Deadeye

by William C. Dietz

  It had always been like that for her. According to what she’d read, some ballplayers had it, too . . . It being the strange ability to see the round thing coming at them, make the necessary adjustment, and swing the bat just so. And that’s how it was for her as the Glock swung from target to target, seemingly firing of its own volition. As people fell, Lee began to advance on the spot where Conti was lying in a pool of blood.

  Sirens could be heard by then, but Lee knew the battle would be over by the time help arrived. So it was necessary to put all of her adversaries down before they could shoot anyone else. Suddenly, the Glock clicked empty signaling the fact that all sixteen .9mm bullets had been expended.

  There wasn’t enough time to reload, so Lee pulled the Smith & Wesson. She was in the process of bringing it up when a sledgehammer struck her chest. She staggered but managed to keep her feet. The revolver jerked twice, and blood misted the air as a skull dropped his weapon in order to grab the holes in his neck.

  As he staggered away, Lee dropped a robber with an AK—and took a shot at a perp who was trying to escape. The first bullet missed but the second hit the back of his right knee. He screamed and went down hard.

  Then Lee found herself face to mask with a single skull. He was aiming a .45 at her even as she pointed the .357 mag at him. “That’s a revolver,” he said. “And you’re empty. Good-bye, bitch.”

  Lee pulled the trigger twice and watched both slugs hit his chest. He fell over backwards with arms outflung and lay staring up into the blazing sun.

  Lee flipped the cylinder open and pushed the extractor rod. The empty shell casings produced a tinkling sound as they hit the pavement. “This is a fucking Smith & Wesson 627,” Lee said conversationally. “And it holds eight rounds.”

  The speed loader made short work of reloading the weapon, which went back into its holster as Lee knelt next to Conti. There was a lot of blood. And when she pulled his shirt open, there was no body armor to be seen. The heat . . . Conti had left the armor at home because of the heat. Lee swore, and Conti opened his eyes. His voice was little more than a croak. “That’ll teach ’em,” he said. “I’ll bet they’re sorry now.”

  “Don’t talk,” Lee said. “The EMTs will be here in a sec.”

  “How bad is it?”

  Lee pretended to look. “Not bad at all. You’ll be up and around in no time.”

  Conti tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “Good. Will you let me drive?”

  Lee nodded. “Yes, Bryce. I’ll let you drive.”

  Conti coughed. Blood dribbled down his chin. “Bryce? You never call me Bryce.”

  “Don’t die on me, Romeo . . . Don’t do it,” Lee said desperately. But Conti couldn’t hear. The light was gone from his eyes.

  Lee began to sob. And when the EMTs arrived, she was cradling Conti in her arms and rocking back and forth. That was the photo that wound up on the front page of the LA Times. The caption read: “Cop kills nine but loses partner.” Justice had been served—but the price was high.

  * * *

  Three days had passed since the bank robbery and Conti’s death. After being sent to the hospital, where the doctors patched her up, Lee was released. Shortly after that, she was required to undergo the first of what turned out to be three interviews over two days. During that time, all manner of armchair commandos asked her the same questions over and over again.

  Then she was sent home to wade through the TV crews camped out in front of her home—and likely to remain there until the official shooting report was made public. Everybody said it was a so-called “good shoot,” but every cop knew what could happen after a high-profile gun battle. Especially one where nine perps fell to a single officer. That was a big deal.

  Members of the media were calling it the West Hollywood Shootout. And while most citizens were supportive—others thought that less force should have been used. “Why not wound them?” one woman inquired. “There was no need to kill everyone.” And, since that woman had a seat on the city council, some people listened.

  A day later, Lee had reason to be concerned as she stood in front of the living-room window and waited for the car that would take her to police headquarters and a final meeting with the shooting review board. It was raining outside, and judging from the large number of umbrellas, it looked like the press knew what was about to happen.

