Detective D. Case by Neal Goldy Page A

key. D. didn’t know if the key he found was the
same one that opened and locked the handcuffs, but he took it anyway. He took
all of them, in fact, every key he found until no more could fit inside his
coat and pants pockets. The handcuffs were stuffed in his belt, and D.
proceeded to the door. Were they being attacked? Bullet holes on the door
weren’t enough to conclude it. As he got closer to the savage holes watching
like dead eyes, he wondered where Chief Advert was. He said he was getting
coffee and a smoke . . . was it the truth? Did he have officers and guards sent
to kill him? Everything blurred together into one, mysterious conjugation.
              “D.!” someone cried. It didn’t sound like the
chief. “Get out or we’ll come in!”
              “Come in, then!”
              No response from the other side. D. reached for
the doorknob, but another gunshot blared.
              D. crumpled to the ground, shivering in fetus
position. He breathed hard like a fish out of water. When getting to his feet,
he held his pistol up while he shinnied to the far right wall next to the door.
              Another gunshot, this one louder than the
previous. Some metal broke off (maybe the doorknob?) and out of shot a man
cursed. D. heard the gun being reloaded and readied his stance.
              His heart panicked. “Don’t come in!”
              “Playing games, are you? Tease me into coming in
only to warn me not to? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
              D. refused to speak. The man from the other side
shot and the doorknob flew off. For some reason, wires began pulling out,
indented like a cliffhanger. His eyes flicked to the door. No sudden movement
or gunfire came after that, and everything fell into a hushed silence.
              “Tell
me your name!” D. demanded.
              .
. .
    “Speak or I’ll fire!” He pushed the door open just a teeny
bit with the barrel of his pistol.
    . .
.
    D. fired. He didn’t
give a second warning, and his feet blew off the ground. Just for a few seconds
he flew in weightless motion. When the moment ended, he fell hard on his back.
He swore that if he couldn’t get back up, then his spine must have broken
during the fall.
    “Okay, okay, I’ll
say it!” The man whimpered like a puppy. In no way did D. think it was the same
man who had shot previously.
    “Are you the same
man from before?”
    Without waiting D. sprung
up and out the door. He kept one hand in the space between the wall and the
door in case anybody fired; he would then have a quick barrier of protection.
Out in the hall, though, lay a frightful young man in a police uniform.
    D. got a closer
look. It was a rookie, he supposed, judging from the humane characteristics
this one possessed. Never had he met policemen who cowered from a gunshot.
    “Boy,” he barked. The
young police officer shook as he looked up.
    “Are you a rookie?”
    He nodded. Yes.
    “Why were you firing
at me before?”
    The rookie got up
from his knees. “I-I didn’t do that, sir. Please don’t hurt me.” He went back
down as if in prayer.
    “Who did, if it was not you?”
    A shaky finger
indicated the source. “Over there,” he said, and crawled off. D. took a second
of silence and turned. In that duration of the turn he fired, regardless who it
was. He knew he hit something when blood splattered over his coat and face.
Some went into his mouth; it tasted metallic and warm. He ceased right then and
paced back, staring at a police officer whose uniform had large bloodstains. “I
demanded a name,” D. said. “You never spoke.”
    Surprisingly, the
bloody officer answered him. “I didn’t need to. I have my own authority.”
    “Not when I’m here.”
    “I don’t give a damn
about what you want.” His smile was greedy. He shot near the officer’s ear.
Tears filled around his eyes and blood began dripping in. He searched for