by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 8: ADAM
My report is still on file. My lie. Zeke has a way with words. I’ll give him that. My hesitation reconstructed into prudence. Marner bought it. Wish he hadn’t. Wish he had reamed me. I had to ream myself. Of all the droppings I left behind on life’s path, that report embarrasses me the most. It’s all Zeke’s fault.
No. I can lay plenty of Zeke’s own abominations at his feet without adding my own. I signed the report. The fault’s mine. Mea culpa.
I pulled in our driveway and sat. I cranked the air and lowered the windows. Brenda was in the house.
I took a stab at appearing calm and checked my effort in the rearview mirror. No good. Sweat dripped off my chin. The chaotic woods across the street surrounded my head. I’m either calm or not calm. I can’t pretend the other.
She’d worry, fear for my safety, my sanity. I went through my vocabulary for words to soften the message. I didn’t have them. I never had them. I’ve only ever had instinct. I went with that.
The shower was running when I came in. I stood by the bedroom door until Brenda shut off the water. I knocked. “There was an incident today. My partner had to use force. A kid died. I have to meet with Internal Affairs tomorrow. I won’t be working for awhile.”
“Oh shit.”
I failed.
I drifted to the kitchen. I looked inside the fridge, but not really. The shapes and colors had no meaning. Blobs. I don’t know how long I stood in the cold draft. Lost time.
“You’re going to be okay, right?”
I sat at the counter. I watched her hips swish as she walked to the cupboard. She wore a forest green cardigan over a summer dress.
“We’ll see.”
“What happened exactly?” She took her vitamins.
“It was supposed to be simple. But these dealers, kids really, knew my partner was a cop and he had to chase them and I don’t know. One of them, I don’t know.”
Brenda emptied the water glass and gasped. The pedals on the roses in the vase on the ledge above the sink were crispy and brownish. Black slime crawled up the stems. The flower heads drooped toward the earth. That’s where they came from. That’s where they went.
“Oh, shit.”
She knew what was coming, didn’t she?
She asked for the car keys and said she’d be back later.
And that was it. Like her reaction to the Fourth Avenue Fire. More like no reaction. Barely. I can still see the photos, the charred remains of a mother and her boy. But she didn’t understand. Didn’t understand, so didn’t tolerate my response, my depression. Said I was too sensitive. I said she was insensitive. Then life continued.
We ate dinner in silence. Dinner? More like art pieces she’d serve on the plates. After work, painting and lunch with a few friends, decorating spreads more sublime than her still-lifes was where all her extra energy went.
I went to bed early. Waking and dressing in the morning, I didn’t look at her.
A low-watt halogen bulb lit the interview room. Murky, sick light. I only remember Dale Brunder. Two other people--solemn, silent, forgotten--sat in the small interview room too, but Dale Brunder’s the only one I can see and I can’t see him very clearly. His back and lap formed a stiff ninety degree angle, mirroring (mocking?) my posture.
“Why don’t you tell me what you remember about yesterday?”
I omitted no detail in my description of the events leading to the shooting. IA now knows Lucky’s rate for a room, Digit’s logo on his t-shirt, Zeke’s playful mood before the catastrophe.
Dale Brunder stopped me. “’I fought your wave?’”
“Something like that. Digit and I couldn’t make sense of his message.”
Oh how my rich account grew meager as I approached the shooting itself. I tried to make up for the deficiency by bolstering my remorse. My spine loosened. I broke my eye contact with Dale Brunder.
“If I’d been faster, I could’ve caught the perps and our case would be stronger.”
“We’ve made a note of it.” He slid some papers across the desk for me to sign.
At the door, I turned around. “Again, I’m really sorry.”
“We all are.”
Zeke was at the end of the hallway, his hands balled into fists. I approached. His hands relaxed. He smiled.
“What happened?”
“Oh, nothing. Some asswipe bumped into me and demanded an apology. Shithead. How’d it go?”
“Fine. It went fine.”
“Told you.”
Dale Brunder leaned out of the interview room. “Ravella. You’re up.” He ducked back in.
Zeke yawned. “Man, I’m sleepy. Rough night. Hey, stick around.” He slapped me on the arm. “I’m busy later, but we can grab a coffee or something.”
Before I could protest, Zeke was in the room.
I went to the coffee vending machine. The paper cup jammed before it reached its proper position. The machine vibrated and poured coffee down the drain. A display lit up: “Thank you and enjoy!!” I freed the empty cup and wandered the halls. I spotted a small coffee maker in a private office. The pot was almost full. I knocked on the open door. The man at the leaned over some paperwork. I asked if he minded if I grabbed a cup? He narrowed his eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or confused or both.
I showed him my empty cup and pointed to the pot.
“But that’s my coffee.”
I apologized for disturbing him.
“Wait.”
I waited.
“Okay. You can have a cup.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t need any.”
“No, you’re fine. Help yourself.”
“Thanks anyway but--”
“Mister.” The man dropped his pen. “Will you do me a favor and pour yourself a goddamn cup of coffee?” He picked up his pen and returned to his paperwork. I did what he asked. I left. Behind me, he yelled, “You’re welcome.”
