Slowly he opened his eyes. His vision was a bit clearer, but his legs were rubber and his stomach was still threatening a revolt. The noises coming from Byron’s insides sounded more like demonic possession than gastric distress. “Anybody talking to him?” he asked.
“Damon Roberts was, but Abdi keeps hanging up,” Diane said. “Says he wants a face-to-face and he’ll only talk with you.”
Byron nodded his understanding, then wished he hadn’t. Nodding did nothing for the spinning taking place inside his head.
“You’re sure you can do this?” Diane asked again.
“Got to,” he said. Byron scanned the faces in the crowd. He saw Acting Chief Rumsfeld and Commander Jennings discussing the situation with Lieutenant Price and Sergeant Crosby. Rumsfeld fixed Byron with a quick look of disgust before returning to the conversation. Byron looked past Diane and saw commotion. His neighbor, Khalid Muhammad, was in a heated exchange with Abdi’s father, Ahmed. Both men were shouting and waving their arms in the air. Byron didn’t have to understand what they were saying to each other to comprehend the meaning. He knew Muhammad was trying to get it through the storekeeper’s head that Byron might well be the only chance his son had. Muhammad acknowledged Byron by giving him a nod. Abdi’s father stopped yelling long enough to turn and see what had captured Muhammad’s attention. Ahmed Ali stared directly at Byron, but neither his eyes nor his facial expression communicated any hatred. What Byron saw on Ali’s face was fear. It was the same look he’d seen on the face of Tommy Plummer’s father on a frigid Sunday night in Kennedy Park. Plummer had already lost a son at the hands of the police. Byron knew Ahmed Ali was afraid that his son, Abdi, might be next. And if Byron couldn’t pull this off, he would be.
Willing his legs to move, Byron approached the two men.
“Detective Sergeant Byron,” Muhammad greeted.
“Khalid.”
“Mr. Ali has something he wants to say to you.”
Byron turned his attention to Ahmed Ali.
“I am sorry I did not tell you the truth,” Ali said. “About the gun.”
Byron said nothing.
Ali looked to Muhammad for guidance. Muhammad nodded for him to continue.
“I am ashamed,” Ali said. “My son is very much upset. Please help him.”
Byron struggled to control his emotions. He was angry with Ahmed, but couldn’t help feeling pity for the man and the position he was in. Ahmed Ali was now forced to rely on the help of a stranger, a man he didn’t trust, in an occupation he didn’t trust, to save the life of his son.
“I’ll do my best,” Byron said at last.
“John, that’s crazy,” LeRoyer said. “I’m not letting you go in there without a gun.”
In his current condition the last thing Byron felt like was getting into an argument with his boss, but on this issue he would hold fast, even if it killed him.
“It’s the only way I’m going in, Marty,” Byron said. “You’re the one who dragged me down here, remember? You don’t like it? Get someone else to try and talk him down.”
LeRoyer made a nervous swipe through his hair, making it stand up in front. “Believe me, we tried. He’ll only talk to you.”
“Then I guess you’re out of options, huh?”
“God, you’re a prick sometimes.”
“Yeah. A prick who’s still on suspension, lest you forget.”
“At least put this on,” LeRoyer said, tossing a Kevlar vest toward him.
Byron caught it reluctantly. There was nothing about a bulletproof vest that Abdi Ali could perceive as threatening but there was no sense in advertising that he was wearing one either. Gingerly he removed his coat before handing it to Diane. He hated wearing a vest, but he wasn’t all that keen on the prospect of being shot either. Although, as he pulled the vest over his head and secured the Velcro straps, he wondered if getting shot by Abdi could really make him feel any worse.
Lieutenant Price approached as Byron was slipping the jacket back on. “John, we’ve got a sniper in position on one of the upper floors of the building directly across from the high school.”
“Who?” Byron asked.
“Napijalo.”
