Pursuit (3 page)

T
he following day,
the captain again called Julie into his office.

“What's up on the gas station shooting debacle? Anything new?”

She brought her three-ring binder, anticipating that she would be placed on administrative leave and that some of her cases would need to be handed off. “We're close to wrapping it up. We know this heavily tattooed street guy, Lobo, was involved. Probably did the deed, just need to find him.”

“That house fire BS. What about it?”

“About the same, Captain. We've got pictures of the wife going into a motel with a fellow we thought was good for that double tap up north last year.” She glanced at her notes. “Swan McGee—hell of a name, but he's our guy. Todd's working on a warrant as we speak. Our favorite judge”—they gave each other a wink—“is usually good about probable cause. In any case, we've got this jerk McGee at the scene with the broad doing the nasty at the Motel 6. We're pretty much locked up.”

“Good work.” Walker cleared his throat. “Here's the
hell of it. I ran a couple scenarios past the commish in terms of your rehab. Doesn't help that you're blowing off your psych sessions. Best I can do is two weeks admin leave and a month of desk work, either in the property room straightening stuff or in latent.”

“Latent prints?”

“No, past unsolved crap.”

“How far back would I need to go, sir?”

“Up to you. You're probably not going to find anything. O'Neal and Jefferson spent a month last year dusting off all that baloney. I looked over their work. Actually, they were fairly thorough.”

Julie closed her binder. “If it's all right with you, I'd like the cold case files. Is there any reg saying I can't do this as admin duty rather than admin leave?”

“I don't get it. You're being disciplined, and you want this work. Is that what you're saying?” Walker leaned back in his chair.

“That's what I am saying, Captain.”

Julie was made to wait far past her appointment time before Dr. Cranstein called her in. The previous patient had left in tears nearly a half hour earlier. She decided she would get the best out of the sessions, regardless of any prejudice she might feel toward Frau Cranstein.

The woman sat next to a file cabinet, her streaked blond hair pulled back tight into a sweet-roll bun. Pincenez glasses graced her heavy nose, as she looked, head down, over the top of the eyepiece. “You missed a few appointments, Miss Worthy. Will this be your habit?”

Julie hid her smile behind a manufactured cough. “No, of course not. I simply forgot.”

Cranstein adjusted her glasses and made a few notes.
“It's my experience that dissembling, feigning forgetfulness, and being insincere are all signs of secrecy. Wouldn't you agree, Sergeant?”

Julie nodded.

“I'm so sorry. I didn't hear your response.”

“My response, madam Doctor, was a nod of the head, as in ‘ Yes, I agree.' ”

“So it would follow that although agreeing, you wish to hold your own counsel, correct?”

“I'm not verbose, and generally not a liar, either. But your questions regarding being secretive might be accurate.” She paused. “Just like our last meeting. Today I was required to wait half an hour after the previous patient left, knowing full well that half of a one-hour session leaves not a hell of a lot of time. I'm here because I'm required to do so. A psych examination is required by the department. To get right to it, madam—”

“Doctor.”

“All right. Doctor. Your questions of whether I enjoyed the shooting were inappropriate.”

“How so? Enlighten me, please.”

“How can you be serious, madam—”

“Doctor.”

“
Madam
, for you to say, ‘Tell me your innermost sense of joy, your feelings, over the death of a human being?' It is not only inappropriate but insensitive and rude. I killed a man to save a young boy's life. The only joy was still being able to go home and see my kid. Why don't you read the account of the incident before you ask me if I enjoyed the taking of a life?”

“When you raise your voice to make your point, do you say to yourself, ‘I will be forceful to assure those listening and myself that I'm righteous, indeed'?”

“We are mixing our metaphors here, madam Doctor. Whether or not I was, to use your word, ‘righteous' in God's eyes or correct in the realm of the criminal justice system is way beyond your purview to adjudicate. To ask me that kind of question equates me with a common thug. A killer. Is it your duty to suss out murderers in the department? To weed out the homicidal? Is that who you are?”

“I would remind you, Sergeant, that I'm not the one being examined here.”

You should be, bitch.

The woman made a deliberate show of looking at her watch. “This is not of benefit, Sergeant. Let's be honest.”

“So fifteen minutes into a one-hour session, and it's auf Wiedersehen, right?”

“You really do have issues, Sergeant. One is your inability to interpret emotion. It's possible the man you mur—shot, killed, was in fact considering a course of agreement. Your explosion of self-righteousness could possibly have been avoided if you considered the other's right to life. His family, loves, and joys in simple everyday activities, which you took away in the blink of an eye. A millisecond of thought may have changed not only the man's life but your own. In the years to come, keep in mind your power with that beloved weapon you so proudly wear. You must, at least, be honest with yourself.”

“To be honest, I want to say ‘Fuck you,' but I won't. I'll just say this is what I call a holy session of misinformed bullshit. If and when I'm ever confronted with another deadly armed shoot-out, I'll give you a call first, and we can discuss your book-smart theory on who dies and who doesn't in these truncated guidance sessions. It's great drive-through psychiatry, Doctor, and, by the way, do you have a dog named Blondie?”

