Tragedy at Newhall - Part 1

The sun had long since dropped behind the low hills north of Valencia, leaving the sky washed in a deep purple that bled slowly into black. The evening traffic on Interstate 5 hummed steady and distant, a soft backdrop that rose and fell with the wind. A thin band of clouds drifted across the moon, softening the glow on the quiet highway. Patrol Unit 78 cruised steadily along the asphalt, its headlights stretching into the dark.

Officer Walt Frago sat behind the wheel, one arm resting lightly on the open window. Cool air rolled in, carrying the faint smell of the ocean. He breathed it in. His partner, Roger Gore, leaned back in the passenger seat, boots crossed at the ankles, hat pushed back just enough to look relaxed but still regulation. He flicked at a loose thread on his sleeve.

“Dodgers open tomorrow,” Gore said. “You believe that? Feels like last season just ended.”

Frago smiled a little. “You say that every April.”

“Because it’s true every April.” Gore turned his head to watch the empty fields blur past. “You think Sutton’s gonna finally put together a whole season? Man’s got the arm, but the wind blows wrong and he’s giving up five runs.”

Officers Walter Frago and Roger Gore

Frago kept his eyes on the road, fingers tapping the wheel in a soft rhythm. “Guy’s young. He’ll grow into it.” He paused. “He’s better than anything the Padres are putting on the mound.”

Gore made a face. “That’s not saying much.”

A long moment of quiet passed. The cruiser hummed. The radio crackled softly with distant static. A semi rumbled far off on the interstate, its lights a faint shimmer on the horizon.

Gore stretched, joints popping. “You working on that deck in your backyard tomorrow?”

“Probably,” Frago said. “Weather should hold. My brother’s coming to help. He owes me after I helped him move.”

“Owes you? Man, brothers don’t pay back favors. They just bank them and pretend they forget.”

Frago chuckled. “Maybe. Mine’s decent, though.”

Gore turned his head, studying him for a moment. “You still thinking about putting in for Motors next year?”

“Maybe. I do like riding motorcycles. It’s nice to be in a car during these long shifts though. Especially in the winter.” He glanced over. “You applying for SWAT again?”

“I’m still thinking about it.” Gore rubbed his jaw. “Linda thinks it’s too dangerous.” A beat passed. “As if this isn’t.”

Frago didn’t answer at first. He let the cruiser roll through a gentle turn, tires humming. Finally he said, “She’s just worried. That’s to be expected.”

Gore exhaled, leaning his head back. “Yeah. It comes with being a cop’s wife.”

The silence returned, comfortable and easy, the kind that only comes when two men have shared enough stories, enough coffee, enough late hours on quiet highways.

The radio hissed, then snapped into clarity.

“Unit Seven-Eight, stand by for a possible armed suspect. White Pontiac, license number coming…”

Gore straightened. Frago reached instinctively for the volume.

Tomorrow’s game would have to wait.

Frago eased off the accelerator without thinking, letting the cruiser settle into a steadier line. The hum of the tires changed pitch, softer now, more deliberate. Gore sat forward, hat pulled into place, posture sharpening as if someone had flipped a switch inside him.

“Here we go,” he muttered.

The dispatcher came back on the air, voice firm, clipped, the tone every patrol officer recognized instantly.

“White Pontiac LeMans. Two occupants. Considered armed and dangerous. Last seen northbound approaching Magic Mountain exit. Copy?”

Frago keyed the mic. “Seven-Eight copies.”

Gore pulled the clipboard onto his knee, flipped to a clean sheet, and wrote down the plate number as it came over the air. His handwriting stayed neat even as the cruiser bounced along the uneven stretch of highway.

“You ever notice,” Gore said, his tone low, “these calls always come in right when the night starts feeling easy?”

Frago nodded. “Easy never lasts.”

Gore slid the clipboard back into the dash tray. “Two occupants. ‘Armed and dangerous.’ Gotta love how vague that is.”

“Could be nothing,” Frago said, eyes fixed ahead.“Could be,” Gore agreed. He shook his head. “But it probably won’t be.”

The cruiser crested a rise. The lights of Valencia shimmered in the distance, a scattered constellation against the dark. Farther up the interstate, taillights glowed faintly in the distance. The night seemed deceptively peaceful in light of the potential criminal threat they were looking For.

