Chapter 67: An Unexpected Turn

The two of them were fooling around when Ao Xi’s phone suddenly rang.

“Hello, who is this?”

“This is Carlis. Ao Xi, why aren’t you coming in for your night shift?”

“Why? I shot a black guy dead—don’t you know? I’m supposed to be on administrative leave.”

“Who told you you must go on administrative leave after firing your weapon?”

“Isn’t that... the rule?”

“Of course not. Administrative leave is intended to ensure the fairness of the follow-up investigation, to prevent officers from influencing the case during the process, and to give the public a just result. This isn’t a legal requirement, but rather a precautionary measure implemented according to circumstance and agency policy. Whether you take leave or how long it lasts depends on those specifics. In other words, if we think you don’t need it, you don’t get it.”

“But I want paid leave.”

“Cut the crap and get to work—the night’s operation, don’t you know about it?”

“Is Mark coming in too?”

“You want him to drop dead on the job?!”

Carlis roared and hung up.

Misjudged—it turns out firing your gun doesn’t automatically mean leave. Is it so hard these days to coast on your salary?

Zhuo Ning drove home. Ao Xi hailed an Uber to the station.

Carlis saw Ao Xi but didn't say a word, just snorted, tossed him a car key, and left.

Ao Xi went to retrieve his Glock 19, changed into uniform, and headed to the parking lot. To his surprise, the key was for a brand new Ford Interceptor.

He’d had his heart set on a Camaro, but the Interceptor was a fine vehicle—tough, roomy, and perfect for hauling gear: bullets, handcuffs, first-aid kits, sometimes even smoke bombs and tear gas, to help out officers who hadn’t packed enough. Depending on the assignment, you could also fit a ballistic shield, a portable defibrillator, a decibel meter, a window tint detector, a fingerprint evidence kit, and more.

Ao Xi set out on patrol. After a while, he noticed something different about the streets—maybe it was because so many officers had been reassigned to hunt down suspects from the Music Warehouse shooting, leaving fewer patrol cars on the beat. Streetwise folk would pick up on that fast.

“Adam 388, we have a report of a shooting on Windsor Avenue. Please respond immediately and exercise caution.”

“Adam 388, copy.”

He switched on his lights and siren, racing to the location. In the distance, he saw several black men gathered, gawking at the scene. He honked twice, signaling them to clear a path.

“Don’t stand so close. If you drop anything at the scene, you’ll be taken in as suspects,” Ao Xi warned as he got out. Some bore red or gray markers above their heads—run them through the system and every one would have a rap sheet.

Reluctantly, they stepped back.

The streetlights were dim, so Ao Xi switched on the high-beams from his cruiser, scanning the surroundings. This was a black neighborhood, but unusually, there were many brick houses.

The crime scene was by a broad road. Three black men lay sprawled on the ground, two writhing in pain on the grass. Both looked young, and both bore red criminal markers. Another lay face-down along the walkway to a house, unidentified by any marker.

He knelt and checked the pulse of the face-down youth—nothing.

“Adam 388 reporting. I’ve arrived at the scene. Three black males have been shot, one is dead at the scene. Request backup and ambulances.”

He glanced at the two still groaning—calling out that loudly, they’d probably survive. No need for emergency aid, then.

Police are supposed to render aid to the injured, but only if they judge it safe to do so. If it seems unsafe, they don’t have to risk it.

Anyone who’s watched enough American police videos knows: sometimes a suspect is shot and left unattended, only getting medical attention hours later, or at dawn.

Right now, Ao Xi judged the scene unsafe. If he tried to treat the two wounded, some bystander might jump him.

Best to wait for backup.

If they died, well—that was fate.

Within moments, two backup cruisers arrived.

If you get something stolen in LA, you might wait an hour without seeing a cop, but for a shooting or firefight, backup can materialize in seconds—like teleportation.

The onlookers, seeing more police cars, scattered at once.

With backup, Ao Xi and his colleagues searched the three wounded men, finding a handgun and a large bag of drugs—identified by his partner as cocaine.

“They’re all marked with Bloods gang tattoos. They’re probably street-level dealers, targeted by a rival gang. The Bloods have a lot of branches, though. We’ll have to wait for them to recover in the hospital to find out which crew.”

After the search, they allowed the paramedics to take the injured to the hospital.

“Let’s ask around and see if anyone saw anything,” Ao Xi suggested.

He knocked on the door of the house where the dead man lay by the porch. “We’re from the LA County Sheriff’s Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The door opened. A black woman in her thirties greeted them. “Good evening, officers. I’m the one who found them and called the police.”

Ao Xi exchanged a look with his colleague. That made things easier.

“What’s your name? Could you please describe what happened?” Ao Xi took out his notebook.

“My name is Kanisha. I was inside watching TV with my family when we heard gunshots. At first, we thought it was fireworks, so we all went to the window. That’s when I saw the young man lying face-down on my porch. Then I called the police.”

“Kanisha, did you see anyone shoot them, or notice anyone or any vehicles fleeing the scene?”

“I didn’t see anyone, but I did see a white car speeding north. I can’t say for sure if it was the shooter.”

“Can you show us where you saw the white car?”

“Right there, under the third streetlight.”

“Thank you very much.”

Ao Xi and his partner walked to the third streetlight, then headed south. Not far along, they found a cluster of spent shell casings on the ground.

He returned to his cruiser, got out evidence markers and police tape, and instructed his colleagues to count and mark the casings—one marker per casing—while he cordoned off the scene. Earlier, when he was alone, he hadn’t done anything, just looked out for his own safety.

With the scene secured and evidence marked, his job for now was done. The rest would wait for Homicide to arrive and take over.

As for whether they’d truly do their best to catch whoever had shot those three gangbangers—that depended on their mood. After all, in America, things were different. The homicide clearance rate in 2013 was just 64%, dropping to 60% by 2018.

“Every homicide solved” was a slogan and mission put forth by China, and they actually achieved it. The US, Japan, Europe—none made that promise. If you could solve it, you did; if not, it just gathered dust.

After a while, Homicide still hadn’t shown up. Ao Xi, unwilling to wait, said goodbye to his two colleagues and left.

Those two seemed happy to stay—easy money, just standing around and chatting.

Ao Xi preferred to idle elsewhere. The residents in the nearby buildings kept peering out at him, making him uncomfortable. He’d rather find a quiet alley to pass the time.

He drove along the street, looking for a good spot to hide. Suddenly, a call came over dispatch.

“Assistance needed—a black male suspect resisted arrest with a firearm and is now barricaded. All nearby units, please respond.”