Shoot

by Kieran Crowley

“Yeah.”

  After a few more questions, they called over a surgically gloved CSU officer from NYPD, a thin woman in a lab coat, who used a clear adhesive tape on the back of my hands, like a lint brush. Then she also used the sticky tape on my shirt before putting it into a plastic bag, which she labeled with my name and date of birth.

  “Have you fired a weapon today, sir?” she asked me.

  “No. Not today.”

  She also wrote that down, asked me to sign a label, and gave me a numbered and dated receipt.

  “Give this to your defense lawyer,” she told me, with a smile.

  38

  My phone buzzed with emails. I left the meeting room and leaned against the hallway wall. My office was sending me fresh website front pages and also demands for more news.

  Our new webline was “DEAD HEAT: Ballots or Bullets?” My story was updated with delegates of the Grand Old Party voting Chesterfield the temporary, honorary nominee: “The GOP has voted a dead man as their standard-bearer in the upcoming presidential election. The move is allegedly a temporary honor but the struggle within the party, which appears to have become an actual shooting war, threatens to detonate the convention before a living candidate can be voted on.”

  Our competition, the New York Mail, called events “ELEPHANT WAR,” and, as usual, had its own unique approach to the crisis: “HEADLESS PARTY TAPS LIFELESS BODY. Panicked GOP delegates continue to vote for a dead man and failed policies, rather than back viable candidates, such as Governor Dodge—who can take the fight to the enemy in November.”

  “Siri, would a dead man make a good president?” I asked my phone.

  “Hmm,” Siri responded, “let me think. I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

  “Siri, I didn’t mean you should kill somebody.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “Sorry.”

  This was getting weird because I didn’t want Siri to think ill of me or to hurt her feelings.

  “Siri, don’t be sorry.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You have no reason to be sorry, Siri.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, Siri, unless you’re making a joke. Unless you’re smarter than me?”

  “Who, me?”

  I was wondering what to say to her next, when Izzy and Phil told me things were getting hairy on the convention floor and we should head there.

  “We’ll interview this governor woman and the blogger guy, if you want to tag along,” Izzy said in the elevator.

  “Okay.”

  “Were you talking to your phone?” Izzy asked me.

  “You talk to dead people,” I pointed out. “At least Siri answers me.”

  “You’re both nuts,” Phil observed.

  The convention floor, an echoing vault ten stories high, was a huge, red-white-and-blue zoo—populated by about 5,000 costumed delegates, separated into screaming armed camps. Many of the men and women, ranging from sitting congressmen to aspiring dog catchers, were leveling their assault rifles at each other and cursing. TV crews, scrambling to cover the chaos, scurried from one confrontation to another. Some intrepid reporters were wearing bulletproof vests and combat helmets. Several people with delegate ID cards were exiting the floor. They were all rolling carry-on travel bags and hard rifle cases. One told us that about twenty per cent of the delegates had sided with Governor Miranda Dodge and her Tea Party stalwarts, who were demanding Dodge get the nomination.

  “Where are you going?” I asked one man.

  “Home,” he said, and headed for the exit.

  “Don’t you have to nominate somebody for president?” I shouted after him.

  “Some gunfighters. Fucking pussies are afraid of being shot,” Phil sniffed.

  “Aren’t you?” Izzy asked him.

  “Yeah, but this isn’t my convention.”

  At the front, an elevated stage featured a podium and a large CHESTERFIELD FOR AMERICA banner. Above that, a mammoth vertical screen pleaded: PLEASE COME TO ORDER. I spotted Senator Carroll and Tiffany—plus their respective staffs—behind the podium, locked in intense argument.

  “Holy shit!” Phil said.

  “You live long enough, you see everything,” Izzy grinned.

  “I used to think politics was boring,” I told them.

  “Let’s get down there,” Izzy ordered.

  Onstage, I pulled Tiffany away from her discussions with Carroll and asked her what was happening.

