Crown's Law (4 page)

Manley knew that requesting the transfer
would ruin his career and brand him a coward. He went and found his
quarters and tried to get settled. He wondered who Corporal Crown
was, really. He went in search of Sgt. Collins to find out—if he
could. He found out more than he wanted to know.

After filling the lieutenant in on Crown, the
sergeant concluded, “So you see, Lieutenant, Crown is a one-man
death squad. Corporal is only his pay grade, not his rank. He’s
been offered field commissions several times, but has always turned
them down. He doesn’t like leading men to their deaths, so he works
alone a lot. There’s no better man to watch your flank, though, or
take the point on patrol. You have to understand, sir, that this
war is like no other. It’s a big political exercise: started by the
CIA, and run by the CIA. Crown’s daddy is a big shot in the CIA.
Remember that. In this fucking war, we take territory, Charlie
takes it back. The only way the brass can measure our progress is
by using body counts—ours and theirs. The problem is, Charlie has
an endless supply of bodies to contribute, and an infinite
patience. We have neither. Anyway, the daily/weekly/monthly body
counts are very important. Crazy Horse keeps this platoon—and
company—at the top of the achievement list. We leave him the fuck
alone!”

“But, the ears . . .”

“Some units—because of the pressure to
produce high body counts—have been known to fabricate them, inflate
them. Nobody can accuse Crown of fabrication. He doesn’t even
collect ears from all his kills—only the convenient ones. And only
left ears. Last count, there were over 180 notches on his totem.
Try and match that, Lieutenant. The actual count is probably three
times that. We get rid of the ears as soon as we can. It appears as
if someone fucked up here.”

“I would agree. How many tours has he
done?”

“This is the beginning of his third. He won’t
stay away.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty going on forty.”

“Why do you call him ‘Crazy Horse’?” asked
the lieutenant.

“See that sign nailed to his totem? ‘A good
day to fight; a good day to die’? Crazy Horse, the Indian chief,
supposedly said that when he went into battle. So does Crown. And
Crown sometimes wears a cowboy hat with feathers stuck in the band,
twin six-shooters, and snakeskin cowboy boots. He’s been tagged
with the name ‘Apache’ by the VC, even though Crazy Horse was a
Sioux. I guess Apaches are the most well-known vicious
Indians.”

“He is crazy then?” asked Lt. Manley.

“Not in the clinical sense. He got this
way after he saw a village that the VC had ravaged. They had raped
all the women, then slaughtered everyone

old people, women, children. He decided that
they needed punishing. Now they really fear him.”

“And the Corps condones this behavior? And .
. .”

“Don’t go there, sir.”

“You’re right. The CO made that clear.”

“All I know is when we take the field, I want
Crown on point.”

“OK, Sergeant. The major said you’d teach me
how to run this platoon. What do we do next?”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s high on the list to get under
your belt. Maybe tomorrow. We’re going out at 0500. There could be
a fire-fight. Now listen up, sir. There’s a lot you need to
know.”

February 1973

South Vietnam

Many rumors came out of the Vietnam War. Some
were true, some were not. The real truth will probably never be
known about some reported incidents. No hard documentation existed
for these, of course. For example, the existence of a U.S. Marine
called the “Apache” who cut off his victims’ left ears. That was
just one of the oral legends that came out of that war. Nothing was
documented to support it.

The incident that got Sam Crown the Medal of
Honor was documented by Lt. Manley, but there were several
unofficial versions that were not. Lt. Manley’s official account
said that Corporal Samuel Crown put his life on the line—and was
critically wounded while so doing—saving Lt. Manley’s platoon from
being annihilated in an ambush by the Viet Cong. That much was
certainly true. The details—undocumented ones—varied depending upon
to whom you spoke.

Sam Crown was in a chopper heading to base
camp—he had been on a solo foray in the north—when the chopper
pilot heard over the radio that Lt. Manley’s platoon had taken to
the field without Crown, their normal point man. Manley had gotten
annoyed when Crown didn’t show up on schedule and ordered his
platoon to move out with Corporal Gerard on point. Sgt. Collins
advised him to wait for Crown, but Manley was adamant. He wasn’t
going to let the arrogant Corporal Crown run his platoon!

