by John Straley
“They’re shooting people,” the girl whimpered.
“Where, honey?” George said in a gentle, friendly tone as if he were asking about her puppy dog.
The girl lifted her right arm and pointed up the hill toward the trailer park.
“Has anyone called the police?” Doggy asked as his eyes followed her gesture up the hill.
“They are there. They are shooting people,” the girl said. Now I noticed how her eyes were wide and blank with terror. She was trembling. She had a long smear of snot down her upper lip and across her cheek. George took out his handkerchief and first wiped his own hands and then wiped her face. Then he took her hand and we all walked to the side of the road.
Up the hill, two police cars sat outside the Sandses’ trailer. Their light bars flashed quick patterns of red and blue onto the mossy, sunken trailers in the court.
Doggy started up the hill on foot. He turned to me. “Take care of this girl and move my truck off the road.” He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t expect one.
I hadn’t driven a car in a long time. I started the engine and when I gave it gas, it lurched an inch forward and the motor died.
“You have to take the brake off,” the little girl sitting next to me said in the same zombie voice.
“Yes, of course,” I said. “Now don’t worry. I’m going to get you safely back to your folks.” The truck lunged in front of an ambulance, which yowled its siren at me.
“Sure,” the girl said. I was starting to not like her tone.
I made a left turn and lurched the powerful truck into a shallow ditch. The girl hopped out the passenger door and darted up a narrow gap between two trailers. Rain started pelting down like scrap hardware. A loose piece of roofing began beating in the wind, the sheeting screaming against the nails and flapping hard against a rotted two-by-two support.
I walked up toward the Sandses’ trailer. Officers were running back and forth. One had a camera. The chief was kneeling in front of a young policeman slumped sideways in the front seat of a patrol car and was putting the young officer’s service revolver in a plastic bag. The young man had his head buried in his hands and was breathing noisily. When the chief asked him a question, the young officer looked up and I could see a pained expression on his face that was both angry and remorseful.
Inside the narrow trailer, the damp mustard-colored carpet of the front room was littered with beer cans and magazines. Someone was taking flash photographs. Two cops were waving off the EMTs.
“No. No. No,” one cop kept saying. The other said in a shaky voice, “At this stage, preservation of the scene is the first priority. You have done all you can. She doesn’t need you guys now.”
Two EMTs stood by the police officers. Two more uniformed EMTs stood just inside the trailer door stripping off their latex gloves, putting them in waste bags from their kits. The waste bags were marked with red stickers that read: “biohazard, do not break seal once closed.” The gloves were smeared with bright red blood.
There was a brief exchange of angry voices that I couldn’t make out and a cop pushed one of the EMTs toward the door. As he did, they moved just enough so I could see a woman’s arm on the floor. The arm was pale and thin as if it were a tree branch stripped to the sapwood. Another gust hit the trailer and pellets of ice clattered on the roof and against the aluminum window frames. Along the edges of the window frames was a film of mold, and water stains swirled down the thin paneling. The mustard carpet was clotted with dark blood and my stomach churned. The room smelled like a dirty butcher shop.
I stepped to the side and saw Patricia Ewers’s body bathed in the unforgiving light of a fluorescent lamp that had tipped off the end table near the couch. The shade was cockeyed on the floor and threw glaring light directly on her face. Her eyes, which had been blue in life, now seemed to be a washed-out gray. She was still as a mountain peak. There was a large pulpy wound in the middle of her chest, and the bloodstain crawled slowly through the dirty carpet toward the tip of my leather boot.
A large hand clamped around my biceps.
“What the hell are you doing in my scene?” A policeman named Pomfret whirled me around. I was caught in the glare of his pale face.
“I asked you something simple, Younger. What are you doing contaminating my scene?”
George Doggy stepped out of the back room. “He’s with me. We were just driving by.”
Pomfret let go of my arm. Doggy was like Moses to these guys.
