Sample chapters from Ro’s Handle,
Book One in the Ro Delahanty Series
Chapter One
Iowa’s Best Shooter
Sunday, April 27, 2003, afternoon
Ro stepped up to the firing line, her left hand hanging relaxed next to her hip, glad to have chosen a lighter, hip length, forest green denim jacket to conceal the Glock at her waist, as the Iowa Sportsman’s Club indoor range was over air conditioned and a bit chilly. On the outskirts of Des Moines, it was known as the premier shooting facility in the state and was hosting the first ever Iowa Sport Shooter’s State Championship match.
The station judge, who was behind her a couple of paces and to her left, as that was Ro’s shooting hand, raised his arm to signal the shooter at station number eight was ready.
Three other station judges, two to her left and one on her right, had apparently done the same thing as the shooter’s targets instantly popped up twenty-five yards down the firing lanes.
CRACK! Only two of the four remaining shooters actually fired, virtually simultaneously.
Ro’s target, a male in a ski mask holding an AK-47, was clearly a bad guy; of course, she drew and fired. The big scoreboard above the judge’s table behind the firing line, not unlike the leader board at a golf match, said Ro’s judge had awarded her nine points, which probably was for having been a smidgeon slow on the draw, because her shot on the target was dead center in the heart.
The other competitor who had fired − Roger Wheelan, a professional shooter − also clearly had had a bad guy as his target, although because competitors couldn’t see into adjacent firing lanes, Ro didn’t know what his had been. The scoreboard said he’d also scored nine points as well.
The two other shooters − Adam Hicks, an amateur, and Doug Payne, a lieutenant with the Iowa State Police − had received a surprisingly poor five points each. It was almost certain both shooters had committed the same faux pas; they had reacted a bit too quickly and partially drawn their weapons on what were non-threatening targets. Even partially drawing down on a “civvy,” a civilian or non-threatening target, was a cardinal sin in sport shooting; the only worse mistake was actually firing on one, which resulted in a big point deduction.
“Sport shooting,” as it was called, was a recent addition to the firearms competition sphere. Under the sponsorship of the United States Sport Shooter’s League (USSSL), the basic premise was to simulate self-defense shooting. Pop-up targets presented themselves unexpectedly; the target might be hostile or might not be. The shooter had to quickly distinguish which was which, then draw, or not draw his or her weapon from a concealed-carry position and if threatening, fire on the target. Points were awarded by a judge at each station for speed of draw and accuracy of the shot (i.e., in a kill zone).
A match included three rounds, usually conducted over three successive days – Friday, Saturday, Sunday – again like the final rounds of a golf match. Each round involved ten individual shooting stations, with each station being worth up to ten points, so a round was worth a hundred points and a complete match was three hundred points. The shooter closest to three hundred at the end of the three rounds was the champion and earned the title of Best Shooter.
USSSL matches were “open,” meaning anyone could enter and compete. The bottom one-third of scorers were eliminated after the first round, the bottom half of the remaining shooters were dropped after the second round. Again, like a golf match the “finalists” competed on Sunday, with the “leaders” going last.
The finalists now left to compete in the first Iowa championship were:
– Adam Hicks of Council Bluffs, Iowa: A roofer by trade, he was proving to be a surprisingly good amateur. Shooting with a Glock 35, the forty-caliber version of Ro’s nine-millimeter Glock 34, Hicks had been in station ten, to Ro’s far left, and had just completed his match.
– Doug Payne of Pine Grove, Iowa: A lieutenant with the Iowa State Police, he favored the Smith & Wesson M&P 40, a popular law enforcement sidearm. Payne had just completed his ninth station to Ro’s immediate left.
– Ro Delahanty of Lee’s Landing, Iowa: A dispatcher with the Fort Armstrong County Sheriff’s Department, she was representing the Witness Tree Rod and Gun Club and had just finished her eighth station.
– Roger Wheelan of Valdosta, Georgia: A full-time professional shooter, he was competing with a Kimber Gold Match II 45. Wheelan, immediately to Ro’s right, had just finished his seventh station.
