I got a call from a fellow I knew in the San Diego Police Department. We had discussed his military memorabilia and how anxious he was to get hold of certain items. I found a fellow, a retired elderly Marine from WWII, I know had an American flag which flew over Pelielu. I called my friend and Bob was interested. I really don’t think the old Corps Marine wanted money for it, but he did want someone to have it who could and would care for it.

Two days later, Bob called me on one of his rare days off and came down to San Diego in a car he’d recently bought and wanted to “overhaul” it as they do on TV. He showed up in this behemoth, a ’64 Galaxie Ford with the 427 Big Block with over 360 horsepower, which made the latest models of the Crown Victoria into kiddie cars. The thing looked straight and clean enough and didn’t have any rust to speak of on the outside, but one never knows for sure until it’s apart and inspected more thoroughly. But it had an AWFUL paint color: yellow. I merely shrugged it off and climbed in and told him, “Let’s ’98 to the flag guy.”
He said he had to stop at the bank for some money in case he could persuade the man to take money for the flag. I didn’t argue.
We drove over to Clairemont Mesa Blvd where his bank had a branch next to an essentially oriental food market called Ranch 99.
Bob clipped the bank ATM for a bunch of $20 bills and stuffed them in his hip pocket, writhing in the seat to make them tuck in properly. He had to adjust his seat belt, it was not easy to put anything in a pocket all tethered in like that in a seat belt not made for the car – in the old days it was an option one put in for themselves. This was no different. No shoulder harness, only lap belt. Bob finally seemed to have maneuvered it to make it easier to slide the bills into his jean’s pocket.
We drove to the street and waited a few moments for the west bound traffic to clear out. It did and just as we moved to take the road, I heard and I’m sure we both heard snap snap snap, the unmistakable sound of gunfire. I looked across the street to the driveway between Kearny Mesa Ford and the Mexican restaurant to the east. There was a fellow laying in the drive, bent over, holding his arm. Two men were running toward a vehicle parked nearby, a white one.
Bob ignored the sign in the street that said no U turns no Left turns and drove across to the other side, avoiding the traffic about to leave the red light to the west.
He parked at an angle to the curb, blocking the number 3 lane and the parking strip. He jumped out and ran to the alley. He had his service pistol in his belt, in the back, and was holding it where it was instead of bringing it out.
Just as Bob came to the downed man, blood was clearly on the mans arm and I was sure he’d been shot in the arm, but when it was all cleared, he had been shot in both his right arm as well as his right side. I stayed in the car, not being armed and not wanting to bring only fists and a smile to a gun-fight.
The white car suddenly lurched out of the driveway and into the traffic; with horns blaring from all of the insulted motorists, the white car also defied the signs and went across the center divide and headed west.
Since Bob had come from home I wasn’t sure what to do about calling someone. I had my cell phone, but I knew it was a long way from getting it out, dialing the central number, and getting through quickly; 911 is not much better; but Bob motioned to the car and held his hand to his mouth as if he had something in his hand. I looked around and found he must have taken his radio home and had it with him today; it was in the seat, partially between the cushions.
I picked it up and made sure it was on Dispatch 1 and keyed the mic: “This is Olin Thompson. I’m at the driveway between Kearny Mesa Ford and the buildings to the east. I’m with Robert Rohde, a traffic officer, we are in plain clothes and in a private vehicle. We are at a shooting scene. We’ll need an 11-41, a supervisor, and if you have a couple of free officers that would help as well. Might try to find an RSVP Traffic unit for some traffic direction and control of this shooting scene. And, no, officer Rohde was not a victim nor was he involved in the shooting. I caught the license number of the vehicle which left. Four, two, Paul, Lincoln, Alpha, Sam, Oscar, Charles. Sounds too long for a license number, so it might be just something to cover the plate. There were two WMAs in the front seat. The driver was red headed, longish sort of crew cut; and the passenger was oval faced, short short black hair. Both were in their late teens early twenties, more teen than twenty, though.”
About then I realized I’d hardly taken a breath and was panting.
“The vehicle make and model if you know it,” the dispatcher said,
“Want to go to D two to finish this?” I asked.
“Ten four,” she replied.
I found the switch on the radio and turned one click to Dispatch 2. You wonder how I know this? I was in the RSVPs and we used police radios just like these for all the years I was there until I had to leave for health reasons and I’m still friends with many of the current members. Hard to forget the protocol for talking to Dispatch. They are forgiving of old folks – RSVPs are all over 55 and generally retired, as well they should be.
“Okay,” I said, continuing, “it was a white late ‘80s early ‘90s Pontiac. Had not distinguishing marks. If, you can have a Northern Division officer or two canvas Madison High parking lot, you might find something there, but other than that I lost the car in a crowd of white vehicles going onto the freeway and just didn’t see where they went.”
“I’ll inform CHP and Northern. Anything else?” she asked.
I looked up and Bob was pumping his fist in the air, clearly wanting the 11-41 to expedite. I heard the sirens, several, and nodded. Bob apparently heard them also as he turned back to the injured man.
He called something to me and I got out of the car and went toward him,
“There’s a towel in the back seat,” he said.
I found it, ran close, and tossed it to him. I went to the street to help keep traffic from getting too backed up behind his car. I have an orange vest in my personal car and would use it if I needed to, but Bob didn’t have one with him today, apparently, so I just stood there in my blue shorts and red tee-shirt while I waved people to the left to avoid the yellow monster.
Two patrol cars arrived, the ambulance arrived, and shortly a Sergeant arrived and pulled across the center divide, hooting his horn – we used to call them oogah horns, since they made a horrible loud oogah sounding warning noise when activated. He parked across the drive so no one could encroach on the scene. The 11-41 had parked between the yellow beast and the Sergeant’s car.
They tended to the man and one of the beat officers came to me for a statement. I had seen him before at crashes and collisions I’d been doing traffic direction and control. I told him I would help, but most of it was on tape at the dispatcher’s and he could use that, I’m sure. He nodded, but indicated he needed certain information in any case.
A pastel, an undercover or detectives’ car, drove up and parked in the number three lane just past the driveway and it too blocked some traffic. An RSVP car arrived and they immediately began to put out orange cones and wave people into the number one and two lanes.
I sighed and after the officer wondered if I had thought of anything else and I said I didn’t, he walked to the Sergeant who nodded and waved to me. It was a Sergeant I’d dealt with many times before when I was in RSVPs. He was a good one. A former Marine as well. Lots of us former Marines are in law enforcement and even the RSVPs. We have a commitment to safety for the people we served then and now.
The Northern Division had sent two cars to the high school and I heard them report they found a car matching the description in a parking lot and I had been correct, the license was not visible and behind a ripped off piece of cardboard with 42 on it, and nothing else.
The case was close to being solved and Bob and I were about to be on our way.