Doggy pointed. “Cecil, walk all the way around there. Lieutenant Pomfret doesn’t need your shoe prints anywhere on the scene. But come back here a second, will ya?” Pomfret’s mouth was open, and I could tell he was hurt that George Doggy had not chosen to speak to him more directly. Pomfret turned and went back to the door of the trailer, and I did as Doggy asked.
Cops were bringing in more lights. The shadows curled around Patricia’s unmoving features. Tucked under her right elbow was a shiny semiautomatic pistol. Her hand was cocked awkwardly behind her. In the harsh light I could see that she had a chipped tooth. I couldn’t remember if it had been chipped before or not. The roof leaked and a fat drop of rust-colored water fell from the stained ceiling tiles. The drop fell onto Patricia’s opened gray eye.
The hallway of the trailer was dark and narrow. I could smell the powder from the gun blast still hanging there. Doggy motioned with his chin toward a room at the end of the hall, and I followed behind him without speaking.
The room’s back window was broken out, with only a few glass shards inside on the sill. The room was a mess of papers and ammunition. Books and magazines were flung open on the carpet. On one page, a blonde woman lounged on top of a red car hood. She smiled knowingly up into the overturned room. There were two automatic pistols on the floor and an upended card table in the middle of the room.
“Drugs,” George said. “You can bet on that.” In the right-hand corner was a small floor safe with the door open wide. In the back of the safe sat a thin photo album. The shelves of the safe were scattered on the floor.
“I’m sure of it, Cecil. They were counting out back here. There was a fight and the police came. They sent Mrs. Ewers up front. I don’t know if they gave her the gun or if it was her own idea. She must have gotten excited and didn’t drop it in time and that dumb kid shot her.” George pointed his index finger at his own chest. “Shot Mrs. Ewers right in the center of mass just like they taught him a couple of months ago at the academy.” There was no sorrow in his tone of voice. Particularly when he used the words “Mrs. Ewers.”
Doggy reached down to pick up the photo album and I heard the unmistakable clicking of a slide pulling a cartridge into the chamber of a cheaply made automatic weapon.
“Don’t look at those things,” a shaky voice called out from behind us.
I turned and saw Sean Sands holding a 9mm automatic pistol, the kind that looks like it’s made of plumbing supplies and then painted a sinister black.
“Put those things down. I don’t want you looking at them. Get out of here or I’ll shoot you. I really, really mean it. I will shoot you, you know. I don’t care,” Sean said, and his voice rose as if he were pleading. Behind his shoulder I could see Pomfret. His eyes were questioning and his hand was moving toward his belt.
“I won’t look at those pictures, Sean. I promise you I won’t. Just . . . let’s talk about this. Can we go into your room? We have to get out of this hall. I’m telling you the truth.”
My voice was a half step high and straining with fake assurance. George was nodding ever so slightly, motioning Pomfret to back up and give him some room.
Sean eased his shoulder against the flimsy door to his own room and stepped in, never letting his aim wander from the center of my chest. The opening at the mouth of the barrel seemed about the diameter of a pencil. I waved Pomfret off and stood directly in front
of George. I knew Pomfret wanted to shoot Sean, but it was very tight and if Sean ducked or Pomfret missed, he might shoot me or, worse for Pomfret’s career, he might shoot Doggy. I also knew they didn’t want me to go into the room with Sean because that would be a classic hostage situation and the protocol for that is long and complex and, frankly, Pomfret wouldn’t have the patience for it.
But they let me go. Maybe they hoped Sean would just shoot me and have done with it and then they could ventilate the entire trailer and save everybody a lot of time and legal fees.
The room was unexpectedly sparse. A military-style cot with a gray blanket neatly tucked in on three sides was against the wall under the window. There was a small boom box, a gun rack, a dresser, and topographical maps pinned to the wall at the foot of the bed.
“What’s in that photo album, Sean?” I said with as much casual-ness as I could muster.
“You hadn’t oughta look at those things,” Sean said softly.
