|
| FILE - In this Friday, Feb. 15, 2013 file photo, Rick Heltebrake, with his dog Suni, looks over the burned-out cabin where Christopher Dorner's remains were found after a police standoff Tuesday near Big Bear, Calif. Dorner took his pickup during his escape attempt. Heltebrake, a ranger who takes care of a Boy Scout camp, was checking the perimeter of the camp for anything out of the ordinary when he saw Dorner emerge from behind some trees. |
BIG BEAR LAKE, Calif. (AP) -- As soon as he heard officers were chasing the suspected cop killer in a stolen truck, San Bernardino County Sheriff's Deputy Roger Loftis was certain: His buddy Jeremiah MacKay would be there.
In 15 years with the department, "Jer"
had earned about a dozen and a half awards for 10851s - the California
penal code for grand theft auto. Once, while heading to a bar to
celebrate another award, MacKay noticed there were no keys in the
ignition of the car next to him at a traffic light, and he veered off.
He
waltzed into the bar two hours later, a grin stretched across that
fair, freckled face, a copy of an auto recovery record in his hand.
Last
week, Loftis called his fishing, drinking and golfing buddy to see how
he was doing. He knew the 35-year-old detective had been working around
the clock, scouring the San Bernardino Mountains in the search for
former Los Angeles Police Officer Christopher Dorner.
"If that guy's still on this mountain," MacKay told him, "I'm going to find him."
When
the announcer reported that two deputies had exchanged fire with the
suspect, Loftis got a sick feeling in his stomach. The 54-year-old
corrections officer sent his friend a text.
"I know you're busy," he typed. "But let me know you're OK. ASAP."
There was no answer.
About
an hour later, a colleague called with the news: MacKay, husband and
father of two, was dead. Soon, so would be his killer.
Like
the Unabomber and other mass killers, the 33-year-old former cop wrote a
"manifesto." And, like so many others, Dorner's perceptions of the
world and its supposed injustices against him seem out of sync with
reality.
Why now?
Was it the supposed institutional racism that cost him his LAPD badge? That was four years ago.
Was
it, as he once suggested, residual trauma from his military service in
the Middle East? Records show a relatively benign tour of duty, well
outside the war zone.
One marriage fell apart;
a second went no further than the license application. This, too, he
seemed to blame on others - anyone but himself.
"I never had the opportunity to have a family of my own," he wrote to his targets. "I'm terminating yours."
Even
his boasts of paramilitary prowess and promise to "bring unconventional
and asymmetrical warfare" to southern California evaporated in a
cavalcade of broken-down vehicles, failed hijackings and a botched
hog-tying. His weeklong stint as America's most wanted fugitive ended in
a shootout with police, and then what officials said was a
self-inflicted gunshot to the head.
---
At 6 feet and 270 pounds, Christopher Jordan Dorner looked every inch the college football player he once was.
Melinda
Yates befriended Dorner when they attended Southern Utah University
together in Cedar City, a small town northeast of Las Vegas. She
remembers him as "kind of like a big teddy bear," always smiling.
Apparently, behind that sweet smile there was rage.
Dorner
claimed his earliest experience with racism was in first grade at a
Christian school, when he punched and kicked a fellow student who'd
called him a "nigger" on the playground. The principal "swatted" the
other boy for the slur, then struck Dorner for failing to "turn the
other cheek as Jesus did."
"That day," he
would write in the now infamous manifesto, "I made a life decision that i
will not tolerate racial derogatory terms spoken to me."
Dorner
joined the Navy in July 2002. He told a reporter that he wanted to fly
SH-60/MH-60 Seahawk helicopters on special operations and
search-and-rescue missions - but later told an acquaintance that a
problem with vertigo killed those dreams.
So he went into the Navy Reserve doing mostly administrative work after his active-duty stint ended in June 2004.
Soon afterward, he shifted his sights to the LAPD.
He entered the academy on Feb. 7, 2005.