At the end of Saturday’s second round, Ro and Wheelan were tied for the lead with 178 points each, which surprised everyone, as it had been assumed Wheelan, the professional, would run away with the match, and Ro, the supposedly untried amateur, would be lucky to finish in the top ten. Payne was just a point behind at 177, while Hicks had only 157 and seemed to be out of the running for a top spot finish.
However, so far Hicks was having an outstanding final round, scoring mostly nines and tens. Payne, on the other hand, was struggling, scoring only two points on one station and garnering a zero on another, which probably meant he’d fully drawn down on a “civvy.” For all intents and purposes, he and Hicks were now even, battling for the third-place trophy.
Meanwhile, throughout the final round Ro and Wheelan exchanged the lead several times.
After each station, competitors customarily turned to check the scoreboard on a raised dais ten yards behind the firing line. Ro had earlier spotted where her father, Big Mike Delahanty, and Johnna Mack, her informal coach, were standing together in front of the dais, along with several dozen other onlookers. At this point in its development, sport shooting was definitely more of a participant’s sport than a spectator’s sport.
It had been Big Mike who’d first introduced his daughter to skeet shooting at the Witness Tree Rod and Gun Club, where he was a member, when his daughter was ten-years old. She’d taken up handgun competition at age fifteen, eventually winning an Iowa state fixed target championship with a Ruger Mark II Competition 22.
But it had been a seminar held by Johnna Mack, also a full-time professional shooter, two years ago here at Iowa Sportsman’s that had introduced Ro to sport shooting, which she’d immediately gravitated to, seeing it as an essential skill needed to help fulfill her lifelong ambition of becoming a cop. An ambition soon to be realized, as in July, after reaching the mandatory minimum age of twenty-one for deputies – her eight-week police academy training already completed – Ro was slated to be sworn-in as a rookie Fort Armstrong County deputy sheriff.
Over the two years since the seminar, Ro had attended other sports shooting workshops Mack had conducted, and the woman had become something of a friend and mentor.
Ro gave the pair a brief nod, which her father returned with a wink. Mack gave Ro a thumbs-up sign and, at the same time, mouthed silently, “Stay cool.” Which had been her final, in fact, only advice just before Ro had stepped into the first station for the initial round on Friday. As the Iowa Sportsman’s Club host pro, Mack was not eligible to enter the competition, for which Ro was grateful, since as far as she was concerned Mack would have won easily.
Chapter Two
You Can See It in Their Eyes
Sunday, April 27, 2003, afternoon
What no one at the match knew, except her father, of course, was even at a few weeks short of her twenty-first birthday, Ro Delahanty was a savvy competitor, having won her first junior division skeet championship at Witness Tree at eleven years old. During her teenage years she’d studied judo, eventually earning a black belt at age sixteen, and before becoming involved in sport shooting had won an Iowa state championship in fixed target shooting.
In other words, Ro had learned how to read her competition, how to really “see” what their body language, but especially their eyes, was saying about how confident they were in their abilities. Everything about Johnna Mack said the woman was a truly cool shooter, poised and self-confident, which is why Ro was both glad not to have faced her, yet at the same time a little disappointed she was not going to be stretched by having to compete against her.
That Hicks and Payne might be nervous was no surprise, as they were still new to competitive shooting. But what had brought Ro up short was seeing the fear in Wheelan’s eyes. She had seen the look before, and knew it meant he was likely to choke in the final moments of the match if he did not have a comfortable lead.
The updated scoreboard announced:
– Adam Hicks completed his final round with 88 points, for a total of 245 out of 300 for the match. It was a respectable, if not necessarily outstanding score.
– At the end of station nine, Payne had only 60 points for the round and a total of 237 for the match. He needed at least an eight in his final station to tie Hicks, a nine or ten would garner him sole possession of third place.
– At the end of her eighth station, Ro had 73 points in the final round and a total of 251 points for the match.