When Crown was advised that Manley was
already on the march, he asked the pilot to change course and find
them. He would join them in the field. When they finally found the
platoon, they also found a large group of Viet Cong lying in wait
for them.

What happened next was related by the chopper
pilot and the sergeant on the starboard machine gun. Corporal Sam
Crown never gave a clear statement about the incident. According to
the chopper crew, when they discovered the impending ambush, they
tried to raise Manley’s platoon on the radio without success. That
was when Corporal Crown asked the pilot to put him down about a
half mile from the VC group. He told them that he would cause a
disturbance that would warn the platoon. That he did.

When Lt. Manley heard the automatic weapons
fire, he eased his platoon slowly forward towards the noise. When
he went off radio silence, he heard the chopper pilot still trying
to raise him. Crazy Crown was in the middle of a fire-fight with 30
or 40 VC and needed help. The chopper was trying to help him with
their machine gun, but when they took heavy ground fire, they had
to pull away.

At that point, Manley ordered his platoon
forward with all haste. When they arrived at the clearing where the
fight was underway, they found Corporal Crown on his knees spraying
the area with an enemy’s AK-47. Bodies were everywhere. Manley’s
platoon finished off the remaining VCs and Manley rushed to
Corporal Crown and took the AK-47 from his bloody hands. He had
been shot several times.

“Medic!” yelled Lt. Manley. Then to himself,
“Crazy son-of-a-bitch!”

Then he whispered, “Thank you.”

***

Sam Crown received his honorable discharge in
August 1973 and went home to Capistrano Beach, a Medal of Honor in
his duffel. To please his mother—he had disappointed her very much
when he had enlisted in the Marines—Sam enrolled at UCI with a
Criminal Justice major. He wanted to be a cop someday. It was a way
to stay close to guns and to battle evil. That’s all he knew.

***

He got his degree in 1977 and
immediately went to the Orange County Sheriff’s Department’s
academy. Four years later he was in homicide. His tumultuous law
enforcement career ended in 1995 with the shooting of Irene
Culvert’s husband. That was when he joined
Investigations International (II),
a much
respected investigations and security firm based in L.A., as a
private investigator and bodyguard specialist. In spite of his long
years as a cop, they sent him through their standard training
course where he learned the company’s policies—and more
importantly—he became an expert in advanced surveillance equipment
and techniques.

As part of his employment contract, he
got
II
to open a pro bono
office in Santa Ana where he could do investigations for the locals
at 1940 prices—or in needy cases, free. This office did business
as
Mickey Malone
Investigations
. This allowed Sam to be close to
Capistrano Beach—where his aging parents lived—several days per
month. He wasn’t about to live anywhere except Orange County—never
far from “his” beach.

Investigations
International
did not want to use their widely-known
name on the pro bono office since they wanted to maintain their
ability to demand top rates in offices bearing their name. This
suited Sam just fine. He thought the average person’s image of a
P.I. was Bogart in the
Maltese
Falcon
, so he decorated Mickey’s office in blacks,
whites, and grays and had photos on the walls from various old P.I.
movies. An old coat rack next to the office door sported a tan
trench coat and a dark brown fedora. Mickey’s office was never used
by Sam or the other detectives who rotated through the office so
Pearl Cooper, the office manager, could always say, “He’s out.” In
addition to the storage/tech room, there were two other offices in
the complex that they used. One was Sam’s, and the other was used
by the other rotating detectives. Sam was happiest when he worked
in his home county. He was selective in what cases he took, because
his goal was to help the poor people—and help punish the bad guys.
He was good at that.

“
Towering genius disdains a beaten
path.

It seeks regions hitherto unexplored.”