Frago flicked on the spotlight, sweeping the shoulder out of habit. Nothing but brush and fence line.

“You want primary or secondary?” Gore asked.

Frago shrugged. “I’m driving.”

“Fair. I’ll take right approach.”

“Like always.”

“Like always,” Gore echoed.

The familiarity of the exchange steadied them both, a small ritual built from dozens of stops, and thousands of training repetitions. They were young, yes, and only a couple of years into the job. But they were professionals. They moved on instinct long before fear could root itself.

The dispatcher came back again. “Seven-Eight, vehicle is confirmed felony suspect from Bakersfield. Possible armed robbery. Be careful.”

Gore gave a quiet whistle. “Alright. Buckle up, buddy.”

Frago tightened his grip on the wheel just a fraction. “I’m already buckled up.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

The highway curved left. Headlights flared in the distance. Bright, low-slung, moving fast.

Gore leaned forward. “There.”

A white Pontiac headed northbound.

The cruiser’s engine hummed a little louder as Frago checked their speed. The moment stretched thin, the way it always did right before the adrenaline decided whether to simmer or ignite.

Gore rested his hand near the door handle, one boot planted firm on the floorboard.

“Alright,” he said lightly. “Let’s go to work.”

Frago flipped on the overheads. The red and blue strobes stretched across the asphalt. The Pontiac didn’t slow down. Not at first. It kept rolling along, steady and indifferent, as if the driver hadn’t noticed. Or chose not to.

“Come on,” Gore murmured. “Tap the brakes. Give us something.”

A few more seconds passed. Then the Pontiac’s brake lights flared bright red in the dark.

“There we go,” Frago said quietly.

The suspect vehicle drifted toward the shoulder, the tires spitting gravel as it rolled to a stop beneath the weak glow of a highway lamp. The engine idled rough and uneven, coughing like an old smoker. The exhaust made a white plume in the cold night air.

Frago parked twenty feet back, angling the cruiser slightly to left with the front wheels turned outward. Basic Highway Patrol training. Create an escape lane if a car suddenly reversed. He set the hand brake, exhaled once, and looked over at Gore.

“You good?” he asked.

Gore smirked faintly. “Never better.” He popped the passenger door open and stepped out into the cool night air. He adjusted his hat, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. He slowly let it out. Frago stepped out with his shotgun a moment later, staying behind the driver’s door for cover.

The night felt different now. The warm breeze had gone still. Even the traffic on the interstate seemed quieter.

Gore approached along the passenger side of the Pontiac, his flashlight angled down so it didn’t silhouette him. He kept his voice steady. “Driver, keep your hands where I can see them.”

A pause.

Then, slowly, the driver’s hands rose into view above the steering wheel. Empty. Open. No sudden movements.

Gore lifted his light a little higher. “With your left hand, open the door.”

The handle clicked. The door eased open.

“Step out,” Gore said.

The driver complied, moving with an eerie calm. He was young, barely older than Gore, with dirty long hair and rumpled clothes. His face was slack and cold. Gore looked at his hands. No weapon in sight.

“Turn around,” Gore ordered. “Back toward me.”

The driver did as he was told, taking small, careful steps.

Frago held his position behind the driver’s door of Unit 78, his shotgun angled down. His pulse thudded in his ears, but he held steady.

Gore stepped forwards, watching the angle, just as they’d practiced a hundred times. “Stop right there,” he said. “Hands up. Higher.”

Bobby Davis

The driver, Bobby Davis, raised them. His eyes never quite met Gore’s. They jumped around him, quick and nervous.

Gore holstered his revolver so he could handcuff the suspect. He pushed Davis against the vehicle and leaned him over the hood.

Frago watched the Pontiac’s right door.

Something was wrong. The passenger, Jack Twinning, still hadn’t moved or shown his hands.

Jack Twinning

“Passenger, let me see your hands,” Frago called out.

No response.

Gore reached for Davis’ wrist.

The right-side door of the Pontiac flew open.

A man came out fast, a revolver already in his hand, its barrel shining under the streetlight. His face was stern but calm. He took his time with his pistol, raising it smoothly to eye level.

