by David Putnam
That’s when I saw it, the sock over Blue’s hand. Adrenaline dumped into my system, clearing my head and making every muscle in my body hum with tension, ready to act.
“Wicks?”
“Not now, Bruno.”
“Wicks?”
“Bruno, I said—”
Blue raised his hand, the one with the sock. The one with the small .38 hidden inside.
In one motion, I shoved Wicks to the side and drew my gun, the stock slick and at the same time sticky in my hand.
Blue fired.
The bullet zipped by my ear, inches away from being a fatal shot.
I fired one time. The bullet caught Blue in the stomach. He went down hard.
Wicks fired from the ground and hit the trailer behind where Blue stood not a moment before.
“He’s down,” I yelled. “He’s down.” I moved into the line of fire so Wicks wouldn’t have another shot. All the energy drained out of me.
The first time I ever shot my gun on duty and I shot a cop to the rear of the sheriff’s station.
Wicks scrambled to his feet and over to us. “Jesus H. I didn’t know he had a gun in his hand. I thought it was just a sock.”
On my knees, I took the smoking sock and gun away from Blue, who said, “You shouldn’t have stuck your nose into it. Wicks needs killin.’ You’ll regret it; believe me, you’ll regret it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Wicks said. “Look who’s on the ground gut shot, pal.”
Blue got what he had coming, but I still felt sorry for him. And at the same time guilty as hell.
“You saved my life, Bruno. I won’t forget that. Jesus H., that was close.” Wicks took in a couple of long breaths. “But next time, remember, if he’s good for one, he’s good for all six. You give him all six next time. You understand?”
“Shut up, Wicks. Would you please just shut up?”
Uniformed deputies and half-dressed deputies from the station ran around the corner, guns drawn, looking for the threat, ready to engage. They came right over to us.
“What happened to Blue? Who shot Blue? Bruno, are you okay? Someone get paramedics.”
My God, what had I done? What had I done?
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
I SAT ON the couch holding Olivia. For three weeks, while my injuries healed, I stayed home and enjoyed my beautiful baby girl. I didn’t want to go back to work. I did and I didn’t. The draw to return and chase down dangerous and violent felons grew stronger by the day. Grew stronger as I grew stronger. That urge would eventually win out. Olivia had grown so much in such a short time. She made cute little noises and held on to my finger with her tiny ones. She had the greatest smile. The way she looked at me made me want to give her everything in the world.
Dad came in the front door carrying grocery bags. He set them on the counter and came out of the kitchen. He pointed to the suitcase sitting by the front door. “Son, you going someplace?”
Before I could answer, Chelsea came from the back of the house, barefoot, wearing worn denim pants and a white strap t-shirt. “Hey, Xander.”
“Hello, Chelsea. You two were still in bed, so I ran out and got something for breakfast. Is Bruno going someplace?”
She looked at me, waiting for me to field that uncomfortable question. She said, “Bruno, can I talk with you outside?”
I didn’t like her tone. Something had happened; something had changed.
“What?” Dad said. “No one’s going to answer my question?”
“Sure,” I said to Chelsea. I got up and handed off Olivia to Dad, scared now of what Chelsea wanted to tell me. “I’ll be back in a minute, Dad, and explain what’s happening.”
She followed me out to the front stoop. I stood one step lower. That put us closer to the same height, but not quite.
I held her hand and looked into her eyes. “What? Is it my trip? We discussed this. It’s something I have to do. I know you don’t want me to but—”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Bruno . . . I . . .”
“Ah, man, they transferred you, didn’t they?”
Her chin quivered. She nodded.
“Where to?”
She looked away and didn’t answer.
She’d been a rising star in the Bureau until the “Dog Heavy Caper.” The Bureau didn’t like the shooting at the Park View Hotel in Huntington Park. Even though justified and cleared by the DA’s office, it didn’t matter. FBI agents just didn’t have ADs, accidental discharges. And then there was ramming her car into the wall of the condo. She’d saved my life, and Chocolate’s, but that didn’t matter. FBI agents didn’t cowboy like that. When she did ram the car into the condo, she’d also made the choice to end the investigation without prior approval.
“How long have you known?”
She looked back at me. “A week.”
I fought the tears welling in my eyes. I kissed her like it was the last time. We broke and I held her close.
She whispered, “I’ll be gone when you get back. I didn’t want to ruin our last week together. Bruno, I’ll never forget this time we had.”
“Stop it. You talk like we’re not going to see each other anymore.”
She held on tighter.
“Where? Where are you going? It’s not over. We can commute until you can get reassigned back to LA.”
She shook her head.
Now I held her tighter and didn’t want to let go.
Wicks pulled up in his car on the street and honked.
“Tell me, where are you going to be assigned?”
She whispered, “Bismarck, North Dakota.”
We’d discussed what could happen and she’d told me that transfer assignments reflected just how far down the hole the Bureau tossed you. Bismarck. Well, she’d never dig her way out from there. Her career was finished.
“Then quit and stay here,” I said. “You can be a deputy sheriff.”
She shook her head again.
She didn’t say it, but I knew. She didn’t want me taking this trip, and it hurt her that she couldn’t stop me no matter what she said.
Wicks honked again.
Dad opened the door. “What’s going on out here? Who’s honking?”
“Okay,” I whispered in Chelsea’s ear, “will you call me when you get settled? Please?”
“You know I will.”
She wouldn’t though.
Wicks honked again.
“Dad, hand me my bag, please.”
He did, with a scowl. “You going to tell me where you’re going?”
I hugged Chelsea one more time, took the bag from Dad, and said, “Costa Rica, Dad. It’s just a quick turnaround trip to Costa Rica.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
When I first started in law enforcement more than three decades ago, I entered into this new world with wide-eyed romantic expectations about the men and women in blue, their honor, their integrity, their cut above in moral standing.
Gradually, over the years, those expectations slowly eroded, and I realized that some cops didn’t possess all those stalwart qualities—that they could be people with dangerous flaws and built-in criminality.
I came into work one day and found the station all abuzz. When I asked what was going on, I was told a deputy was accused of raping a woman while on duty. I remember clearly saying, “That’s an accusation without merit; that didn’t happen.” Cops just didn’t do that. A few minutes later, the lieutenant came out of the interview with the deputy, stopped in front of me, and said the deputy just admitted to the rape. I was stunned. This was my first experience with the slow decline of that high moral expectation I’d assigned to my brethren, my fellow law enforcement officers.
Then, over the years, three more law enforcement officers whom I worked with became murderers. Two of whom I considered friends. Out of the three, two went to prison, and the third took his own life rather than pay for his grave error in judgment—a premeditated killing.
In the early eighties, two police officers in the l
argest police department in Southern California were arrested and convicted of murder for hire—contract killings.
In The Innocents—originally titled Dog Heavy—I fictionalized the characters and the places of these events, which, although only similar in nature, did occur, and I was there to witness most of them. For one—the incident depicting the foot pursuit of Pedro Armendez—he did cut his own throat.
And that was the first time, as a young street cop, that I tasted blood.
Someone else’s.