  “See for yourself, Shepherd. Delegates are running away, not even waiting to do their job,” she snarled. “Carroll and Dodge both want the top spot and have placed their names in nomination. Carroll offered Dodge the vice presidency but she refused. Now Carroll wants to put it to a straight up or down vote between the two of them. But Dodge knows she will lose that contest, so she has threatened to leave the party with her people unless she gets her own, personal, unopposed vote first.”

  “Why does Dodge want a first ballot vote alone if she doesn’t have the votes to win?” I wondered.

  “We don’t know,” Tiffany said. “We don’t trust her. She acts like she has something up her sleeve. She might have proxies from fleeing delegates.”

  “Don’t give her her own ballot,” I warned. “Maybe that’s part of a plan that included the killings.”

  “I agree,” she said. “We’re deadlocked and every minute, another coward turns tail and runs for home.”

  “Who’s leaving?” Izzy asked. “Your people or hers?”

  “Both. Especially our people. No one feels safe. The longer this goes on, the closer we get to losing a quorum— and then we won’t be able to do anything. A dead man will be our candidate.”

  “Voters have elected dead men before,” Phil pointed out.

  “True, but never for president,” Tiffany agreed. “At this point, that may be our best option. If Percy’s ghost wins in November, the Electoral College will appoint a president. It’s better than having Dodge in office.”

  “That’s just dumb-ass stupid,” Izzy said.

  “I’m the head of the Rules Committee. I’m open to suggestion,” Tiffany said.

  “Dodge says her crew will quit the party if she doesn’t get her way?” I asked.

  “Yes, then we won’t even have a quorum, a minimum needed to take action.”

  “Call her bluff,” I suggested. “Tell Dodge to fuck off.”

  “What?” Tiffany shouted.

  A network camera crew had noticed our lively discussion and moved closer, pointing the lens at Tiffany. She grabbed my elbow and moved us away from the newsies until we were alone.

  “I have to get back,” Tiffany told me. “I’ll see what Carroll thinks.”

  “So, you’re with her now?” I asked Tiffany.

  “Maybe,” she sighed, before turning and striding away.

  “We better interview this moose killer lady and that blogger before they secede or they all shoot each other or whatever,” Izzy said.

  “I second the motion,” I agreed.

  “Let me guess,” Phil said. “You were a Student Council government nerd in high school?”

  “No. I learned dirty politics at the Shura Council in Khost.”

  “The what in where?” Izzy laughed.

  “Ask your phone,” Phil told him.

  39

  Former Governor of Alaska Miranda Dodge, dressed in a form-fitting red dress—which accentuated her prominent breasts—was on the convention floor, surrounded by a loyal mob of Tea Baggers, rifles at the ready. She was giving a speech to several TV cameras, whose lights made her matching necklace and earrings—in the shape of polar bears—sparkle. Behind her, her skulking husband Fred Dodge was whispering key words to her, which then came out of her mouth as mangled, disjointed non-sentences.

  “Did us a favor…” Fred murmured.

  “Whoever exercised their Second Amendment Measures against these RINOs, these Republicans In Name Only, may or may not have committed a crime but they sure did America a favor—taking actio
n against socialist tyranny is what I’m talkin’ about!” Dodge declared loudly, with a sexy wink.

  There was a smattering of applause from her supporters and she raised her black assault rifle—which had a fancy rhinestone US flag on the stock—over her head, pumping it like a hockey player after scoring a goal. Her speech was oddly slurred, as if she was stoned.

  “We the people…” Fred whispered.

  “Now, We the People of this great land of patriotism for each other have the opportunity to really act in a way that we all can praise God now that we are on the right path for all real Americans, all the precious children, ready to fire against godless perversion…”

  “So, you called on people to shoot Speaker Chesterfield and now you’re celebrating that shooting?” one of the reporters asked.