Like
the other cadets, Dorner went through the department's rigorous
six-month, 920-hour academy training. Upon completion, he joined a
training officer on the street, working regular 12-hour shifts. There
was at least one bump in the road: He was suspended for two days for
accidental discharge of his firearm.
A year after Dorner became a police officer, he rose to the rank of lieutenant in the Navy on Aug. 1, 2006 - his last promotion.
He
was called up in the Reserve and left on a six-month deployment to
Bahrain on Nov. 3, 2006. He worked mostly providing port protection,
earning an Iraq Campaign Medal and Global War on Terrorism Service
Medal.
Dorner returned to the LAPD in 2007 and resumed his training. That is when his career - and life - went off the rails.
Sgt.
Teresa Evans, his training officer, said Dorner repeatedly asked why he
was being put back on patrol without reintegration training. On one
occasion, she said, he began weeping in the patrol car and demanded to
go back to the academy.
Dorner told Evans that he "might have some issues regarding his deployment," she told investigators.
A
day after Evans submitted a poor review, Dorner told internal affairs
that she had kicked a mentally ill man in the chest and left cheek
during an arrest. He was relieved of duty on Sept. 4, 2008.
A police review panel ultimately found the allegation untrue. He was officially fired on Jan. 2, 2009.
There
were already hints of a troubled personal life; Dorner married April
Carter in April 2007 and bought a home a few miles from the Las Vegas
Strip. Less than a month later, the couple filed for a divorce.
(More
than five years later, on Oct. 19 of last year, Las Vegas records show
that he and Ali Kristine McDonald obtained a marriage license. But there
is no indication they actually married.)
Months
after he was fired, Dorner filed a writ in Los Angeles Superior Court
against the LAPD, alleging wrongful termination. He continued filing
appeals in different courts up until 2011.
But why Dorner unleashed his revenge now is unclear. Former roommate J'Anna Viskoc has a theory.
For
about two months in the summer of 2008, the Las Vegas manicurist rented
a room in Dorner's home. Aside from all the guns - which were "on the
floor, under the cushions" - she remembers the uniformed portraits and
framed displays of his medals.
"I feel like being a police officer and being in the military, that was his identity," she said. "That was who he was."
On Feb. 1, Dorner received an honorable discharge, ending his lackluster 11-year Navy career.
"Maybe that's what set him off," Viskoc wondered. "That he couldn't win."
---
Dorner claimed his first victims on Feb. 3.
Monica
Quan, 28, was an assistant women's basketball coach at California State
University, Fullerton. She was also the daughter of retired LAPD Capt.
Randal Quan - the man who had represented Dorner in his disciplinary
hearings.
She lived in an Irvine condominium
with boyfriend Keith Lawrence - a former basketball player and
University of Southern California cop whose shoes and buckles she had
stayed up until the wee hours polishing when he was at the police
academy. On Jan. 26, Lawrence, 27, had strewn the apartment floor with
rose petals, gotten down on one knee and proposed, according to the Los
Angeles Times.
Just over a week later, at 9:10
p.m., Quan and Lawrence were found slumped in their car in the parking
lot of their condo complex. They were fatally shot.
The
next morning, an employee emptying the trash behind a San Diego-area
auto parts store spotted some military gear in a trash bin. Around that
same time, Dorner posted his 11,000-word screed entitled "Last Resort"
on Facebook.
"This was a necessary evil that
had to be executed in order for me to obtain my NAME back," Dorner
wrote. "The only thing that changes policy and garners attention is
death."
The rambling post went on: "When the truth comes out, the killing stops."
The
document would lurk in cyberspace for two more days before police
discovered it and connected it to the Irvine killings. They held a news
conference to name Dorner as a suspect.
The next day, Feb. 7, Dorner struck again.
Around
1:30 a.m. two LAPD officers assigned to protect one of the people named
in Dorner's manifesto spotted him in the Riverside County community of
Corona. During a shootout, one officer was grazed on the forehead.
