I worked one where a guy fired three times, but it was a pretty iffy deal and it was in the front yard.

The guy, who I'll call Bob to simplify this tale, had shot and killed a guy in a tag-team with his nephew six days before. In that case, which wasn't mine, an unhappy rival had shown up at Bob's house armed and wearing a "tactical vest" which looked cool but made no pretense of being bullet-resistant. Vest guy ran three long wood screws into the front door and had painted S N I I on the front of the house with orange spray paint when the shooting started. I believe he was going for SNITCH before he was rudely interrupted.

Bob was in a wheelchair from falling off a cliff. That was his story, but it was widely believed he was thrown off and just wasn't saying.

Bob opened up by firing through the door with an AR, which caused vest guy to move back, where nephew could get a shot from the second floor with a Hi Point .45 carbine. Down he went, rifle still slung. Nephew (age 15) then went downstairs, out the un-screwed back door, and shot him in the head. Game over.

Not too surprisingly, no one went to jail on this one. The U.S. Attorney's Office (which prosecutes Indian Country felonies) was still mulling it over when the shotgun thing happened.

Bob and a different nephew were drinking it up when Larry showed up to buy some 40 ouncers. This rez was "dry" (HA!), so Bob augmented his income by bootlegging high-alcohol beers. Buy them for 4, sell them for 8. He was out, though, and Larry was unhappy. He walked out into a field (Bob lived in the deep rez, no other houses around) and supposedly began throwing rocks at Bob.

Bob's AR was sitting in our office, so he went to his Mossberg 835, a very long 12 gauge full of 3" #6s, handily leaning nearby. The first round hit Larry in the front at a range of about 30 yards. Larry turned to his right and took the next load in the side. He finished his twirl and took round three full in the back, a little lower than the first two. That was it for him - he hit the ground and found cover in a little depression, where he spent the night.

At one point, the not-a-killer nephew went out to check on him, and covered him with a tarp. In the morning, Larry limped to the road and got a ride to the hospital.

I was on call by this time, so this one was mine. I got a warrant for Bob and a search warrant for his house. I had dealt with Bob before and kind of liked him. I did the scene and hauled Bob to ABQ. I had to grab him by his belt to hoist him into my Tahoe and when I did he farted loudly, looked at me, and said: I'm sorry, Brad. I can't control that stuff.

The Marshals were less than happy with me when I told them I needed the whole 2-car sally port to unload Bob and his wheelchair at the courthouse. He was their problem after that.

Meanwhile, my tribal buddy was trying to interview Larry at the hospital. He took some truly wonderful pictures which showed there was no place on Larry's torso you could put a shot glass without covering a pellet hole. The shot of Larry's magnificently speckled posterior was my office screensaver until someone complained.

Larry recovered nicely. The grand jury indicted Bob for assault resulting in serious bodily injury. Larry went missing before trial and the charges were dropped after Bob sat in the pokey for a few months.

Less than a year later, Bob's little brother got out of prison and whacked Bob on the head with a machete, which did remarkably little damage. Bob low-crawled across the yard (good upper body strength) and tried to hide under a flipped over wheelbarrow. He thought he was ok, but little brother was whaling away at his unfeeling legs until somebody else tackled him.

Little brother's case wasn't mine either. He went back to prison, Bob eventually recovered but wasn't the same. By the time I left he was content with sitting on his porch and not shooting people.

__________________
“What you got, ain’t new.”