Bassler — Section 1

### Chapter 1: Chapter 1

John Bassler came to Socorro to clean up the town. But when they kill one of Socorro PD's own, clean up turns to vengeance. He finds himself in a familiar position, on both sides of the law. A shootout with a meth head in Detroit leads homicide detective John Bassler to an early retirement. Detroit's loss is Socorro New Mexico's gain, and Bassler finds himself at the head of a small department charged with cleaning up the town. The same town that one of his heros, Dallas Stoudenmire, found himself cleaning up all those years ago. Things turn ugly when they kill one of Socorro PD's own, a woman John has taken a romantic interest in. Bassler finds unlikely friends in a gun runner, a competitive lieutenant, and a reservation cop while he races against an old Navajo warrior out for a primitive vengeance of his own. An old west law man caught up in the modern day world, is John Bassler as tough and as quick with a sidearm as they say? They're all about to find out.

Complete Chapters 64 Rating 5.0 ( 20 reviews ) Age Rating mature {"language":"en","storyId":82151,"genres":[{"name":"Action","path":"/genres/action"},{"name":"Adventure","path":"/genres/adventure"}],"authorName":"Sweepercts","authorPath":"/Sweepercts","status":"complete","lastUpdatedAt":1476970052,"chaptersCount":64,"rating":5.0,"reviewsCount":20,"ageRating":"mature"} Chapter 1 When John Bassler was a kid his dad told him two things.

“Johnny,” he said, “You give respect where respect is due, but other than that don’t take shit from anybody.”

It was a creed that John lived his life by from little league bean ball brawls, to high school cliques, to the Marines, and as a detective on the streets of Detroit. He was second generation Detroit by way of Hazard, Kentucky. His people came to build the cars and somehow he managed to avoid the Ford plant. The whole family had an accent and he had retained some of his. The street cops thought it was funny when he showed up in creased jeans and work boots carrying the old Smith and Wesson Revolver, still speaking with a hint of Appalachia in his voice. They called him, “hillbilly” when they thought he wasn’t listening. He didn’t mind it much.

John got out of the car and looked around like he always did at a crime scene. It was a residential neighborhood that was typical for the new Detroit, inhabited homes mixed in with the abandoned and burned out ones. He motioned for a radio cop guarding the scene to come over.

“What can I do for you detective?” the uniform cop said.

“Get a couple of patrolmen and go through as many of the nearby abandoned houses as you can. I don’t know what we got here but sometimes these sons of bitches like to watch,” John said.

John’s partner, a clean cut guy named Earl Cook, wore a nice suit, spoke proper English. His family was from down south too, that’s probably why Inspector Roarke partnered them up. The uniform cop looked at Cook.

“Do what he says kid,” Cook said.

John walked over to a body lying next to the curb and studied things. The gravel pushed to the side by the cars, some plastic parts from a fender bender, there was even a small pile of salt left over from the brutally cold winter. He noticed a black rubber mark on the street where a car had spun its tires. There was a small blue tarp spread out on the grass.

“What’s this?” he said to a uniform cop taking pictures.

“Shot was so close it blew part of his face off, scene supervisor wanted it covered up,” the uniform cop said.

If you watched the national news you get the impression that, in Detroit, people get murdered everyday just walking down the street minding their own business. Ninety nine percent of the killings were drug related, theft related, assault related. Some kind of crime went down that made somebody think the killing was necessary, eye for an eye shit. A family member was wailing, standing behind the crime scene tape. John walked over.

“Hey, stop that wailing for a minute,” John said, “Who is the deceased to you?”

“My boy, they killed my boy,” the woman screamed.

“What’s your boy mixed up in? Drugs, stealing, he beat somebody up?”

“He was a good boy, he never done nothing to deserve this.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John said, “on par with the pope right?”

He walked over and stood next to Earl.

“What’d you think John?” Earl said.

“I think we find out what he was involved in and that’ll point us in the right direction. That’s his mama over there acting like she’s gut shot, crocodile tears though and she ain’t talking.”

“We’ve got a positive ID on the victim,” Cook said.

“Good,” John said, “We can start with that. Let’s head on back to headquarters, find out what this dude was up to.”

John saw the duty cop he requested the search from and motioned him over.

“I guess we can rule out a serial killing sociopath that gets off on this stuff.”

“You know we don’t get assigned those kinds of cases John,” Cook said.

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### Chapter 2: Chapter 2

“What you boys got?” Roarke asked.

“Got a boy with his face shot off, a mother that won’t talk, a mark where somebody laid rubber before they sped off, and nobody watching to get off on it,” Bassler drawled.

“Then typical drive by stuff?” Roarke said.

“You got an ID on the victim?” Roarke asked.

Roarke waved them out of his office. They knew what to do. The Inspector’s phone rang and Bassler closed the door behind him as he walked out. Cook sat down at his desk and typed the victim’s name in the state database. Bassler did the same with the federal database. The door to the homicide room opened but neither of them heard it. A uniform cop stood in the isle between their desk’s staring. Cook finally looked up.

“Jesus Christ John, here’s another one of them,” Cook said.

Bassler’s lips were moving as he read from the computer screen. When he was finished reading that there were no entries for the name he had queried he looked over. The patrolman’s eyes moved from Bassler’s revolver and gun belt hanging on a peg from the end of his desk, to the posters of Dallas Stoudenmire, Elmore Leonard, and Doc Holliday on the wall, to the bookended crime paperbacks and westerns on the desk, and finally to John Bassler himself dressed in a tweed jacket with the work boots and creased jeans.

“Holy shit,” the patrolman said, “The guys downstairs weren’t kidding. Say something so I can hear you talk?”

John Bassler unfolded all six feet five inches from behind his desk and stood looking down at the street cop. They didn’t hear Roarke come out of his office.

“What the hell is a patrolman doing passing time in my area?” Roarke boomed.

“Sorry sir, I was just leaving.”

The patrolman almost fell down as he fumbled for the door knob. It was quiet for a moment and then Bassler, Cook, and Roarke laughed.

“I need to see you in my office if you have a minute John,” Roarke said.

John looked at Cook. Cook shrugged his shoulders. John closed the door again and sat across from Roarke. Roarke opened a file and thumbed through the papers. John had been in trouble enough to know it was his DPD personnel file.

“John you’ve been on the force for twenty five years now and you’re only fifty years old.”

“That’s right Mike, been a while.”

“You’ve got no wife, no kids. Your parents passed sometime back.”

“The job comes with too much baggage for women and kids, you know that Mike. You were at mom and dad’s funerals. What the hell are trying to get at?”

“You’ve got more than enough time and money to retire at this point.”

“You know I do. What are you getting at?”

“Retirement’s a damn big favor Mike.”

“I got a good friend out in Socorro, New Mexico looking to hire a police Chief. Says they got a homicide problem stems from drugs, robbery, and assaults. Gets some cross boarder stuff going on once in a while. They’re looking for somebody that knows the criminal mind, can handle himself. I thought of you.”

“That’s a mighty big favor, big decision Mike. I always thought I’d stay on here as detective for a couple more years, retire, and maybe go fishing every day.”

Roarke shook his head, “Doesn’t suit you, being out of the police business. You could fish for three or four days then you’d be right back somewhere trying to track down a killer. You can get out of this shitty city, draw your pension, draw a salary too, and keep tracking down the bad guys. They got some fishing out there too I hear.”

“I don’t know Mike, thought New Mexico was all desert,” John said.

“Alright, think about it for a few days. You got nothing tying you to Detroit.”

John got up to leave, “OK Mike, I’ll think about it.”

“John,” Roarke stopped him at the door, “Remember they are looking for a guy like you.”

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