Shot Girl

by J. A. Konrath

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  He manages four shots before I body-tackle him, both hands locking on his gun arm, pushing it up and away from the innocents, my head filled with frightened cries that might be from the children but might also be mine.

  I grip his wrist and tug hard, locking his elbow, dropping down and forcing him to release the gun. It clatters to the ground.

  His free hand tangles itself in my hair and pulls so hard my vision ignites like a flashbulb. I lose my grip and fall to my knees, and he jerks me in the other direction, white hot pain lacing across my scalp as a patch of hair rips free.

  I drive an uppercut between his legs, my knuckles bouncing off a plastic supporter, then I’m being pushed away and he’s leaping for the door.

  My jacket is twisted up, and I can’t find my pocket even though I feel the weight of the gun, and finally my hand slips in and I tug his semiauto free and bury three shots into his legs as he runs into the hallway.

  I chance a quick look at the children, see several have been hit, see blood on the wall covering two dozen construction paper jack-o-lantern pictures, then I crawl after the perp with the gun raised.

  He’s waiting for me in the hall, sitting against the wall, bleeding from both knees. I hear him sobbing.

  “You weren’t supposed to drop your gun,” he says.

  My breath is coming quick, and I blow it out through my mouth. I’m shaking so bad I can’t even keep a bead on him. I blink away tears and repeat over and over, “he’s-unarmed-don’t-shoot-he’s-unarmed-don’t shoot-he’s-unarmed-don’t shoot…”

  Movement to my left.

  Herb, barreling down the hall. He stops and aims.

  “You okay?” Herb asks.

  I think I nod.

  “Hands in the air!” he screams at the perp.

  The perp continues to moan. He doesn’t raise his hands.

  “Put your hands in the air now!”

  The sob becomes a howl, and the perp reaches into his trench coat.

  Herb and I empty our guns into him. I aim at his face.

  My aim is true.

  The perp slumps over, streaking the wall with red. Herb rushes up, pats down the corpse.

  “He’s clean,” Herb says. “No weapons.”

  I can hear the sirens now. I manage to lower my gun as the paramedics storm the stairs. Kids flood out of the classroom, teachers hurrying them down the hall, telling them not to look.

  Many of them look anyway.

  I feel my vision narrow, my shoulders quake. I’m suddenly very cold.

  “Are you hurt?” Herb asks, squatting down next to me. I’m covered with the blood of too many people.

  I shake my head.

  “I found the car,” Herb says. “Registered to a William Phillip Martingale, Buffalo Grove Illinois. He left a suicide note on the windshield. It said, Life no longer matters.”

  “Priors?” I ask, my voice someone else’s.

  “No.”

  And something clicks. Some long ago memory from before I was a cop, before I was even an adult.

  “I think I know him,” I say.

  William Phillip Martingale. Billy Martingale. In my fifth grade class at George Washington Elementary School.

  “When we were kids. He asked me to the Valentine’s Day dance.” The words feel like stale bread crust stuck in my throat. “I turned him down. I already had a date.”

  “Jesus,” Herb says.

  But there was more. No one liked Billy. He had a bad front tooth, dark gray. Talked kind of slow. Everyone teased him.

  Everyone including me.

  I crawl past the paramedics, over to the perp, probing the ruin of his face, finding that bad tooth he’d never fixed.

  The first body is wheeled out of the classroom, the body bag no larger than a pillow.

  I begin to cry, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.

  “I don’t think there should be more gun control. I think there should be more education.”

  SAM BROWNBACK

  “Every gun sold should require a background check, period.”

  GARY ACKERMAN

  JACK

  I wiped away tears, and put my left hand over my right one and squeezed to stop the shaking.

  “I’m sorry, Jill,” Sowa Shadid said to me. “That’s terrible you had to go through that.”

  When I found my voice again I said, “I’m glad I went through it, Sowa. If Herb and I weren’t there, dozens more may have died.”