– Wheelan’s score through seven stations was 64, bringing him to 242 for the match; in other words, he and Ro were pretty much dead even.
Payne, Ro, and Wheelan each moved to the next station to their left and readied themselves. Now just three judges gave the signal the remaining shooters were ready.
Look at the hands, Ro reminded herself, with a slight smile. During one of Mack’s seminars, it’s what she had told everyone. “Look at the hands of your target,” Mack had said, “they’ll tell you everything you need to know about whether it’s a threatening or non-threatening target. Most shooters waste too much time looking at the face or trying to scan the whole body.”
Ro smiled because it was so much like what her sensei used to tell his students about competing in judo, “Watch your opponent’s shoulders. They will signal to you what he intends to do. If he cocks one shoulder, it means he’s going to attack with the other hand; if he throws one shoulder back, it means he’s going to try a kick with that foot.”
It’s what helped Ro advance to a black belt level and win more than a few judo trophies.
CRACK-ack! Only two of the three remaining shooters fired, with one a split second behind the other.
This time Ro’s target had appeared to be a pre-teen male holding a gun in a threatening position, like he was about to fire, except the “gun” was in truth a lime green plastic water pistol. Immediately recognizing it as non-threatening, Ro stood absolutely still, not even twitching a finger. Apparently, the judge was impressed by her coolness, because when she turned to check the scoreboard there was a ten posted next to her name.
While Payne’s target must have been a bad guy, it apparently had been tough to discern, as even though he had drawn and fired, he must have noticeably hesitated; the scoreboard showed only seven points.
Meanwhile, Wheelan, like Payne, must have gotten a really tricky bad guy target – well, this was a championship round, so there had to be more than a few “tricky” targets along the way. His score was a six, ordinarily not a major blunder, but in this case, it turned out to be a costly one.
At the end of the round:
– With the seven in his tenth station, Payne completed the match at 244 points, allowing Hicks to sneak into third place with a one-point lead at 245.
– With her ten in the ninth station, Ro’s score so far in the final round was eighty-three, putting her at 261 for the match.
– Whelan’s six points put him at seventy through eight stations and at 248 for the match.
Ro and Wheelan moved to their left and readied themselves. The match was now almost out of reach for Wheelan; he needed to complete his two final stations with at least a pair of nines, and more importantly, Ro needed to have a disastrous final station to give him a shot at the title.
As Ro stepped up to the firing line, the crowd’s muttering, the judge’s shuffling into position, the sound of Wheelan stepping up to his firing line, even the whirring of the mechanisms moving the targets into position and popping them up all faded; there was just her hand relaxed and hanging down next to her left hip near the Glock and her eyes fixed on where the target would appear.
The target started to pop-up, except to Ro it was rising in slow motion.
Her shot and Wheelan’s were a split second apart: CRACK-ack! Ro’s was first.
“Jesus,” muttered Ro’s judge under his breath, although Ro didn’t hear it.
At first glance the target might have looked innocent enough, a mother holding a baby. Except by focusing on the hands, Ro had quickly recognized the “mother” was carrying the “baby” all wrong. A real mother cradles a baby with both arms, instead this “mother” seemed to be trying to balance the baby-like bundle on one hand while her other hand had disappeared inside the package…it was a suicide bomber!
In fact, the target had been a little over halfway up when Ro saw all she needed to see, which is what brought the involuntary exclamation from the judge, as her draw and fire had taken barely over one second, a phenomenal time.
However, because the target was still moving into position, while Ro’s shot was a killing shot, it apparently had been just a tad off, as the scoreboard said she’d been awarded nine points in her last station, thus completing the final round with a very strong ninety-two points, putting her at an outstanding 270 out of 300 for the match.
With just 248 points at the end of his eighth station, even if Wheeler had gotten a perfect ten on his just completed ninth station, which he hadn’t, and another ten on his yet to shoot last station, he still couldn’t win.
Ro Delahanty was the first ever Iowa’s Best Shooter!