“Gun!” Frago shouted.

Gore reached for his Colt Python. The passenger, Jack Twinning, fired first. 

The revolver lit the night like a camera flash. Frago reeled backward as the rounds hit him in the chest. He fell hard, hitting the pavement with a heavy thud.

Gore pulled his Colt Python out of its holster and fired two shots at Twinning, who ducked behind the Pontiac. The bullets missed. Gore looked for a better angle on the passenger, when he remembered that he never cuffed Davis. Or searched him for a weapon.

Davis fired two shots into Gore from pointblank range, killing him instantly.

A second CHP cruiser crested the rise. Unit 73. Officers James Pence and George Alleyn saw the chaos before they understood it. Pence braked hard, the tires squealing as the cruiser slid into position twenty yards behind Frago and Gore’s unit. He angled the car instinctively, setting up a firing lane just as he had trained. 

Officers James Pence and George Alleyn                   

“What the hell…” Pence muttered.

Alleyn’s voice tightened. “Shots fired! We’ve got shots fired.”

They threw their doors open. Pence stepped out first, his revolver drawn, using his door for cover. He scanned the scene, his eyes catching the silhouette of the Pontiac before he saw the uniformed bodies on the ground.

“Jesus. Gore’s down! Frago too!”

The words came out raw and panicked.

Alleyn moved fast to the rear of the cruiser, using the trunk as cover. He crouched low, his Remington 870 in hand, trying to track the shooters through the pulsing shadows and drifting smoke.

“Pence, where are they?” he shouted.

Before Pence could answer, the first muzzle flash came from the passenger side of the white Pontiac.

“There!” Pence fired two shots in return, the rounds sparking off the Pontiac. The suspects ducked behind the open passenger door, then fired again. The bullets struck the CHP cruiser, punching holes in the sheet metal.

Pence flinched but stayed behind cover.

“Reloading!” he yelled, though he still had rounds left, his voice rising purely from adrenaline.

Alleyn fired from the rear of Unit 73, quick and controlled, trying to pin the passenger down. But the suspects weren’t staying still. Twinning moved with frightening speed and confidence, sliding behind the Pontiac, using the trunk and bumper as improvised cover.

He fired again.

A round smashed into the pavement inches from Alleyn’s boot. Another pinged off the trunk lid, showering him with fragments of metal.

Alleyn steadied his hands and looked for the perpetrators. 

But Twinning didn’t stay in one place long enough to give him a clear shot. He darted back toward the passenger door, reloading with calm and smooth movements.

Pence advanced.

He left the safety of his cruiser’s door, moving toward the front fender to get an angle.

“Pence!” Alleyn barked. “Get back…”

A burst of fire cut him off.

Twinning braced his revolver over the Pontiac’s roof and fired. Pence felt the air ripple beside his cheek as a round zipped past. He ducked, heart slamming against his ribs.

The driver Davis emerged now, emboldened, sliding across the front seat and out the driver’s side door. He crouched low, holding his revolver in both hands.

Davis sprinted toward the rear of the Pontiac, moving to flank Pence and Alleyn.

“Driver’s out!” Alleyn called, shifting his aim. “He’s moving around the back!”

Pence fired again, trying to slow him, but Davis reached the rear bumper. Suddenly Pence and Alleyn were taking fire from both sides of the Pontiac.

Alleyn felt the rounds hammer the trunk in front of him. The metal buckled. Glass shattered somewhere behind him. He squatted lower, too low, almost sitting on his heels, revolver tight in both hands.

He fired back with three rounds, aiming for the flash.

Twinning ducked, then popped up again, squeezing off another shot. The round struck the right side of Unit 73 and ricocheted, skipping across the asphalt. Alleyn took cover behind the front fender, his breath ragged. He dropped his empty shotgun and drew his revolver.

“We’re pinned down!” he shouted. He emptied his pistol in Twinning’s direction. 

Pence didn’t answer. He was busy looking for Davis. 

Twinning fired his shotgun again and hit Alleyn in the chest. The force of the round drove the officer hard into the pavement beside the front wheel of Unit 73. He gasped, dragging in a thin, rattling breath.

Pence saw him go down.

“Alleyn! Stay with me!” he shouted, firing two quick rounds toward Davis to buy some time.

