Wild World

by Peter S. Rush

  “Attempted murder of a police officer,” Bouley gloated as he walked up to the suffering kid.

  “My collar,” Steve yelled at the panting, angry detective.

  “Bullshit. We’ve been working these drug dealers for months. He tried to kill me,” Rizzo said, his face red and his eyes drawn tight. He was holding his arm, which had stopped bleeding. “And now we have attempted murder of a police officer.”

  “I had to shoot!” Steve screamed at him. “Why did you shoot?”

  “He shot first. Our lives were in danger.” Rizzo nearly spat it at Steve.

  “Fuck you. You shot at him. I had it under control.” His body was taut, nose to nose with the detective, ready to take him out, but the anger was self-directed. Did he kill the kid? He had fired without thinking. Instinct, but was it necessary? Norvell shot. Returned fire. But why? It was a drug bust. Now he would go up on attempted murder—twenty-five to life. He played the sequence back in his mind, trying to put it into slow motion. The stop, Norvell, the gun, the flash, Rizzo’s cry of pain, the slow squeeze of the trigger, sighting over the barrel like at the range. One shot on the mark and another scream of pain. Did he have a choice? It happened so fast.

  Bouley looked hard at Steve. “Why the fuck are you here?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Captain thought I liked the neighborhood. No one answers my radio.” Steve spat the words at them as he heard the whine of multiple sirens approaching the block.

  The ambulance arrived with many more police. Steve stood toe to toe with the two detectives while the area was turned into a blinking kaleidoscope of colors. Norvell was placed on a stretcher as the paramedics stopped the bleeding and tried to keep him from going into shock. Two cops were waiting to accompany him to Rhode Island General.

  Bouley had retrieved the other boy while Rizzo was treated by the paramedics. The kids from the apartment were being led into a waiting wagon.

  Steve was angry. Angry about being there, angry at Norvell for being there and being shot. He was angry at Rizzo and Bouley for their Dirty Harry police work. Steve was ready to fight; Bouley backed off a short distance.

  “Bouley, recuff him. Your collar.” Steve pushed the boy at him. “Want me to type your report?”

  “Not necessary.” Detective Bouley stared with hatred at Steve.

  “I can’t guess who the hero is . . .” Steve said.

  Rizzo approached and threw Steve his handcuffs. “Fuck you, Logan.”

  Steve glared at him. “You’re welcome. Maybe I should’ve shot you.”

  Rizzo entered the waiting ambulance as Bouley led the boy off. Steve saw him get hit again and watched two detectives roughly shove the boy into the backseat of the unmarked car.

  One got in after him, and Steve heard another loud groan. He looked down at the ground, where his shoe had left a footprint in Norvell’s blood. What had he done? He realized he had made a God decision while barely thinking about it. And he fucking hit the target. He felt weak, but the commotion of the scene, with brass arriving from everywhere, allowed him to move through the questions as the police tried to get their story straight. Could he ever tell anyone?

  No one who knew him would think he would shoot someone, but he did. It was his job, but to save Rizzo, that lousy piece of shit. It was done, but would Norvell live?

  Steve hoped so. How did it happen so fast? Should he have done something else? As the Lieutenant led him over to the car, he could feel the increased weight of the revolver on his hip. He was responsible for pulling the trigger, for good or bad. It wasn’t what he signed up for, but it was done. Now the paperwork.

  Several days later after his night shift, Steve drove the green VW aimlessly through the streets of downtown Providence, knowing he should go back up college hill. He was back on desk duty, typing reports until the investigation was finished, but he continued to turn the entire scene over in his mind. The Providence Journal reported that a drug dealer was wounded in a shootout with police, with a police officer slightly hurt.

  The parking lot for Rhode Island General was in front of him. Hesitating for a split second, he shifted into second gear and guided the little car into the lot. On the third floor, he faced the ICU nurse’s station.

  “Norvell Thompson?” Steve asked the nurse behind the counter. Her bleary eyes showed she worked the night shift, too.