Chapter Three
Peter Panda
Tuesday, July 8, 2003, morning
Ro stood at the end of her bed, hands on her hips. The compact CD player on the dresser quietly playing Mozart’s “Jagd” String Quartet. She never listened to the radio, rarely turned on the TV except to watch a DVD or to catch the late evening news, weather and sports on KLEE, where her brother worked, just before going on third shift duty. Most of her local news was from her subscription to the local paper, the Lee’s Landing Courier.
Taking in a deep breath and letting it out with a sigh, she turned and announced to the nearly three-foot tall black and white panda bear looking on from his honored perch atop the other end of the dresser, her voice a kind of husky alto, “Well, Peter, it’s happening…I’m really gonna be a cop!”
Peter Panda had been a gift from her Uncle Richard and Aunt Eileen – her mother’s brother and his wife – on her second birthday. The teddy bear had immediately joined her in her childhood bed, only moving over to the dresser in her sixth year. While a parade of other gift dolls – Aunt Eileen had no doubt every little girl just loved playing with dolls – had followed on birthdays and Christmases, including lots of Barbies and Barbie accessories, they had all ended up in Ro’s closet, mostly unopened, as Peter Panda had never been endangered as her favorite.
He was clearly well-loved and well-worn, with several bare spots in his fur and one corner of his mouth missing, giving him a permanently crooked and somewhat inscrutable smile.
The queen bed, which nearly filled the small room, was situated facing a large window looking out over a thick green curtain of trees behind Ro’s apartment. On the wall next to the bed were two large, framed Ansel Adams black and white posters: “Oak Tree, Sunrise” and “Birds on the Beach,” chosen because she thought they gave the room a peaceful feel.
Ro was looking down at her new, carefully pressed Fort Armstrong County deputy sheriff’s uniform neatly arrayed on the bed’s light blue corduroy bedspread. Up by the pillows was her long-sleeved khaki blouse, with its chocolate brown pocket flaps and epaulets, an American flag sewn on the right shoulder, the Fort Armstrong County seal on the left, her plastic name badge – Deputy R. Delahanty, which she read with a smile of pride – pinned over the right breast pocket and the five-pointed star deputy’s badge pinned above the left breast pocket.
Across the middle of the bed were her neatly creased chocolate brown trousers, with a khaki stripe down the outside of each leg. She’d had to be quite insistent with the uniform shop attendant about wanting a men’s 28/36 size trousers, because it’s what looked best on her slender, long-legged, virtually hipless and buttless runner’s frame.
Near the bottom of the bed was a dark brown baseball cap, with “Deputy Sheriff” in gold block lettering across the front, a pair of black socks and her over-the-ankle, dark brown tactical boots.
And, of course, the dark brown leather kit belt, with its empty holster on the left side – her departmental issue Sig Sauer P229 .357 was locked in the gun safe across the hall in the larger bedroom used as her study – as well as holders for two extra magazines, a double handcuff case, a cell phone case, a mini LED flashlight case, a radio, a collapsible baton case, and in the center, where it would rest in the small of her back, an Uncle Mike’s All-Purpose pouch to hold her wallet, keys, a coin purse and a small Lightning brand Out The Front (OTF) tactical knife: Ro did not like bulging pockets.
“No, Peter,” she said, correcting herself with a brief head shake, “officially I’m not gonna be a cop, I am a cop.”
Except for Ro Delahanty, it did not yet quite feel like it, even though yesterday afternoon Sheriff Mark Ballard had administered the deputy’s oath in his office at the courthouse and issued her badge, photo ID, sidearm, radio, and kit belt. Because Ro knew in her heart, you’re not a real cop until you put on the uniform, climb into a black and white Crown Vic patrol car, and put yourself in harm’s way out there.
With a kind of wry grin, she recalled how her classmates had sniffed mockingly and rolled their eyes when she had announced pretty much the same thing in Mr. Singer’s fifth grade language arts class a little over ten years ago. The class was about to read Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn, and Mr. Singer was introducing to the class the concept of symbols in literature, the idea that characters or objects can often stand in for bigger ideas.
