Wright & Wrong

by W. Glenn Duncan Jr.

Two of the shooters were accounted for and wouldn’t bother anyone again, ever.

  The third was lying in Parkland walking the fine line between this life and the next.

  No-one was in danger at the moment, and I’d missed the only opportunity I had to make a difference while I was standing on the roof the day before.

  So I drained my coffee and told Ed the truth.

  “Bradley Wright was the third shooter, Ed.”

  “The hell you say,” Ricco said.

  “Interesting theory, Rafferty.” Ed leaned back in his chair. “Convince me.”

  So I started to lay it out, then stopped. “Ricco, you’d better take notes, ’cause I’m not coming in to do this again.”

  He shook his head and blinked at me. Looked at Ed for support, but only received raised eyebrows in return.

  As the door was about to close behind him, I cleared my throat. “And another cup of coffee would be appreciated, too.”

  Ricco gave me the finger.

  But he did bring more coffee back with his notepad, so I thought about forgiving him. He found another chair hiding under a stack of files in the corner and tried three different positions for relocating the files before happening on one that Ed gave a small nod to.

  He perched the legal pad on his leg and the toothpick in the corner of his mouth pointed right at me and never wavered—Don’t mess with me, pal. I’m watchin’ you.

  “If we’re gonna do this,” he said, “we’re gonna do it right. What time was it when you heard the first shot?”

  “Hell if I know, Ricco,” I said. “I didn’t stop to make notes.” I picked up his sour look and toned it down a notch. “I was drinking coffee, hadn’t started any work to speak of … say nine-twenty.”

  Ricco made another note on the pad. He had neat, and diabolically small, writing. As good as impossible for anyone else to read. Especially upside down.

  “What then?”

  “I got to the window, then to the roof, looked around, trying to find the source. Couldn’t tell where until I heard the next shots. About the time I had the direction pegged, I saw the crowd of kids running through the schoolyard.”

  “Uh huh.” More scratching in his tiny cuneiform. Toothpick leveled at me like a sniper rifle. “Then?”

  I recalled all that I had seen from my building, and down at the schoolyard.

  By the time I’d walked him and Ed along Jackson and then Elm Street, through the alleyway, past the results of Bradley and the bus trying to occupy the same time and space, and into O’Rileys, I had no more to add.

  Ricco finished up with the formalities while I reflexively reached for my pipe.

  Dammit.

  “Rafferty, we’re done here,” Ricco said.

  “Not yet,” Ed said. “Let’s say for the moment I believe you about Bradley Wright being one of the shooters. I still wanna know why you didn’t think to pick up the phone yesterday and tell me all this then. Or better yet, earlier than that. When you first saw him, for instance.”

  “First off, Ed, the vandalism done to public phones in the downtown area is scandalous. I think it’s time to establish a taskforce to get to the bottom of it.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And, anyway, you made it clear at the schoolyard that you didn’t need my help.” Ed sucked in a breath and I rolled on before I got showered with a torrent of self-justification. “Truth be told, Ed, I was trying to bring him in when he got hit.”

  “So, how come you didn’t get hit, too?” Ricco looked like he enjoyed the prospect. “You push him in front at the last second to cushion the blow?”

  “I didn’t have hold of him, smartass. I was about thirty yards back in the alley when he stepped into the street.”

  Ricco chuckled.

  “I’d like to see you trying to catch the kid. Especially in those shoes. ’Sides, he was fast. Probably ran track.”

  “And you still thought it was better for me to find out about this on my own?” Ed said.

  “It was already too late. By the time I could have done anything, the paramedics were trying to stop Bradley from leaking into the street drains. What difference would it have made?” I shrugged.

  Ed leaned forward and stabbed a finger at me.

  “The difference it would have made, smartass, is that we would have been on the front foot with this kid and any involvement he may or may not have had in the shooting. We could have been putting the screws to him to find out what actually happened, not playing catch up with our dicks in our hands, like a pack of fucking amateurs. Got it?!”

