The desk sergeant looked up from his paperwork at his entrance, smiled and asked, “Uh-oh. What did I do now?”
Somber, he bantered back, “Stand at ease, sergeant, I’m here to see your leader.”
The sergeant turned toward the back and yelled, “Sheriff, you’ve got a visitor.”
Moments passed before a heavyset gruff-looking uniformed individual with a star on his chest approached him, held out his hand, and said, “Hello Officer Briscoe. Welcome to the home of real law enforcement.”
Wondering how the Sheriff knew his name, he quickly realized he was still in uniform: his black nametag on his shirt pocket showed BRISCOE in large white letters. He returned the handshake and laughing, said, “That’s why I’m here, Sheriff…” He looked at the sheriff’s nametag and finished his sentence, “Victor.”
“Well, now you’re talking. Jimmy Victor at your service. What can we do for you, officer?”
He lowered his voice and placed the bagged envelope in the sheriff’s hand. “This was found in my cruiser this morning. It appears someone slipped it through my open window when I wasn’t looking. It may be bogus, but I think anything that says WMD on the front should be taken seriously, if only for a moment.”
“What about your chief? What does he think about it?”
“Chief Azul? He’s out of town for a week and I wanted to get this thing churning in the system.”
“Good call, Briscoe. I know Humberto would concur. If someone went to that much trouble to deliver it, it may be a real threat. We’ll need to move quickly.” He had already read the front cover; the words and their arrangement worried him. “I’ll get this to our crime unit first thing in the morning. Did anyone touch it before you bagged it?”
Hesitating, he answered, “Yes. The mechanic who replaced my light bar was cleaning inside my cruiser and found it. His name’s Juan Moreno. I’m afraid he did handle it before I could bag it.”
“That’s okay, Briscoe. If need be, we’ll call him in for fingerprinting. Does your office have his prints on file?”
“Sorry, Sheriff you’ll have to take that up with our administrative office. I don’t know.”
Victor shook his head. “Goddamn it, Briscoe. There’s more red tape every time I turn around. It’s amazing we ever get anything done in law enforcement.”
Nodding in agreement, he smiled, glanced at his watch, and said, “Well Sheriff, if we’re done here, I’m going home to a nice dinner. It’s been a really long day.”
Victor laughed and responded, “Yeah, breaking your light bar can do that to you sometime.” Cackling, the sheriff walked him to the door and pulled a business card from his pocket. “Here. Keep this in case you hear anything more. Call me if you do.”
“Thank you, Sheriff Victor. Here’s mine. Call me if your investigation team has questions.”
“I will, Officer Briscoe. Take care of SJC for us. It’s a long drive down the I-5.”
For him, the drive back to SJC was short, as he reviewed the events of the day; something that kept his mind occupied heading home. However, never before had he received such a mysterious message. It worried him; kept him awake all night.
SID
The sun rose over the Briscoe household catching Barb, a modern day June Cleaver, making breakfast. The aroma of eggs, bacon and brewing coffee wafted through the house, waking Mica. Canceling the alarm, he saw the time was six a.m. The last time he glanced at the clock, trying to sleep, it was four. Great! Two hours sleep. He rested his head back on the warm pillow for a few more minutes sleep. Immediately, the bedside telephone rang and aborted his attempt.
“Hello,” he answered, yawning, “this is Mica.”
“Is this Officer Mica Briscoe?” the female voice inquired.
“Well, yes it is. May I ask who’s calling?”
“Sorry to call you so early, officer. This is Lieutenant Sherry Poole with the Orange County Sheriff’s Special Investigation Division.”
He jolted upright in bed, rubbed his eyes and trying to sound alert, said, “No problem Lieutenant Poole. I was just about to jump in the shower. What can I do for you?” He expected the call, yet dreaded its arrival, especially at six in the morning: a harbinger of mountains of red tape.
“Officer Briscoe, did you bring an anonymous tip letter into our office last evening?”
“Why yes, I did. Around nineteen-forty hours. Gave it to Sheriff Victor. It wasn’t my find, though; a mechanic found it in my cruiser during a maintenance stop.”
“Juan Moreno, right?”
“Yes that’s correct.” Covering the telephone’s microphone, he called out to Barb for a cup of coffee. He could see the conversation dragging on for quite a while.
Poole took a deep breath and continued, “Well, we have your evidence in forensics now and have found several fingerprints on the outside but not one on the letter itself. Do you think they’re Moreno’s?”
“Probably. He found and handled it before I could bag it.”
“We’ve checked his record and found a few minor arrests but nothing serious. No felonies, I mean. Would you consider him a suspect?”
“Can’t say that I would, Lieutenant Poole. He’s been with our SJC maintenance shop for as long as I can remember. Never caused a problem… other than a few misdirected pranks. They caused no harm, though.”
“What about you, Officer Briscoe? Do you hold any grudges against the world? Are you happy in your job?”
“Now wait a minute Lieutenant Poole, I’m as straight as an arrow. Check my record; you’ll see it’s clean as a whistle.”
“Oh we have, Officer Briscoe. It’s flawless, but we have to explore all our leads and they obviously begin with you.”
Barbara entered the room with coffee, handed it to him, and whispered, “Are you in trouble, Mica?”
Shaking his head no, he replied to Poole, “I understand that and I want to help in any way I can, but remember I’m just a traffic cop, nothing more, nothing less.”