  “Officer, the new guard is already here.”

  He realized the nurse only saw the uniform. The wing was beginning to come alive as doctors were arriving for their morning rounds and nurses were checking vital signs. “I know. How’s he doing?” He smiled at her.

  “Serious but stable. The bullet missed vital organs,” she said, looking at the chart.

  “What room?”

  “Three twenty-six.” She indicated the corridor behind him. Turning, he wondered what he was doing here. It was against regulations—he couldn’t speak with the suspect. But he felt he had to. He had made his decision. To see Norvell, to see what he had done to him. To tell him . . .

  The room was at the end of the hallway, secured with only one way in or out. Meatball was sitting in the chair outside the door with a cup of coffee, two donuts, and the morning paper. Steve smiled. This was the type of police work Meatball loved.

  “Logan, you shouldn’t be here,” he said without getting up.

  “I know, but I have to see him.”

  “Can’t do that. He’s a prisoner.”

  “Cut me some slack. I put the bullet in him.”

  “Scumbag deserved it. Ya should’ve killed him and saved the state some money.”

  Steve turned the doorknob and realized it was locked. “Key?”

  “I’ll have to report you.”

  “I’m scared. Key?”

  Meatball shrugged and opened the door with the key on the lanyard around his neck.

  “You’re a fuckup.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard,” Steve said and closed the door behind him.

  The room was dark. Norvell was connected to some machines, with several tubes in his right arm and mouth. His left arm was handcuffed to the bed. His eyes were shut, and his breathing was shallow. A green screen to the left silently charted his life.

  “Why, Norvell? Why?” Steve asked, again reliving the split seconds of the noise, smell of gunpowder, and the screams. He started out to make a difference, which he thought would be better. Was it?

  The boy opened his eyes, vacantly looking at the form in front of him. Steve took off his police cap and moved closer to the boy.

  “You’ll get through this. The doctor will fix you up.”

  Steve saw the recognition in the boy’s eyes as he struggled to speak. “Teach, I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you did, Norvell. But you have time.” The boy closed his eyes, turning his face away.

  Putting a business card on the bed tray, Steve said, “He’s supposed to be a good defense attorney. Listen to him; he’ll get you the best deal.” He didn’t expect Norvell to respond.

  Norvell had fucked up big time. There would be a plea of attempted murder. He was only seventeen, and the DA would want him to plead as an adult. Maybe the attorney could get a better deal as a juvenile. Twenty years with good behavior, maybe serve twelve. That would make him twenty nine when he got out—then what? Why? This wasn’t supposed to . . .

  He wasn’t supposed to be the one to . . . Protecting Rizzo? It could have been done so differently, without the violence. Was he lying to himself?

  Norvell died. The mood in the station was jovial. The case was open and shut, and with the death, there would be no long, drawn-out court trial with bad press. Captain Lynch branded the kid a cop killer, so there was no discussion with the media about who the kid really was.

  The brass closed ranks quickly to protect Steve as if he was one of their own. But he wasn’t. He was guilty of taking a life. He knew he was more respected in their eyes because he had acted as they expected. The fraternity slaps on the back from cops w
ho would talk to him would fade as they remembered who he really was. And he knew he wasn’t going to change. He had come too far to turn back; it was a fraternity he didn’t want to join. The FBI had the files. It was up to them.

  Steve climbed the familiar wooden stairs to his third floor sanctuary. He took the key from above her door, entering the room filled with her fragrance. Blue lace panties and a white bra were on the floor, not quite making the wicker hamper. Here was home, the secure feeling that he craved now. Her reaction would be anger, outrage. How could he have become such a monster? It was true: how did he become everything he wanted to fight against? It just happened. There hadn’t been enough time to think, but the kid . . . He would always see his face in the front row, challenging for learning.

  Sitting on his side of the bed, he leaned his head back against the pillow, closing his eyes, allowing his mind to relax. A soft purring against his hand brought him back to the moment.

