by Rick Reed
“It’s stopped bleeding,” he said. Jack didn’t know if that was good or bad until the paramedic covered Jack’s left ear and spoke in a normal voice. Jack could hear a little with his right ear.
The medic put a fresh gauze pad against Jack’s ear and told him to hold it there. “I hate to tell you this, Jack, but you might have a problem with the left one too. We need to go to the ER and have Doc check you out.”
Jack said, “Did you say you want to give me some Scotch and the doc will take the check?”
The paramedic chuckled. “Yeah. Ask him about it when you get there. It’s Doctor Findlay today.”
Jack knew Dr. Findlay. If Jack wanted some Scotch all he had to do was wring Findlay out. He drank like a fish. On second thought, even a fish didn’t drink like that. But he was a good doctor and knew his shit. Jack would take Findlay drunk over most of the new doctors sober.
Liddell cleared his throat and said, “I guess I don’t count. I’m not here. I’m like a cheap date. Just use me and kick me to the curb.”
The paramedic laughed. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, and stuck a Bugs Bunny Band-Aid over the small cut on Liddell’s forehead. “You were a bwave boy,” he said in a baby voice. “If you’re good on the trip to the ER I’ll get you a sucker.”
“I’ve got your sucker,” Liddell said grabbing at his own crotch.
Sergeant Wolf said from the door to the ambulance, “I hope you’re not injured there. I’m not going to write that up in my report.”
“I was just . . .” Liddell said, but Sergeant Wolf waved the comment away.
“Will these two guys live?” Wolf asked the medic.
The medic said, “Jack might have a ruptured eardrum. This other clown might have a brain injury.”
“Hey,” Liddell protested, “I resemble that remark.”
“I’m supposed to take your gun, Jack,” Wolf said. “I’ll have a patrol officer follow the ambulance to the hospital and I’ll meet you there. You know the drill.”
Jack knew it all too well. Sergeant Wolf would take his gun per the SOP regarding police-involved shootings. Then Jack would be taken to the hospital where an officer would babysit him until he gave a blood and urine sample. He would be taken home by another officer minus his duty weapon. He would be on administrative suspension—with pay—until a shooting board convened to decide if Jack’s use of force was justified or if he was in deep doo-doo.
Jack was about to hand his gun over when Wolf stiffened and said in an exaggerated voice, “So, Detective Murphy, you identified yourself as a policeman and gave the deceased an order to drop his weapon?”
Jack saw that Double Dick had snuck up on them and was standing off to the side listening. Sergeant Wolf held his hands to his mouth like a megaphone and repeated the question even louder.
“I did,” Jack yelled, unnecessarily. “He was bringing the rifle up. I had no choice. If I’d have hesitated I’d be the one on the way to the morgue.”
Liddell hurriedly added, “I can back up everything he said. Do you need to take my weapon, too? Or can we all go to a bar and drink and then get into some more action like on CSI? Those guys are the real thing.”
Sergeant Wolf said, “Keep your weapon for now.” To the ambulance driver he said, “Hurry up and take these two to the hospital.”
“Hold up,” Deputy Chief Richard Dick said.
The sergeant turned to him and said, “Detective Blanchard was just kidding about going to a bar. He’s just venting his frustration. I’m almost through here and I need to get them to the ER to get blood drawn. ”
Deputy Chief Dick focused on Jack. “I expect a full report on my desk in the next hour, Detective Murphy.”
“I’m fine, sir. Thanks for asking,” Jack said loudly as if he hadn’t heard the comment. He reached out to shake hands with Double Dick.
Double Dick stepped back as if he had been assaulted. “Detective Murphy . . . I . . .” Double Dick said, but Jack talked over him, pointing at his ears and yelling, “I can’t hear you, sir. I’m just grateful you came to see how we are. It means a lot to me.”
“Jack was very close to an explosion, sir,” Sergeant Wolf explained. “The medic says he might have ruptured eardrums.”
Jack watched Dick fight a smile. The son of a bitch is enjoying this.
