Alone

by Lisa Gardner

  The man shifted right and now Bobby could tell that the woman was yelling something. She had the child—a boy, maybe?—held tight against her, his face turned into her chest, her hands covering his ears.

  Things were happening. Sudden, fast. Bobby couldn't tell what had sparked the commotion, but now the man was screaming. Through the scope Bobby could see the spittle flying from the man's lips, muscles cording on his neck. It was surreal: to watch such explosive rage and never hear a sound.

  The woman stood up, child still clutched against her chest. Now she'd stopped yelling, seeming to have reached some sort of conclusion. The man screamed violently; she simply stared at him.

  Abruptly, the man leveled his gun at the woman's head. He held out his left hand, as if motioning for the child.

  “Male subject drawing down on female,” Bobby heard himself report. “Male subject pointing a handgun—”

  The man still had his gun aimed at the woman's head, but was now rounding the bed, fast, furious. She didn't say a word, didn't budge a step. Then the man was right there, yelling ferociously and, with his left hand, tugging at the child.

  The boy peeled away from his mother's chest. Bobby had a sudden, fleeting glimpse of a small, pale face with dark, wild eyes. The kid was scared out of his mind.

  “Male subject has child. Male subject is shoving child across the room.”

  Away from his mother. Away from whatever was about to happen next.

  Bobby was in the now, part of the moment, but outside the moment. He worked the scope, minor adjustments as natural to him as taking a breath. Shifting slightly left, inducing a fraction of lead as the male subject pushed his son to the end of the bed, then stepped back toward his wife.

  The child disappeared into the gauze of floating white fabric. Now it was just the man and woman, husband and wife. Jimmy Gagnon was no longer screaming, but his chest jerked up and down, breathing hard.

  The woman finally spoke. Her lips were easy to follow in the magnified world of Bobby's Leupold scope.

  “What now, Jimmy? What's left?”

  Jimmy suddenly smiled, and in that smile, Bobby knew exactly what was going to happen next.

  Jimmy Gagnon's finger tightened on the trigger. And from fifty yards away, in the darkened bedroom of a neighbor's townhouse, Bobby Dodge blew him away.

  P ANTING. BREATHING HARD. Feeling an unbearable tightness suddenly burst, then deflate his chest. Bobby pulled his finger away from the trigger, jerking back the way a man might release a live rattler. His eye remained on the scope, however. He saw the woman rush to the end of the bed and scoop up the child, saw her turn the boy's head away from the spray of his father's body.

  For a moment, mother and son stood entwined, one unit of curving arms and legs, the side of her cheek pressed against the top of his head. Then the woman's head came up. She gazed across the street. She peered into her neighbor's home. She looked straight at Bobby Dodge and he felt a tingle he couldn't explain.

  “Thank you,” the woman mouthed.

  Bobby stood up from the table, realizing for the first time that he was breathing very hard and his face was covered in sweat.

  “Holy crap,” Mr. Harlow said from the doorway.

  Then the rest of the world finally came into focus. Footsteps pounding. Sirens blaring. Men coming. Some for her, some for him.

  Bobby tucked his hands behind his back, planted his feet, and waited as he was trained. He had done his job. He had taken a life to save a life.

  Now the shit would hit the fan.

  T HE ENTRY TEAM descended upon the house, confirming one male subject, now missing half of his head. Then the entry team beat a hasty retreat. The residence no longer belonged to STOP. It had just become a crime scene.

  The call went out to the DA's office, Suffolk County. An ADA got roused out of bed, assembled a task force of investigators, and arrived on the scene. Bobby's Sig Sauer was entered into evidence. His teammates were immediately sequestered and interviewed as witnesses.

  Bobby got to sit in the back of a patrol car, technically not in trouble, but feeling very much like a truant kid.

  Media was already gathering outside the yellow crime-scene tape. Television lights were blazing, while reporters vied for the best position. So far, the DA's office had everything wrapped up tight. The body had already been transported from the scene; Bobby was sheltered inside the patrol car.

