Outburst

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “I want you—now!” he said, pulling her back.

  “You don't understand—there's something I've got to tell you about me. Something I—”

  “Kris, don't you get it? I love you!”

  It was as if someone had shot her. No one had ever said anything like that to her, and she collapsed into his arms, crying harder now than she had for a long, long time. He wrapped his large arms around her, kissed her on the cheek, told her how everything would be all right, that he really did love her and that he would never leave her, that he would be hers as long as she would have him. The next instant he was scooping her up and carrying her into the living room, where he put her on the couch. She kicked off her shoes, and then he was stripping, pulling off his blue police uniform, peeling away the world and exposing himself to her.

  How, Kris now thought for the millionth time, could everything have gone so quickly from so unbelievably wonderful to so incredibly horrible? Now sitting there on the edge of her small bed in that basement room, she bent forward and started sobbing.

  She recalled the passion and lust, then his fury and anger. Yes, she remembered taking his gun, aiming it.

  Oh, God, and all that blood. One second he was there, the next, a third of his head was splattered all over her small studio apartment.

  22

  It was seven minutes to six, and Todd hadn't wasted a moment. Having looped around the city on the freeways, he now sped up Lyndale Avenue South.

  Hoping that this was it, that this was their guy and they could eliminate the threat against Rawlins so quickly, his energy level was cranked on high, and he said, “This might work out perfectly.”

  “Yeah, it could be entirely cool,” agreed Bradley, the photographer, seated next to him. “I'd just love to get something live, something with a little action.”

  “We'll see. This might be a bust. This guy might not even be there.”

  “Ah, come on, man, you've got the best luck of anyone I know.”

  “Let's hope.”

  He drove one of WLAK's two unmarked vans, an old blue thing with large tinted windows and scabby-looking rust spots, while close on his tail was one of the shiny white ENG vans with WLAK's logo painted on the side and a large microwave antenna stacked on top. Yes, he'd made sure they were ready for any scenario, whether this be something they fired back live to the station or something Bradley taped with a hidden camera from the rear of his van. If they ended up doing it live, which would be the best, Todd was pretty sure they could get a good signal from here; if not they'd have to double-hop it, bouncing the signal off one of the downtown towers.

  Nearing the Boulevard Theatre and yet another Starbucks—which were sprouting around town as fast as McDonald's once had—Todd turned left on Fifty-second. And there, parked to the side as they had agreed, sat the silver Ford Taurus, in which two men now sat. As soon as Todd pulled up behind it, Rawlins jumped out.

  Todd rolled down his window and asked, “Are we still a go?”

  “Absolutely.” Rawlins came up to the side of the van, squeezed Todd on the arm, then leaned a bit into the window. “Hey, Bradley.”

  Bradley tipped his head. “You going to get this guy?”

  “It would be very great.”

  No shit it would be very great, thought Todd, more than eager to get this over with, to have the guy who'd taken a potshot at Rawlins behind bars.

  Todd nodded toward the Taurus. “Who do you have with you?”

  “Officer Tim McNamee.”

  In case he might need the information later, Todd grabbed a piece of paper, wrote down the name, and asked, “That's all?”

  “Nope, a bunch of the guys wanted in on this one. There's a squad car at either end of the block, each car with two cops. There's another one in the alley too. Any problems and we're going to be all over him.” Rawlins continued, “My plan is to take it easy. If he's there I simply want to talk to him. Like I said, Holbrook doesn't want me doing a PC pickup just yet, because we don't want him lawyering up on us. But, who knows, things could get a little hot, and we don't want you two hurt and we don't want you getting in the way. So stay clear, okay?”

  “Scout's honor,” replied Todd.

  “What about these other guys?” asked Rawlins, nodding to the white ENG van now pulled up behind Todd.

  “They're just insurance in case we go live for the six o'clock,” explained Todd. “Don't worry, they're going to stay parked right here until we call them—if we call them.”

  “Perfect.” Rawlins looked at the large tinted window in the side of Todd's van. “You're sure no one will be able to see in there?”

