Deadly Aim

by Patricia H. Rushford

  Mike Rawlings had been a little less flattering. “Seems like a nice kid. She did her job.”

  Bo Williams, the deputy sheriff, didn’t have much to say. He liked her okay, but thought she was too small to be a cop. Though Bo didn’t say it in so many words, Callen suspected he didn’t approve of having women on the force.

  He sighed. Deputy Williams didn’t seem to like him much either. Maybe the guy was naturally touchy and ill-tempered.

  When he caught himself eating too fast, he stopped and deliberately slowed down. He’d been trying to overcome his bad habits. Eating too fast was one of them.

  Karen had put him on the healthy eating kick. She’d insisted on buying everything organic and had become a strict vegetarian, saying nutrition and the right supplements were the only way she could build up her immune system to battle the cancer. She had juiced four times a day, eaten no red meat. But in the end, cancer emerged the victor. Maybe if she’d started sooner. Maybe if she’d taken the chemotherapy. But with the pregnancy she’d opted not to.

  After she died Callen hadn’t cared if he ate or not. Finally, when he came to his senses, he adopted his healthy lifestyle primarily because she would have wanted it.

  He put his fork down. The ache in his chest had come back along with the thickness in his throat. He hoped someday he’d be able to think about her without feeling like his insides were being ripped apart.

  Callen tipped his head back. The night was dark and clear, and the moon spread a silvery, shimmering path across the water. He was going to like it here. He just wished Karen and the baby could have been there to share it with him.

  When he finished eating, he piled his dishes in the dishwasher, wiped off the counter, and headed to the bathroom for a much-needed shower. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been wearier. Stepping in front of the mirror brought renewed concerns. Had he really looked that bad all day? Of course, he’d been painting when he left that morning, and when you got called in, you basically went as you were. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. No wonder he’d gotten some strange looks. He cocked an eyebrow and peered at the bright blue streaks highlighting his dark brown hair. He showered, and after finally getting the latex paint out of his hair, he went to bed.

  Sleep should have come easily. Instead, his mind churned with the day’s events and the questions surrounding them. How had the young man ended up on a pier behind the cannery, the same building where Angel Delaney felt she had to use deadly force against a twelve-year-old?

  At first Eric had suggested J.J. might have been one of the gang members who’d been wounded in the gunfight at the pharmacy, but Callen had ruled that out almost immediately. The medical examiner put the time of death around 3:30 A.M. There had been no ID on the kid’s body, but his fingerprints were on file. John James Monroe, nicknamed J.J., was a known felon with a criminal record in California. He’d been picked up for theft, dealing, and pimping, just to name a few. Judging from the ecstasy they found in his pocket, Callen figured the kid had brought his old habits with him. His best guess at the moment was that J.J. had been shot in a drug deal gone bad.

  The victim in the officer-involved shooting, however, was a different story. Billy Dean Hartwell had no criminal record, except for a shoplifting incident. They found drugs in his pocket as well. Insulin.

  Delaney had some hard questions to answer. He’d called her around dinnertime and left a message on her answering machine. Callen glanced at the green lighted numbers on the radio alarm. Ten o’clock. Too late to call now. He’d try again in the morning.

  His list of things to do scrolled through his brain, making sleep impossible. He finally gave up and threw his covers off and headed for the living room, where he turned on the television set. And there was Angel and some preppy looking guy surrounded by reporters clamoring for answers.

  “Police officer kills a twelve-year-old boy, details at 11:00,” the news anchor reported.

  “Great.” He ran a hand through his hair. “How did those turkeys find her?” Someone must have leaked her name.

  Callen pulled his notebook out of the pocket of the jacket he’d hung in the closet. He’d written Officer Delaney’s number in it. He dialed, but again no answer. “Officer Delaney,” he said after the beep, “this is Detective Callen Riley with the Oregon State Police. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you today. It’s probably too late to warn you, but somehow the media got hold of your name. I’d hoped to keep them away from you for another day or so. Also, I’d like to set up a time to talk with you. You can reach me on my cell phone.” He gave her the number and hung up, wondering where she might be and if she was all right.

