Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  “That’s the problem, Doc. I don’t know. I froze. Maybe that’s not the right way to describe it, but I didn’t react quickly. I couldn’t. My mind didn’t allow it. Floyd pushed me out of the way—” I stopped and thought about that for the first time, realizing he was shoving me out of the kill zone like I was a woman or a child or an unarmed man, while he remained and took on my fight. I took in a slow, deep breath, squeezed my eyes closed for a moment and then opened them, hoping there was no sign of moisture gathering. “The man had a gun pointed directly at us from the window of his car, but I didn’t think he had fired it. He hadn’t, as it turns out. But at the time, that went through my mind. Even as Floyd began shooting I was thinking this guy hadn’t shot at us. It was as if I was trying to reason that our lives were not actually in danger.”

  “Well, Richard, can you tell me why this upsets you? It sounds like you made a good decision not to shoot.”

  “Because it’s wrong. I screwed up. When a man points a gun directly at you, you don’t wait to take a bullet before shooting him. That’s not how you win a gunfight. But that’s exactly what I did. Not Floyd; he emptied his gun into the asshole’s car.”

  “Did you and your partner arrest him?” Her voice remained calm, steady.

  “We never found him. We chased him but he got away. Burbank PD responded, and they put it out on the radio, told everyone to be on the lookout. I guess Glendale cops rolled also, and their helicopter was even up looking for the car, but it was never found. So, here I am, lucky to be alive, but with no idea who it is that wants me dead, or why. And I’m not sure if I will be able to defend myself if it happens again. I froze up. Like a coward.”

  There was silence for a few beats. Then she spoke.

  “‘Coward’ is a strong word, Richard, and not one I am sure fits the circumstances. Have you had anything like this happen before, to you, or maybe to someone else in a situation you have investigated?”

  “I had something similar happen one other time, back in my patrol days. There was a pursuit that ended and LAPD started shooting at the guy in the car we were chasing. Then my partner and another deputy shot also. I didn’t shoot because I didn’t perceive a level of threat that justified it. That happens. But, in that instance, I didn’t regret it at all. It turned out the guy was an old drunk and anything he did was incidental to his intoxication and not an intent to kill us. In other words, the guy would have just continued driving down the road drunk and happy had we not been there to impede his travels. He was trying to get away from the cops. I’m not saying the actions of others that night weren’t justified, I’m just saying I didn’t perceive the same level of threat, and I refrained from joining the ranks of the shooters, in that instance. Truthfully, I was more worried about the crossfire situation than I was about the threat or the suspect. We all did days off behind that incident too. Suspended for a variety of reasons, none of which stated the shooting was unjustified.

  “I’ve investigated many shootings where the perception of threat varied from one officer to another. That perception dictates the action of the cop. That’s a good thing; contagious fire is never good. So, as long as officers act on their perceptions, I have no problem with it. There are so many things that factor into the equation and it happens in an instant, though it seems like minutes or hours at times. I have no problem with one officer shooting and another holding his fire. Truthfully, it validates the premise we argue in the defense of many officers whose shootings are scrutinized. That premise is that we all have our independent perceptions, based on many factors, and each of us processes those factors and the resulting threat individually.

  “There’s no doubt in my mind that Floyd did the right thing. I wish he had killed the sonofabitch. I’m just bothered that I didn’t fire my weapon. Even as the suspect fled, and enough time had passed that I should have known the shooting was justified, I wasn’t able to shoot. And that has also happened to me before.”

  “You are telling me, Richard, that police officers act on perceptions. It seems that your perception at the time was that it was not appropriate to fire at the man with the gun. Maybe you were not sure it was a real gun, have you thought of that? Maybe you noticed something at the time that you haven’t realized yet. Tell me about the time before that you didn’t shoot.”

  I felt she was somehow relieved that I hadn’t shot at the man in the car, as if I would be in the wrong if I had. I found myself starting to get irritated, but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. She did smell so nice, after all, and there was a lot to admire about her.

