NOGALES CROSSING

Franco’s view along the second floor hallway revealed a startling sight. Gregory Rowland was only twenty feet from the top of the stairs. He was now lying prone on the carpet, facing Franco, with his hands outstretched and palms face down next to each other. His eyes locked with the deep, brown, passionate pools of Franco Perez.

From the apartment there came the sound of chaos as the suspect resisted the attempts of three detectives to detain him. Nina was at the top of the rear stairs and even from that distance she could see Rowland’s movements. “Franco, look out, he has a gun!” She shrieked the words franticly.

Just as they say, it appeared to happen in slow motion. Gregory Rowland scooped his hands together, lifting his small .380 semi-automatic from the stained and worn carpet. Not another muscle in his body seemed to move. The crook’s right index finger twitched slightly and a slug was sent spiraling on its treacherous journey. Franco saw it coming. He could not fathom why a small pistol could discharge a projectile that appeared six inches in diameter.

Franco had never been shot before and he likened it to a red-hot poker being thrust into him. The bullet barely missed the barrel of his own weapon, then it forced apart the index finger and middle finger of his right hand. Taking an almost direct route, it raced eleven inches along the edge of his ulna, stopping just short of the elbow. He was aware of a new definition for the word excruciating. It took will power beyond his imagination to keep both hands on his gun.

His mind filled with the violent sounds that continued to emanate from the rock house. A beautiful vision at the far end of the building swept away those noises, as Nina lifted her hand to her mouth to suppress her screams of concern. Franco’s eyelids drooped heavily and he felt a kind of drunken wooziness begin to overwhelm him. He searched the face of his nemesis for an understanding of the assault.

There was no remorse to be found anywhere in the depths of the crazed villain’s soul. In fact, Franco detected the slightest movement of the trigger finger one more time. His own primeval instinct for survival kicked into gear as Franco realized his aim was directed at his adversary’s forehead. One round, discharged from the Beretta, was enough to eradicate the world of Gregory Rowland for all time.

In real time, three seconds spanned the period from first eye contact to termination of the pathetic and basically worthless being sprawled on the floor. An instant after Franco sent his shot on its deadly journey, his right hand jerked away from the 9mm and fell to his side, bleeding profusely. He juggled momentarily to keep from dropping the weapon.

It has been said that there is a time and a place for everything. There would be grave concern by Franco Perez about the inevitability of the brief exchange of gunfire. However, the arrival of a first floor resident, Carlos Cordova, was to prove untimely indeed.

After working hard for ten hours on a nearby construction site, Cordova was seconds away from joining his wife and four children when he walked into the building. This was immediately following the commencement of the battle between three detectives and an unwilling dope dealer. His attention was naturally drawn to the commotion in the apartment situated just twenty feet from his home and family. Only after hearing the crack of the first round being fired did he look to the top of the stairs. What he subsequently saw and heard during the next two seconds would be interpreted in two distinctly different ways. As Franco leaned back heavily on the wall and began to pass out, there was really only one way: the way it truly occurred.