  Needing to get some sleep, he turned off the set and went back to his bedroom. He opened the window and stretched out on the bed, listening to the waves crashing on the shore. As his eyelids drooped, he concentrated on the ocean sounds and said a prayer for Angel Delaney and the family of the boy she’d killed.

  At 10:45 Angel turned on the television and tried to get interested in the brainless sitcom with its canned laugh tracks. During a commercial break, the newscaster gave a plug for their feature story of the day: “Police officer kills twelve-year-old boy, details at 11:00.”

  A shot of her and Brandon filled the screen. She looked haggard, the annoyance with the reporters evident on her face. She wished she’d been friendlier. Maybe the press would’ve been more empathetic—maybe not. Then the camera cut away to an attractive black woman with dark burgundy hair and a colorful dress. In the background the reporter continued to talk. “We’ll talk with the victim’s family and—”

  Angel clicked to another channel, where a woman at a sewing machine was teaching her TV audience how to make velvet gift bags. Angel watched the woman sew up a seam, then realized she would probably never sew a gift bag or anything else. She turned off the set and got ready for bed.

  It was then she noticed the blinking light on her answering machine. Both messages were from Callen Riley, the Oregon State Police detective. In the first one, he said he wanted to interview her so he could get her version of the story. Angel didn’t want to be interviewed. “Humph. Like you have a choice,” she muttered to herself.

  In the second message he apologized for the media invasion. “Too late, but thanks,” Angel answered the recorded voice while she slipped into her cotton knit pajamas. He had a pleasant voice and sounded as though he really cared. Maybe the interview with him wouldn’t be too bad.

  Though Angel didn’t want a recap of the shooting or the press version of what happened, she couldn’t help but turn the news back on at 11:00. She wanted to hear what Billy’s family had to say; she would have to talk with them at some point. She also wanted to know how the pharmacist was doing. She curled up on the sofa, wrapped the afghan around her shoulders, and tucked her feet beside her.

  As Angel suspected, the burglary and shooting incident topped the news program. “Gang members allegedly broke into a drugstore early this morning in Sunset Cove,” a news anchor reported. “In recent months gang activity and drug use has infiltrated the normally peaceful community on the central Oregon coast. Police tell us the gangs apparently have come in from the L.A. area and have recruited youth here in Sunset Cove.”

  The camera cut away to Joe Brady. “In recent years we’ve managed to keep gang activity to a minimum. We’re doing our best to find those responsible.”

  “Chief Brady, can you comment on what happened today? We understand that one of your officers shot and killed a twelve-year-old boy.”

  “I’m not at liberty to comment at this time. We should have a full report in a day or two.”

  “You said the gang has been recruiting youth in the area. Isn’t twelve a bit young?”

  “Unfortunately, no.” Joe ran a hand over his balding head.

  “Then you believe the victim was a gang member.”

  “We’re looking into it. What I can tell you is that the entire department is working hard to apprehend these cri
minals.”

  “There you have it, Kelley,” the reporter said. “We’ll report the details as they develop.”

  The anchor turned to face the camera. “In what police are calling an unrelated incident, another body was found in Sunset Cove today. Police are withholding information pending notification of family.”

  Angel uncurled herself and pressed the button on the remote to increase the sound. “Another body?” For once she wished the media had more information. She hated being out of the loop. She thought about calling dispatch and having them put her through to one of the officers on duty, then decided against it. She’d wait until morning and talk to Eric or Nick, or maybe even Joe.

  “I’ve just been told we have some new information on the Sunset Cove shootings.” The anchor’s comments brought Angel’s attention back to the news. “Donna Middlewood is on the scene in Sunset Bay with Officer Eric Mason.”

  “Eric?” Angel frowned. “What’s going on?”