  I grinned. “Well, once I had a dog bite me and run off. Some of my colleagues asked why I didn’t shoot it. I told them it would be stupid to shoot the dog once he ran off, and I argued that the dog was only doing his job—I was on his property at the time. But it always puzzled me how some deputies questioned that and boasted how they would have shot the dog anyway. Why? I don’t ever want to shoot a dog. I like dogs. I don’t want to shoot another human either, if I can help it. And I don’t even like people. Not most, anyway.”

  Dr. James smiled. I felt I was back in her good graces, if in fact I had ever been out of them. Maybe I was imagining things. I decided to tell her more.

  “There was another incident when a man pulled a gun on me, and as it turned out, he had pulled the trigger but the gun malfunctioned. Thankfully, or you’d be talking to me over at Forest Lawn, not in your office. It was dark, right at the mouth of an alley, and he was dressed in all dark clothing, wearing a large coat. When he jumped out of the car, I thought he was going to run, but he didn’t. He turned to face me. I had already left the cover of my car and was running directly at him. When I realized something was wrong—that rather than running, he had turned to face me—it was at that instant I heard the sound of a gun hitting the ground. Then, he ran. I didn't fire my weapon. Because, believe it or not, in that split second, my brain processed the fact that he had been trying to kill me, and my mind said Shoot. But in the same nanosecond, my mind told me Don’t shoot, because I knew he had dropped the gun and the deadly threat had passed. I actually processed all of that in microseconds. It seemed like minutes. That’s the difference between good guys and bad guys. We have a conscience, they don’t. That, coupled with my training, kept me from shooting at that moment. And it pisses me off to this day.”

  “What do you mean? How does it anger you?”

  “Well, as I chased the sonofabitch down a dark alley, my anger grew. He had wanted to kill me. He had tried to kill me. There was a gun lying on the ground back there, which, by the way, turned out to be a fully-automatic machine pistol, an Ingram MAC-11. This is what they call an open-bolt gun. Open-bolt means the bolt is only closed when there are no bullets left to fire, or in the case of a misfire. The bolt on this gun was closed on a live round. Which means he had pulled the trigger on me, and the gun had malfunctioned. The 32-round magazine was full. That gun can empty its magazine in less than two seconds, all 32 rounds with one squeeze of the trigger. I should be dead. If not for a malfunction, I would be. Of course, I didn’t know all of that when I ran after him, but I knew he had tried to kill me. I had seen the look in his eyes, the surprise, which later I realized was his reaction to the gun malfunctioning. So, it angers me that I didn’t shoot him when I should have, when I could have. Because I didn’t, he probably went on to kill someone else on another night. Maybe a cop, I don’t know. He was the type. I mean, think about it: he made the decision to shoot it out with the cops, and he pulled the trigger. There’s no doubt he had killed men before, not a doubt in my mind. As I ran behind him, all of this was clear to me. And I knew I had failed.”

  Her silent gaze encouraged me to continue. I didn’t want to, but for some reason I couldn’t stop telling this story. A story that had kept me awake many nights over the years.

  “So, I tried to kill him. I shot at him as we ran through the alley, long after the immediate threat had been removed.” I chuckled, though somewhat awkwardly.
“It’s harder than you think, hitting a moving target while running.”

  Her expressionless gaze erased my grin.

  “I missed. He got away.”

  “What if you hadn’t, Richard? What if you had killed the man in anger while he ran away?”

  That hung between us for a moment. I looked into her eyes and knew she was evaluating this in a way that could determine her final analysis of me. Her opinion of me meant more than what I might have been willing to admit. If I didn’t care on a personal level, it wouldn’t matter to me how she viewed what I just told her. Everything I said here was confidential. I didn’t worry about any departmental recourse. But I knew from the way she watched, waiting for the reply, that this mattered to her. Maybe more than it should have.