  “Hello, Cyrano. Have you been taking care of her? I should have been here to do that, but I know you’ve been watching over her.” He petted the cat softly as it settled onto his stomach. How nice, he thought, being remembered and loved so easily. That is why people have pets; they make love so less complicated.

  He remembered the first days after she moved in; he was awkward with a stunning female, naked in his room, casual with body, warm with her smile, sensuous with her touch. He was in heaven every moment, but he had thrown it away, chasing after what? Some idea that he would make a difference in the world. Now he had made a difference for one young boy, forever.

  Hearing the key, he stiffened as the cat jumped to the end of the bed. She would not be happy he was there with no warning. He had to see her; there was nowhere else to go. She went to her desk, dropping her books as she turned on the light. Startled, she sat in the desk chair, looking at him.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Wrong?” he replied.

  “You look like shit. Are you sick?” Her tone turned to concern.

  “Yes, I think so. But not like you think. I need to talk to you. To tell you something.” The waves of fear erupted inside, as he knew this would be the end. “Come over here,” he said in a quiet voice, staying outwardly calm.

  Roxy tossed her hair, grabbing it with one hand and pulling it into a ponytail. She sat at the foot of the bed, near enough for him to touch.

  “Now what’s so important? You look so serious.” She ran her hand across his hair.

  “I killed someone.” He had to just say it. There was no other way. Just say it, admit it, be damned by it.

  “What? What are you saying? You did what?”

  “I killed someone. A young man, Norvell . . . One shot . . .” Then it began. He was trying to stay controlled, a man, but it just came out. “I didn’t mean to . . . I did, he had a gun and fired . . . I just reacted . . . one shot. I’m so sorry. I’m so bad. I know you can’t forgive me. I can’t forgive myself . . .” He was crying full deep sobs with an expression he had never felt.

  Her arms circled him, and he buried his head in her chest, his tears flowing as he sought forgiveness and comfort in her arms. She stroked his head until his sobs began to subside as he regained control of himself.

  “Are you going to be arrested?” she asked.

  “No way. They think I’m some kind of hero. High fives. Now I’m one of them.” He leaned back against the pillow. “But I’m not. I’m done.”

  “But what does it mean? What’s going to happen to you?” Her voice quavered slightly. Being clinical, she was diagnosing the problem, but he didn’t care what happened. It was over. He couldn’t take it back.

  “Some cursory internal investigation, but he had the gun, fired . . . Oh shit, what does it matter? The boy didn’t need to die. There is so much more to life than . . . I’m so sorry.” He began to sob again, and Roxy stroked his cheek. He could feel her warmth, and her touch smothered his raw emotion. He was where he needed to be, and she was there for him. Maybe he didn’t ask enough of her. Maybe she needed to take care of him, not he her. Now she was his strength. Maybe he had it wrong. Right now, it didn’t matter; the stain would always be with him.

  Sitting at the black Underwood typewriter, Steve inserted a blank piece of paper and rolled it to typing position. There was little noise or commotion in the room because the day shift was on. He typed, Due to deep moral and philosophical differences with the Department, I hereby resign my position as patrolman.

  He looked at it. Short and sweet. He took it out of the typewriter, signed it, and went up to the second floor.

  Colonel McGuire was behind his desk. Sitting to the side, in partial darkness, was Captain Lynch, who was smoking his cigar. Steve knew they had been waiting for this day, but he was surprised at how mixed his emotions had become. He didn’t want to admit failure, but he knew there was no longer any chance for success. He had given the U.S. Attorney everything he had, but was it enough to change anything?

  Steve walked up to the desk and handed the note to the colonel. He then took off his badge and gun belt and laid them on the desk. The colonel looked at the note, showing no emotion.

  “Very well. Dismissed,” the colonel said.

  Steve turned and looked hard at the fat captain sitting in the chair before he went for the door. The captain gave the colonel a nod of satisfaction, but Steve smiled. It wasn’t over yet.

