Evidence cones mark shell casings from the freeway shootout last August between State Police trooper Matt Zistel and gunman John V. Allen II. Photo: Oregon State Police

LONELY PATROLS

Troopers such as Zistel often patrol alone, far from back-up. The area command based in The Dalles covers the largest geography in the state — five counties.

The agency's patrol strength peaked during the 1979-81 budget cycle with staffing at 665. Funding changes dropped that to a low of 329 in 2003-2005 and it now stands at 404.

In an average year, the State Police makes contact with 250,000 people. Last year, only a fraction — 125 — required troopers to deploy force. Over the year, 77 troopers were injured while on patrol.

Trainers pound into troopers that there is no such thing as a routine traffic stop. Last year, eight officers died across the country during traffic stops. And research shows that the officers most likely to get into trouble are the veterans.

Few stretches of Oregon freeway invite boredom more than Interstate 84 going east from The Dalles. Every day, 17,000 cars and trucks go by.

For Matt Zistel, the tenth stop of the day would prove the trainers right.

THE DEPARTURE

By 8 a.m. Thursday, Allen was impatient to get on the road. His three children tumbled into their dad's Cadillac, with 13-year-old Justin riding shotgun, 10-year-old Charity in the seat behind him and John Allen III, the 15-year-old known as Little John, cramming into the seat behind his father.

They took little but their clothes and road food. Allen muscled into the trunk a tote filled with neatly-arranged file folders bearing the paper record of his life.

With the car loaded, Allen pulled the apartment door closed and slid the key under the mat of the manager, who had no idea he was leaving. The family left behind furniture, clothing and cans of food stacked in the pantry.

He pulled away from the Southeast 92nd Avenue apartment, with 2,700 miles to go.

About the same time, Zistel was stopping his first speeder of the day.

After a breakfast of a power bar and water, Zistel checked in at the patrol station right at 7 a.m. He tested his radar and laser, fueled his Chevrolet Tahoe and headed for Biggs Junction, 17 miles to the east.

Construction on the Biggs overpass pinched the freeway down to one lane. Zistel's job was to enforce the 65 mph limit to keep traffic from blasting through the construction zone.

Through the morning, he made a stop about every 20 minutes.

Back in Portland, Allen was making stops of his own.

He arrived at a medical marijuana dispensary not far from home, talking his way in even though he was there two hours before the scheduled 11 a.m. opening. He bought two batches of “Mudslide Brownies” and one bag of processed marijuana, allowed under his Oregon medical marijuana card.

He stopped at his bank to get cash. Police later found 19 $20 bills in his wallet. Then he returned to his apartment to retrieve the Smith & Wesson pistol he had inadvertently left in the bathroom.

He shoved the gun, loaded with a 14-bullet magazine, into a holster on his right hip. He tucked two more loaded magazines under the driver's seat.

His last stop before hitting the freeway was for gas. The time on the receipt: 11:16 a.m.

As Allen headed for the freeway, Zistel was pulling off at Rufus. He scratched in his notebook the time — 11:19 a.m. — and the code for out of service. He went inside for lunch with Senior Trooper Scott Rector, also working an overtime shift.

Zistel and Allen would meet in 93 minutes.

THE GUN FIGHT

After lunch, Zistel returned to his Biggs perch and at 12:30 p.m. stopped a Portland lawyer for speeding. After warning the lawyer, Zistel went back to watching traffic. He was about to change locations when a black sedan sped by at 76 mph.

Zistel went after the car as other traffic cleared out of his way. The black sedan pulled to the shoulder and Zistel reached for his microphone out of routine. Normally, he would tell a dispatcher his location, describe the vehicle and read off a plate number.

Using his radio call sign, Zistel began his dispatch.

“53-26 I-84 east bound a black —"

He got no further. He dropped the mic when Allen stepped out of his car in an unusually quick move.

Zistel opened his door, stepping partway out with one foot on the ground, and addressed Allen.

“Please sit back in your car for me.”

When Allen asked what the trouble was, Zistel told him, “You were speeding, but right now I need you to —”

Allen stepped towards Zistel.

“Sir, please get back to the car for me now,” Zistel said.

Allen again asked for an explanation.

“I told you. You were speeding,” Zistel said.

He later told investigators that his sense of alert went “sky high.” He first considered drawing his Taser, but judged the probes wouldn't penetrate Allen's thick military wear.

He reached instead for his Smith & Wesson as Allen drew his pistol, clenching it in a two-handed grip. Walking with deliberateness, Allen fired. The round struck Zistel on the left side, between his protective vest and his equipment belt.

The trooper fired back. As the fight unfolded, traffic whizzed by — a tanker truck, an SUV, a passenger van.

One of Zistel's hollow-point rounds, designed for stopping power, bored into the right side of Allen's chest.

Allen kept coming.

But the jolt of that shot apparently caused Allen to squeeze a lever on the side of his pistol, ejecting the magazine and its 11 remaining rounds. That left him a single round in the gun's chamber. Unaware, Allen stayed focused on the retreating Zistel.

He moved across the front of Zistel's vehicle and down the passenger side, stalking Zistel.