As examples, he showed overheads of the Statue of Liberty as a symbol of opportunity to millions of immigrants, and of a cross, a Star of David, and a crescent and star as symbols of three of the world’s major religions.
Then he’d asked the class if they could think of any other kinds of everyday symbols.
After a few seconds of silence, somebody tentatively mumbled, “A stop sign?”
“Good,” Mr. Singer had said with enthusiasm, hoping to encourage more responses. “That’s definitely a symbol for a specific traffic law, but it’s also for the whole idea of laws governing our behavior. But you’re missing a really big one right here in this room.” After another few seconds of silence, he added, “I’ll give you a hint: It’s known around the world as a symbol of freedom.”
“The flag!” came several overlapping responses, everyone glancing up at the small American flag hanging from a short pole in a back corner of the classroom.
“Right!” he affirmed. “But come on, I’ve given you some easy ones. There are lots more if you just use your imaginations a little.”
After another short silence, Ro raised her hand and Mr. Singer nodded, “Ro?”
“A police car,” the ten-year old Ro’d said, picturing in her mind the black and white Lee’s Landing squad cars frequently seen patrolling her neighborhood as a child.
“Cops! All they do is hassle people,” someone muttered sarcastically from the back of the room. There were several snickers of agreement.
“No, no,” Mr. Singer said, gesturing with his hand to quell any further snarky remarks. “Ro, why do you say that?”
“Whenever I see a police car it makes me feel better, like someone’s there to…to….” She frowned, struggling to find the right words. “To be there when there’s trouble…like stopping bad people or helping when there’s a disaster.”
Mr. Singer looked at her for a second or two and just nodded, like he understood completely but didn’t have to say it.
And then, without ever having previously thought about it, Ro straightened up in her chair, squared her shoulders, and added with a self-assurance surprising even herself, “I’m going to be a cop someday.”
And over the ten years since then had never once wavered from that aspiration.
“Well,” the now grownup Ro said aloud to Peter. “Someday is almost here, so let’s get to it.”
Turning, Ro pulled off her regular around-the-apartment T-shirt and cut-off sweats and headed for the shower.
Half an hour later she stood in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the bedroom closet door, now in full uniform, liking what was reflected, at least insofar as the uniform went. At five-ten-and-a-half, she was tall and erect, her wide shoulders square, the shirt having been bloused slightly at the waist to help mask her 34 C bust line, her brick-red hair having been combed straight back and moussed in place, so no stray curls peeked out from under her deputy’s cap. The uniform’s overall impression was exactly what had been hoped for: Authoritative and professional.
But then there was the face.
Definitely her father’s daughter, everything about her face said “Irish,” from the strawberry blond brows to the big blue eyes, from the pushed-up nose and high cheekbones to the bow mouth and sharp chin. Except the proportions were just slightly off, so Ro had never really thought of herself as “pretty” Irish, more like “just plain” Irish. But she was still clearly “girl” Irish, a look not really conducive for a cop.
Looking over at the Teddy bear, Ro raised an eyebrow, as if to silently say, Here goes, and then put on her “cop face.” It was a look first cultivated after landing her job as a night dispatcher with the Fort Armstrong County Sheriff’s Department not quite two years ago. It included slightly clenching her teeth, so her mouth was pressed into a thin, straight line – she never wore lipstick, or for that matter, eye makeup – and knitting her brows into a slight frown, which had the effect of narrowing her eyes. While it didn’t disguise her as a female police officer, it most definitely sent the message this was a no-nonsense female police officer.
Happy with the look, Ro picked up the Sig retrieved from the gun safe and dropped it into the holster, its two-pound weight settling comfortably on her hip, as a competitive shooter quite used to the feel of a sidearm at her side.
“Peter, say hello to Deputy Delahanty,” she said to the teddy bear, snapping off a salute.
And while fully aware the stuffed animal had no muscles with which to change its perpetually benign facial expression, there was also no doubt in her mind Peter Panda had winked his approval.
© 2024 by David F. Ramacitti, writing as Dave Lager