shelf, but it hadn’t been out of reach of David.  The ammunition had been in the night stand by the bed.

 

     David must have taken the revolver down, got out the ammunition and loaded the weapon.  There were only two rounds in the revolver.  The fired one and the unexpended round.  We’ll never know, but I think David tried the trigger a few times and it didn’t fire.  Then he pointed it at Joey, pulled the trigger and BANG!  Joey never regained consciousness.  He died about twenty minutes after arriving at the hospital.  David never did tell us what happened.. He also had to see a doctor, the shock was too much for him.  I never saw David or his family again, they moved out of town as did Joey’s family.

 

     Note:  This is a true account of a shooting that occurred in Marina, California, in the Spring of 1980, shortly after I began my career as a Public Safety Officer.

 

     At this time, California Penal Code Section 12035 had not yet been written into law.  If it had been, David’s Mother could have been convicted of “Criminal Storage of a Firearm in the First Degree”, a felony with a sentence of 16 months to 3 years in the state prison, a fine not to exceed $10,000, or both.

Emergency—Gun Shot Victim

By Bill (Edit)

 

     It was about five minutes to eight in the morning when I walked into the fire house.  This was Thursday, a break in my routine, fire training.  Normally, I would have already been on patrol in my police car for an hour.

 

     “BAA-BEEP,” there it was, emergency page tones, followed by, “Medical Emergency—Gun Shot Victim, 195 Park Place, Ambulance in Route”.  I met Pete running down the stairs for the rescue van.  He was the on-duty fire fighter.  “Hey, Pete, you want some help?”  I shouted at him.  “Sure, hop in.” he replied.

 

     We were off, sirens and red lights.  It was a short run, just three blocks from the station.  When we arrived, I grabbed the first aid kit and oxygen tanks.  Pete ran in ahead of me to access the situation.  I noticed Roger, a patrol officer, already on the scene.

 

     The scene was a rather old, two-bedroom rental unit in a poorer section of the city.  I’d been there on a couple of police calls within the past few months.

 

     There sitting on the living room couch was David, a young boy of eight years.  He was in shock, shaking all over, and crying.  The TV was on a cartoon station, and there on the floor, head against the wall was Joey.  I knew him, I had taken a stolen bike report from him only a few weeks earlier.  There was blood on the side of Joey’s head, just in front of his left ear, not much, but as I looked closer I could see the gun shot wound in his hairline.

 

     I checked his pulse as Pete checked his blood pressure.  Both were within normal limits.  I could hear Joey breathing, it was regular, but as I checked his pupils, I found them dilated.  I shined a flashlight into one eye, no reaction.  Pete and I moved Joey out from the wall.  As I put my hand under Joey’s head, I could feel a warm, wet fluid.  It was Joey’s blood.  There on the right side of his head, behind and slightly above his ear was another wound.  This wound was smaller, but was bleeding more freely than the other.

 

     I felt helpless, I’d seen lots of gun shot wounds in Viet Nam, but this was different.  Joey was only ten years old, and this wasn’t war.  This kid was just standing in front of the TV watching cartoons before school.

 

     While I was waiting for the ambulance, I looked around.  There on the floor in front of an open hall closet was a revolver.  It looked like a police revolver, four-inch barrel, six-shot .38 Special or .357 Magnum.  I could see the nose of one of the bullets in the cylinder.  It was a hollow point, the type that expands when it hits flesh or bone, causing more damage.  I could hear Roger talking with David, asking him what had happened.  David kept saying, “I didn’t mean to.  I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”

 

     The ambulance arrived, Joey was loaded onto the stretcher and put into the ambulance.  He was still breathing, but I knew he was dead, his body just didn’t know it.

 

     A woman ran up to me as the ambulance pulled out of the driveway.  She was screaming.  “Where’s Joey, where’s my Joey?” I tried to quiet her, but she knew.  “He’s been shot, hasn’t he?” she asked.  I told her he had been shot and that he was on his way to the hospital in the ambulance.  She asked where he had been shot.  Without thinking, I told her in the head with a revolver.  She became hysterical, yelling. “My baby!  My baby!”  I asked a friend of hers, that was with her, if she could take her to the hospital.  She agreed to do so.

 

     I went back into the house to help Pete recover our equipment.  He already had everything ready to go.  I looked in the  hall and bedroom.  There on the floor was a set of police leather, the holster, a handcuff case and key ring.  By the bed were several bullets and an open ammunition box on the floor.  The scene was telling a story that Roger’s report would later verify.  David has gotten his mother’s weapon down from the closet shelf.  David’s mother was a security guard.  I could see she had put the equipment on the top