  Name of the game was never to provide too many visuals. Denied on the ground, however, the media would soon take to the air.

  His LT, John Bruni, arrived at the scene. He came over to the cruiser and clapped Bobby on the shoulder.

  “How you feeling?”

  “All right.”

  “These things are always lousy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Employee Assistance Unit will be here shortly. They'll explain your rights, give you some support. You're not the first guy this has happened to, Bobby.”

  “I know.”

  “Just answer what you feel like answering. If you get uncomfortable, call it a day. The union provides a lawyer, so don't be afraid to ask for legal counsel.”

  “Okay.”

  “We're here for you, Bobby. Once part of the team, always part of the team.”

  Bruni had to go. Probably to check in with Public Affairs, which would soon be making a statement to the press: Tonight an unidentified officer was involved in a fatal shooting. The DA has taken over investigation of the incident. No comment at this time.

  And so it would go. Bobby had seen it happen once before. A trooper was ambushed when making a routine patrol stop. Two Hispanic males in a beat-up Honda opened fire on the officer. He fired back, wounding one and killing the other. The officer had gone on immediate paid leave, disappearing from the barracks, disappearing from life, while the press tried his case in the papers and the Hispanic community accused him of racism. A month later, the DA's office ruled that the case didn't merit criminal charges—maybe the fact that the officer had a bullet lodged in his upper arm helped. The press never seemed to notice, though. A brother of the fatally shot man launched a civil suit against the officer, and last Bobby knew, the trooper was dealing with a million-dollar lawsuit.

  He never returned to duty. And most people in Boston probably did think he was a racist.

  Was it bad to have just killed a man, then sit here worrying about what that meant for your career? Was that totally self-absorbed? Inappropriate? Or was it just the way these things went?

  Bobby was thinking of the woman again. Slender. Pale. Holding her child tight against her body. Thank you, her lips had said. He had shot her husband in front of her and her kid and she had thanked him for it.

  Fresh knock on the window. Stupid, since the car door was open. Bobby looked up and saw one of his teammates, Patrick Loftus.

  “Hell of a night,” Loftus said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry I missed it. Just got here a few minutes ago. When all was said and done.” Loftus lived on the Cape. Probably only an hour away. So the shooting had happened that fast. Bobby realized for the first time that he had no idea what the hour was. He'd gotten the call, jumped in his car, set up his rifle. The whole thing was already a blur in his mind, a series of actions and reactions. He came, he saw, he did. Holy shit, he had killed a man. Honestly, blown off half a man's head.

  Thank you, the woman said, thank you.

  Bobby leaned out of the car.

  “Cameras?” he asked.

  “Got 'em covered.”

  “Good.” Bobby vomited onto the street.

  “I'm really sorry,” Loftus said quietly.

  Bobby leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “So am I.”

  T HE EAU GUYS came next. Fellow officers, sort of like a peer support group. They walked him through the process. Investigators from the DA's office would be interviewing him shortly. He should answer the questions truthfully, but as briefly as possible. He had the right t
o an attorney—the State Police Association of Massachusetts, SPAM, would pay for his lawyer. He had the right to end questioning whenever he felt uncomfortable. He had the right against self-incrimination.

  He should be aware that the guidelines for use of deadly force stated that lethal force was appropriate if you felt your own life, or someone else's, was in immediate danger. Something to consider, you know, when the investigators asked their questions.

  The ADA would probably need at least two weeks to study the events. Bobby's gun would be examined, tapes of the radio conversation between him and the command post analyzed. They would do ballistic tests at the crime scene and take statements from everyone, including Bobby's teammates, the woman and child, and good old Mr. Harlow.

  At the end of the investigation, it would be up to the DA's office to decide if the facts warranted criminal charges. If it was a righteous shoot, then Bobby was okay. Public Affairs would issue a statement, the DA would issue a statement, and Bobby would be back in action. If the DA did decide to press criminal charges . . .