  “Geez, Ed, I’ll have to check, but I’m pretty certain I left the force back in ’seventy-one, so I’m not sure why you think you get to bawl me out. But, hell, it’s funny, so have at it.” Then the caffeine got my system up to full operating temperatures and the penny dropped. “You guys knew this was coming, didn’t you?”

  “Don’t change the subject. You should have let us know about Bradley.”

  “C’mon Ed. It’s me. Those reporters were right yesterday, weren’t they? DPD knew about this.”

  Ricco looked like the front row at a tennis match. Ed gave me ten seconds of eye contact, then decided to let me in. “There was a report made a couple of weeks ago.”

  I let loose a low whistle. “No wonder you guys are feeling the heat.”

  He nodded. “You’ve no idea, Rafferty, but yeah, a neighbor of the Whites called in. Said she overheard the teenager talking with someone about stashing guns and ‘shooting up a school.’ The desk sergeant who took the call, he recognized the woman, she’d made a few nuisance calls in the past, he thought this was just the latest and so he didn’t bother to do anything with it. And now, I’m the one who’s gonna be left holding the shit sandwich when the music stops.”

  I didn’t think that was the way the saying went, but it didn’t seem like a good time to bring it up.

  “But you’ve got the two kids of the Overcoat Club—”

  “That ain’t gonna be enough. The mayor is blowing a fuse about this, Rafferty and, consequently, the Chief is too. And you’re sitting there telling me that this Bradley kid was one of the shooters.”

  I nodded.

  “And that would give me something for the Chief and the Mayor that would get them off my back and maybe save my job.”

  “Why Ed, you don’t need to thank me, I’m just doing what any right—”

  Ed rolled right over me.

  “Which would be great, except I’ve only got your word that he’s one of the bad guys. ’Course, I could live with that if I could put him in a room for a couple hours to soften him up, try to get a confession, or at least a better understanding of what the hell happened on the day but nooo, I can’t do that, because he’s almost dead. And why? Because you chased him in front of a goddamned bus!”

  “You saw it yourself, Ed. Three duffel bags, three shooters. Plus, if he hadn’t been trying to get away, I wouldn’t have been chasing him. Think about that. I don’t know what you want from me. I can’t wave my hands and magically bring the kid out of his coma to face judgment.”

  “I’d settle for being able to put a gun in his hand,” Ricco said.

  “Check the alley,” I said. “He may have dumped it. If not there, then—”

  Ed sighed. “Of course, we’ll check the alley, Rafferty. And the path you both took between the school and where he got hit. And his locker. And the third duffel. And … and why am I wasting my time telling you all this?”

  I didn’t know either.

  Ed ranted a bit more, Ricco smirked, and then I was free to go.

  My Starsky and Hutch valet service didn’t arrive for the return trip, so I stepped out DPD’s front door and into the center of downtown Dallas.

  Buildings sparkled in the sunlight and the trees in Main Street Park beckoned me to sit under them, relax, and listen to the breeze through their leaves. The office was only a couple of blocks away if I was ready to throw myself back into my work, hitting the phones and chasi
ng down leads. The rest of the city could be mine, too. Rush Diner if I wanted coffee and any number of bars for an early drink all within easy walking distance.

  Decisions, decisions.

  I hailed a cab, went home, and took a nap.

  Chapter 7

  I wandered through the rest of the week, accomplishing nothing, just grinding towards normal.

  Tuesday and Wednesday were two of the quietest days in Dallas that I could remember and, as far as I could tell, the rest of the country followed our lead.

  Some of the less seriously injured were out of hospital, at home and taking the first tentative steps down the long road of rebuilding their lives. Columbus High wouldn’t be open for a while to come, so other arrangements had been made for returning students, a bunch of remembrance ceremonies were planned, and there’d be counseling on tap for any and all who wanted to partake.