  She poked at her pizza. It no longer looked good to me.

  “So that’s the answer?” she asked, her voice soft. “The only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know if there is an answer. But I can’t pretend this isn’t the world we live in.”

  “The world we live in doesn’t offer solutions, Jill. All we get is hopes and prayers. And those aren’t enough.”

  I had no answer for that.

  I had no answers for anything.

  I just wanted to be able to walk again.

  Sowa didn’t want to discuss guns anymore, and neither did I. She took out her cell phone, showed me pictures of her niece. I took out mine, showed her pictures of Sam. We exchanged compliments on how adorable the children were, and I scanned the room for threats.

  Thunder rumbled outside.

  Hurricane Harry announcing himself.

  “Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?” Sowa asked.

  I was tempted to say no. I had too many friends I didn’t keep in touch with. I didn’t want to make more. Bonding with Sowa over stories of tragedy and pics of kids didn’t make us BFFs.

  Shit, now I was doing pluralspeak.

  But, for whatever stupid reason I do things, I nodded at her.

  “My husband. Kahlil. He owned a gun. He bought it after we got married. He insisted. ‘To protect our home’, he told me. I hated it. He wanted to teach me to shoot, but I was afraid to even touch it.”

  I didn’t answer. I had an idea where she was going with this, and I didn’t have any answers.

  “Jill, I keep thinking about that day…”

  Here’s proof I was no good at this relationship BS. I didn’t want to stay and comfort her. All I wanted to do was run away.

  “That day at the mosque… if Khalid had brought his gun…”

  “Don’t torture yourself like that, Sowa. I’ve played the if only game. It doesn’t lead anywhere good.”

  “He had a concealed carry permit, Jill…”

  I closed my eyes, not wanting to hear anymore.

  “I was the one who told him not to bring the gun to masjid. I told him weapons of death have no place in a house of worship.”

  This was my punishment for trying to win the debate. I just convinced a dear old lady to blame herself for the deaths of her loved ones.

  I’m such an asshole.

  “It’s not your fault,” I heard myself say, knowing full well that I would completely blame myself in her situation. “Even if your husband had been armed, there’s no guarantee it would have ended differently.”

  “This haunts me, Jill. I wanted to talk with you to convince you that guns are bad. If I convinced you, maybe I could… maybe I could forgive…”

  I lost her to sobs.

  Shit. Shit shit shit.

  “Sowa…” I patted her hand. “I know about guns because they were part of my job. But my viewpoint is skewed by my experience and my opinions. Everything I said could be wrong. I’m not the one you need to be talking to. Do you know Dr. Agmont?”

  She nodded.

  “Have you ever met with him? Professionally?”

  She shook her head.

  “His office is one floor up. Why don’t we go up there right now, see if he can squeeze you in?”

  She nodded and stood up.

  I went with her to the elevator, took her to Agmont’s office, and he was so concerned about Mrs. Shadid
’s tears that he didn’t even give me a second glance.

  Dick.

  I left Mrs. Shadid and checked the time.

  Still an hour to rehab.

  Normally, waiting around in the Darling Center had perks. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve killed some time in the Bingo room, open twelve hours a day. I wasn’t the only moron donating her time to teach a class, so there were usually workshops, speakers, seminars, and group meetings going on in the various buildings. But I checked the schedule, conveniently posted on every floor, and almost everything was cancelled thanks to Harry.

  Next to the cafeteria was an arcade, no doubt built to entertain bored grandkids. But I didn’t have my leg braces and it was tough to play pinball or Ms. Pac-Man in my chair.

  Of course, I had a computer in my pocket, aka my smartphone. Harry (the man, not the hurricane) had hooked me on a game called Zombie Sugar Jackers 3: Lipsmacking Jackpacking, but playing it any longer than five minutes required spending money, of which I had very little.

  There were other cell phone games. Or ebooks, many of them free. Or I could mindlessly surf the Internet, ogling clothing and shoes that I could no longer afford or wear.