  Well, let's not put the cart before the horse.

  From here on out, Bobby was on paid administrative leave. It wouldn't be a bad idea to use that time to come to terms with tonight. Maybe talk to some other guys who'd been through it—the EAU could arrange it. Maybe even, if he wanted, sign up for some post-critical-incident counseling. The EAU had a shrink they highly recommended and it would look good on Bobby's record.

  Killing someone was a big deal, even for a cop. The sooner he faced it, the sooner he could get on with his life.

  Then the EAU guys were gone, and the investigators took their place.

  It was three-thirty in the morning now. Bobby had been up for nearly twenty-two hours. He followed the investigators to the DA's office, where they all had steaming cups of fresh coffee and sat around a scarred wood table, like old friends shooting the shit.

  Bobby wasn't fooled. He was bottomed out and bone tired from buckets of adrenaline dumping suddenly into his bloodstream, but he was still a sniper, a man who could narrow the world down to a single set of crosshairs, and maintain that concentration for hours.

  They all began the dance.

  Where was Bobby when he got the call?

  Boston Beer Garden, he answered, and immediately lost points. He added he'd been drinking Coke, the bartender would verify, and regained some ground.

  He'd started work at what time today? He'd ended his shift at what hour? A fifteen-hour shift earned him a frown; the sidebar that he was trained to handle long hours didn't seem to rate him a second chance.

  How had he gotten to the scene, how fast was his response time, what could he recall of his conversation with Lieutenant Jachrimo? They were searching here, looking for something, so Bobby's answers grew shorter. He felt the threat in the conversation, but couldn't identify the source. The investigators finally moved on, but the collegial atmosphere was fast eroding. Questions were sharper now, and answers harshly judged.

  He had to explain how he'd determined to access Mr. Harlow's residence. He described his setup on the card table, why he chose to crack the window, why he went with bonded-tip ammo.

  What did he see in the house, who did he see in the house?

  Bobby did better here. White male subject, white female subject. Didn't give them names, and didn't give them presumed identities such as husband, wife, or child. He was as neutral as possible. He'd shot a man, but it was nothing personal.

  Finally, they got to the heart of the matter. Did he know the victim was James Gagnon?

  And for the first time, Bobby paused.

  Victim. Interesting choice of words. The man was no longer a suspect, someone who had pointed his gun at his own wife and tightened his finger on the trigger; he was a victim. Bobby thought now might be a good time to ask for that lawyer. But he didn't.

  He answered as truthfully as he could. Lieutenant Jachrimo had identified the family as possibly being the Gagnons, but at the time of the incident, Bobby had received no verification of those names.

  The investigators sat back again. Mollified? Suspicious? Hard to tell. They wanted to know if he'd met the wife, personally, socially. Had he spoken to her during the incident?

  No, Bobby said.

  Now it was time for the nitty-gritty. What made him decide to fire his weapon? Had he been okayed for use of deadly force by the CO?

  No.

  Had the victim made any verbal threats toward Bobby or another officer?

  No.

  Had the victim made any verbal threats toward his wife?

  Not that Bobby had heard.

  But the victim had a gun.

  Yes.

  Did he fire it?

  There were reports of gunfire.

  Before Bobby arrived. But what about afterwards? Did Bobby actually see the victim fire his weapon?

  His finger was pulling the trigger.

  So he fired his weapon?

  Yes. No. Not sure. He was firing, I was firing; it all happened so fast.

  So the victim didn't fire his weapon?

  Not sure.

  So possibly, the victim was just pointing his gun? Hadn't he been pointing the weapon for a while?

  The man's finger was on the trigger.

  But did he squeeze it? Did he try to shoot his wife?

  I believed there was an immediate threat.

  Why, Trooper Dodge, why?