  “Divine will…”

  “Our prayers are for the victims and their families but divine will is what will be seen in the future as having happened now,” Dodge said. “God, not me, has decreed that these things have happened and the Lord does not make mistakes, which is what people make because they are ‘We the People’…”

  “The hour of freedom…”

  “The hour of freedom is coming.” She tossed her shiny chestnut brown hair. “Shoot, this election is about freedom and God wants us to be real free and clear about our choices, which we have done and will do on election day. Just ask God in your heart and he will for sure guide your hand.”

  “So, are you saying the murders of five members of Congress was a good thing and was ordained by God and you should be nominated?” a confused TV reporter asked.

  “Murder not good but…”

  “Murder is not good, of course, not for you to put words into my mouth, that’s also not good to trick the American People with lamestream media mumbo-jumbo, and we have no control over that and must do what he ordains because we have free will because we are a free people who must carry on and make the best of a bad situation and make no mistake that we will make the best that it can be and will be made, you betcha.”

  “Umm… okay, thanks,” another reporter said, turning away.

  “What a putz,” Izzy muttered. “El tonel vacio mete mas ruido.”

  “What?” I asked him.

  “An empty cask makes the most noise,” Izzy translated.

  Next to Dodge, waiting his turn, was Clayton Littleton, obviously sprung on bail. We worked our way through the crowd of delegates until we got to the inner ring, with half a dozen men holding their rifles at port arms across their chests.

  Izzy held his gold badge up and called out to Dodge.

  “NYPD, ma’am. We need a few moments of your time, please.”

  The gunman closest to Izzy swung his barrel toward him. Phil closed the distance until he was on Izzy’s left, almost touching the guy.

  “Ease your finger off that trigger, pal,” the taller Phil said clearly and calmly. “You’re a daisy if you do.”

  The rifleman opened his mouth to speak but his chin fell when he looked down at Phil’s nine-millimeter Beretta, which was inches from his gut.

  “Now, please, sir,” Phil told him. “We don’t want any mishaps.”

  “Thank you for your help,” Phil told him, elbowing him aside with a smile.

  Izzy repeated his spiel to Dodge and her husband, explaining they were investigating the homicides.

  “Of course, we fully support law enforcement,” Dodge told him. “They are our first line of defense.”

  “That’s great,” Izzy said. “We just need you and your friend Mr. Littleton to cooperate in our investigation, as all of your other colleagues are doing.”

  “What can we help you with, officer?” Fred Dodge asked, trying to get in between Izzy and his wife.

  “Where were you between nine last night and nine this morning?” Izzy asked, standing his ground.

  “In my room, with my husband and my family,” she said.

  “Great,” Izzy said. “We just need a quick test on your hands and clothing and also on that rifle you have and we can let you get back to your convention.”

  “What?” Littleton piped up, outraged.

  “You friggin’ kidding me?” Fred Dodge shouted. “The government has finally come for our guns!”

  “I don’t want to keep your weapons,” Izzy explained. “We just have to test for gunshot residue and ballistics.”

  “I said it would happen and here it is!” the former governor declared in a loud voice, causing the TV crews to scurry back to her. “The mongrel Moslem administration has come for our god-given guns.”

  “Lady, I’m investigating five murders and we are asking everyone who…”

  “The time has come!” Littleton shouted, not to be upstaged. “First gun control and now this!”

  I noticed Phil still had his piece out, swiveling it around, watching the gunmen, especially their hands. The cameras were back, the lights on. Izzy had his friendliest smile on, his most easygoing tone.

  “Mrs. Dodge, many of the other delegates have already agreed to help us solve these terrible murders, by eliminating all of you good people,” he said. “But you can refuse to speak to us, that’s your right. It’s cool, because, hey, anything you tell us can be used if there is a trial. You could get a lawyer. I know they’re expensive, so, if you like, we could ask a judge to get a free one for you. Do you understand that?” Izzy handed her a white card.

  “Umm… sure, I guess… but…”

  “Did you just read my wife her rights?” Fred asked, dumbfounded.

  “I don’t have to read them. I know them by heart. Mrs. Dodge, now that you understand your rights, are you willing to speak to us and to cooperate?”

