critically wounded.
Dead suspects not yet identified.
No known motive at this time.
My phone rang every few minutes. Friends from the academy, the department, old friends, relatives. I talked to my family but let the strangers talk to the machine: Bruce, a newspaper reporter in New York; Seth, a television news-magazine producer in Los Angeles; June Dauer, a local radio host; Dr. Norman Zussman, the psychiatrist who would lead me through the Deputy-Involved Shooting Program.
I heated up three TV dinners and set them on the table with a carton of milk. I liked the institutional taste of TV dinners, and the compartmented trays—more leftovers from my days at Hillview.
I was just ready to eat when someone rang the doorbell. It was Rick Birch, looking tired and old. I invited him in, offered him one of the hot dinners. He declined.
"Go ahead," he said. "I just have a question or two."
I put the dinners back in the oven and sat down across from him. He looked around the room like he was taking inventory. He wore rimless glasses with thin, tinted lenses.
"How old are you, Joe?"
"Twenty-four, sir."
"How long have you lived here?"
"Three years."
"You keep it nice and neat."
"Thank you. I like things neat."
"The two guys you shot were Cobra Kings."
"I've heard of them."
"Ray Flatley in the gang unit can give you a rundown. But basically, they're thieves who don't mind committing murder when they feel like it.’’ He slipped a small notebook from his coat pocket, which was apparently already open to the right place. "You got Luke Smith and Ming Nixon. Ages twenty-seven and thirty-one, respectively. 'Luke' got changed from Loc. Nixon was a name the other guy got stuck with growing up a bastard in Saigon. The third deceased hasn't been identified yet. The one still aIive is Cao—nineteen and a card-carrying Cobra King."
He watched me over the top of his glasses, head tilted down. I didn’t know how to react. I felt bad for killing them, but not that bad.
"I guess you've got some time off from work," he said.
"I didn't want it."
"Take your leave. You don't go through something like this and not have it change you. Norm Zussman's a good shrink."
"I wish I could keep working."
"I understand the need."
Birch blinked his pale blue eyes. He looked like a farmer: weathered face, big hands, an inner stillness that comes from watching things grow.
"Joe, tell me about your father and Savannah Blazak."
"I don't know much."
"No?"
"No, sir. Will wasn't leveling with me about the girl. I'm his son. I was his driver and his guard. Sometimes he told me what he was up to and sometimes not. I'd never heard of Savannah until last night around nine. When we went to Lind Street to pick her up. I didn't know any about a kidnapping until five-thirty tonight when I watched the news.’’
Birch thought for a moment. "Let me get this straight: the girl's kidnapped Monday morning. The family can't seem to make the ransom payment, even though they've got the money and they're willing. By Wednesday night, Will Trona has found her. Explain that."
"I can't."
"You see the shooter?"
"Not well. The fog hid him."
"Could you ID him in a lineup?"
"If he spoke."
"Explain."
I did—the quality of the voice, the strange cadence.
"A voice ID does us no good at all. It's not enough to even hold someone on."
I knew that. So I said nothing.
"You know who did it, Joe?"
"No, sir. Of course not."
He rested his calm eyes on my face. "There's a whole bunch wrong with this."
"I think so, too."
"Can you give me a full statement tomorrow? I've got Alagna's tape, but I want to ask my own questions."
"Absolutely."
He nodded, looking around again, then back at me. "Have you talked to Marchant yet?"
"Tomorrow."
Birch drummed his fingertips on the table, fast. "Did he have this girl abducted?"
"Will?"
"I'm not the only one who's going to ask you that. She's kidnapped and she's last seen with him. You can draw a pretty straight line between
Dead suspects not yet identified.
No known motive at this time.
My phone rang every few minutes. Friends from the academy, the department, old friends, relatives. I talked to my family but let the strangers talk to the machine: Bruce, a newspaper reporter in New York; Seth, a television news-magazine producer in Los Angeles; June Dauer, a local radio host; Dr. Norman Zussman, the psychiatrist who would lead me through the Deputy-Involved Shooting Program.
I heated up three TV dinners and set them on the table with a carton of milk. I liked the institutional taste of TV dinners, and the compartmented trays—more leftovers from my days at Hillview.
I was just ready to eat when someone rang the doorbell. It was Rick Birch, looking tired and old. I invited him in, offered him one of the hot dinners. He declined.
"Go ahead," he said. "I just have a question or two."
I put the dinners back in the oven and sat down across from him. He looked around the room like he was taking inventory. He wore rimless glasses with thin, tinted lenses.
"How old are you, Joe?"
"Twenty-four, sir."
"How long have you lived here?"
"Three years."
"You keep it nice and neat."
"Thank you. I like things neat."
"The two guys you shot were Cobra Kings."
"I've heard of them."
"Ray Flatley in the gang unit can give you a rundown. But basically, they're thieves who don't mind committing murder when they feel like it.’’ He slipped a small notebook from his coat pocket, which was apparently already open to the right place. "You got Luke Smith and Ming Nixon. Ages twenty-seven and thirty-one, respectively. 'Luke' got changed from Loc. Nixon was a name the other guy got stuck with growing up a bastard in Saigon. The third deceased hasn't been identified yet. The one still aIive is Cao—nineteen and a card-carrying Cobra King."
He watched me over the top of his glasses, head tilted down. I didn’t know how to react. I felt bad for killing them, but not that bad.
"I guess you've got some time off from work," he said.
"I didn't want it."
"Take your leave. You don't go through something like this and not have it change you. Norm Zussman's a good shrink."
"I wish I could keep working."
"I understand the need."
Birch blinked his pale blue eyes. He looked like a farmer: weathered face, big hands, an inner stillness that comes from watching things grow.
"Joe, tell me about your father and Savannah Blazak."
"I don't know much."
"No?"
"No, sir. Will wasn't leveling with me about the girl. I'm his son. I was his driver and his guard. Sometimes he told me what he was up to and sometimes not. I'd never heard of Savannah until last night around nine. When we went to Lind Street to pick her up. I didn't know any about a kidnapping until five-thirty tonight when I watched the news.’’
Birch thought for a moment. "Let me get this straight: the girl's kidnapped Monday morning. The family can't seem to make the ransom payment, even though they've got the money and they're willing. By Wednesday night, Will Trona has found her. Explain that."
"I can't."
"You see the shooter?"
"Not well. The fog hid him."
"Could you ID him in a lineup?"
"If he spoke."
"Explain."
I did—the quality of the voice, the strange cadence.
"A voice ID does us no good at all. It's not enough to even hold someone on."
I knew that. So I said nothing.
"You know who did it, Joe?"
"No, sir. Of course not."
He rested his calm eyes on my face. "There's a whole bunch wrong with this."
"I think so, too."
"Can you give me a full statement tomorrow? I've got Alagna's tape, but I want to ask my own questions."
"Absolutely."
He nodded, looking around again, then back at me. "Have you talked to Marchant yet?"
"Tomorrow."
Birch drummed his fingertips on the table, fast. "Did he have this girl abducted?"
"Will?"
"I'm not the only one who's going to ask you that. She's kidnapped and she's last seen with him. You can draw a pretty straight line between
Similar Books