“I swear to God I won’t, Sean, but . . .”
I stopped. I wanted Sean to ask me something. I wanted to get him conversing.
“But what?” the boy finally said.
“The cops might be looking at them right now.”
A look of terror crossed his face. I was standing in front of the door. He motioned violently for me to move, but the space was too tight; there was no way for him to get to the door without putting himself within my reach.
The boy was crying now. “They better not. They sure better not look at those pictures, or . . . brother . . . I don’t know . . . they just better not.” His hands were shaking and great slicks of tears ran down his puffy cheeks. His index finger was through the trigger guard and was curved around the trigger. He had child’s fingers, small chubby things that didn’t show their knuckles.
“Let me get them back before they look at them, okay?” I asked. Sean nodded in agreement as he tried to suck back his tears.
I rapped on the flimsy door. “George,” I said loudly. “George, Sean is doing okay in here. He just wants that photo album, and he doesn’t want anyone looking at it.”
“I understand that, Cecil,” George said in a calm and almost breezy voice just on the other side of the door. “Sean, my name’s George. You know, I think I’ve met you before. I know I’ve seen you around town. Well, anyway, I’ve got the album right here with me, Sean. I’ve wrapped evidence tape around it. You’ll see no one’s looked at it. Sean, can you hear me okay? No one’s looked at it.”
Sean was crying harder now and his puffy face contorted into a blotchy grimace. His cheeks were red and the snot running down his lips was mingling with the tears, but he did not loosen his grip on the 9mm, and his finger was still inside the trigger guard.
Doggy spoke matter-of-factly. “This album is obviously private property. The courts wouldn’t allow us to look at it without your permission. It’s yours. All yours. Now, we have all the time in the world for this. We are in no rush. But I can hand this album in to you if you like.”
Sean nodded vigorously.
I cleared my throat. “Sean said he would like you to hand it in.”
“All right. That’s great. That’s great, Sean. Like I said, we’ve got all the time you want. But I have to ask you to do something for me, Sean. Just open the door and let Cecil out of there and I’ll hand the book in. It’s really easy. You’re a good brave kid. I’ve heard all about you from the guys at the gun range and the other officers. You’re a good kid, and this will all be taken care of just as easy as pie as soon as you let Cecil come out of the room.”
“Kevin. Where’s my brother Kevin?” Sean said it loudly.
Doggy didn’t answer for a moment. I could hear heavy footfall, leather utility belts creaking, and keys jangling on the other side of the door. Doggy cleared his throat. “Kevin’s outside. He said he wants you to come out.”
“You better hand me that book. You had better or . . . or . . . I don’t know what.” Sean’s voice was broken, almost squealing. He was a scared child holding an automatic weapon and he sounded like one.
“Okay, Sean. I understand. I do.”
I heard more heavy footfall. Doggy kept talking. “I know these are important and, like I said, no one has looked at them. I’ve got tape all around your photo album, so when you see your album it’ll look a little different, but that’s just to show that no one has looked at it. Okay . . . Sean?”
Sean nodded. I heard Velcro straps being pulled apart and a muffled clicking on the other side of the door.
“Sean,” Doggy said, softer now as if he were pressing his head against the door and speaking just to him. “Sean, it’s going to be fine. We’ll do this. Just have Cecil stand with his back to the door and open it very slowly. That way we’ll have no surprises. I’ll just hand the photo album in to you. Okay now, Sean?”
Sean nodded his head. “Yes,” I said. I put my back against the door and reached my left hand across and put my hand on the knob. I heard a tensing of leather on the other side of the door. I heard the slightest muffled clatter of a shotgun shell being chambered. Sean did not hear these things. He had no idea what was about to happen to him, but I did.