  The anchor continued. “Donna, I understand you are just outside Officer Delaney’s apartment, is that right?”

  “That’s right, Kelley. Eric is with the Sunset Cove Police Department and is, in fact, Officer Angel Delaney’s partner. Eric, I understand you and your partner responded to the robbery. Can you tell us what happened?” She tipped the mike toward Eric.

  “I don’t believe this.” Angel went down the hallway to her door and peered through the window blinds to the parking lot below. Eric was leaning against his car, arms folded, still in uniform. She frowned as anger flared up inside her. “What are you doing in front of my place talking to a reporter?” She’d thought all the reporters had left.

  It didn’t take long to come up with an answer. They must’ve found out Eric was her partner and followed him. Angel went back to the living room and watched the live interview.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you. You guys usually seem to know more than we do,” Eric said.

  “What happened that led up to the shooting?”

  “Look, I’m not the person you want to talk to about the investigation.” He offered the reporter one of his devastating smiles, and Angel could almost see her swoon.

  “Were you with Officer Delaney when she shot the boy?”

  His smile faded to a frown. “I think I know where you’re headed here. And I’m not buying into it. The kid had a gun. He was a threat.”

  “We understand it was a toy gun.”

  Eric ran a hand through his thick hair and glanced around as if looking for someone to rescue him. “It doesn’t matter if it was a toy or not. When officers perceive a threat, they react. She had to stop him.”

  “But he was a child.”

  “He was involved in a robbery. Hey, I’d have done the same thing. That’s all I have to say.”

  “What about the other shooting? Can you give us any information on the victim or what may have happened?”

  He took a step back. “Sorry. I have nothing more to say.”

  The reporter thanked him. “Back to you, Kelley.”

  “Thanks, Donna.” The anchor turned back to her notes. “The owner of the pharmacy, Gerald Bergman, is listed in critical condition after being shot in the chest and stomach. And as we’ve heard, the tragic events didn’t end there. One of the officers shot and killed a young boy. His family is asking why.”

  Because he aimed a gun at me.

  The doorbell rang. Probably Eric. Angel debated whether or not to let him in. She had mixed feelings about him talking to the reporter. It seemed disloyal in a way. She had to admit, though, that he’d done a better job with the media than she had. Finally, she relented and opened the door.

  Eric leaned against the door frame. “I was in the neighborhood and saw your lights on. Thought I’d stop and see if you needed anything.”

  “Come on in.” She closed the door and went back to the sofa. “They’re talking to Billy’s family.”

  Eric settled on the couch and watched it with her. “Are you sure you want to see this?”

  She shushed him.

  It was another reporter, a man; Angel missed his name and didn’t recognize him as one of the regulars. “We spoke with the boy’s family minutes ago, and they’ve been kind enough to talk with us.”

  Eric folded his arms across his chest. “Humph, these reporters just don’t know when to quit.”

  “Quiet. I want to hear this.” Angel clicked up the volume.

  “Mrs. Hartwell,” the reporter began, “we’ve been told that your son was a gang member. It that true?”

  “No.” His mother shook her head, burying her face in her hands. “Billy was a good boy.”

  “How do you explain the fact that he was in the store at the time of the robbery—the robbery, I might add, that has seriously injured the owner, Mr. Bergman?”

  Mrs. Hartwell dabbed at her eyes. “It was my fault. I sent him to the store this morning to pick up a prescription for his grandma. She’s diabetic and had run out of insulin. I called Mr. Bergman at home, and he told me not to worry. He said he’d go in early and let my boy in. My boy wasn’t there to steal anything. I don’t understand how the officer could make a mistake like that. Billy Dean didn’t do anything wrong.”

  That can’t be true. Angel stared at the set, unable to believe what she’d heard.

  “We’ve been told that the officer mistook his gun for the real thing,” the reporter went on, “and that he was threatening to fire at her.”

  The woman was crying in earnest now. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this.”

