Killer of S.D. Officer Slain After Manhunt : Shootings: Young officer was gunned down as he stepped from his car. His killer was slain 11 hours later.

A young police officer was shot to death Tuesday as he stepped from a patrol car while responding to a domestic dispute, and the man wanted for his death was killed by officers after an 11-hour manhunt.

Ronald W. Davis, 24, who had been given the “inspiration” award in the name of the last officer slain in the line of duty, was hit once in the throat and once in the shoulder about 6 a.m. outside an apartment complex in Southeast San Diego.

Davis, married and the father of two young boys, was pronounced dead 20 minutes later at Mercy Hospital.

“It’s a day that I hoped would never happen,” Police Chief Bob Burgreen said. “It happened to (former Police Chief William) Kolender 11 times, and I hoped it would never happen to me. We lost a fine young officer. Everything I heard about him suggested he was dedicated and hard-working. It’s just a tragic situation.”

Nearly 11 hours into an intense manhunt, which included door-to-door searches of apartments by armed SWAT officers, police shot and killed Arnaldo Devilla Castillo, 30, a former hospital housekeeping aide. Castillo had been hiding next to a fence just outside the huge apartment complex where more than 100 officers had been looking for him all day.

When bystanders saw Castillo lying under a car after he had slipped back into the complex’s parking lot, he fired at a group of officers, who shot him twice in the head. He was taken to Mercy Hospital and pronounced dead at 5:03 p.m.

Police said Castillo fired the fatal shots at Davis after the officer and his partner responded as backup to a domestic disturbance call at the Meadowbrook Apartment complex shortly before 6 a.m.

The officers were told that a Filipino man with a gun had run from one of the apartments after beating his girlfriend and threatening to kill himself.

Davis and his partner, Bob Anschnick, knew the 448-unit complex well, having helped rid it of serious crime over the past six months by spending extra hours at the block-long development.

“He adopted us and worked with us,” said apartment manager Harry B. Jones. “He was good talking to kids around here. He could really straighten them out.”

As Davis and Anschnick drove up, they spotted a car backing out of the parking lot and blocked it from moving farther. Police said Davis might have flashed a hand-held spotlight on the driver as he remarked to his partner, “He looks Filipino,” before stepping out of the car. Neither Davis nor Anschnick had drawn their weapons when Castillo began firing, police said.

Castillo opened his car door, stood up, swung around and fired two or three shots. Anschnick returned several shots, missing Castillo, who ran away as Anschnick dropped to his knees and began administering CPR.

More than 50 police cars and 133 officers descended on the complex Tuesday morning, sealing off all entrances in an intense search for Castillo, who had lived at one of the apartments with his girlfriend, Lilia Bautista, 36, and her 9-year-old son, Glenn Lee Ramirez, since July, 1990.

Early Tuesday morning, Castillo put a gun to Ramirez’s head and threatened to shoot Bautista and then himself, according to a neighbor who sheltered Bautista for several hours. Castillo, who had lost his job at Children’s Hospital in August, had been drinking heavily Tuesday morning, police said.

By 4:30 p.m. Tuesday, just as investigators were set to give up their search for the night, Castillo was spotted hiding under a white compact car inside the complex. Burgreen said Castillo apparently had been hiding all day between two tall, wooden fences that separate the complex from a residential area before climbing under the car.

Linda Akbar, 41, whose second-floor apartment faces the parking lot, said she saw the officers confront Castillo from a distance of about 15 feet. Her son, Deshon White, 19, said Castillo got out from under the white car and crouched beside it, holding a gun in his left hand.

“He (Castillo) never said anything, but you could tell he was panicking,” White said.

Although Burgreen said that he was not sure if Castillo fired at the officers, White and Akbar said that he fired at least one shot. White and Akbar said they heard about five shots fired.

Akbar said the officers did not say anything to Castillo until after he was shot.

“After they shot him, they yelled at him to come out,” Akbar said. “He didn’t move, and they sent a dog after him. The dog yanked at him a couple of times but he didn’t move. That’s when the police came out and took his gun away.”