Dick puffed up and picked at an imaginary loose thread on his highly decorated sleeve. He looked at Liddell and said, “And you, Detective Blanchard, deliberately wrecked a brand-new vehicle.” To Sergeant Wolf he said, “You will take Murphy’s weapon according to police department policy.” He pointed to Liddell and said, “His too if he fired his weapon. Or even if he hasn’t.”
Liddell said, “I didn’t shoot anyone.”
Dick looked at Sergeant Wolf as if Liddell hadn’t spoken. “And then you will personally go to the hospital and have blood and urine drawn from both detectives. I want alcohol and drug screening done immediately, and I want a report within the next hour. Do I make myself clear, Sergeant?”
“I don’t think they can draw urine from us, Deputy Chief... sir. I think we just pee in a cup. No needles involved,” Liddell said.
Dick ignored the remark and said, “Sergeant. Do it now.”
Sergeant Wolf looked at Jack and held his hand out. Jack pulled his .45 out of its holster, popped the clip, stripped the live round from the barrel, and handed everything over. Liddell followed suit.
Dick looked at Jack and said, “I assure you, Murphy, there will be a full investigation.”
Jack cupped his hand to an ear, and said, “Did you say there was some misinformation, sir?”
Before the Deputy Chief could respond Liddell said, “Too bad you didn’t have our reports before you talked to the media, sir.”
Dick stepped back like he’d been slapped in the face as Sergeant Wolf closed the back doors and slapped the back of the ambulance. It made a hasty exit, lights and siren all the way.
Chapter Four
At the hospital Sergeant Wolf oversaw the drawing of blood from Jack and Liddell, as ordered by Double Dick. Their test results showed they were clear of any alcohol or drugs in their systems. Liddell got a few stitches, but Doctor Findlay was nice and hid them in the hairline. Then Dr. Findlay faced Jack and moved his mouth like he was talking but there was no sound. Jack panicked, thinking he really had gone deaf, until the doctor grinned and said, “Just kidding. Who’d you shoot this time, Jack?” Everyone’s a comedian.
Since Double Dick wasn’t having them arrested, Liddell went home to his loving wife, and Jack to his loving Glenmorangie thirty-year-old single-malt Scotch. He’d had a brief fling with a Macallan fifty-year-old Scotch a few years ago, but it didn’t last because of their age difference, and he couldn’t afford her. He’d stopped comparing the two because after the first sip it all tasted the same. He got home to find that Cinderella had ignored her new “doggy door” and taken a dump in a pair of his shoes. He loved that dog.
The media assault went into full swing, and for two days Castle Murphy was under siege by raiding hordes of news-Mongols. Jack didn’t hate the media. That was too weak of a word. On his scale of dislike, reporters fell in somewhere between attorneys and catching syphilis. Or vice versa.
The reporters walked in along the public riverbank. Some came in boats. Some took pictures of his cabin and yelled “Jack, come out.” It reminded him of the old Charlton Heston movie, The Omega Man, where the vampire-like creatures came out at night and yelled for Heston to come out of his barricaded house so they could kill him. He could take them down with a shot to the head, just like he’d seen on that TV series The Walking Dead. But the noise would only attract more of them.
His answering machine was full of the same old same old from the media. “Jack, did you know she was only fourteen years old when you shot her?” “Detective Murphy, what does it feel like to shoot a child?” But his favorite question was “Couldn’t you have used pepper spray?” Pepper spray against grenades and handguns? Maybe the med
ia would shut up if I had shot the grenade out of her hand, or overpowered her with love and understanding. He’d even gotten a call from a producer for 48 Hours. They wanted to do a re-creation of the shooting. If they showed up at his cabin he’d be happy to accommodate. There was no doubt in his mind who had given the media his unlisted landline phone number. It was a Dick thing to do.
By the third morning, all the reporters were gone. At first Jack thought maybe the Rapture had come, but there were no piles of clothing, notebooks, and microphones lying on the ground outside his cabin. He decided that some local politician had done something stupid. Or maybe more pictures of Anthony Weiner had surfaced. No pun intended.
The shooting board would make their determination this morning, and Jack would either be cleared as a justified shooting, or arrested. He decided not to attend the hearing as Double Dick had ordered him.