  One of the reporters pointed up the street, and the rest turned to look. Having spotted the car, Lee made her way back through the apartment, opened the door, and locked it behind her. Then it was necessary to make a mad dash down the stairs and through the gauntlet of media. Cold raindrops hit her face, reporters shouted questions, and the crowd was starting to close in when Jenkins appeared. He used his bulk to clear a path for Lee, and she followed him to an open door and the backseat of an unmarked police car. Two yelps from the siren cleared the way. “Sorry,” Jenkins said, as the sedan pulled away from the curb. “They’ll lose interest soon. Things will return to normal then.”

  Except for Conti, Lee thought to herself. Things will never return to normal for him. “So what’s coming down?” Lee wanted to know. “Good shoot or bad?”

  Jenkins shrugged. “I’ll find out when you do . . . But it looks righteous to me.”

  Lee looked out at the rain and back again. “And the funeral?”

  “It’s scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “I plan to attend.”

  Jenkins nodded. “I figured you would.”

  “Then I’m going back to work.”

  “That depends on what the shooting board says,” Jenkins replied.

  There wasn’t anything else to say, so they didn’t. Rain rattled on the roof, and the wipers continued to squeak until they entered the parking garage. “We’ll get out here,” Jenkins said, as they stopped at the checkpoint. “No point in going all the way to the dungeon.”

  Lee got out, flashed her ID, and followed Jenkins into the lobby. Other officers were there, and even if they didn’t know Lee personally, they knew of her. “Hang in there,” a detective said. “It was a clean shoot. And there’s no damned way they can say otherwise.”

  Lee hoped that the optimistic assessment was correct as the elevator carried them up to the seventh floor, where a conference room had been reserved. As Lee entered, she saw that Chief of Detectives Lacy was present, along with Deputy Chief McGinty, a member of the Internal Affairs (IA) team, the lead detective representing Homicide, and the attorney provided by the Los Angeles Police Protective League. He was a morose-looking individual who seemed like a funeral director in his black suit. Would she need his services? Lee hoped not as she took a seat halfway down the table.

  The IA rep started the meeting with a lot of legal blah-blah. Lee ignored most of it but a couple of things stood out. Two security guards had been gunned down inside the bank, and three motorists had been struck by stray rounds. All of which served to justify what she’d done even if she hadn’t been aware of it at the time.

  There was another item of interest as well. Something that hadn’t been confirmed until then. “Based on our investigation,” the IA cop said, “all of the bank robbers were members of the San Jose Death Heads. They’re believed to be responsible for two other robberies, both of which used the same MO. The scumbags appear out of nowhere, take control of the target through the use of overwhelming force, and demand gold instead of numoney.”

  After that, the homicide detective read the official ticktock of what had occurred from the moment Lee radioed in to the point where backup arrived on the scene. More than that, she illustrated the account with video clips taken by cameras mounted outside the bank and the convenience store. “So,” the IA officer said once the narration was over, “it’s our finding that all nine shootings were justified.”

  Lee felt a profound sense of relief as those seated around her offered their congratulations. Then, as the chatter d
ied down, the homicide detective cleared her throat. “There is one thing though . . . Something none of us could understand. It isn’t material to the finding, because this investigation is about what happened, not what was going on in Conti’s head. But I’m curious . . . Why would an experienced officer like Conti go out into the intersection all alone? Why didn’t he wait for you? Or for backup?”

  Lee was looking down at her lap. She wondered the same thing—and hours had been spent thinking about it. The answer, in her mind anyway, was that Conti had been trying to impress her. Trying to do something she wouldn’t forget. Lee wasn’t about to say that, however. No damned way. As her eyes came up, she discovered that a roomful of people were staring at her. “It’s a fair question . . . But I don’t know.”

  There was a moment of silence followed by the scrape of a chair as the chief stood. “All of the discussion that took place here is confidential and not for distribution. A press release will be sent out shortly. All media inquiries should be referred to the Public Affairs Office. That will be all.”