  I hoped the time it took for my response would be interpreted as me processing the question and answer, giving careful consideration and self-evaluation about how I might have felt. As if I had never considered it before. But in truth, I already knew the answer. I had always known the answer to that question. I had asked myself the same question thousands of times. What if I had killed him? Shoot/don’t shoot scenarios stay with you until the day you die. Either way, I would have second-guessed myself for the rest of my life. The guy with the machine gun, and others. Now this one too, this situation in front of the house where I froze. It was part of the price we pay for doing the job. We may not remember Christmas gifts or anniversaries or sometimes our own phone numbers, but we remember every detail of these types of situations. I remember that night as if it were last night, and I remember the feelings I had at the instant it happened, and all of the thoughts and feelings I’ve had in the twenty years since. The truth of it was I still—to this very day—regret not killing that sonofabitch. I wish I had instinctively gunned him down, even knowing he had dropped his weapon. Some cops may have. I should have. I hate that I didn’t. In my analysis over the years—and to answer her question—had I hit him when I fired two rounds as he pulled away from me running down that alley, I could live with it. What would it matter? Either way, it stays with you. At least I would have found solace knowing he would never have pulled the trigger on another cop. That’s what it boiled down to for me; he had pulled the trigger on me. I might kill him today if I knew who he was and where to find him.

  But there was no way I was telling her any of that.

  “I would have felt awful,” I lied, “and I’m really thankful I missed.”

  She kept her gaze neutral for a moment, then glanced at the clock on the wall. Then she gave me her usual smile, professional but kind. “All right, Richard. We’re out of time for now. You’ve done a lot of work here today; I hope it has helped. We can continue with this next week; I think there is much more to explore here.”

  She stood, and I followed suit, turning toward the door.

  I felt her follow me across the room. I paused at the door having made my decision in that instant. I turned to face her and surprised her with a question of my own. On my terms, the two of us standing face to face, not seated in chairs playing the roles of doctor and patient. “Are you disappointed?”

  She seemed startled by the question. Then she glanced past me, looking at nothing in particular, considering. After a few seconds, she looked up at me. “Richard, remember, this is not about what I or anyone else may think. You are here because you want to clarify some things in your life and be able to move forward, to have some peace and understanding, to come to terms with everything that has led you to this point. What I think is irrelevant.” Her gaze flicked away and her hand brushed a non-existent speck of lint from her shoulder.

  Now I knew; it was crystal clear. It was no different than knowing you had the right man during an interrogation. The moment they averted their eyes while answering a question or squirmed in their seats at an accusation. Sometimes it would be the manner of speech or the words they would utter. There was always some hint, a minute tell that an experienced investigator could read and which would provide clarity on an issue. Dr. James had not only answered the question at hand, but she allowed me to see inside her soul, if only for an instant. I knew at that moment there was something more between us.

  “Do you like Chinese?”

  “I’m sorry, what?” She looked at me, puzzled at what to her was an utter non sequitur.

  “I was just thinking maybe we could have dinner.”

  Her eyes widened slightly and her mouth opened just a little, then closed. She looked away at nothing again, then back at me. I saw a hint of a real smile, I was certain of it, and her cheeks had become slightly pink. Katherine showing herself. Then she rallied, and there was that Dr. James smile again, kind but professional. Nothing personal here, Dickie!

  When she finally answered, her tone was calm and neutral, as always. “Richard, that is a nice offer, thank you. But I am your doctor, and it would not be at all ethical for me to socialize with you.”

  I waited, saying nothing. It was a technique I found effective with the toughest of opponents. She continued, as I had been sure she would.

  “That is, I cannot become personally involved with you or with any patient. That could compromise my ability to be objective, and that, in turn, could jeopardize your much needed treatment.”

  I waited again. The professional smile was faltering a bit.

  “It’s a matter of ethics, Richard, my job, your job…” her voice trailed off. She looked at me, saying nothing.

  “I’m not saying I want to run out and get married, Doc, but I am craving Chinese food and a cold beer. There’s a place in Chinatown, and I was thinking . . . I just thought that maybe, well—never mind. I’m probably out of line here.”

  I put my hand on the door knob, but didn’t otherwise move.

  Come on, Doc . . . Katherine. It’s just dinner. Come have drinks and find out what I’m really like. Trust me, I’m a cop.