  “Positive. Bradley will be back there with his camera, but there'll be a curtain pulled around him. You can't see him as long as he's sitting against a dark background.”

  “Okay.”

  Todd reached out the van window, grabbed hold of Rawlins's arm. As a homicide investigator, Rawlins usually wasn't at any scenes that were hot. This, however, could very well prove to be—and all because of Todd.

  “Be careful,” he said, not wanting this, not wanting Rawlins to be the lead man. “If this is the real guy, he's already killed one cop, maybe more, and he's probably the one who took a shot at you. Shouldn't you be wearing a bulletproof vest or something?”

  “Don't worry.”

  “But—”

  “Todd, I know what I'm doing.”

  Todd shrugged, knew he couldn't say a thing, and asked, “So do we go first? Do we drive up and park in front of the house?”

  “Sure, but don't stop right in front. Park across the street or something so it doesn't look too obvious. And I don't want you getting out. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  They discussed a few other details, and then Todd started up the van and headed down the street. Two blocks later he turned left on Turner. A solidly middle-class neighborhood on the very edge of the city, the entire area was filled with tiny postwar houses, little boxes lined up one after the other. Number 5241 was almost halfway down the street, built on a small ridge and distinguished from the others only by a large spruce tree in front.

  Spotting the car, Todd said, “There's the Ninety-Eight.”

  As Bradley made sure the black curtain was securely safety-pinned behind him, he asked, “Think you can park where I can get a good shot of both the car and the house?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Todd steered the van into a space across the street and just a bit to the north, which meant that to see the house you had to look over the roof of the parked car. He shut off the engine, grabbed his pad and pen, jotted a couple of notes. The street, he observed, was fairly quiet. Toward the end of the block he saw someone climbing out of a car—a man in a suit, presumably just coming home from work. Through the cracked window, he heard birds chirping, some kids hollering, and caught a whiff of someone grilling. Definitely hamburgers. His stomach growled.

  “How's this?” he asked.

  “I'm just cleaning my lens,” replied Bradley, wiping it with a fine cotton handkerchief. “Ah … perfect.”

  “Get a nice long shot of the house.”

  “Yes, yes, yes.”

  Checking his side-view mirror, Todd saw the silver Taurus turn the corner and start down the street. “Here they come.”

  Something caught his eye and Todd glanced up the street to see some small kids—the noisy ones—being shepherded down the sidewalk by a woman, blond, maybe thirty. They were young kids, not even five, Todd guessed, and he soon realized where they were heading.

  “Oh, shit,” muttered Todd.

  “What?” demanded Bradley, crouched in the back, peering through the lens of his camera.

  “Some kids are headed straight for the house.”

  “Yeah, I see ‘em now.”

  The two children were darting across the yards, racing along, while their mother continued up the sidewalk until she reached 5241 and started up to the house. Todd wondered if Rawlins would simply make a pass for now,
if he would continue down the street and come back in a few minutes.

  But then things got even more complicated.

  “Uh-oh,” said Todd, spying someone emerging from the front door. “Here comes someone else.”

  “Wow!” cooed Bradley. “What a babe.”

  And that she was, a trim, young blonde in mod black shoes and a tight, tight outfit. A real beauty, no doubt about it, and Todd watched as she stepped out of the house, a small purse and what looked like an overnight bag in hand. The children ran up to her, grabbed onto her legs, and she kissed them on the top of their heads. She said a few quick words to the other woman, the one who'd been out with the kids and who now disappeared into the house. The young woman then continued down to the street and straight toward the Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight.

  “Oh, my God,” muttered Todd. “That can't be him, can it?”

  “What?” snapped Bradley from behind the curtain. “That's no guy. Trust me, I'm the straight one here, and I know a beautiful woman when I see one.”