“Trooper Zistel believed Allen meant to execute him,” reads the State Police account of Zistel's statement to investigators. “Trooper Zistel felt had he been injured worse, or fell down, he would be dead.”

Both men fired again. But after firing that one remaining round, Allen's gun was empty. Zistel, who had fired seven times, still had nine rounds.

Perhaps realizing what happened, Allen stepped back to the front of the Tahoe, scooped up the magazine, punched it into his gun and moved back towards his car.

Zistel, alert to his exposed position several steps behind his SUV, quickly moved up behind the Tahoe. He reached for his portable radio.

“Shots fired! Shots fired! 53-26. Shots fired,” he yelled.

No one heard. His broadcast was overridden by another trooper on the air on an unrelated matter.

Zistel watched as Allen accelerated away, holding his fire for fear of hitting a passenger.

The episode took 39 seconds. In the car, Allen's life was draining away. He couldn't breathe.

“He was saying he was about to die,” his son, Justin, told police.

Allen pulled onto the shoulder a half mile down the road.

“I had to stop the vehicle. And then I turned off the car,” Justin Allen said. “We just sat there.”

THE PURSUIT

Seconds after Allen drove off, Zistel made it to his patrol vehicle to radio in.

“Shots fired. I've been hit in the side. I'm okay. Suspect left,” Zistel said.

Zistel dug out his first aid kit, pressed a dressing on his bleeding wound, and took cover at the front passenger door. He unracked his AR-15 rifle, preparing to defend himself if Allen returned to finish what he started.

In an instant, help was on the way but no one was close.

Sgt. Kaipo Raiser and Senior Trooper Swede Pearson ran from their patrol office 19 miles to the west and sped onto the freeway. Raiser soon pulled ahead because Pearson's state pick-up had a governor limiting its speed.

The commander of the office, Lt. Pat Shortt, was alerted by cell phone as he lunched at a Thai restaurant in downtown The Dalles. He bolted from the restaurant, digesting the news that one of his troopers had been shot. Farther to the west, Senior Trooper Gavin McIlvena heard the broadcast while talking to a motorist at the Memaloose Rest Area. McIlvena jumped in his car. He had to cover 33 miles to reach his wounded colleague.

To the north, in the small town of Wasco, dispatchers reached Sherman County Sheriff Brad Lohrey at home. He raced to respond to the scene 13 miles away, as did his one deputy on duty.

Within three minutes, police up and down the freeway were racing to the rescue.

But the moments ticked by for Zistel. One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes.

Six miles to the east, his lunch partner was out on a traffic stop when he picked up garbled radio traffic.

“I was unable to copy,” Rector radioed in. “What was going on?”

A passing motorist had called 911, describing a black Honda Accord with primer on its roof and a man wearing a ski mask. Dispatchers repeated the information to the responding officers.

Zistel called in that he didn't think it was a Honda and there was no ski mask.

Shortt, racing from his lunch stop, was reassured after hearing Zistel. He focused on figuring how to contain the shooter, assessing what officers he had to keep the car from eluding them.

Thirteen minutes after the “Shots fired!” broadcast, Raiser arrived at Zistel's location, accepting the trooper's assurance he was okay.

Like his lieutenant, Raiser decided the urgent need was to find and contain the gunman. He roared off down the freeway, leaving Zistel in the care of officers almost there.

After covering a half-mile, Raiser spotted Allen's car and pulled over. The car didn't match the description going out.

“I'm unsure it's the correct vehicle,” he radioed, and then read off the plate number.

Zistel responded instantly. “That is the vehicle,” he said.

Raiser stepped out of his patrol car, and brought freeway traffic to a stop. He then took cover behind his car, waiting for more officers.

Lohrey, the sheriff, and his deputy Dan Hall reached Zistel followed shortly by Pearson driving the speed-restricted pick-up truck. Pearson decided not to wait for an ambulance and loaded Zistel.

With traffic plugged up, he backed up the freeway more than a mile to reach the Biggs intersection. He raced for Mid-Columbia Medical Center in The Dalles. He called his wife, Becky, asking her to locate Zistel's wife.

In the seat next to him, Zistel texted a quick message to his wife to let her know he was okay.

He arrived at the hospital at 1:37 p.m. — 44 minutes after being shot. Ashley, who had been babysitting, was waiting for him.

RESOLUTION

Police closed the freeway for a five-mile stretch to deal with Allen.

Shortt, in command as the senior officer, and others discussed their next move. As they did, the windshield wipers in Allen's car came on. So did the brake lights.

Moments later, Justin Allen stepped out of his father's car, weeping. Hands raised in surrender, he shuffled down the shoulder to waiting police. They covered his every move with their rifles.

He told them his father was dead, that Little John and Charity were still in the car.

Using a patrol car speaker, Shortt directed first Little John and then Charity out of the car and back towards police.

The shock on the children's faces told Shortt they were telling the truth about their father's death.

Three officers cautiously approached Allen's car from behind, weapons at the ready. They grabbed Allen out of the car, dragged him to the pavement and handcuffed him.

They verified he was dead.

The three children were driven to The Dalles and questioned in the evening about what they knew.

At the hospital, State Police of nearly every rank arrived to check on Zistel.

He was doing fine, he told them. He was released and headed home by dinner time.