  Because of the way the man smiled. Bobby couldn't say that. He said instead, “The subject stood two feet away from the woman with a nine-millimeter pointed at her head and his finger moving on the trigger. I perceived that to be an immediate and compelling threat.”

  Do you really think a man would kill his wife with his kid still in the room?

  Yes, sir, I believed he would.

  Why, Trooper Dodge, why?

  Because sometimes, sir, shit like that happens.

  The investigators finally nodded, then repeated the same questions all over again. Bobby knew how it worked. More times you made a man tell his story, the more he might trip up. Lies growing more embellished, truth more strained. They were giving Bobby rope and waiting to see if he'd hang himself with it.

  At six-thirty they finally gave up. A new day was dawning outside the stifling conference room, and the collegial air returned. They were sorry they had to ask all these questions, you know. It was just a matter of procedure. Unfortunate night. Bad for everyone. But it looked good for Bobby that he was cooperating. They appreciated that very much. Everyone just wanted to get to the bottom of this, you understand. The sooner they got to the truth, the sooner everyone could put it behind them.

  They'd have more questions. You know, don't go too far.

  Bobby nodded wearily. He pushed back his chair and, when he went to rise, swayed on his feet. He saw one guy notice, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

  And Bobby had the sudden, disconcerting urge to sock the man in the gut. He left the room and found his lieutenant waiting for him in the hall.

  “How did it go?” Lieutenant Bruni asked.

  Bobby said honestly, “Not that good.”

  T HE SUN WAS out, the sky bright, by the time Bobby turned into the building where Susan lived. The morning commute was already on. He heard squawks over his radio, describing congested traffic, motor vehicle accidents, and disabled cars parked in breakdown lanes. Day was happening. City dwellers emerging from their bolt-locked cages to crowd sidewalks and jam coffee houses.

  He stepped out of his cruiser, inhaled a deep gulp of city air—cold, diesel-filled, cement-laced—and for one surreal moment, it felt to him as if the night had never happened. This moment was real, the building, the parking garage, the city, but the shooting had been fake, just a particularly powerful dream. He should change back into his uniform now, climb into his cruiser and get to work.

  A guy walked by. Took one look at Bobby, standing dazed in his sweat-stained urban camos, and hastily picked up his step. That shook Bobby out of his
funk.

  He grabbed his trusty rucksack and headed for Susan's unit.

  She answered on his second knock, wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and looking flushed from the warm comfort of her bed. Practices had a tendency to run deep into the night, and she often slept late the next morning.

  She gazed at Bobby, all sleep-tousled blonde hair, rosy skin, and heavy-lidded gray eyes, and her face immediately softened into a smile. “Hey, sweetheart,” she began, before the last of the sleep left her, and her instant pleasure gave way to immediate concern. “Shouldn't you be at work? Bobby, what's wrong?”

  He walked into her apartment. There were so many things he should say. He could feel the words building in the unbearable tightness of his chest. Susan was a concert cellist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. They had met, of all places, in a local pub.

  Bobby knew nothing about classical music. He was all sports bars, pickup games of basketball, and ice-cold beer. In contrast Susan was billowy skirts, long walks in the park, and tea at the Ritz.

  He'd asked her out anyway. She'd surprised them both by saying yes. Days had turned into weeks, weeks into months, and now they'd been seeing each other for over a year. Sometimes he thought it was only a matter of time until she moved into his little three-story row house in South Boston. He allowed himself to think of weddings and babies and twin rockers at the retirement home.

  He'd never quite brought himself to ask the question yet. Maybe because he still had too many moments like this one, when he stood before her sweaty, grimy, and covered with a night's work, and instead of feeling grateful to see her, he was shocked she let him through the door.

  Her world was such a beautiful place. What the hell was she doing with a guy like him?

  “Bobby?” she asked quietly.

  He couldn't find the words. None would move his lips. None would come close to releasing the pent-up emotions tightening his chest.