The woman had goaded her into making an ass out of herself. Julie stopped on the street to think of what the Nazi bitch said to her about taking away the man's life in a millisecond, without thought. She asked herself if things could have turned out better—or at least different—if she'd given it more
thought
. Maybe a wounding shot, not a mortal one, would have been better? It flew against everything she had been taught. The mantra was always two rounds at center mass. A wounded man could still be dangerous.

It gave her pause, though she didn't regret the man's death. He had killed and wounded at least three people, but Frau Cranstein finagled and fucked her mind with inaccurate accusations. Niggling doubt remained. Hateful as the woman was, maybe she had a point.

A
careful driver,
Charles stayed five to ten miles under the speed limit. The stolen 1993 Ford Bronco, a proud symbol of American workmanship. Steady hands guided his vehicle, both in traffic and on deserted country roads. He would grin when drivers circled around him and honked past. He loved it when they'd throw their hands up in despair and laughed when they got worked up.

It didn't bother him. Charles continued with his safety-margin caravan-like ways. The Bronco was special. To say he owned it would be an exaggeration. But it was his. He used the vehicle during his tomcat hours and on those occasions when transporting female passengers, some of whom would be better left in the wilderness. So the Bronco stayed, for the most part, in a wood garage adjacent to Bait Shack. He often thought how bizarre it would be to take the auto back to Oklahoma, where he had stolen it many years ago. Each year, he would lift a Missouri tag from another car to comply with state regulations. Messy but necessary. However, maybe Charles Adam Clegg, poster child for the thoughtful traditionalist,
would leave it in the driveway of the house where he had acquired it, with a note:

Thanks for the use of the Bronco. I have such a short memory, couldn't think of who I borrowed it from. It wasn't until watching a recent football game between Oklahoma and Missouri that it dawned on me, sorry. I filled the tank.

All the best, your friend, the absentminded thief

Friday evening held a hint of rain, the western sky a color wheel of darkening clouds. The stop at his one-bedroom apartment outside Morse Mill yielded the proper prescription weekend garb—raincoat and boots. He remained the careful stickler. Charles's usual grocery needs involved sojourns to two separate stores, the overwhelming Splendid Farms supermarket and Mag's family store, a mom-and-pop place.

“Evening, Mr. C. What's the news?” Mag's husband, Winston, a pleasant man who might have actually graduated from elementary school, always greeted him the same way.

“The word is rain, pardner, coming soon and plenty of it.” He probed a large head of lettuce. “So batten down the hatches.”

“What's that mean? Never really put a thought to it.”

“Means the doors on the cargo hold of a boat or ship should be battened, sealed, ready for foul weather, to make fast.”

Bits of an overripe cantaloupe spotted the narrow aisle floor between the freezer case and the vegetables. Charles picked up the larger pieces and placed them in his shopping cart.

Winston wore the same vacant look. “Why would you go out to sea if it were nasty weather?”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “Why?”

“You been buying a right smart load of food lately. Having a weekend bust-out?”

“I'm expectant, Winston. As if with child, ideas, full of yearning, nostalgic for the old days prior to television's political wrangling and Washington's backbiting.”

Winston seemed sorry to have asked, so he checked and bagged the mountain of produce. “They do get heated on the TV. When you gonna move out to the lake full-time, Mr. C? Hells bells, you could fish and carry on til Judgment Day.” He droned on, like a gospel minister, Charles having opened the floodgates to Winnie's dull world.

He wondered why Winston spoke of God and that painful day of judgment. Even Jesus had reason to keep his miracles hidden. “You're not going to charge me for the cantaloupe, are you, Winnie?”

“Heck, no. Been busy trying to get to that mess for an hour.” He took the spoiled chunks of fruit from the cart.

Yeah, right, Winnie. And the people in the South have forgotten the Civil War.

The hour-and-a-half drive out to Bait Shack, his country shanty, had been pleasant enough. A soft, steady downpour kept the wipers at their busiest. He kept his reliable 1969 Chevy Nomad in mechanically perfect condition. His other vehicle, the Bronco, he stashed away safely in the garage for special occasions. The hard-packed dirt road danced with the first slanted drops. Charles listened to his oldies-but-goodies station, knowing that the next hour would be stressful. But the familiarity of Elvis doing “Hound Dog” brought a warm anticipation.

He always pictured himself an entertainer. Given the right circumstances and breaks, he thought a career playing
Midwestern bars and roadhouses as a rockabilly revivalist might have been his.

The early days of guitar picking brought him pleasure, though his small grip refused to wrap comfortably around the neck of his secondhand acoustic Gibson. He would prop his knee against the throat of the instrument, his left hand counterpressing in an attempt to make chords. The few times he tried to play at local amateur nights turned into ultimate failures. One club owner nicknamed him Camaron, which he quite liked. It sounded friendly, like he was the man's comrade. But it shook him when later at work a fellow toiler at the Drew Box Factory explained that
camaron
was Spanish for “shrimp.” A questionable five foot six, Charles addressed his vertical challenge with helpful lift-enhanced shoes that still left him wanting.