I took my hand off the knob and yelled out, “George, I’m not doing this!” And the door splintered off its hinges. I was knocked down and pressed under the weight of the door and the bodies lying on top of it. I heard screaming, men’s voices shouting, “Down! Down! Down!” Two shotgun blasts exploded in the room. The breath was being squeezed out of me by the two large officers on top of me, but I could still smell the powder from the shotguns. There was no rattle of 9mm fire. Sean was moaning from on top of his bed in the corner.
Men were shouting, “Clear! Clear! Clear!” and I started screaming, “Get the fuck off of me!”
Pomfret rolled off the splintered door. He was in full battle gear and behind him was a thin cop holding a Plexiglas shield. Two officers with flak jackets and riot helmets and what looked like hockey pads on their legs were standing over Sean’s body with shotgun muzzles to his throat. George Doggy grabbed me by the arm and helped me stand up.
I started in on him before I had my balance.
“What the fuck are you doing, George? You kill a child after . . . what? . . . three minutes of talking to him? You and the cavalry here just blow the kid away? What happened to finesse? What happened to your legendary goddamn skill at talking people out of everything?”
Doggy looked at me with a pitying expression but said nothing. I stopped my tirade and stood heaving my breath in and out of my chest. Then Doggy held a small cloth sack up in front of my face.
“Beanbags, Cecil. They shot him with beanbags. He’ll be sore as hell, but he’s not bleeding a drop. Would you prefer to have him shred you up with that popgun of his or would you rather we take him down with a couple of beanbags?”
I hate being indignant, but stupid and indignant is really troubling to me. But not enough to stop acting that way.
“Listen, George, I don’t care if you took him out with lemon cream pies. I was giving you some not-so-subtle messages that the time was not right, and I was the hostage, for Christ’s sake.”
“That’s right, Cecil.” George Doggy smiled at me and put his giant callused hands on my shoulders as he moved me out of the way. “You were a hostage.”
Doggy pushed me down the hall and the same EMTs who had been kept out before now pushed their way down the hall, full of new importance at being on a police scene and having a live person to work on.
Doggy had the photo album under his arm. It was in fact wrapped in brittle red evidence tape.
“What in the hell is in that photo book?” I asked, as we again walked gingerly around the body of Patricia Ewers, who looked even more lonely and remote now that everyone was walking past her toward the back bedroom.
“The heck if I know,” Doggy muttered
, as his eyes lingered on the dead woman’s face for a moment. “I didn’t look. I told the kid that.”
The squall had passed, and the hail and rain had moved up the valley behind town. The blackness outside would have been complete except that every emergency vehicle in Sitka’s history seemed to be lined up along the lane of this trailer court. Lights sputtered color everywhere, and there was the sizzle of police radios breaking the air. Two women in housecoats stood on the edge of the sea of cops. The women had their arms draped over the shoulders of boys in sweatpants and dirty T-shirts. The boys were maybe six years old and were bouncing up and down trying to get a view of a dead body or maybe of someone getting shot. One kid wore a Seattle Mariners shirt and the other’s featured a human skull with snake heads squeezing out of the eye sockets. The women held the kids back, but were also standing on their tiptoes, trying to get a look at something dramatic.
A muscular young white man was bent over the hood of one of the patrol units. He was handcuffed and swearing, banging his chin on the hood and kicking at the tires with the pointy tips of his gray cowboy boots. George Doggy walked over to him.
The large police officer holding Kevin Sands down on the hood was not responding to the stream of invective coming from Kevin’s mouth. Doggy gestured for the cop to let him up.
“You killed him, you son of a bitch. You killed him. I’m going to saw your fucking head off and . . .” Doggy held his hand up in front of Kevin’s face, and the handcuffed man stopped in mid-death threat.
“They didn’t kill him. I kept them from killing him. You understand me? Keep your foul mouth shut,” George said, with more ice in his voice than I had ever heard there before. Gone was the breezy man of power and here was one thug speaking to another.
Behind him, the EMTs began carrying a stretcher down the stairs. On it, Sean was pale and his eyes were closed. A murmur went up from the trailer-court crowd, which was growing larger as more people came off their porches.