Napijalo was a squared-away officer. Byron was glad it was Nappi at the other end of the sniper rifle and not Crosby. He knew Nappi would have his back, should it come to that. Nappi would also follow orders, which could either be a good thing or bad, depending on how things were about to go.
“He’s got a clear line of sight to the kid from the left,” Price continued. “So, try and stay away from that side when you’re talking to him. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“If the kid gives any indication—”
“It’s Abdi,” Byron said, not liking Price’s dehumanizing use of the word.
“What?”
“That kid’s name is Abdi.”
“Yeah, well, if Abdi gives the slightest indication that he intends to shoot you, he’ll be taken out.”
Byron, who didn’t believe in prayer, composed a silent one in the hopes that neither situation developed into a reality.
“Here,” Diane said, cracking open a bottled water and passing it to him. “Drink.”
Byron took several swallows, then returned the bottle to her. “Thanks,” he said.
Damon Roberts, the negotiator, spoke up. “John, when you’re talking to him, try and focus on the positive. Don’t let him drag the conversation down. It’s important—”
“I get it, Damon,” Byron said, cutting him off. “Don’t put more shit in my head than I’ve already got there.” Byron’s head was pounding, and this wasn’t helping. He wondered if it was possible for a head to ache so severely that it actually exploded. Marty, grab my brains off the ground, would you? Byron closed his eyes and sucked air in through his nose.
“Jesus, John,” LeRoyer said. “You sure you’re up for this?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Umm, ’cause you look like shit.”
Byron opened his eyes. Black spots danced across his field of vision, then slowly disappeared. “Gee, thanks for the compliment, Lieu. But you needn’t worry. I’m as right as rain.”
“Ya, right.”
Byron turned to Roberts. “He’s a scared teenager, Damon. I know what to say. Call him back. Tell him I’m coming in.”
“Okay.”
“Be careful, John,” Diane said.
Byron gave her a weak smile. It was the best he could muster.
“Good luck,” LeRoyer said.
Byron took another deep breath, then skirted the barricades, making the long slow walk up Freshman Alley, toward whatever fate awaited him. And a scared teenager named Abdi.
The van Abdi had stolen from his parents was parked at an odd angle in the middle of the alley. Byron knew the boy was on the far side just out of his sight line.
“Abdi, they said you wanted to talk,” Byron hollered. “Here I am.”
The boy’s head partially appeared above the roofline of the car.
“Don’t come any closer,” Abdi said.
“Listen to me, okay? I am not armed. But there are people watching us who will shoot you if they think you’re a threat to me. Nod if you understand me, Abdi.”
The boy nodded. His eyes were darting everywhere, trying to see who might be watching them.
“I’m going to walk around to the other side of the van so we can talk, okay?” Byron asked.
“You won’t try anything?”
“You have my word. But you have to do me a favor, okay? I need you to put the gun on the ground while we talk.” He waited as Abdi thought it over. “If you don’t put the gun down, Abdi, my people will see you as a threat. Do you understand?”
Abdi nodded again, then disappeared from view. His head reappeared a moment later. “Okay. I put it on the ground.”
“Is it all right if I walk over there with you?”
Abdi nodded again, then ducked out of sight.
Byron circled the car slowly with his hands raised slightly from his sides, palms forward. The boy was sitting on the pavement leaning back against the car. The semiauto was lying beside him three feet to his right. Byron wondered if he might be able to get close enough to grab it or kick it away.
Byron stopped and stood about fifteen feet away, facing Abdi. It was obvious that the young boy had been crying. His cheeks were still wet with tears.
“Abdi, I know you’re upset about Officer Haggerty.” The words caught in his throat. “We all are.”
“It’s all my fault. My fault he’s dead.”
“No, Abdi. It isn’t. The man responsible for killing Officer Haggerty is dead. It’s over.”
“No, it’s not. It’s all my fault. I lied to you, Sergeant Byron.”
Byron looked around at the buildings surrounding them until he caught a glimpse of the open window on the third floor. He knew Nappi was there, back in the shadows, even if he couldn’t see him.