Jack showered, shaved, and dressed in a Hawaiian print shirt, white cargo shorts, and flip-flops. He looked at himself in the mirror. His dad had once told him, “The job demands a lot from you, Jack. The important thing is that you can look yourself in the eye every morning.” He could.
He went to the kitchen and found the remnants of a box of Rice Krispies and a loaf of whole-wheat bread. The bread was moldy and the Rice Krispies didn’t look much better. He tossed the bread in the trash and rummaged through more cabinets. He found three cans of Alpo and three cans of Guinness. No milk. He put a pot of coffee on and found a semi-clean mug.
“What the hell,” he said and poured some Rice Krispies in the mug, popped the top of a Guinness, and poured it over the cereal. It wasn’t half bad. Beer-eal. The breakfast of drinking champions. He carried the beer-eal and two cans of Guinness out to the porch, sat down in his rocker, ate his breakfast, and pondered what his last day off would bring. He wasn’t suspended; he was just on administrative leave. That was a nice way of saying that if the shooting board thought he had screwed up, they would crucify him and say, “The public is safe from the menace known as Jack Murphy, child shooter, monster.” Or he might be going back to work tomorrow. He hoped they wouldn’t make him see a shrink before he came back to work this time. If you want to meet someone truly insane, talk to a shrink.
The shooting board had convened an hour ago, and he smiled remembering Double Dick calling to order him to appear. Jack had yelled into the receiver, “I’m on the no-call list, asshole!” and hung up. Dick tried to call back several times, but Jack unplugged the landline and turned off his cell phone. He’d turn it back on later. Liddell was at the shooting board hearing and Jack needed to talk to him afterwards. On the other hand, Double Dick could go stuff himself. Twice.
He ate the last of the beer-eal and stared at nothing. Then he noticed the newspaper was on the porch. He put the mug down, picked up the paper, and unfolded it to the front page. The headline was a variation of the one on the last two days’ papers. “TWO KILLED—GIRL SHOT DURING DARING BANK ROBBERY ATTEMPT.”
Attempt? One guy was spraying .223 bullets around and the “girl” tried to blow me up.
Below that was a photo of the scene with Double Dick at the ambulance. Jack had an angry look on his face, and Double Dick was obviously chastising him. In a side photo were two bodies covered in white sheets laid out near the overturned GTO. The bottom section showed a photo of Jack sitting on his porch, with a beer in his hand, smiling. He remembered that one being taken yesterday by one of the newspeople down by his dock. Maybe he shouldn’t have toasted the guy with the Guinness.
He flipped to the second section, where the story was continued with the headline, “FAMILY TIES: Robbery of West Side Bank (cont. from p.1).” Under the headline was a spread of postage-stamp-sized individual photos. The news media had probably obtained these from previous arrests elsewhere.
Below the tiny photos were larger ones showing the family together, a Christmas tree in the background, presents in partial states of unwrapping, faces beaming and hamming for the camera. Jack’s mind didn’t see a Christmas photo. In his mind he wondered who was taking the photo and if that person was a part of the ring of robbers. There were two other pictures of family gatherings, but none showed them wearing the SWAT gear and heavily armed. The last picture was of the “girl” robber alone. She was sitting on a steel bunk in her jail cell with a piteous look on her face. She had pulled her orange top up under her breasts to show two blue/black splotches in the middle of her chest. Impact by a .45 hollow-point slug will do that. Jack thought it was an impressive spread. The bruises almost overlapped each other.
He and Liddell had talked a few times and Liddell said the robbers were a family of four—two now—from Arkansas. Daddy Robber had been the getaway driver. There were no air bags in the GTO, so Daddy was banged up pretty good with a punctured lung and maybe some brain damage but would live. The Big Brother Robber was the giant Jack had killed. He was named “Hoss”—his real name—and he was twenty years old. Hoss had spent much of his life in and out of boys’ school and prison. He was armed with an AK-47 rifle that was illegally modified to fire fully automatic.
According to Liddell’s investigation, Mommy Robber had been a stay-at-home mom until her baby girl turned thirteen. Then the life of crime had become a family affair. Surprisingly, Mommy had little on her record except minor drug charges and a DUI in Arkansas.