I took a seat beside the interview room and took a sip of the burning, acrid coffee. I heard the faint sound of “simple.” No one around. What I first thought were disquieting voices in my head were muffled voices from behind the door. I shouldn’t have been able to hear them, but I could. No one ever noticed the acoustic phenomenon or no one cared? A woman passed and she didn’t seem to notice the voices. Did I have extraordinary hearing? Was I convincingly nonchalant as I scooted an inch to the door and leaned in? Reminds me of a movie. Can’t remember which one. A man crawled behind a couch for some reason and two women came in the room and he overheard them discuss a significant plot point. Why can’t I remember the name of the movie? Doesn’t life pour in and get stored and flow out in a flash during this moment? Why are only certain details flashing?
“Then one of them recognized you, right?”
“Right.”
“Which one?”
“Not sure.
“Well, was it the one you killed or the one you didn’t?”
“I don’t know. The one I shot.”
“Did he stand to your left or right when you answered the door?”
“Left. No, right. Right.”
“I wonder how he knew you.” There was a long pause. “Did you recognize him?”
“No.”
“Had you arrested him before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Right.”
“Maybe you indicated?”
“I don’t indicate. I’m not an amateur”
“Maybe you made a gesture you didn’t--”
“I don’t fucking indicate.”
Did I do my interview all wrong?
“Okay. So the kid, for some strange reason, knew you weren’t who you said you were. Then what?”
“Then he pushes me down. The two take off. I get up and give chase. They gain a lot of ground. Outside, one of them pulls a gun.”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
“Both? You said
one.”
“I meant both. You’re going too fast.”
“We didn’t recover a weapon. The report’s not at all ambiguous on that point.”
“Yes. Right. No, you’re right. One has a gun for sure, the one that escaped. He’s across the street aimed at me. The other one stops, right? He goes into his bag, the bag we recovered. I assume he’s going for a gun. I mean, wouldn’t you? I’m not gonna to twiddle my thumbs until he pulls it out. So I fire.”
“In his back?”
“Yeah. No. I mean, I aim at his legs, to incapacitate him. But look. I didn’t ask to carry a .40. No one asked my opinion.”
“Then you fired at the other suspect?”
“Yeah. I miss. He flees. I follow, but he’s long gone.”
“Did you call it in right away? Suspected fleeing south, was it?”
“Call it in with what? I was set-up as a businessman. I didn’t have anything on me to call it in with.”
“Sloppy.”
“Yeah. Not illegal, though. Anyway my partner called it in as soon as possible.”
Neither spoke for a while. Did I hear scratches? Whispers?
“So that’s your story?”
“No. That’s the truth. You know, it’s too bad we’re not allowed to fire warning shots. Two scumbag dealers might be in custody right now.”
“You know why the law doesn’t let you, right?”
“Right. Innocents.”
“Speaking of which, any witnesses?”
“None that I saw.”
“Right, but here’s the curious thing--”
“There is no thing.”
“There is. You say they pushed you down. How long were you down?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have a stopwatch.”
“My point is they barely have a lead. Down two tiny flights of stairs and they’re too far away?”
“I’m not as young as I used to be.”
“You didn’t trip?”
There was a pause. “No.”
“Where’s your partner during all of this?”
“Inside. I’m glad he wasn’t there.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s new. I don’t know how he would’ve handled himself. Might have done something rash.”
“Yeah. That could’ve had tragic consequences.”
There was a pause.
“These fucks were dealing. They ran from someone they knew to be an officer of the law. What am I missing? It’s not like I jammed a plunger up this guy’s ass.”
“Between you and me, I could eat a can of alphabet soup and shit out a better story than the one you’re giving.”
“Dale,” said the woman, admonishing him with her tone.
“And what’s with the lousy surveillance footage?”
“I’m not the techie.”
“No, but you’re the one who altered the camera angle. Altered it from the front door to the curtains. What, you thought footage of the curtains was going to come in handy?”
“I was playing around. An innocent mistake.”
“Apparently not.”
I envisioned Dale Brunder standing, leaned over Zeke. Maybe he wasn’t.
“The truth is, Ravella, you could have non-lethally incapacitated at least one of them and you chose not to. You chose to kill, both if possible. You set back, most likely ruined, a case I’m told you helped instigate. You had a choice and you made it, and now my peers and I are going to judge that choice. That’s what’s happening.”
The hot coffee dribbled on my lap. I jerked and scalded my hand. Did they hear me?
“And by the way, ‘I fought your wave?’ That’s deplorable. We can’t prosecute you for that but I wish we could. Try that with my wave and I’ll be the one doing time, I swear to God.”
No. They must not have heard me.
I still don’t know what that last part meant. I have an idea, but I’m not sure. I’m sick at my stupidity. Couldn’t make much sense of the interview. Why not? The pieces were scattered in front of me. All I had to do was put them together.
I raced to the nearest exit, throwing out the coffee somewhere along the way. As I fled home, I sifted through the pieces and made a few (very few) guesses. But mostly I was bewildered. Ignorance isn’t bliss, or if it is, it’s only bliss when you don’t realize you’re ignorant. When you’re wise to your ignorance, you’re close to insanity. I wanted to stop thinking. Stupid. I wanted to avoid Zeke, ignore him. But that was stupid too. I had ignored the old depression, but it hadn’t lifted. Still choked my spirit with its icy fingers. I ignored the wall between Brenda and me. Didn’t bring it down. What did ignoring ever resolve? Ignore. Ignorant. I hate myself.