A
short while later in nearby Riverside, SWAT team Officer Michael Crain
and trainee Andrew Tachias were in the middle of a graveyard shift.
The
34-year-old former Marine had served two tours of duty in Kuwait before
joining the Riverside force in 2001. As a Marine, Crain had once taught
urban warfare tactics, but on this day he had no time to react.
The
two were waiting at a stoplight when someone - believed to be Dorner -
raced up and opened fire on them. Tachias, 27, was critically wounded;
Crain was pronounced dead at a hospital.
Before
dawn, freeway signs lit up statewide with a description of Dorner and
his pickup, and a warning that he should be considered armed and
extremely dangerous.
Later that morning,
authorities found a burned-out pickup truck near the Bear Mountain ski
area in the San Bernardino Mountains. The truck, which had a broken
axle, was loaded with weapons and camping gear.
Police later confirmed it was the black Nissan Titan Dorner had so religiously buffed and polished.
Tips
poured in, topping 1,000 after a $1 million reward was posted on Feb.
9. The Mexican navy went on alert following a report that Dorner had
attempted to steal a yacht in San Diego.
Other
suspected sightings of Dorner over the week led to authorities
mistakenly firing on two newspaper carriers, shutting down a Navy base
in San Diego, evacuating a Los Angeles area home improvement store,
and
raiding at a low-budget motel across the border in Tijuana, Mexico. But
the manhunt was centered on the mountains. That was Jeremiah MacKay's
territory.
---
MacKay's father, Alan, is something of a legend in these hills.
A
former captain with the San Bernardino County Fire Department, the
elder MacKay had played a key role during the 2003 "Old Fire," which
burned more than 91,000 acres, killed five people and destroyed more
than 1,000 homes. The Redlands resident put in 15-hour days, fighting
the fire and acting as a department spokesman when needed.
Loftis
says the son had initially planned to follow in the father's footsteps.
But a few ride-alongs with deputies patrolling the waters of Lake
Arrowhead convinced him to go for another type of badge.
The
younger MacKay had been putting in 12-hour days searching for Dorner.
On Feb. 9, an Associated Press reporter ran across him during a patrol
around the lake.
Despite having been on duty
since 5 a.m., MacKay and his partner were in good spirits. Standing by
the car door in full tactical gear, MacKay tucked the stock of his
Mini-14 rifle against his shoulder and practiced sighting down the
barrel, aiming playfully at a snowdrift.
"This
one, you just never know if the guy's going to pop out or where he's
going to pop out," he told a reporter, crinkling his brow and shaking
his head. "We're hoping this comes to a close without any more
casualties. The best thing would be for him to give up."
The
next day, MacKay was excited to see his photo on the front page of the
Los Angeles Times. But he chided himself, cousin Kelly Mitchell says,
for having what he considered "a smug look" on his face.
Jeremiah
and Lynette MacKay married in late 2011. Lynette had a 7-year-old
daughter from a previous relationship; about four months ago, she gave
birth to a son.
As a bagpiper for the Inland
Empire Emerald Society, MacKay had played at many memorials and funerals
for fallen officers. He knew this hunt was perilous, but he knew just
as well that Dorner had to be stopped.
And he was determined to be the one who did it.
---
Jim
and Karen Reynolds were in the process of refurbishing their condo near
Big Bear, working on it off and on through the winter season. They had
last been there on Feb. 6 and weren't planning to come back until
Valentine's Day, but decided to check in early after learning that
Dorner's truck had been abandoned nearby.
When
they walked into the upstairs living room Tuesday morning, Dorner was
waiting for them with his gun drawn. He had been there at least five
days - within shouting distance of a command post set up by the people
hunting him.
"Stay calm," he shouted. When Karen Reynolds turned to run out, he grabbed her from behind.
Karen Reynolds said Dorner was calm and "very methodical" as he instructed them to sit, then tied their hands and legs.
"I don't have a problem with you," he told the couple. "I just want to clear my name."
