“Rina’s going to meet me there. We’ve decided to turn it into a mini-vacation. You two will be on your own.”

Marge winked at Oliver. “You come and help split the driving, I’ll be your wingman when we hit the bars.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

“But don’t go too far, Pete,” Marge said. “We’ll need someone Spanish-speaking to plead his case after he’s been arrested for a drunk-and-disorderly.”

“You wound me,” Oliver said.

“Not as much as you wound yourself,” Marge said.

“And not as much as Solana Perez was wounded.” Decker shook his head in disgust. “The capacity of human beings to inflict pain on one another is just astonishing.”

“At least we got her a modicum of justice,” Marge said. “Until the next one.” She gave her words some thought. “And there always is a next one.”

“Speaking of which…” Decker handed them a detail sheet. “Lee and Bontemps just caught this case. They could use some help.”

Marge and Oliver let out a collective moan.

“Aw, quit your bitchin’,” Decker said. “Crime may make us cynical and ugly, but it’s how we earn our paychecks. It’s a nasty job, but someone has to do it.”

“Bull’s-eye” features Peter Decker and his daughter Cindy dissecting a perplexing shooting of an unpopular drill instructor at the Los Angeles Police Academy. It required a visit to the academy, a fascinating place within spitting distance of Dodger Stadium. I was surprised to learn that many of the academy facilities were funded by Jack Webb of Dragnet fame. This story is the first time that Cindy Decker appears in a professional capacity. Father and daughter have a few issues to work out as they edge toward solving this baffling case.

Crazy broad! Holstetter kept his feelings in check, his face impassive, as Sergeant Rigor talked and talked… trying to break him, break them all. He knew all the others felt that way, too, even the girls-uh, women. Martinez was always calling Rigor a fascist, MacKenny rolling her eyes whenever she lectured. Even Decker despised Rigor, said she suffered from a bad case of queen-bee syndrome, whatever that was.

Rigor wasn’t a particularly big woman-around five-six or -seven, medium build, brown hair clipped close to her scalp, one step below a crew cut. Psycho eyes that took you in and spat you out.

Holstetter realized he was beginning to slump. He straightened, hoping Rigor hadn’t noticed.

“Gettin’ tired, Holstetter?”

“No, ma’am, no!”

Rigor’s eyes drilled into his. “Sure? I wouldn’t want to tire you out.”

“No, ma’am, no!”

“Maybe you and your troop should take a run up the hill- say, five, ten miles. Sound good?”

Holstetter could feel the anger rising around him, his fellow cadets silently cursing him. His momentary lapse in posture had cost all of them. Still he remained expressionless. “Yes, ma’am, yes!”

“Great!” Rigor said with mock enthusiasm. “Tell you what, Holstetter, I’ll even run with you.” She lifted a finger. “But first things first.”

She addressed her charges. “You people think you’re making progress? You got miles to go-I mean light-years-before you’re even fit to call yourselves trainees.”

She glared at them. “I can’t stress brainpower enough. You’re going to need every cell in your less than adequate craniums when you’re out on the streets. Those bad guys out there… tell me about the bad guys, Baldwin.”

A burly African American answered in a deep voice: “There’s more of them than of us.”

“See, folks?” Rigor announced. “ Baldwin ’s actually learned something! There are way more of them than of us. And they got no morals. They got nothing holding them back, nothing to prevent them from turning you into a colander. Why did I bring up a colander, Martinez?”

“Because it’s full of holes,” a young Latina said.

“Excellent, Martinez. My job here is to prevent any of you from turning into a colander. Got it?”

The group answered in unison, “Yes, ma’am, yes!”

“That’s good. I’m glad you understand. Because this is what I wanna do. You get good shooting practice here, but I don’t think it’s enough. So you know what I’m gonna do for you? I’m gonna take you out on Saturday-voluntary, of course. We’re going to run a bit, train a bit, shoot a bit. Not here. At another range… to get you used to different situations and circumstances. So you don’t get to thinking that Mr. Scumbag is always directly in front of you, twenty feet away, just waiting to be shot at. You gotta train all over the place!”

The sergeant stared at her cadets in their regulation blue sweats, her eyes scanning the names sewn on the shirts: Darwin, Holstetter, Baldwin, Martinez, Jackson, McVie, Decker, MacKenny… all of them so damn young!

“This extra target practice is my idea, not part of the academy program. So you don’t have to sign up. But let me say this. You can go into the streets two ways: prepared or unprepared. I’m willing to give up my free time to prepare you. I don’t need you to be grateful. But I do need you to be good cops.”

Rigor held up a sign-up sheet. “This’ll be waiting for you in my office. Anyone asks you what it means, just tell them it means a fun-filled Saturday with Sergeant Rigor. You sign it or not-up to you.”

She turned to Holstetter. “Cadet, how ’bout you and me leading the way now?”

“Yes, ma’am, yes!”

“Fall into rank!” Rigor shouted, and the troop shuffled into place, one long line, two abreast. She nodded to Holstetter, and they began their uphill jaunt. Holstetter had to pump hard to keep up with Rigor’s stride, his breath quickening, leg muscles contracting, as he concentrated on his step.

Sadistic bully!

“What can I say? It’s cruel and unusual punishment. But who am I complaining to… or, rather, to whom am I complaining?”

Peter Decker smiled at his daughter. “If you want to be technical.”

Cindy laughed and sipped her coffee. “Three months out of college and I’m already talking like a Valley Girl! What would my lit professor say?”

“Probably that you should have stayed in graduate school.”

“Wasting my time and your money,” Cindy said wryly. “Anyway, I know I’ve been griping nonstop for the last half hour.”

“Oh, you took a couple of breaths,” he said.

She grinned at her father, showing a crescent of white, even teeth. She was a fine-looking girl, Decker thought-well-sculpted face, big brown eyes, white skin paprikaed with freckles, and a mop of red hair. He had never seen her in such fine physical shape. The Police Academy ’ll do that for you, he thought.

“I’m not unhappy, Dad. I’m just venting. I can vent to you, can’t I?”

“I’m honored.”

“The classroom courses are a snap. As far as the physical training goes-well, yes, I am exhausted. But it feels terrific to be forced to go that extra distance, knowing your life may depend on it, propelling yourself until it hurts. Because out on the street, when you’re giving chase to a criminal, there’s no time limit.”

Her words were straight from some instructor’s mouth, he thought. Still, they were even truer today than they had been in his time. He was glad Cindy was taking them seriously.

Decker stretched his long legs under the table. “You’re right about that,” he told her.

Again Cindy grinned at him. “Like you need me to explain this to you.”

Decker took a bite of his onion bagel. “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you.” He chewed a moment. “You haven’t said much about your classmates. Found any friends?”

“Sure. It’s a nice group. Some of the guys are a little… heavy-handed.”

“They give you a hard time?”

“They give everyone a hard time. They come down like he-men in hand-to-hand combat. They get a charge out of hurting people. No big deal. You just fight back hard.”