  Well, thought Todd, she certainly passed as one, and he watched with fascination as the trim, sexy blonde proceeded around the rear of the car, twisted what looked like a couple of wires, and opened the trunk. She was just rearranging something in the back and tossing in her bag when Rawlins pulled up, parking his car right in front of the Olds so that the two vehicles were radiator to radiator, as if he were going to give the other a jump. Hearing all this, the woman, clearly confused, glanced from around the back of her car. Seeing the two men, a look of concern swept over her. Almost as if she didn't want anyone to see inside the trunk, she slammed it shut, then worked quickly to secure it with the wires. A moment later she darted up to the sidewalk.

  Rawlins, as always, was clearly going to be his determined, direct self, and he was already out the door and walking by the time Officer McNamee's car door was even open. Staring at Rawlins, the young woman was about to say something, until she saw McNamee, a tall, bald, muscular man in a police uniform. The clear vision of authority obviously didn't sit well with her, and she bit her lip and took a half-step back.

  Even from the van, Todd could hear Rawlins call out, “Good evening, can I speak to you for a moment?”

  Like a deer caught in the lights of a marauding vehicle, the woman froze. From the panic etched on her face it was clear that she knew something, but what?

  As he moved closer, Rawlins didn't waste a moment of opportunity, glancing through the car windows, looking for something, anything. To really search the car, of course, he needed a warrant, which he didn't have, at least not yet. Instead, he was hoping, Todd knew, simply to spot something of interest in plain view, something incriminating sitting right on the front or back seat.

  With McNamee right behind him, Rawlins went directly up to the young woman, pulled out his badge, and identified himself. She stood there, quite paralyzed and biting her bottom lip. Rawlins said something else; the woman hesitantly nodded. Looking confused, he asked another question, and the woman pressed her right hand to her forehead and slowly shook her head. Being quite brazen about the whole thing, Rawlins turned back and peered again into the rear seat. Had something caught his interest?

  Watching from the van, Todd couldn't tell what was going on, where this was going, when suddenly the front door of the house opened and the other woman, the one who'd been with the two kids, came quickly out, trotting down the front walk.

  “What's the matter? What's going on here?” snapped that woman, her hands on her hips. “Is there a problem?”

  Officer McNamee, his voice clear and sharp, said, “We're looking for Christopher Kenney. We just want to—”

  “Oh, shit,” said the woman, her voice booming as she looked right at the other woman, the young one by the Olds. “What the hell have you done now, Kris?”

  In the very same beat, the beautiful young blonde dropped her purse, turned, and fled, dashing desperately away from the Ninety-Eight. Rawlins was so stunned that it took him a moment to realize what was happening, and then he took off after her. McNamee burst into a run as well, albeit a slower one, for he grabbed his walkie-talkie from his belt and started barking into it.

  “Come on, that's our guy!” shouted Todd as he grabbed his door handle and shoved open the door.

  “Holy shit, I don't fucking believe it!” replied Bradley, clambering over cables and equipment.

  There was no way in hell Todd was going to let Rawlins out of his sight, and he jumped out and took off, while Bradley threw open the back of the van and quickly followed, clutching the large, unwieldy Betacam. They charged across the street, up the slope, and around the side of the small house. Then all of a sudden it was everywhere, the wail of not one police siren, but two and possibly three, a terrifying chorus that swept through and inundated the entire neighborhood with a tidal wave of authority. No, thought Todd as he ran, Christopher Kenney didn't have a chance in hell of getting away.

  Racing past a side door, Todd cut into the backyard and to his right saw a flurry of red and white light as a cop car rocketed down the alley.

  “Where the hell are they?” gasped Bradley.

  Panic started to rise in Todd's throat, until he caught a glimpse of Rawlins leaping a chain-link fence. “There!”

  While Bradley briefly paused to get a shot of the speeding squad car, Todd took off. He followed Rawlins's course, running past a single-car garage, through one lawn, straight through a small vegetable garden, and over the low fence. He cut to the right, darted around a garage, ducked down the alley, and there it all was, a vortex of three cop cars, their lights swirling and screaming. And in the center of all that stood a half dozen cops with their guns drawn as Rawlins pinned the young woman to the ground.