  Or I could call a few more people on my squad and reconnect. That seemed the easiest way to get over the guilt from debating with Sowa.

  So I went back to the cafeteria, found my table, and called Tom Mankowski, a Homicide Detective who used to work on my team and quit to live in La La Land.

  “Jack! Great to hear from you. How’s rehab?”

  “About as much fun as you remember.”

  During a past case, a perp had done a number on Tom, and he’d spent many months on crutches, learning to walk again.

  “My best memory is the pain meds. Why can’t we buy fentanyl over the counter?”

  “Because we have an opioid crisis killing fifty thousand Americans a year.”

  “Our country seems to have difficulties with moderation.”

  I considered the gun discussions I’d had with Sowa. “No kidding. How’s Mrs. Mankowski?”

  “Sexist, Jack. Joan didn’t take my name. The patriarchal tradition of taking the man’s surname is so twentieth century. You might as well ask me about her dowry.”

  Joan made ten times as much as Tom, so I didn’t ask. “Did you hyphenate?” I tried to remember her name. “Mr. and Mrs. Mankowski-DeVilliers? DeVilliers-Mankowski?”

  “No hyphen. I took her name.”

  I snorted. “You didn’t.”

  “I’m Tom DeVilliers, trophy husband to one of Hollywood’s most successful indie producers.”

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  “Are you doubting that we’re a gender progressive couple?”

  “I’m doubting you’d give up your adoptive parents’ surname, because I know how much it means to you.”

  “You got me. She stayed DeVilliers, I stayed Mankowski. Did you believe me for a minute?”

  “No.” But I smiled.

  I watched a manager put up a CLOSED DUE TO WEATHER sign next to the register, and staff began to put away food. What they did with it, I had no idea.

  Tom and I shot the shit. He talked about Joan’s new movie, and his charter fishing business with Roy and some of the more unusual characters who’d hired them. I kept things light on my end, lying about rehab and my marriage and how peachy everything was.

  Then Tom hit me for a loop.

  “Jack… someone has been mailing me videos. Snuff videos.”

  My elevated mood plummeted back to ground zero. I knew a thing or two about snuff videos. It wasn’t a topic I wanted to revisit.

  “An old case?”

  “You remember Walter Cissick?”

  I winced. “The Erinyes murders.”

  “I think it’s him. The first few vids were old. Sent on a pen drive, copied from videotapes. Clothing, hairstyles, looks like late 80s or early 90s. Six women. It’s all really ugly.”

  I could imagine, even though I didn’t want to. “Did you share with the Feebies, see if they can close some cold cases?”

  “Of course.”

  “Is the FBI any better in LA than in Chicago?”

  “No.”

  “You told Joan?”

  “Of course. She hired bodyguards. We’ve got guard dogs. Crazy expensive alarm system. We both carry. Look… there’s a reason I’m bringing this up. I know you’re retired…”

  “So are you,” I reminded him.

  “I know. But the last pen drive I was sent… Jack, it wasn’t a copy of an old video. It looks new. Shot digitally.”

  “How do you know it’s new?”

  “She had a tattoo of the word THIRSTY.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You know how English is always changing and evolving with new words and new meanings for old words?”

  “All too well,” I said, thinking of pluralspeak.

  “Thirsty means seeking approval. Only been used for the last year or two. It’s a new victim. He’s become active again.”

  Terrible, but not my problem. The café began to clear out, until I was the only one left.

  “I’m not a cop anymore, Tom. Neither are you.”

  “I know. All I want is to be able to discuss the case with you. Get your opinion. You’ve nailed more of these nutjobs than anyone. Your insight could help me—help the authorities—get this guy off the street.”

  “I can’t watch any of those videos.”

  “You won’t have to. I just want to schedule a time where I can fill you in on some details, pick your brain.”

  My first instinct was to say no. So was my second instinct. And third.