  Funerals for the handful of victims released by the M.E. were being planned.

  Vigils were being held. Fundraisers organized.

  Side stories sprouted about Bradley Wright, the poor kid who survived the shooting only to be hit by a bus on his walk home. No-one bothered to ask the question why Bradley wasn’t at school in the first place.

  Gun sales were up.

  By the end of the week, news of the Alaskan oil spill crept back in to the news—turned out the boat’s skipper had been blind drunk when it hit the reef—traffic began honking outside my window, and people on the street were scowling at each other again. The city was finding itself.

  All in all, it seemed like we might be getting back on an even keel. It would take longer for some than others, but the trajectory was upwards.

  The Mustang shat itself on Thursday morning.

  Correction. Shat itself again.

  I didn’t love the car, not in the same way that people who say they love their car do, just found that it was handy to have an old car that I didn’t worry about so much when I drove it over things.

  That being said, while standing by the side of the road trying to keep my pipe lit in a howling wind, watching the steam curling out from under the hood and waiting for a tow, I may have thought about junking it this time instead of repairing—again—and buying something newer.

  At least built in the last decade.

  But then how would Peter McLeod, the guy who did all my repair work, feed his family? I couldn’t let him down like that.

  After listening to the tow-truck driver complain about the heat on the way to McLeod Motors, cooling my heels for an hour in the grease-stained hall closet Peter called a waiting room, and amusing myself by wondering if the Hustler centerfolds on the wall had fathers who were proud of them, he came in and gave me the good news.

  “Gonna need it for a week or two this time, Rafferty.”

  “And that’s the good news?”

  Peter took off his Pennzoil cap, ran a greasy hand through his hair. “Yeah, I managed to track down a ’67 in San Antone that got itself firebombed. The body’s a write-off, but my buddy says the engine’s okay. I’ll get it up here to do the rebuild, but it’s gonna take some time. Other than that, I got to get a new one from Ford, and that’s gonna be a whole lot more time and money for ya.”

  “So what’s the bad news?” I asked, despite not wanting to be anywhere in the vicinity for the answer.

  “Hard to know right now, you unnerstand, until we get all the work done, but prob’ly gonna be fifteen, sixteen hundred bucks. Plus tax, a’course.”

  “Fuck me, Peter. The car’s not worth that much.”

  “You’re telling me. You want a trade-in instead? I could give ya …” Peter slicked his hair again. “… say three hundred, you wanted to get rid of it. It’s still got a few parts I could use.”

  “So I can spend another thirty-five hundred buying something else? No thanks.”

  Peter tilted his head. Your call, Rafferty.

  “But you can help me with something in the meantime.”

  “Uhhh huhh.” Peter suddenly sounded like he preferred to cough up the three hundred bucks and see me walk away.

  “I can’t be off the road for the next two weeks. You got a loaner?”

  “Oh, that all? Shoot, no problem. Not here right now, but you come back in a couple hours, say ’bout three, and I’ll have it all ready and waiting for ya.”

  Peter shot me a smile.

  See, good guy like that, I was pleased I’d decided to keep helping him out. Even if it was going to cost me a small fortune.

  We shook hands—Peter even rubbed his on a cloth beforehand, so I’d only need a light degrease later—and I headed back out in the general direction of the office.

  I grabbed the mail from under the slot, looked without much hope for checks and ignored the bills, before I dropped the whole pile into the wastebasket. Set the coffee pot perking and leaned back in the chair to read the newspaper.

  Imani Laweles had become the face of the survivors with her tell-all interview starting on page one and continuing on pages two, three, and twenty-nine.

  There was more detail and fewer “umms” in this interview—one of the benefits of editing—and a smattering of backstory of the home life she was lucky enough to return to, but the main thrust was the same as the TV version on Monday evening.

  She was in class when the shooting started, all the students were unsure what to do, then someone decided that they needed to get out, and so they flooded the hallway and made their burst for freedom into the rec-area.