  * * *

  A thick layer of clouds hid the California sun as officers on motorcycles led a procession of patrol cars along East Cesar Chavez Avenue to the Evergreen Cemetery. First came a contingent of three police cruisers with lights flashing. They were followed by the hearse, a limo carrying members of the Conti family, and the black sedan Lee was riding in. At least a hundred patrol cars brought up the rear. Many wore LAPD markings, but there were representatives from towns and cities that were hundreds of miles away as well. Because all of the cops were part of one big family.

  As Conti’s partner, Lee had been invited to ride with Chief of Police Corso. He had carefully combed black hair, movie-star good looks, and knew how to say the right things. Lee figured he was more politician than cop. Was that his fault? No, that’s what the job demanded. Someone who could fight for money, deal with citizen groups, and set the tone.

  At that particular moment, the chief was on his cell phone dealing with the fallout from a police brutality case. Most of the people in the department figured the officer in question was guilty as hell. But the fact that the victim was a mutant meant that members of the public felt a lot of sympathy for the cop. And that had political ramifications.

  Lee looked out through the window. The first time she’d been part of such a procession, it was to honor her father. She’d been all alone that day and wondering if her mother Alala was still alive. Lee thought she could remember a smiling face looking down at her but wasn’t entirely sure. Was that a real memory? Or one created to fill a need?

  Lee’s thoughts were interrupted as the chief said, “Asshole,” and put the phone in his pocket. He made a face as Lee turned to look at him. “Sorry . . . That was a mutant lover who writes for Humanist Magazine. He’s working on a story about how bigoted the LAPD is.”

  Lee remembered the brown eyes she’d seen through the mesh—and how Conti had given the woman money to get home. “That isn’t fair,” she said. “But there was no call for Patrolman Hanity to beat the shit out of that mutie, either.”

  The chief’s eyes narrowed. Lee’s comment verged on being a criticism, and he didn’t like criticisms. “Yes, well, there is that. But it would be a good idea to reserve judgment until after the investigation is complete.”

  Lee wanted to push back but knew it would be stupid to do so. So she settled for a “Yes, sir,” and let the matter go.

  The motorcycle cops slowed as they entered the cemetery. That forced the rest of the procession to do likewise as the vehicles followed a winding street to the spot where the advance party was waiting. Arrangements had been made so that vehicles could park at the curb. Even so, it took twenty minutes for people to exit their cars, walk to the gravesite, and take their assigned places. Lee was supposed to stand near the family and the open grave. Conti’s mother came over to speak with her. “My son admired you . . . He talked about you all the time.”

  “And I liked him,” Lee replied. “I’m going to miss him.”

  Most of Mrs. Conti’s hair was white. She had high cheekbones, a straight nose, and well-shaped lips. But there was something hard in her eyes. “Thank you,” Mrs. Conti said. “Thank you for killing them.”

  Lee didn’t know what to say. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “He was my partner.”

  Mrs. Conti leaned in to kiss Lee on the cheek before turning away. She smelled of lavender, and her lips were ice-cold. Lee had been able to hold back the tears until then. But now they flowed as the bagpipes wailed, final good-byes were said, and the coffin was lowered into the ground.

  The crowd began to break up after that. Some people stood in groups chatting—while others streamed back to their cars. Many paused to offer Lee their condolences and, having been Conti’s partner for such a brief period of time, she felt awkward accepting them.

  So Lee left the gravesite and was on her way to the chief’s car when she spotted McGinty. Like Lee, he was in full uniform, and rather than heading for the street, he was headed somewhere else. To visit a grave? If so, whose?

  It was none of her business, of course, but Lee was curious, and walked parallel to the deputy chief, using a row of monuments as a screen. When he stopped, she did as well, and waited for him to leave. Was Chief Corso in his car? Waiting for her? If so, he would be annoyed.