  But for some reason I said, “I’ll think about it.”

  “I appreciate it. I’m going to write down my notes, put together a file. Can I call you next week?”

  “Sure.”

  “Jack… it was great talking to you. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

  “Same here, Tom.”

  But when he hung up I didn’t feel well at all.

  At one point in my life, there was nothing more important to me than chasing monsters.

  Now it was the thing I wanted least.

  With a sour taste in my mouth, I scrolled through my address list and found someone who would be able to cheer me up.

  Val Ryker. Another work friend from days long gone.

  “The person you have called is unavailable. Please leave a message.”

  “Hey, Val. It’s Jack. Nothing important, just calling to catch up. Hope all is good with you and Grace and Lund. Gimme a call when you have some time.”

  I hung up, then stared at my phone for a minute, wondering if she was screening her calls and I’d get a quick callback.

  I didn’t get a quick callback.

  Who else was part of my squad? I knew a few spies. But, spies being spies, they weren’t easy to reach. I could try to touch base with Tequila Abernathy, but as Herb had mentioned, Tequila was a man of few words. A phone conversation with him wouldn’t amount to more than long silences and a few grunts.

  All my other friends and acquaintances were dead.

  Except for one.

  I scrolled through his last few texts.

  Jackie! Get in touch! Mucho important!

  You still crippled? Call me!!!

  CALL ME!!! DON’T MAKE ME YELL!!!!!!!!

  I have work for you! Pays cray-cray $$$$$$!

  Call back or I’m sending a dick pic!

  Then he sent a dick pic, but the dick he sent was ten inches long, and black. My cop instincts guessed it wasn’t his.

  I need you on this one! The money is INSANE!

  The next message was forty-seven lines of eggplant emojis.

  That was followed by a single middle finger emoji.

  Then came the latest.

  I’m in Hollywood and really need your help. Please. It’s not a serial killer. I swear.

  The thing that caught me in that last text was the lack of exclamation points.
I was used to Harry being rude and begging and yelling. Polite requests were odd.

  So I gave my old dirtbag friend a call.

  “We need to take the guns away from crazy people. But if you try to take my guns I’ll shoot your eyes out and shove your balls in the empty sockets while they’re still attached.”

  HARRY McGLADE

  “One must never place a loaded gun in a story if it isn’t going to go off. It’s wrong to make promises you don’t mean to keep.”

  ANTON CHEKOV

  GAFF

  I kept getting twinges as I laid out all of my purchases on my sleeping bag.

  Lit.

  No FOMO here.

  The Merican came in a case, with an instruction manual. I read it, cover to cover.

  The GOB drum magazines didn’t have a manual, but there were instructions online how to load. I put on some latex gloves and went to town. Took me half an hour to load all six, but I got faster as I went along. I also loaded the two mags that came with the gun, seventeen rounds each, and those were harder to load than the drums bcuz they didn’t have a lever to hold the spring back. By the time I finished, I’d cashed my thumb from pressing in rounds.

  Set.

  The giggle switch—#Paperweight—also had net instructions, and I removed the backplate on the slide and installed it with some help from my Swiss Army Knife. The switch allowed me to select between SEMI and AUTO by flipping it to the left or right.

  Pumped.

  The laser sight fit on the underside rail and could be tightened by hand. It came with batteries—the tiny silver circle kind that looked like aspirin—and @ first it didn’t work bcuz I put them in upside down. When I figured it out, and held up the Merican, aiming the green dot @ the wall, I was twinging and blinking so fast the world looked slow motion.

  Fire.

  The silencer-slash-compensator-slash-suppressor screwed on NP. Looked badass.

  Buffed.

  Valid.

  I used two wet wipes to clean the weapon all over, making sure I didn’t have any fingerprints on anything.

  Stoked.

  Flex.

  When I picked up the loaded, pimped-out Merican and held it out in front of me, it felt like electricity running through my whole body.