Burgreen said Castillo was shot at least twice in the head. He said investigators recovered a loaded and cocked .45-caliber automatic handgun from Castillo. Investigators believe it is the same weapon used to kill Davis.

“Our search is over. As far as we’re concerned, this case is over,” Burgreen said after Castillo was taken to the hospital.

The chief said Castillo was shot 10 minutes before police had planned to end the search for the night.

The 28th San Diego police officer to die in the line of duty since 1913, Davis had earned the respect of his peers after less than two years on the department.

After a successful tour through the police academy, he was given the Jerry Hartless Award for inspiration. Hartless was the last officer to die in the line of duty, when he was shot in 1988 after chasing a group of men known for drug dealing in Southeast San Diego.

Davis, who lived in Escondido with his wife, Wendy, and their two sons, ages 4 and 1 1/2, spent four years in the Marine Corps before joining the department. He was assigned to the graveyard shift, typical for rookies, but volunteered for as many shifts as he could.

“He was an academy role model,” said John Russell, a fellow officer on Southeast patrol. “He was an All-American kid. He had no timidness about him. He loved to get his hands dirty. He wasn’t into the traffic stops and the police work that wasn’t as serious. He was out looking for the felonies and the serious stuff. And he was totally professional.”

Burgreen called it a “sad, sad day for the department,” a day in which officers at the scene hugged and wept openly over the news. Many said privately during the day that they wished Castillo had killed himself to save them the trouble.

“Got any more of the black stuff?” asked Officer Sandy Byerly, requesting black tape to place over his badge as dozens of officers did during the day.

Byerly, an 11-year veteran, once shared a locker with Thomas E. Riggs, an officer shot and killed in 1985.

“We were having a rampage against officers, and that ended with for a while until Hartless,” Byerly said. “Now this. You never know what to expect.”

Four officers were killed within 25 months from 1983 to 1985, and none were killed thereafter until Hartless in 1988. Since then, no officers have been fatally shot.

At the Meadowbrook Apartments for low-income residents, where a three-bedroom apartment rents for $409 a month and a two-bedroom for $357, Davis was instrumental with other officers in cleaning up the complex under a long-established police program called “problem-oriented policing.”

Calls for police fell from about 300 a month in recent years to about six a week because of the program, said Harry B. Jones, Meadowbrook’s apartment manager for the past 12 years.

As it happens, Jones’ apartment was the one closest to the shooting scene. Jones bolted out of bed when he heard five distinct and swift shots. He stumbled for his pants in the early morning. Another neighbor was running out at the same time, and Jones scolded her, strongly suggesting that she return to her apartment.

It was still dark out, and the morning was still foggy when Jones realized that Davis was the officer who had been shot.

“Why? That’s what I asked,” he said. “Why a guy that was so good?”

Jones soon learned that Castillo was the suspect, and he turned angry.

Castillo caused trouble in the apartment, he said, and, in the past two months alone, security guards had visited his home five times--twice for domestic disputes and three times for noise.

When they moved into the complex in July, 1990, Castillo and Bautista said they were both employed at Children’s Hospital, where Castillo earned $550 a month as a housekeeping aide and Bautista made $409 a month as a fiscal assistant-file clerk.

Mark Morelli, a Children’s Hospital spokesman, described the job of operating room housekeeper believed to have been held by Castillo as “one responsible for the cleanliness and sanitation of the operating rooms and adjacent areas as well as special cleaning procedures for linens and hazardous materials from the areas.”

Several neighbors who know the couple said they were surprised by the tragic turn of events. They said that Castillo and Bautista appeared to be a happy couple.

But, about 4:30 a.m. Tuesday, Bautista ran out of her apartment and began knocking on windows, pleading for help, the student said, adding that Bautista knocked on her window and woke her up.

“I looked out the window, and she said, ‘Help. Help me. Will you please help me?’ But she was whispering it,” the woman said.

The neighbor said that the left side of Bautista’s face was swollen and bleeding. Bautista also had blood on her clothing, the neighbor said.

