man’s strange behavior than he initially had suspected.
The man loped int o the street coming toward him.
Kyle felt suddenly threatened. “Hold it right there, sir. Show me your hands.”
The man continued forward, slowly raising his arms.
“Stop!” Kyle assessed the threat and pulled his pepper spray. If he has a gun he would have used it by now, he thought. I don’t want to shoot an unarmed drunk. Especially not one with a handicap. “I said hold it! Stop right there. This is your final warning.”
But the man kept coming.
Kyle had no choice. He raised his pepper spray and shot an ample stream into the man’s face. It had no effect at all. The man didn’t even flinch. He just kept plodding forward, arms raised, fingers curled like arthritic claws.
Alarm bells went off in the deputy’s head. He flashed back to the night an interrupted burglar tried to stick him in the heart with a twelve-inch butcher knife. The same quivering sense of urgency nudged him into action. He took two steps back and drew his baton.
This fucker’s on pcp or something.
Suddenly the man made his move, throwing himself at the deputy. Kyle finally saw his ghastly face, in the fleeting moment before he swung his baton. He smashed his attacker’s head with more force than he needed to stop him. He wasn’t sure why he overreacted as he did, but felt relieved as the man crumbled to the ground.
Kyle stood quietly for a minute, waiting for his racing heartbeat to slow. The man didn’t move. Kyle rolled him onto his back and checked his pulse. Nothing.
Raising his flashlight he studied the man’s face. Several open sores covered his cheeks, his chin and his forehead. Looking closer, Kyle realized they were gaping wounds. Big chunks of flesh were missing, revealing the bone underneath. Jesus. They look like bite marks. Human bite marks.
The man’s gums were receded, his crooked teeth stained a rusty gray. Meth head, Kyle figured. He’s lucky he has any teeth left at all in that ugly mug of his. Not that it matters now.
He gave the man’s chest a few perfunctory pumps, a token attempt to restart his heart. Then he climbed into his cruiser and picked up the radio. “E5 reporting. Requesting EMT assistance. Subject down as a result of altercation, also has prior injuries, possibly drug related. Subject not breathing. No response to CPR. I’m on Delaware Road, approximately two hundred yards north of 247.”
“Roger that,” came the reply. “Emergency services notified. ETA approximately five minutes. Continue resuscitation efforts until they arrive.”
“Roger, ten four.”
Resuscitate? Yeah, I’ll get right on that. The world can’t afford to lose another scumbag.
Despite Jurgensen’s cynicism, he made an honest if cursory effort to revive the dead man, pumping his chest for two solid minutes before giving up. Well I tried. Maybe the EMTs can jumpstart him with their paddles. They don’t pay me enough to give him mouth to mouth. He smells like death warmed over.
With the imminent threat over, a new concern came over him. What if this joker’s related to some local hotshot? This could come back to bite me on the ass. He knew the odds were slim that the drug-addled vagrant was the darling son of some local politician, but you never knew these days. Plenty of rich kids got hooked on drugs. Even more likely, he might come from a family of criminal riffraff, and Kyle would lose sleep worrying about violent retribution. Christ, he might even be mobbed up.
He walked quickly through the fog to the edge of the nearest driveway. Sweeping the ground with his flashlight he found what he’d hoped for—a row of whitewashed cobblestones marking the sides of the driveway. He picked one up with his gloved hand and carried it to the dead man. Kneeling beside him, he pressed the heavy stone against the man’s open fingers to create possible prints, then dropped it near the man’s hand. Nobody can blame me for defending myself
The man loped int o the street coming toward him.
Kyle felt suddenly threatened. “Hold it right there, sir. Show me your hands.”
The man continued forward, slowly raising his arms.
“Stop!” Kyle assessed the threat and pulled his pepper spray. If he has a gun he would have used it by now, he thought. I don’t want to shoot an unarmed drunk. Especially not one with a handicap. “I said hold it! Stop right there. This is your final warning.”
But the man kept coming.
Kyle had no choice. He raised his pepper spray and shot an ample stream into the man’s face. It had no effect at all. The man didn’t even flinch. He just kept plodding forward, arms raised, fingers curled like arthritic claws.
Alarm bells went off in the deputy’s head. He flashed back to the night an interrupted burglar tried to stick him in the heart with a twelve-inch butcher knife. The same quivering sense of urgency nudged him into action. He took two steps back and drew his baton.
This fucker’s on pcp or something.
Suddenly the man made his move, throwing himself at the deputy. Kyle finally saw his ghastly face, in the fleeting moment before he swung his baton. He smashed his attacker’s head with more force than he needed to stop him. He wasn’t sure why he overreacted as he did, but felt relieved as the man crumbled to the ground.
Kyle stood quietly for a minute, waiting for his racing heartbeat to slow. The man didn’t move. Kyle rolled him onto his back and checked his pulse. Nothing.
Raising his flashlight he studied the man’s face. Several open sores covered his cheeks, his chin and his forehead. Looking closer, Kyle realized they were gaping wounds. Big chunks of flesh were missing, revealing the bone underneath. Jesus. They look like bite marks. Human bite marks.
The man’s gums were receded, his crooked teeth stained a rusty gray. Meth head, Kyle figured. He’s lucky he has any teeth left at all in that ugly mug of his. Not that it matters now.
He gave the man’s chest a few perfunctory pumps, a token attempt to restart his heart. Then he climbed into his cruiser and picked up the radio. “E5 reporting. Requesting EMT assistance. Subject down as a result of altercation, also has prior injuries, possibly drug related. Subject not breathing. No response to CPR. I’m on Delaware Road, approximately two hundred yards north of 247.”
“Roger that,” came the reply. “Emergency services notified. ETA approximately five minutes. Continue resuscitation efforts until they arrive.”
“Roger, ten four.”
Resuscitate? Yeah, I’ll get right on that. The world can’t afford to lose another scumbag.
Despite Jurgensen’s cynicism, he made an honest if cursory effort to revive the dead man, pumping his chest for two solid minutes before giving up. Well I tried. Maybe the EMTs can jumpstart him with their paddles. They don’t pay me enough to give him mouth to mouth. He smells like death warmed over.
With the imminent threat over, a new concern came over him. What if this joker’s related to some local hotshot? This could come back to bite me on the ass. He knew the odds were slim that the drug-addled vagrant was the darling son of some local politician, but you never knew these days. Plenty of rich kids got hooked on drugs. Even more likely, he might come from a family of criminal riffraff, and Kyle would lose sleep worrying about violent retribution. Christ, he might even be mobbed up.
He walked quickly through the fog to the edge of the nearest driveway. Sweeping the ground with his flashlight he found what he’d hoped for—a row of whitewashed cobblestones marking the sides of the driveway. He picked one up with his gloved hand and carried it to the dead man. Kneeling beside him, he pressed the heavy stone against the man’s open fingers to create possible prints, then dropped it near the man’s hand. Nobody can blame me for defending myself
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