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A Target on My Back

Chapter 1 — On Patrol

ON SATURDAY, MARCH 31, 2013, an old white Crown Victoria sedan methodically traveled along the pavement of farm-to-market road 987 just outside of Dallas in Kaufman, Texas. The driver knew the road well and had made the journey many times; the car’s steering wheel moved surely through his hands, almost second nature. He surveyed the landscape, making certain nothing was out of the ordinary, checking to his right and to his left expertly. But he was being overly cautious—at this time on a weekend morning, before dawn, most commuters would not be leaving their homes for work and the cars were sparse. Leaving the city of Kaufman and moving into the unincorporated section of the county, the driver began to accelerate, merging onto 1641, another farm-to-market road. Still, no cars passed. It was peaceful, quiet, and still in the early morning darkness.

The driver had a companion in the passenger seat. Were they longtime friends or acquaintances sharing a ride? The two rode together in compatible silence, neither making conversation nor playing the radio as they drove along the roadway. Houses and businesses set along the roadside whizzed by. Few open spaces remained.

The driver turned off the main road onto Helms Trail, a growing area of Forney, one of several towns within Kaufman County. Where there were once black dirt cotton-fields, homes seemed to have sprung from the ground as suburban sprawl reached Forney, Texas. Helms Trail is a narrow black-topped road that was one-lane in each direction; hard for a vehicle to pass alongside. Neighborhood streets forked off in each direction from the narrow lane, leading to more suburban homes. Helms Trail is usually a well-traveled road that carries homeowners back and forth to the busy interstates, but the driver passed no travelers at this early morning hour.

The driver continued to pass streets; he was no longer driving smoothly; he was accelerating. The car was speeding: 45, 50, 55 mph, although the road was marked 35 mph. What was his urgency? Then, a careening right turn on Blarney Stone Way, a neighborhood street scattered with houses. The car never slowed its speed until the driver pulled the Crown Victoria over on the side of the roadway near a house marked 9389 Blarney Stone Way. Before bringing the vehicle to a complete stop, the driver turned the car around in the roadway. The car never entered the driveway of the home, choosing instead to remain on the side of the road. The driver took a deep breath, opened the car door, and stepped onto the pavement, moving toward the front door of the house. The house was brick, with white trim. The house, a newer home not unlike the other homes in the neighborhood boasted one-to two acre lots. Fastened on its front door was an Easter-themed wreath.

The companion stayed behind, moving over to the driver’s side of the car. Exiting the car, the driver wore a cowboy hat low over his eyes, with his jacket clearly marked sheriff in bold letters across the back of his jacket, designating him as a sheriff deputy. He moved quickly to the front door, his AR-15, a lightweight assault rifle, strapped across his shoulder.

The knock at the door was urgent and loud; using the heel of his right fist to strike the door repeatedly. The homeowner looked through the peephole of the door. After seeing the deputy, the occupant cracked the door, and the sheriff pushed through. Then the slaughter began.