While Bautista was pleading for help, she was hiding in the bushes by the neighbor’s living room window. At one point, Castillo walked by the bushes but did not see Bautista, the woman said.

“I told her to stay in the bushes, and I called security,” said the woman.

The woman said that Castillo twice drove off while Bautista hid in the bushes but returned each time. The first time he returned, he went back to the couple’s apartment.

“He was in the apartment with her (Bautista’s) son. The little boy was yelling, ‘I didn’t do nothing. I didn’t do nothing,’ ” the neighbor said.

Eventually, a security guard arrived with two police officers, John Leamons and Stuart Littlefield. Bautista was still hiding in the bushes when the officers arrived, the neighbor said. One officer took Bautista aside, while the other walked away with her son.

“Then we heard about five shots,” the woman said. “She (Bautista) was hysterical . . . she began yelling, asking if her little boy was all right.”

According to the neighbor and Keith McKenzie, who also lives in the complex, the boy told investigators that Castillo pointed a gun at his head during his argument with Bautista.

Some tried to exploit the tragedy Tuesday. The Police Officers Assn., which represents most of the 1,850-member department, reported that phony solicitors pretending to raise money for Davis’ family had been calling people during the day.

For Officer Dennis Davis, who was shot more than a year ago by a suspect and survived, standing outside Castillo’s home it was all too close to home.

“I keep thinking that we were both shot by a .45,” said the five-year veteran. “I was lucky. He wasn’t.”

Times staff writer John M. Glionna contributed to this report.

MOURNING A FRIEND: Those who knew him remember Ronald W. Davis as a dedicated officer and family man. B1

EARLIER TRAGEDY: On the day of Davis’ death, the courts decide to charge five men in the fatal shooting of another officer. B1

THE LINE OF DUTY: Davis is the 28th officer to die on the job. A look at 10 who came before. B3

Meadowbrook Slaying

A. Police Officers John Leamons and Stuart Littlefield answer a call about a domestic disturbance at 4:49 a.m. at the Meadowbrook Apartments. They approach Building 322, Apartment 37-H and find Lilia Bautista cowering in the darkness with her 9-year-old son, Glenn Lee Ramirez. Her face bloodied, Bautista tells police that her boyfriend, Arnoldo Devilla Castillo, has beaten her and has been waving a .45-caliber handgun inside the apartment, threatening to commit suicide--but has since fled. Officers call for a backup unit.

B. Officers Ronald Davis and Bob Anschnick are told that a Filipino man with a handgun is somewhere in the Meadowbrook complex. They are told to enter from Paradise Valley Road, where Bautista’s car is parked. With Anschnick driving, the patrol car stops in front of Bautista’s car as its driver tries to back out. The cars are perpendicular to each other. Davis, on the passenger side, gets out of the car and shines a light on the driver, who is also getting out of his car. The driver turns around and fires two, possibly three, shots at Davis, striking him once in the neck and once in the shoulder. Anschnick returns several shots but misses the driver, who ran away.

C. Harry Jones, manager of the 448-unit apartment complex, is awakened by the sound of gunfire outside. He pulls on his pants and runs outside, bumping into a neighbor who also had heard the shots. In the darkness and fog, Jones sees an officer down on the ground. When he is told that it is Ronald Davis, he is stunned. Davis and other officers had “adopted” the complex as part of a project to rid it of crime. “The worst part about it,” Jones said, “is that he was a damn good friend of mine.”

D. With 133 officers at the scene and more than 50 police cars, all exits are sealed off as officers go door to door to find Castillo, the suspect in the shooting. Later in the day, four heavily armed SWAT teams of six men each enter more than 100 vacant apartments.

E. Command center for the San Diego Police Department during the investigation.

F. Witnesses see Castillo hiding under a parked car that is facing away from the complex. He crawls out and crouches besides the car to confront a group of uniformed officers. Witnesses see Castillo fire at least one shot at the officers, who return fire and hit him in the head with at least two bullets. Before crawling under the car, police say, Castillo had been hiding a few feet away, between two tall wooden fences, while officers searched the area for him.