Dorner moved the couple to a bedroom and shut the door.
When
they felt he had gone, Karen Reynolds managed to get to her feet and,
with her hands still tied behind her back, open the door. To her
amazement, Dorner had left her cellphone on the living room table.
She picked it up and dialed 911. It was 12:22 p.m. Tuesday.
Dorner had taken off in the couple's purple Nissan SUV. It wasn't long before officers, now alerted, spotted the fugitive.
Dorner
managed to evade a group of wardens from the California Department of
Fish and Wildlife and some sheriff's deputies. But he later crashed the
Nissan and struck out on foot.
Rick Heltebrake
was driving the perimeter of a Boy Scout camp he watches over when
Dorner - his bulletproof vest bristling with rifle magazines - emerged
from the tree line.
"I don't want to hurt
you," Dorner said in a calm, businesslike voice as he pointed his rifle
at the 51-year-old Heltebrake. "Start walking and take your dog."
Heltebrake
sensed that Dorner, who stole his truck, was on a mission, and that he
wasn't part of the agenda. Suni took his 3-year-old Dalmatian and walked
away.
Heltebrake had just called police when he heard gunfire.
---
When
he left the house that morning, MacKay told his wife that he'd never
been happier, Mitchell, his cousin, said. He called her the love of his
life.
Hours later, he was on the trail of the stolen pickup.
The fugitive raced 25 miles down the mountain as officers converged. MacKay and his partner, Alex Collins, responded.
Not
far up the road from where Dorner had left Heltebrake, some game
wardens spotted the white truck speeding erratically. Dorner opened the
window and fired.
According to sheriff's
department officials, MacKay and his partner followed where they
believed the truck had gone. They were unaware that Dorner had crashed
it. They spotted tracks in the snow leading to a cabin and got out of
their cruiser.
The pair stopped about 30 yards
from the cabin to devise a plan when shots were fired. Neither deputy
had a chance to return fire. Both were hit multiple times. A doctor told
Loftis death for MacKay came instantly or in "just seconds."
Collins
survived but has undergone multiple surgeries. A SWAT team arrived
quickly and laid down covering fire to allow the officers to be
airlifted.
Dorner set off some smoke grenades and prepared to make his last stand. His end game would play out on live television.
Officers
from across the region converged on the cabin, cutting off all escape.
Four hours after the chase Tuesday, police launched tear gas through the
windows.
Around 4:45 p.m., flames and smoke began billowing from the house. Officers then heard the single gunshot from inside.
The manhunt was over.
---
In the end, Dorner fell blessedly short of his stated goals.
Despite
declaring war on "those in LAPD uniform whether on or off duty," the
only victim with a direct link to the department was Monica Quan. And it
is more than a little ironic that a man lashing out against racial
injustice should murder the daughter of the LAPD's first
Chinese-American captain.
A joint memorial
service for Quan and Lawrence is planned for Feb. 24 at Irvine's
Concordia University, where they met. Lawrence - at the request of his
father - will be buried in his public safety officer's uniform, said his
training supervisor Capt. David Carlisle.
The service had been on hold while Quan's father was in custody to protect him from Dorner's rampage.
On
Wednesday, Crain - the father who loved attending his 4-year-old
daughter's dance recitals and coaching his son's baseball team - was
buried with full honors. His 10-year-old son, Ian, joined officers
carrying his father's casket out of the church to the mournful drone of
bagpipes.
MacKay's funeral is scheduled
Thursday at San Bernardino's San Manuel Amphitheater. The Los Angeles
Police Emerald Society Pipes and Drums, with whom he'd often played,
will be there to send him off.
Loftis is having trouble imagining life without his friend. Coming to grips with the depth of Dorner's betrayal is even harder.
"He
got the best of us. He took one of the best that we have," he said
ruefully. "He lost a job because he didn't deserve it, and he takes
these officers' lives, really, for nothing. It was stupid and
senseless."