But the suspects weren’t retreating. They were flanking. Pressing the attack.

The gunfire echoed off the concrete, sharp and violent, mixing with the sting of cordite and burned oil.

Up on the rise of the southbound lanes, a pickup truck slowed down.

The driver, Gary Kness, an IT technician and former Marine, was driving home from a late shift. He hit the brakes as soon as he saw the red-blue flashers and the muzzle flashes strobing through the dark.

Marine Veteran Gary Kness accepts an award from the CHP

“What the hell…” he muttered, heart kicking into gear. 

Kness pulled onto the shoulder, flung open his door, and sprinted into the chaos without hesitation.

Pence saw him emerge from the darkness and thought for a second he was another officer.

“Stay back!” Pence yelled, still firing. “Get to cover!”

But Kness didn’t stop. He kept running toward the fallen form beside the cruiser.

“Hold on, officer!” Kness shouted to Alleyn. “I’ve got you…”

Before he could reach him, Davis spotted the movement. He pivoted, firing three shots in rapid succession. Kness dove behind the embankment, gravel spraying over him. He stayed down for a heartbeat. Then he moved again. He crawled low toward Alleyn. The wounded officer lay face-up, breathing shallowly, blood darkening his uniform shirt.

“Hang on,” Kness said, grabbing Alleyn’s belt with both hands. “I’m getting you out of here.”

He tried to drag him to safety, but Kness could only move him inches at a time.

Gunfire hammered the cruiser to his left. Sparks jumped off the metal. Glass shattered overhead.

Davis saw the motion again and fired directly at them.

Kness ducked, shielding Alleyn with his own body. He looked around for a weapon and saw Frago’s shotgun lying on the pavement ten feet away.

He lunged toward it. A burst of gunfire snapped at his heels as he dove for the weapon. Kness came up to a knee and racked the slide. He pulled the trigger. Nothing. The weapon was jammed.

Kness tried to cycle the round. Nothing. He cursed under his breath and threw the shotgun to the side. Kness reached into the holster and drew Alleyn’s sidearm. He fired several rounds at the Pontiac, hitting Davis in the chest.

Davis stumbled, but did not go down. He moved toward the front of the Pontiac, steadying his revolver with both hands. Twinning began circling from the other side, trying to angle a shot around the patrol car.

Kness fired again, but his revolver was close to empty.

Davis lifted his revolver, bracing both hands on the hood of the Pontiac. He lined up the sights on Pence.

Kness saw it happening. “Officer! Take cover!”

Pence turned just as Davis fired.

The round hit him high in the chest. Pence staggered back against the cruiser, the breath punched out of him in one sharp exhale. His revolver slipped from his hand and clattered onto the asphalt. Pence slid down the fender, leaving a dark smear where his shoulder scraped the metal. He coughed once, choking on the taste of blood.

The fight was nearly over. Twinning walked up behind Pence and killed him with two shots to the head at point blank range. 

A pair of headlights crested the rise. Backup. 

“Police!” a voice shouted. Gunshots.

Suspect Vehicle

The two gunmen sprinted across the shoulder, their silhouettes briefly lit by the strobing lights. They vaulted the guardrail and slid down into the dark divide between northbound and southbound lanes. Gravel kicked behind them as their shoes scraped the concrete.

“Stop!” an officer yelled as he approached from the newly arrived unit. “Let me see your hands!”

Gunfire cracked. Two bullets impacted near one of the police cruisers. The suspects kept running.

Kness rose slowly, his chest burning, his hands shaking. He watched the two figures disappear into the darkness.

The fight had lasted less than five minutes.

Behind him, three officers lay dead. One dying.
And the highway was quiet again.

Memorial honoring CHP officers Alleyn, Fargo, Gore and Pence

The story of the Tragedy at Newhall continues in part II of this series.  

Author Bio:

Byron Owen is a Reconnaissance Marine with tours as both a platoon commander and commanding officer at the elite 1st Force Reconnaissance Company. He also had the honor of commanding several intelligence and cyber units to include Combat Mission Team One, Cyberspace Warfare Task Group 1, and 3d Radio Battalion. He writes about influence warfare and cyber at keyterraincyber.com, and about leadership at broadswordsix.com