more years as a cop, in a strange way, had mellowed me. I’d seen a lot of people killed, many hurt. Retirement and a battle with cancer had brought dimension to my view. I didn’t have to accept the sentiment that others wanted me to see, I could decide for myself. I was looking at inanimate rock and metal, but the shapes had no particular value…unless I wanted them to. A monument was what you made of it. An empty gesture to some. Lasting motivation to others.
Each of Bloch’s murdered cops would go through a review process to make sure their circumstances merited their names being inscribed on the wall. The cases would have to be nominated and their department, in turn, would be contacted to provide details of how and when each cop had been killed, and whether their death had been in the line of duty. It was doubtful anyone would stand in the way of the nominations, but it was still a sad and sterile bureaucratic process meant to recognize someone who’d given their life for their job. The paperwork and phone calls and interviews would stick in the craw of anyone who was in charge of their buddy’s case, make them wonder why the honor wasn’t automatic.
I knew all this because I’d just gone through it. For nearly six months of the previous year, I’d shepherded my former partner’s case through the process, making sure that he got the recognition he was due. Killed while helping to save Amanda, he hadn’t even been working on an official investigation, which had made things difficult for the bureaucracy. But I’d made it my obsession for a good chunk of last year and part of this. If determination was all it took, his name would’ve been up a month after he’d been shot. The board had eventually seen it my way.
Cynicism had intruded at times. Not much of a trade, a life for some letters in stone. But the honor meant more to me than I’d thought. I’d been here just a few weeks ago—this time as a civilian—as the new names had been read off the list in a simple, horrible rhythm. I’d squeezed my hands bloodless as the names rolled over us, then walked away stiff-legged and barely under control when it ended. Not an empty gesture, after all.
And now I found myself standing in front of the slab where his name had been etched, looking at the single number and letter that indexed him, making him easier to find in the little white books at the entrances of the memorial. JIM KRANSKY. The last one on the block.
I rubbed my shoulder where I’d been shot by the same man who killed Jim. There shouldn’t be anything to regret. But the simple fact that I was alive and he wasn’t broke the logic. It seemed wrong. I stood there, looking at the wall. A soft breeze stirred the perfectly manicured trees. A siren wailed ten blocks away.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” I said out loud.
It was too late for him. Too late for Garcia. And Witherspoon, and Torres, and Okonjo. Too late for twenty thousand other cops. But there were others out there. It shouldn’t be too late for them. It wouldn’t.
I passed my hand over the broad mane of the lion as I walked out of the memorial and, this time, it didn’t hurt at all.
Chapter Eight
There were three of them, hanging on the edge of Fort Stanton Park. If my information was correct the tall black kid was Ruffy. He had on the hip-hop uniform of the day: baggy black jeans hanging below his ass, a black shirt, and a black Raiders team jacket—even though it was 80 degrees most days now. Slouching next to him was B-Dog, about a foot shorter but just as skinny. He had a Pittsburgh Pirates cap on backwards, the brim flat as an iron. Cornrows spilled down his back, tied together with a knotted Rasta bandana. The third kid could’ve just returned from a Redskins tryout. Six-three, maybe two-eighty. This would be Tyrone. A purple Lakers tank top let him show the world what steroids and four hours doing arm curls will do for you, along with the tattoos and
Each of Bloch’s murdered cops would go through a review process to make sure their circumstances merited their names being inscribed on the wall. The cases would have to be nominated and their department, in turn, would be contacted to provide details of how and when each cop had been killed, and whether their death had been in the line of duty. It was doubtful anyone would stand in the way of the nominations, but it was still a sad and sterile bureaucratic process meant to recognize someone who’d given their life for their job. The paperwork and phone calls and interviews would stick in the craw of anyone who was in charge of their buddy’s case, make them wonder why the honor wasn’t automatic.
I knew all this because I’d just gone through it. For nearly six months of the previous year, I’d shepherded my former partner’s case through the process, making sure that he got the recognition he was due. Killed while helping to save Amanda, he hadn’t even been working on an official investigation, which had made things difficult for the bureaucracy. But I’d made it my obsession for a good chunk of last year and part of this. If determination was all it took, his name would’ve been up a month after he’d been shot. The board had eventually seen it my way.
Cynicism had intruded at times. Not much of a trade, a life for some letters in stone. But the honor meant more to me than I’d thought. I’d been here just a few weeks ago—this time as a civilian—as the new names had been read off the list in a simple, horrible rhythm. I’d squeezed my hands bloodless as the names rolled over us, then walked away stiff-legged and barely under control when it ended. Not an empty gesture, after all.
And now I found myself standing in front of the slab where his name had been etched, looking at the single number and letter that indexed him, making him easier to find in the little white books at the entrances of the memorial. JIM KRANSKY. The last one on the block.
I rubbed my shoulder where I’d been shot by the same man who killed Jim. There shouldn’t be anything to regret. But the simple fact that I was alive and he wasn’t broke the logic. It seemed wrong. I stood there, looking at the wall. A soft breeze stirred the perfectly manicured trees. A siren wailed ten blocks away.
“I’m sorry, Jim,” I said out loud.
It was too late for him. Too late for Garcia. And Witherspoon, and Torres, and Okonjo. Too late for twenty thousand other cops. But there were others out there. It shouldn’t be too late for them. It wouldn’t.
I passed my hand over the broad mane of the lion as I walked out of the memorial and, this time, it didn’t hurt at all.
Chapter Eight
There were three of them, hanging on the edge of Fort Stanton Park. If my information was correct the tall black kid was Ruffy. He had on the hip-hop uniform of the day: baggy black jeans hanging below his ass, a black shirt, and a black Raiders team jacket—even though it was 80 degrees most days now. Slouching next to him was B-Dog, about a foot shorter but just as skinny. He had a Pittsburgh Pirates cap on backwards, the brim flat as an iron. Cornrows spilled down his back, tied together with a knotted Rasta bandana. The third kid could’ve just returned from a Redskins tryout. Six-three, maybe two-eighty. This would be Tyrone. A purple Lakers tank top let him show the world what steroids and four hours doing arm curls will do for you, along with the tattoos and
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