“If I hadn’t brought the gun to Tommy, none of this would have happened.” Abdi wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Tommy would still be alive and so would Officer Haggerty.”
Byron took a half step to his left, hoping to get between Nappi and the window.
“Don’t come any closer,” Abdi warned.
“Dammit, I hate this,” LeRoyer said as he paced the sidewalk. He stopped and addressed Lieutenant Price. “What the hell is happening in there?”
The SRT commander keyed the mic. “Cover One, give me a SITREP.”
Price’s portable radio squawked.
“Byron is talking to him,” Nappi said. “The target is sitting on the ground up against the vehicle. The gun is lying beside him.”
“Do you have a clear shot?” Price asked.
They waited for several seconds for a response.
“It’s tight. I do, if Byron stays where he is. But he’s sidestepping into my line of sight.”
The commander looked at LeRoyer. “I told you not to tell Byron where we were set up.”
Nappi’s voice came over Price’s radio again. “Byron just moved again.”
LeRoyer ran his fingers through his hair. “Goddammit, John.”
Price turned to Sergeant Crosby, who was standing with his rifle slung over his shoulder. “Get up onto the Elm Street Parking Garage. Give me another option.”
“You got it,” Crosby said. He shot a quick glance at LeRoyer before running off.
Byron’s legs felt wobblier than when he’d first walked down the alley. Standing in one spot was even harder than he’d imagined. He’d have given anything to be able to lie down and close his eyes, just for a few minutes.
“Officer Haggerty was always nice to me,” Abdi said. “He didn’t deserve to die.”
“Neither do you, Abdi. Hurting yourself isn’t going to bring him back. Besides, he wouldn’t want you to do this.”
“I thought I could help keep the drugs out of the school. If we took them they wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone else.”
Byron wondered if Abdi knew how shortsighted that logic was, or how badly Plummer and the others had used him. “Christine Souza, the senior who overdosed, she was a friend of yours, wasn’t she?”
Abdi’s nostrils flared. “I did it for her.” He looked down at the ground and his chest began to heave as he broke into fresh sobs.
Byron took another half step to his left.
It took Crosby four minutes at a fast jog to circle the block onto Elm Street and ascend the parking garage steps. As he ran, he continued to monitor the radio traffic between Price and Nappi. He knew what Byron was doing.
Crosby had settled into the shadows on the third level of the garage, overlooking Freshman Alley. The crosshairs of his rifle were trained on Abdi.
Byron might have intentionally blocked Nappi’s sight line, Crosby thought. But he won’t block this one.
Crosby adjusted his earbuds and keyed the mic on his radio. “Cover Two is in the nest.”
“Ten-four, Cover Two,” Lieutenant Price said.
Crosby could clearly see the gun and the boy’s right hand. If Abdi made even the slightest move toward raising the weapon at Byron, it would be his last.
Byron was working hard to focus. Normally, this would have been easier. After all, he’d spent much of his professional life talking people down, some of whom had very little to lose. Abdi was only a boy. He had his whole life ahead of him. Yes, he had made a huge mistake, but it didn’t have to define his future. After all, Abdi hadn’t been the one who pulled the gun on Haggerty or taken a shot at him, Tommy Plummer had done that. All Abdi had done was facilitate a robbery. And although armed robbery was a felony, Abdi was still a juvenile. He would likely get another chance when he turned twenty-one.
“Tommy made his own decision, Abdi,” Byron continued. “He tried to shoot Officer Haggerty. But you’re not responsible for his actions.”
Abdi wiped the tears from his eyes and looked up. He seemed to be trying to decide if Byron was being straight with him. “Yeah, but—”
“No buts, Abdi,” Byron said, attempting to take a firmer, more paternal approach with the boy. “Tommy could have surrendered to Officer Haggerty. And you both would have been arrested and charged with robbery. That’s it. He’d still be alive. It was Tommy’s choice to fight back, not yours.”