The Girl Robber, the baby of the family, had celebrated becoming a teenager by shooting a bank security guard in a Nebraska holdup. Liddell had tied her to seven other bank robberies so far. But now her career was over. She had three broken ribs from the impact of the .45 rounds, but body armor had saved her life. She was in an isolation cell at the jail because of her age and because she had bitten one of the matrons.
Barely fourteen years old and she was looking at a life sentence. When she was finally released she would probably run for public office.
He pitched the empty beer can over the rail and popped the top on the last of the Mohicans. He gazed across the river where several bikini-clad young women were wading the shallows out to a sandbar. They carried beach towels and two of them pulled a red-and-white cooler. Maybe they needed some help? He went back inside and came back out with binoculars. He sat in the rocker again in time to see the sun worshipers frolic in the water to cool off and then roll back onto the sandbar like a wave of tropical oils and sun-tanned flesh. They took their sunning seriously. So did he.
One pulled on a fluorescent pink top that barely covered her . . . top part. He focused the binoculars and read the words, “If you think this is pink . . .” An arrow pointed down at the panties.
His work cell phone rang from inside the house. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, but thinking it might be Liddell, he went in and looked at the screen.
“I gave at the office,” Jack said into the phone.
“Well, I happen to know you’re not in your office so you can give again, you cheapskate asshole,” Killian said.
Jack laughed and asked, “Wha’s’up, bru’tha’?” George Killian was one of Jack’s fishing—and drinking—buddies. Killian was also a special agent with the ATF—Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. He was a fit, good-looking black man with intense dedication to his work.
Killian asked, “Did you read today’s paper yet?” Jack didn’t answer. “I’ll take that as a hell no. I just wanted to check on you. See if you’re okay. Well, we know you’re not okay because you’re the incredible Jack Murphy, but how the hell are you holding up, bru’tha?”
“I don’t have to hold it up,” Jack said.
“Screw you, Jack,” Killian said.
“In your dreams maybe. So how’s the ATF treating you? How’s that new boss of yours? What’is name?”
“His name is Misino. He’s Italian. Don’t mess around with a paisano. You go fishing with ’em, you might end up sleeping with the fishes.”
They both chuckled. Jack was glad Killian had called. He needed some cheering up.
“I don’t need anything,” Jack lied, although h
e was out of everything, including most of his clean clothes. “Just hearing your voice makes me glad I’m not working.”
“Well, if Double Dick gets his way you will be looking for a job. I’ll put in a good word with my boss. Italians and Irish get along nowadays, don’t they?”
Jack heard the sound of tires crunching on gravel. “Someone is coming. Let me call you back in a few minutes. Is that okay?”
Killian said, “Hey, you don’t need to. Just checking on you. Go take care of business. And Jack . . . Don’t shoot anyone.”
“Bite me,” Jack said, and disconnected.
Better not be a goddamn reporter. He went back to the porch and sat in his rocker.
Jack’s cabin faced due south, overlooking the Ohio River, with a gravel drive on each side and a gravel parking area behind. A set of wooden steps led up on each side of his porch. He put the binoculars in his lap and waited as a bright red Crown Vic eased into view and stopped.
Cinderella pushed the screen door open with her nose, sniffed the air, then lost interest and lay down inside the door.
“Some watchdog you are,” Jack said.
She bared her teeth, not even bothering to growl, and slinked away.
“And stay out of my damn closet!” Jack said.
The car window buzzed down and Liddell leaned across the seat. “I come bearing gifts, O Drunk One.”
“Hardly drunk,” Jack said. “I only had three Guinness left in here. I hope you brought a fresh supply.”
Liddell weighed in at full-grown yeti. The car groaned and lifted several inches as he got out. He walked up the steps carrying a paper grocery sack and stood blocking Jack’s view of the sandbar.
“Are those binoculars in your lap or are you just happy to see me?” Liddell asked.
“Bite me, Bigfoot. I see they’ve given you another car to wreck. Fire-engine red? Appropriate.”
“It’s a loaner from the garage,” he explained. “Your hearing come back?”
“What?” Jack said exaggeratedly and cuffed a hand beside his ear.