  A stern-looking man settled a long-fingered hand on Mrs. Hartwell’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Mavis.” The camera focused in on him. Tall and thin, he wore his black hair cropped close to his head and had on a business suit. “I’ll answer the questions. I’m Billy’s uncle, Ray Broadman.” Turning to face the camera he said, “It’s clear to me that what we have here is a case of outright prejudice. Officer Delaney saw an opportunity to kill a black boy and did so.”

  Angel stared openmouthed at the television screen. “I can’t believe he said that.”

  “The guy’s nuts, Angel.” Eric touched her shoulder.

  “I need to hear this.” She leaned forward, and Eric’s hand dropped away.

  “Billy was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” the man continued. “Like his mama says. He was a good boy. Do you want to know what was in his pocket when that woman killed him? His grandmother’s prescription and a candy bar—bought and paid for. He even had the receipt. Billy was not a thief. His so-called weapon was a birthday present. You know how boys are, always playing Rambo and GI Joe.”

  “So you’re accusing the officer of being racist?” the reporter asked.

  “What other explanation can there be? Officer Delaney claims she was doing her job. She might think killing a black boy isn’t a big deal, but she is dead wrong. I’ve already talked to a lawyer. Officer Delaney is going to pay for what she’s done, make no mistake about that. If the state of Oregon won’t bring her down for killing that boy, the black community will.”

  The anchor closed the segment by showing footage of Angel and Brandon. “The officer responsible for Billy’s death refused to give us a statement other than to say she was sorry it happened. Is this another case of police brutality? Of excessive force? A racial incident? It’s still too soon to tell.”

  A picture of Billy flashed on the screen. An adorable boy with a smile as big as Texas.

  The reporter continued. “What happened to Billy Dean Hartwell? Was he an innocent bystander as his family says, or was he a gang member? Sources on the street tell us that Billy was not in any way affiliated with the gang that has been operating in the area. We’ll bring you the latest news on this case as it’s made available.”

  Angel turned off the set and sat there in stunned disbelief. Billy had gone to the pharmacy for medication. Had she been mistaken all along in counting him as one of the gang members? He’d come out from hiding and looked scared and ac
ted like he was giving up. She had assumed that he’d lured her out in the open so his pals could get a clean shot at her. Maybe he was coming to her for help, and the shooters took advantage of the situation. Angel stared into the fireplace, trying to assemble this new information.

  Billy had made a purchase, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d run from her in that building, or that he’d raised his gun as if to shoot at her. Or had he? Maybe he’d started to raise his hands in surrender. Had she been so frightened, so fearful for her life, that she’d misread his intent?

  “Don’t pay any attention to them, Angel.”

  She jumped at the sound of her partner’s voice. “Eric, I forgot you were there. What did you say?”

  “The guy’s a nutcase. Don’t listen to him.”

  She slumped back against the seat and folded her arms. “What if he’s right? What if Billy wasn’t involved with the break-in? What if the kid was innocent?”

  “Come on, you know better.”

  “They’re taking me to court. You heard him. I could be tied up in court for months. I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “What about your lawyer friend? Maybe he’ll defend you. He probably doesn’t do charity cases, but maybe he’ll make an exception.”

  Angel didn’t respond. Of course, Brandon would represent her—and for nothing. Wouldn’t he? She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. Her lower lip trembled and a sob escaped her throat. “What am I going to do, Eric?”

  He reached over and rubbed her shoulder, “Quit punishing yourself. You know what went down, so don’t let this guy or those reporters get to you. The media is into sensationalism. They blow everything out of proportion. Seems like every time a cop has to use deadly force, the media is on it like maggots on a rotting corpse.”

  Angel grimaced as his analogy. “You’re right about that.” Rising from the sofa, she adjusted the tie on her robe, wrapping it more securely around her.

  “I should go.” Eric stood too, as if anxious to leave. She didn’t blame him. He wasn’t used to seeing her this way—so close to the edge.