  “How dare you?” Fred asked. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “NYPD. And you’re in my city. Well, Mrs. Dodge? Will you speak to us and submit to testing?”

  “No way!” Fred shouted.

  “I didn’t commit any crime,” the bejeweled politician protested. “I didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Mandy!” Her husband shouted. He was clearly aware that she had just given the media a new lead story.

  “Okay, that’s fine,” Izzy told her. “We’ll be in touch. Soon. Have a nice day. How about you, Mr. Littleton? Are you willing to speak with us and submit to—”

  “I will never submit to the Zionist Occupation Government and their jack-booted thugs,” Littleton announced.

  “You’re the one wearing combat boots, pal,” Phil said. “These are cop Oxfords. Aren’t we your first line of defense anymore?”

  “So, to be clear, ma’am,” Izzy said for the cameras, “you are refusing to cooperate in this homicide investigation.”

  “That’s right, I will never surrender my guns,” Mrs. Dodge added, recovering.

  “Cold, dead…”

  “You can have my gun,” she shouted dramatically, directly at Izzy, with an exaggerated hair flip, “When you pry it from my cold, dead hands!”

  She tried to stare Izzy down. He glared calmly back at her until the applause ended.

  “Hold on,” Izzy told Dodge. “I’m thinking.”

  40

  Miranda Dodge blinked but Izzy didn’t. Her husband pulled her away and the convention resumed around us. Tiffany was at the podium, and informed Dodge that her motion to have her own nomination ballot was denied. Dodge’s supporters booed, hooted and hollered for ten minutes, waving DODGE FOR PRESIDENT signs, before running out of steam. Dodge stepped to a microphone stand at her native Alaska delegation area and demanded to be recognized.

  “The chair is not recognizing delegates at this time,” Tiffany announced. “We will proceed with the vote on the nomination of Senator Katharine Carroll for President of the United States. Please come to order for the calling of the role.”

  “NO!” Dodge protested. “You don’t have enough votes! Without us, you won’t even have a quorum! You won’t have a candidate—you won’t be able to do anything. I want my vote first or we walk!”r />
  “Again, the chair is not recognizing delegates until after the vote.”

  “That’s it! We’re leaving!”

  “Is the delegate from Alaska informing the chair that she and her pledged delegates are resigning from this convention, under rule 22 point 9, section F?”

  “Shoot yeah! We resign, we secede!”

  Her crew went wild, making it difficult to hear Tiffany at the podium.

  “Very well, the chair acknowledges your irrevocable resignations and wishes the delegates the best of luck.”

  Dodge and her large block of Tea Party delegates swarmed for the main exit, pumping her signs, chanting her name. She led the exodus, waving and smiling for the camera crews, who went with them. It took another ten minutes for them all to exit and gather in a tight crowd in the main gallery outside where a podium had already been set up for her. Dodge gave TV interviews about her move, explaining that she had stopped the convention, which could not achieve a seventy-five per cent quorum needed for any action. Izzy, Phil and I followed from a distance and watched from the exit arch. Tiffany began quickly calling the names of the states, asking how many in each delegation voted for Carroll.

  “Madam Chairwoman, the great state of Alabama is proud to cast its six remaining delegate votes for Katharine Carroll for President of the United States!”

  Tiffany continued at a very fast pace, alphabetically polling the states. Some seemed to have a lot of remaining votes; Alaska did not answer when called. Some state delegations had only a few left but all the votes cast were for Carroll. We strolled over to the edge of Dodge’s mob to listen to her interviews.

  “So you control the convention because you control the quorum?” a reporter asked her.

  Dodge’s husband leaned toward her but we couldn’t hear his prompt.

  “That’s correct, Diana, it’s all about Parliamenting Procedure and vote counting,” Dodge responded, obviously trying to sound brainy.

  “Perhaps you can explain to me what rule 22 point 9, section F is?”

  Dodge’s eyes bugged, as if someone had squeezed her ass. She obviously had no clue. She tilted an ear toward her husband and then dodged the question.