Blood Shot Eyes - Softcover

Patrick Picciarelli retired from the New York City Police Department as a lieutenant. He holds both a B.A. and two Masters Degrees and is a licensed private investigator. He is often called upon by various news organizations to lend expertise to stories related to criminal investigations and writing and has appeared on numerous TV programs. He is the author of the nonfiction book, Jimmy the Wags: Street Stories of a Private Eye (William Morrow & Co., publishers, currently in its 5th printing) and the screenplay for the upcoming motion picture. The Pop Line, the second book in the Ray Yale, PI series, will be published next year. A nonfiction book, White Out: My Story also be published in 2001. Mr. Picciarelli is also a staff writer for Modern Knives Magazine. He is an active member of The Society of Professional Investigators, The Writers Guild of America, The International Association of Crime Writers, Mystery Writers of America and Private Eye Writers of America.

Porter opened fire from the hip. The horse took three shots in the chest and neck as the weapon recoiled and climbed. The horse crumpled to the cold pavement, face first, and rolled over pinning the young brave policewoman to the ground. Yale watched as the spectators within fifty feet of the mayhem began to push outward, away from the downed horse and rider, toward the railing and the opposite building line. Before Yale could react, three children, too short to grasp the railing, were prodded under the brass stanchion and fell about five feet to a level of shrubs which cushioned their fall. Yale and Wright raced up the marble steps leading form the rink in time to see two less fortunate victims who didn't have a concrete wall to stop their movement thrown through windows of tall plate glass. Yale recoiled as they were truncated by showering guillotine-like shards of transparent death. Yale and Wright held their fire; they still didn't have clear shots. The uniformed cop who had let them through the wooden barrier brushed by Yale and ran for the downed horse and pinned cop who was struggling to get her legs from beneath the dead animal. The cop drew his pistol and was immediately cut down by two shots from Porter's gun. He collapsed next to the prostrate policewoman who was struggling to reach for her pistol on the pavement next to her. Yale was torn between intellect and instinct. His brain sent messages to his shooting arm. Hold your fire. Civilians too close to target. Instinctually, he knew that if he didn't fire, Porter would undoubtedly shoot some innocent spectators herself. As if he willed them to move, the crowed parted in a desperate bid to escape, giving Yale an opportunity to fire. He crouched behind the brass rail and raised his weapon. Porter, however, now had room to maneuver. She stepped to the railing and fired at Yale who was about thirty feet away. The weapon bucked and the rounds went wild. Yale ducked and fell backward, slipping on a thin blanket of snow, knocking Wright to the ground as he too sought cover behind the rail. Yale recovered and emptied his six-shot revolver at a kneeling Porter. He was amazed at the loud report of the .38 as the sound bounced off the concrete and glass buildings. Panic gripped Yale as he saw Porter stand and advance on him. He had missed. She was grinning. Her movements were deliberate. No panic; no wasted moves. Cool and calculated. Watching her robot-like motion frightened Yale more than the thought of impending death. She looks crazed. He reached into his overcoat pocket and struggled with a handful of loose bullets, numb fingers dropping rounds to the street. Yale broke open the cylinder and dumped six shell casings to the pavement. Porter raised her pistol, now not more than twenty feet from Yale. He fell to both knees, disregarding the sharp pain which tore up his legs. He managed to get two bullets into the cylinder before flipping it shut. It the split second that he thought remained in his life, he wondered if he lined the cylinder up correctly. Smith & Wesson cylinder spin clock-wise, Colt's spin counter-clockwise. Or was it the other way around? He was forever getting it wrong during practice at the range when he was on The Job. He extended his arm, elbow locked, and fired.