  But Lee forced herself to hold on, felt a sense of relief when McGinty turned away, and hurried over to examine the marker. The name ALMA KIMBLE was engraved in the red granite. Along with the years 2016–2038. Who, Lee wondered, was Alma Kimble? A friend perhaps? Then she remembered the photo of her father, McGinty, and a girl. Was she Alma Kimble?

  That was when Lee realized that her curiosity was related to her father, not McGinty, or the girl. After her mother ran away, Frank Lee raised her. Yet for all the years spent with the man, Lee felt as if she barely knew him. So maybe the girl was important, and maybe she wasn’t. Time would tell.

  Lee hurried out to the street and followed it down to the point where the chief’s car had been. It was gone, as were many other vehicles by that time, but a cruiser stood waiting. A fresh-faced patrolman came forward to greet her. “Detective Lee? The chief told me to wait for you. He’s meeting with the mayor in half an hour. Something about mutants.”

  Lee thanked him and went around to sit on the passenger side of the car. The clouds were lower, and it started to rain.

  THREE

  SOMETHING WAS WRONG. Lee knew that the moment she woke and saw the stripes of sunlight on the wall. She turned to the alarm and realized that fifteen minutes had passed since she first turned it off. It had been like that ever since the funeral.

  Lee rolled out of bed, made her way into the bathroom, and brushed her teeth. There wasn’t enough time for a shower, so she put on some extra deodorant and hurried to get her clothes on. Then, after a quick stop at Maria’s, she was back in the car.

  The LAPD headquarters building swallowed the car whole, an officer waved her through the checkpoint, and she was in the elevator less than five minutes later. Then, by fast walking down the hall, Lee was able to make roll call with a full minute to spare. She was two bites into the burrito when McGinty entered the room. He paused and shook his head. “Eat before you come to work, Detective Lee. It smells like a taqueria in here.”

  That produced a round of sniggers from the other detectives, to which Lee responded with a raised finger. “All right, that’s enough bullshit,” Jenkins said, as the daily briefing began.

  Lee had finished her breakfast and was chasing it with some coffee by the time her turn rolled around. “So,” Jenkins said, “let’s talk about Popeye. How’s it going?”

  Lee had been back to work for two days by then, was working solo, and hoped to continue doing so. With that in mind, she struck a positive tone. “I’m working three strategies . . . All of the patrol units are on the lookout for him, I’m canvassin
g body shops that might have done some work on Cherko’s ride, and I’m running an ad similar to the one that Mr. Fuentes ran.”

  “Nice,” Jenkins said approvingly. “But let’s get something straight. No lone-wolf bullshit. If Popeye bites, you tell me, and I’ll give you some support. This guy is a stone-cold killer.”

  The last thing Lee wanted to do was share a bust, but if that was the price for maintaining her independence, then she would pay it. “Yes, sir. It would be nice to see some of these slackers do some work for a change.”

  That produced the predictable storm of protests, all of which led to a rebuke from McGinty and a report from someone else. Mission accomplished.

  Once Lee was back on the street, she began the slow, methodical process of visiting body shops in hopes of finding the person or persons who had been working on Popeye’s whip. Would they tell her the truth? Maybe not . . . Especially if he owed them money. But even if they failed to come clean, Lee hoped her efforts would put additional pressure on Cherko. The kind of pressure that might cause him to make a mistake.

  That’s what Lee had in mind as she entered a body shop called Honest Al’s. Never mind the fact that “Honest” Al Nurri had done three years for grand theft auto. A power tool chattered as she entered the shop’s brightly lit interior. Cars were lined up on both sides of the garage and appeared to be in various stages of repair. Many would have been sent to a junkyard back before the plague. But so long as most of Pacifica’s industrial capacity was busy producing the military hardware required to protect the country’s eastern border, the manufacture of new cars would have to wait.

  “Can I help you?” The voice startled her. Lee turned to find that a man in paint-splattered overalls was standing three feet away. The background noise was so loud that he’d been able to approach undetected.