  I’d seen it live; I didn’t need to read the play-by-play again.

  There were pieces on the dead shooters, too. ‘No comment’ and ‘Get the hell off my porch’ from the families. Pictures of cops with serious faces hauling bags of who knew what out of the homes, all ready to be cataloged and pawed through downtown as investigators continued their hunt for answers.

  The phone rang.

  “Rafferty,” I said, wedging the receiver in my shoulder.

  “Hey, big guy,” Hilda said. “You haven’t forgotten about the party tonight, have you?”

  Shit.

  Hilda had teamed up with one of her clients to host a fundraiser for the families of the victims, and I’d scored an invitation by proximity.

  “Absolutely not, babe. It’s written right here on my desk planner, in black marker with a big red circle around it.”

  “Liar.”

  She knew me too well.

  “I’ve got to help with the final setup, so I’ll meet you there.”

  “No problem.”

  “Seven thirty. Don’t be late. Love you.”

  “You too, babe.”

  And she was gone.

  Looked at my watch, saw that I still had a couple hours before I needed to pick up the loaner from McLeod, and figured I should try to get some work done for the day, so I turned my focus to a little business development.

  Called my service, where the gum-snapping voice on the other end only confirmed what I was expecting. “No messages, Mr Rafferty. And we still haven’t received last month’s paymen—”

  The declining quality of telecommunications these days is outrageous.

  I did my secretary thing and got ready to mail the invoice for that hardware store theft job a couple of weeks ago. Who knew, when that four hundred bucks came in, I might be able to retire, move to Mexico, and spend the rest of my days sitting on the beach drinking Coronas.

  Right.

  Took a moment to think about my other cases.

  I worked at it, and it almost took the full sixty seconds.

  Aside from Duane and the ongoing Curious Case of the Missing Leg—which didn’t take up a whole lot of my time—there weren’t any other cases.

  So I pulled out a legal pad and started scribbling notes on phone calls I could make to drum up some new clients.

  Hell, old clients would do, so long as they paid.

  Sid Parker always needed a hand with something or other. But then, those something or others never turned out to be
as easy as they sounded. And getting Sid to part with his cash was even harder. Save Sid for later.

  The phone rang. Ah hah! Things were looking up already.

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr Rafferty?”

  “I believe he’s in the billiards room. I’ll have him paged. Who shall I say is calling?”

  Turns out that the ladies in the Southwestern Bell collections department don’t have much of a sense of humor. Who knew?

  Back to the legal pad.

  Wrote down Snowy’s name.

  Scratched out Snowy’s name. Going to him cap in hand was not my idea of fun. Oh, I could handle his ego and the song and dance he made about helping me out, but I’d rather save Snowy for when I really needed his resources.

  I could check in with Des Bickle, see if he was still having problems with those neighbors.

  Uh huh.

  Before I realized it, I’d written down Don Sweetham’s name. Repos? Goddamn it, Rafferty! You’re at the point of calling Don and asking him for repos! Get a grip. Things aren’t that bad.

  I was right. Things weren’t that bad. And there was something I could do about it right there and then.

  I had a nap.

  The late afternoon sun on my face woke me. I levered myself upright and eased out the kink in my neck as I walked to McLeod’s to pick up the car Peter had organized for me.

  Got there and wished I hadn’t.

  “A Pacer? That’s your idea of a loaner? An AMC Pacer?”

  Peter couldn’t respond to my indignation; he was too busy laughing.

  Tried to ignore him as I got in the clown-mobile and headed out on to South Riverfront Boulevard. Peter was still doubled over in the driveway when I lost sight of him in the rearview mirror.

  At least the air conditioning seemed to work. Not that I needed it yet, but good to know in case summer started to bite early.

  I drove towards home, thinking that I probably should have had the suit dry-cleaned for Hilda’s party, but a quick steam in the shower might work, and doing my best to not look at the reflection of me and the stupid car in the passing storefronts.