Abdi looked to his right, down where the gun was lying. “I never should have taken my father’s gun. I shouldn’t have told Tommy about it. I shouldn’t have lied to you.”
“What Tommy did isn’t your fault, Abdi. And you know I’m right.”
Abdi looked back at Byron. “I’m sorry,” he said. He hesitated a moment, then he reached for the gun.
“No!” Byron yelled.
As Abdi Ali’s hand moved toward the pistol, Crosby reacted. Time slowed to a crawl. The riflescope crosshairs were centered on the right side of the boy’s head. Crosby exhaled through his mouth. His index finger tightened on the rifle’s trigger. Then he caught a sudden flash of movement from the right. Byron was diving toward the boy. Abdi raised the handgun. Crosby squeezed back on the trigger. The crack of the shot rang out at precisely the same instant that Crosby jerked the rifle.
A gun shot echoed down the alley like thunder, sending pigeons and gulls scattering.
“What the hell was that?” LeRoyer yelled. “What the fuck just happened?”
Ahmed Ali let out an agonizing wail and had to be restrained from running down the alley by Muhammad and a uniformed officer.
Diane was doing her best to remain outwardly calm, but her heart was racing, and the hair was standing up on the back of her neck. It was all she could do not to run down the alley herself. She looked over at Lieutenant Price, who was frantically trying to get an update.
“Cover One, Cover Two, report!” Price yelled into the radio mic.
For what seemed like an eternity only static came back through the radio. After several moments the audio silence was broken by the sound of a radio carrier followed by Nappi’s voice. “Cover One, that shot did not come from me.”
“Dammit,” Price said. “Cover Two, status report!”
Crosby took a deep breath and slowly removed his finger from inside the trigger guard. He flicked on the safety, then lowered the rifle as if it were made of glass. His hands were visibly shaking.
“Cover Two, standby,” Crosby said, his voice cracking as he said it.
He stared down at the alley below him, unsure whether he had successfully repositioned the rifle at the second it discharged, or not. It had all happened too fast. From the illusion of slow motion to out of control speed, as if someone had been playing a 45 record at 33 speed, then suddenly flicked the control to 78. He hoisted the rifle up to his shoulder and peered through the scope, making sure his finger was nowhere near the trigger. Scanning the area, he could only see one of the boy’s legs. The rest of him was covered by Byron’s motionless body. He spotted Abdi’s gun lying on the pavement about
five feet away from Byron’s right arm, not far from the van’s front tire.
Move, Crosby thought, as if willing it might make it happen. Please God, let them be okay.
The pain had been immediate and intense, worse than anything in Byron’s head. Window glass from the car door had exploded and rained down over both of them. A white-hot surge ran up Byron’s arm from his now useless right hand. His body was totally shielding Abdi’s. The gun, no longer in the boy’s grip, had skittered across the pavement and out of reach.
“Are you all right?” Byron asked.
“I think so,” Abdi said. “What happened?”
Byron wasn’t sure himself. Pushing himself up with his left arm, he crawled off the boy and rose slowly to his feet. He retrieved Ahmed’s semi-auto with his good hand and slid it into his jacket pocket. He returned to Abdi and helped him to his feet. The boy hugged him tightly.
“I’m sorry,” Abdi said, his voice muffled by Byron’s coat. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Byron hugged him back. “I know.”
Abdi began to sob uncontrollably, his body wracked by grief, and he squeezed Byron even tighter.
“Cover One,” Napijalo said as he keyed mic on his headset and lowered his rifle. “Suspect disarmed. I repeat, suspect disarmed. 720 and the target are both up and moving. Situation secure.”
Napijalo gave a long sigh of relief before making the sign of the cross with his right hand.
A collective cheer of relief spread through the makeshift command post on Chestnut Street.
LeRoyer looked up at the sky. “Thank you,” he said.
Beyond the Truth Page 33