  I gave her the pathetic smile, the hangdog one that almost always worked. This time it wasn’t insincere. “Sorry, Doc, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought it would be nice to have some company at dinner. That’s all.” I gave her a beat to answer, to move, to respond at all.

  She didn’t.

  Deflated, I turned to go. I opened the door and started through it, but paused. “Thank you, Dr. James, I guess I’ll see you next week.”

  No response. I kept moving, now just wanting to get away.

  I looked over my shoulder just before starting down the stairs. I expected to see a closed door—and wasn’t that ever a metaphor for my life right now—but to my surprise, Dr. James was standing in the doorway. Embarrassed at being caught looking, I turned away quickly and started down the stairs. I was halfway down when I thought I heard something. I stopped, my heart beating oddly fast. I waited.

  She appeared at the top of the stairs. “What is the name of the place, Richard, the place in Chinatown?”

  Katherine was back.

  38

  IT WAS ONLY noon, Monday, the start of a new week following a chaotic weekend. I drove to the office with nothing other than Dr. James on my mind. Katherine. But when I swung the nose of my Crown Vic around and backed into an empty parking space near the back door, all of that changed. Floyd walked briskly toward my car with an uncharacteristically serious look about him.

  I stepped out. “What’s up?”

  He had stopped a few feet from where I parked and waited. “Everything. Come on, they want to have a meeting.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed back to the bureau.

  I followed along in silence, wondering what had happened or was about to happen. Floyd didn’t look back until he held the door to the squad room open, waiting for me. Our eyes met as I walked past him, but we didn’t speak. I veered toward the kitchen and he said at my back, “Conference room.”

  For some reason, I found myself annoyed with him. “I’ll be there after I grab a cup.”

  I noticed others funneling toward the hallway that leads to the conference room and felt a
vibe that didn’t always run through the office.

  Passing through the desk area did nothing to lift my spirits or calm my nerves. Two investigators sat silently, purposely not noticing my presence. It suited me fine. The fewer people I talked to today, the better. I feared there would be questions about the shooting incident and the stalker who was following me, and quiet speculation about my performance yesterday afternoon—or lack thereof. I poured a cup and glanced at my watch. It was going to be a long day.

  Mongo and I rounded a corner together on the way to the conference room. He nodded.

  “What’s going on?”

  His arms swung wide as he propelled himself through the hall. I gave him a wide berth. “Everything, apparently. Your stalker, the shooting, some asshole killing people all around the county.” He stopped and looked up at me before opening the door. “They’re even looking at that Russian murder now, the one in Hollywood, maybe being related.”

  I frowned. “Related?”

  He nodded and pulled the door open.

  The room was packed. Everyone seemed to notice our entry. Ray stood at the end of a large table; there were a dozen chairs around it and more along two walls of the room. He looked at me when I stepped in. “Squeeze in here partner, it’s standing room only.”

  I stepped in and stopped. Once Mongo cleared the threshold, I closed the door and stayed there. It would make for a quick exit, an option I would leave open throughout the meeting.

  “Okay,” Ray said, scanning the room, “I’m going to bring everyone up to speed. Some of this is repetitive, but some of our guests here today don’t have all the facts.”

  I glanced around the room for the first time. I saw that Dr. Provost and Phil Gentry, both from the crime lab, were present, along with the captain, Lt. Black, Detectives Rich Farris and Liz Marchesano, and Dwight Campbell, a sergeant in charge of one of our department surveillance teams. He was flanked by two other undercover detectives, one who looked like a heavy metal band guitarist with his long, straggly hair and beard and tattooed arms, and a petite black woman who appeared too young to be a deputy, much less a member of the surveillance team. All three wore their badges on chains around their necks for identification. Dwight’s had the backdrop of a Malcom X t-shirt. His cover was being a radical inner-city brother, and he played it well. We went way back, and I was glad to see him. It occurred to me for the first time since the incident that I might have around-the-clock companionship for a while after the attempt on my life. Notably absent was Davey Lopes.