The footage ended quickly.
Robin leaned forward. "Felix, give us a brief account of what happened last night."
Felix replied evenly,
"Last night I was on the night shift, handled a few calls, then responded to a dispatch request to assist in tracking a vehicle that had run multiple red lights. Several units joined the pursuit. My patrol car was running out of gas, so I broke off to refuel. While queueing at the station, I noticed something off. Three suspects opened fire on three men coming out of the cashier's booth. After issuing verbal commands, I engaged the suspects. Following the exchange, all suspects were down, and backup arrived. That's all."
Robin nodded. "Who wants to start questioning?"
Deputy DA José Hernández spoke first.
"I'll go. Officer Felix, dashcam footage shows the pursuit already had five units in play. Why did you decide to join in?"
"I had nothing else at the moment—thought it'd keep me from getting drowsy. If another call came in, I'd have broken off immediately."
Sam from Internal Affairs gave a short laugh, covering it with a cough. "My apologies. Go on."
José ignored him.
"Why did you stay on the chase for a full hour, to the point of running your tank dry?"
"I didn't expect it to last that long. The others told me PIT maneuvers aren't authorised in residential areas, so we could only shadow the SUV until it stopped. I didn't expect the driver to keep running. If I'd known, I'd have dropped out sooner."
"Why choose the Fernández Street station to refuel? There are several in the vicinity."
Felix answered plainly,
"After that long chasing, I was turned around. Navigation showed that one as the closest. It's on my phone records."
"And how did you notice something was wrong, prompting you to adjust the dashcam angle?" José asked casually.
"It's the middle of the night—three Black males parked off to the side without refuelling, one gets out, looks around, goes straight back. That's a flag. I've been through two IA reviews before; I've learned to angle the cam toward anything suspicious. If nothing happens, I move it back."
José's tone stayed neutral.
"According to forensics, of the six men in the firefight, five had wounds from your sidearm. All five died. Does that suggest you could have shot to wound but instead chose to shoot to kill?"
"I hit them; where the rounds landed, I don't know. At the time, I didn't even know how many were dead. I've been on the job less than a month. As for deliberately picking non-lethal zones—maybe other officers can do that. I can't.
And if my unit took over a dozen hits, you tell me: what kind of marksman could take their time to 'just wound' in that environment? You're welcome to try."
It was a lie delivered without a blink, and a jab for good measure. He could have dropped two fewer bodies by going for legs or shoulders—but why would he? The answer stayed the same: rookie, can't do it; you can, go ahead.
José didn't rise to it, jotting something on his pad. "I'm done. Go ahead."
The rest asked only token questions. They were cops—Felix's own. The shooting was clean, the incident sudden. The only problem was the body count, and gang members were hardly mourned.
José knew the footage left Felix in the clear. The only issue was the efficiency—thirteen rounds fired, five men down. That was too good, and it hinted at intent. But in a firefight, "intent" was smoke—you couldn't prove it. Most emptied their mags without hesitation.
Gang shooters had poor tactics, worse movement. Plenty had the habit of stepping straight into a muzzle flash.
When no one else spoke, Robin concluded,
"That ends the internal review. Once the report is finalised, sign and forward it to HQ and the DA's office."
He turned to Felix.
"Per policy, you'll be placed on administrative leave, tentatively one week. Return to duty unless notified otherwise. During leave, you'll report to Psychological Services for counselling and evaluation. Understood?"
"Understood."
The officers filed out. Two—one from Gangs, one from Narcotics—started toward Felix, but Carles stepped in, blocking them with a flat stare until they turned away.
When the room was clear, Felix asked, "Why so many people this time?"
"Five dead, three of them yours, another in the hospital from your rounds. You think that draws a small crowd?" Carles's tone was sour. "DA and IA have to be here. Homicide too—this is a major case.
Gangs and Narcotics are working the Christian Tran case—Vietnamese, major distributor. Heard about you and insisted on seeing 'the badge-wearing killer' for themselves."
Felix nodded. "Any progress on the Vietnamese?"
"Not that fast. Homicide surveillance has him under twenty-four/seven watch. They'll move when they can take the whole network—money men, transport, growers, suppliers. That takes months."
Felix understood. A drug dealer never worked alone; networks were webs that needed patience to map.
"By the way," he asked, "what's this 'Romash 13' you mentioned?"
"It's Lomas 13—operates in Monterey Park and Rosemead. Latin gang, big one in the San Gabriel Valley. Human trafficking, narcotics, heavy felonies.
Barlette Street is a Mexican gang out of Rosemead—guns, drugs, stolen cars, trafficking, controlled substances. Lomas has been pushing into Rosemead, tensions high.
And in San Gabriel City, Sangra—a Hispanic crew—are sworn enemies of Lomas. Those three have been trading shots for years."