Abraham Lincoln, speech, Jan. 27, 1838

Saturday, August 8, 1998

Irvine, CA

It was 6:05 P.M. and Sam was settled in
his
Mike’s Plumbing
surveillance van, his equipment focused on the building
across the street—a rundown apartment building. The large windows
on each side of the van’s rear compartment were covered with tinted
glass so he could see out, but no one could see in. His high-tech
equipment—an expensive digital camera with the best of zoom lenses,
a digital Camcorder, and a shotgun mike with a range of 50
yards—were fitted in special ports in the side of the van and in
the dome on top. He was waiting for a philandering husband to come
out—hopefully with his mistress—so he could gather more evidence
for his client, the guy’s wife’s lawyer. The wife wanted to take
her husband to the cleaners in a divorce she was planning. Sam
normally didn’t take this kind of case, but he found out that the
father was abusing the kids—a big no-no to Sam.

Sam didn’t particularly like working for
divorce lawyers, but it allowed him to be close to his parents’
beach house more often than when he worked away from Orange County.
His specialties were finding people and bodyguard gigs. He was
bored, so he was peering out one of the one-way windows, watching
the sparse traffic and the few pedestrians in this part of Irvine.
A beat-up, 10-year-old white Toyota pulled up to the curb across
the street and parked. Sam noticed that the two blonde girls in the
car appeared to be young, most surely teens. He watched them as
they sat there; the driver was watching the pedestrians and the
passenger—the youngest—seemed to be reading something on her
lap.

Sam checked his expensive spy toys for the
umpteenth time, then decided to get out of the van and stretch his
legs. He leaned against a tree planted by the city and took out a
piece of gum and popped it into his mouth. He wished it was a stiff
scotch as he checked his watch. Two skinheads—Sam guessed them to
be in their early twenties—sauntered up to the car. One strolled
into the street and began talking with the young girl behind the
wheel. Sam did not like the looks of things. But, he figured, the
girl could always drive away if she got hassled. Then the driver
got out of the car. She wore a very short denim skirt and a tight
tank top that showed a lot of cleavage. Her feet were shod in
platform shoes.

Shit! Ugly shoes!
thought Sam.
And she’s going to get
in trouble dressing like that! I don’t understand today’s
teens.

The girl then followed the two men into an
alley next to the apartment building.

Shit! A friggin’ teeny-bopper hooker! That
girl still in the car looks 12 or 13! I can’t allow this to
happen!

Sam watched until the street was clear of
traffic, then dashed across the street toward the alley. As he
passed the Toyota, he glanced at the girl in the car. She was still
reading. Then Sam heard a scream come from the alley. He rushed to
the mouth of the alley and was in time to see one of the men hit
the girl in the face with his fist, knocking her violently to the
ground. The other man was riffling through the girl’s purse.

The man who had hit the girl yelled,
“Bitch!”

Her head hit a discarded brick on the floor
of the alley as she fell to the grimy surface.

Sam drew his Smith & Wesson .40 caliber
semiautomatic, flicked the safety off, and jacked a cartridge into
the firing chamber. The distinctive sound of the metal slide
striking home froze the two skinheads. They didn’t like what they
saw when they looked up.

Sam said, “Stand very still, assholes! I’m
not in a very good mood! I’m really itching to shoot someone!”

The one holding the purse froze where he was,
but the other one turned and started running down the alley away
from Sam. Sam yelled at him to stop, but he didn’t. Sam knew he
would attract a lot of trouble if he shot the man in the back over
a mugging. If he’d known the girl was dead, he might have
reconsidered. Instead, he shot the man in the left buttock,
spinning him to the ground.

He pointed his gun at the other man and
snapped, “On the ground, fucker! Face down! Now!”

The man dropped the purse and plopped down on
the dirty alley floor, his face in the grit. Sam walked over to the
girl and checked for a pulse in her neck. When he didn’t find one,
he became more enraged! A senseless murder of a young girl! He
whipped out his cell phone and called 911 as he walked toward the
man who had killed the girl. The guy was holding his wound and
moaning in pain.