  “You can't do this to me!” she shrieked, twisting and bucking with panic. “I didn't hurt anyone! Let me go, you asshole!”

  “Are you Christopher Kenney?”

  “Let me go!”

  “Are you—”

  “Fuck off!” she screamed as she wrenched one of her manicured hands free and swiped it across Rawlins's neck.

  As Todd watched, as Bradley got it all on film, Rawlins tumbled to the side, desperately clutching his neck. Blood. Free-flowing blood. Not that much, but certainly plenty enough to terrify anyone with HIV.

  Todd rushed forward.

  “No!” shouted Rawlins, holding his hand out like a linebacker. “Stay back! Don't touch me!”

  Todd spun to the side, hurried over to Bradley, and demanded, “Give me your handkerchief!”

  Grabbing it from Bradley, Todd rushed to Rawlins, who in turn snatched it and pressed it to his neck.

  Behind them the young woman burst to her feet and screamed at the cops now encircling her, shouting, “I didn't do it! I didn't hurt anyone!”

  She turned to run, but the circle grew tighter and two of the cops lunged after her, seizing her with ease. And then for one long, strange moment all the cops just stood there, staring as her femininity melted away.

  “Oh, Jesus!” she sobbed, her voice surprisingly deep.

  Rawlins pressed the cloth against his neck and shouted, “One of you guys get a first-aid kit and clean her fingernails—now, on the double!” He then turned to her, demanding, “Are you Christopher Kenney?”

  “What if … what if I am?”

  “I want to ask you some questions. I—”

  Kris looked up, mascara streaking down her face, and snapped, “Fuck off! I didn't do anything!”

  “Then why the hell,” he demanded, exploding, “did someone see your car down by the Mississippi the other night and—”

  “That's a lie!”

  “And why the hell did you run away?”

  “Eat shit! You fucking pigs can't do this to me again! You can't!”

  “If you'd just—”

  “I'm not going anywhere with you assholes!” she yelled, and then spit into Rawlins's face.

  Wiping the slime from his cheek, Rawlins shouted, “That's it! Cuff her, we
're taking her in! You're under arrest for—”

  “Fuck off!”

  “You're under arrest for the murder of Police Officer Mark Forrest!” boomed Rawlins.

  “No! No!” Kris screamed.

  Two cops descended upon Kris, now easily pinning her arms behind her back and handcuffing her wrists.

  “Be careful, for Christ's sake!” shouted Rawlins, who then looked frantically around. “Where the fuck's the first-aid kit? You've got to get her cleaned up right now! Now, damn it all! We need some alcohol! Some disinfectant! What the fuck's taking you so goddamn long? You!” he yelled at the cop who'd gotten a kit from his squad car. “Get the fuck over here—now!”

  Todd had never seen this, never seen Rawlins blow, and he came up behind him, touched him on the elbow, and said, “Rawlins—”

  “Don't fucking touch me!” he snapped, ripping his arm away.

  Todd jerked back. And there staring at him was not a person, but the Cyclops lens of Todd's own world.

  Slapping his open palm over the eye of the camera, he snapped, “Jesus Christ, Bradley, not now!”

  23

  As he paced back and forth in his hotel room, as he clutched at his short brown hair with his right hand, he recalled how desperate he'd been to get Mark Forrest out of his life. But now that the young cop was gone, now that he was dead, dead, dead, he saw it, his error. Oh, sweet Jesus. In his haste to get away that night he'd left something behind that was sure to become a trail as wide as a freeway.

  Now what?

  Dropping himself on the edge of his bed, the man stared straight ahead, unable to believe this disaster. And unable to eat the other half of the turkey club sandwich he'd ordered from room service. Why the hell had he done it? Why the hell did he have a thing for cops, for handsome guys in uniforms? A couple of years ago he'd been involved with one, but that had also ended in disaster. Just as this one had.

  Shit, if only he'd broken things off earlier with Forrest. If only they'd split up after the fight last month.

  “Get the fuck away from me!” the man had shouted not five minutes after they'd climbed out of Mark's bed.