  Steve and Roxy walked down Bowen Street to Prospect Terrace Park, a small pocket park that overlooked downtown Providence. Set in a quiet enclave among the nineteenth-century luxury homes, it was neatly tended like an English garden. The state capitol building dominated the background, bathed in a necklace of light in the clear night.

  The last month had disappeared in new love. They had talked more, laughed more, made love more to chase away his demons. He thought they were more deeply in love than when they first met. But the fantasy they created wouldn’t last; they both knew it but kept chasing it away like fireflies in the night. Reality—they knew what it was and why they tried so hard to keep it at bay. He wasn’t healed, but a scab had formed, and it was time to move on.

  They sat on a wooden bench.

  “I’ll be gone for a while,” he began. “It’s time for me to go. I’ve done all I can do but didn’t accomplish much. Maybe I can do something better this time.”

  “Are you afraid?”

  “It’s a new adventure.” He smiled at her. “You know: Nothing better than another grand gesture.”

  Roxy was tearing a bit and nodding. They had been talking about it for weeks. “I’ll miss you, you know.”

  “I hope a little, but you’ll stay busy. Get into med school.” He knew she was strong, maybe stronger than he was. He didn’t want to put her in danger. He was being paranoid, but the system was cruel when defending itself. He wanted to be far away when the Federal Attorney came back with indictments.

  “I’ll write. Do you know where you’ll be?”

  “Far away.” Steve paused, thinking that the distance might do him good. He couldn’t help himself when he was around her. They fell in love too deeply and too fast. It consumed all the fuel. Now they would address their grown-up fears. “You’ll be with me. We still have another chapter.” He forced a weak smile because he didn’t want to cry.

  He handed her the keys to his green VW. “Think of me. I’ll be back for your graduation. I’m not that easy to get rid of.” He forced a laugh.

  “This is another one of your crazy ideas.”

  Tears silently slipped down her cheeks as she tried to maintain some control. He began tearing as well and shook his head to clear his eyes. As they stood, Steve pulled her to him and hugged her very tightly. Burying her head in his chest, she clamped her arms around his back.

  “I love you,” he said softly in her ear.

  “And I you.” Absorbing the moment, they kissed. “Be careful.”

  Steve was in the open Jeep arranged by the Peace Corps with the windshield folded down on
the hood. The driver, with ritual parallel scars on his face and forehead, sat stone-faced, unable to communicate with him in either English or his college French. The Jeep bounced on a deeply rutted African road in the arid landscape of the Mandara Mountains. The land was strewn with boulders from the worn-out hills they still called mountains. Only volcanic cores, giant phallus symbols, attested to the lost virility of the mountain range.

  He felt the Jeep continue to slowly climb as it lurched around foot-deep ruts in the road. The Jeep approached a group of large women with straw baskets. They were filling the ruts from dirt piles dug with rusted shovels. The women left the road slowly as the vehicle neared, their leathered bare feet etching footprints in the soft dirt. Steve watched the women return to their work in the hot sun with little vigor or desire.

  The Jeep stopped in the center of the village. It was Wednesday, market day. The market consisted of two rows of stalls made of spindly poles and dry thatch for shade. There were dried fish, peanuts—raw and roasted—canned goods smuggled across the border, cotton, kola nuts, and live chickens. A barber had an old aluminum chair in the shade of a tree. Several horses were tied to a pole, and men in full boubas were squatting on the ground, exchanging money. Brightly colored cotton cloth waved seductively in the soft breeze by the corner stall.

  Steve tried to absorb the assault on his senses. A cow’s head stared at him from a tree stump. It had open eyes, as if surprised by his arrival. An old man with facial tattoos in purple ink, his long sleeves dotted with remains of cow blood, swished a carpet of flies from the freshly killed meat as he cut a piece with a long, thick blade for a waiting woman.

  The women in the market, young and old, noticed the Jeep and the newcomer and rushed to surround it. Steve scanned the faces in the crowd—new and unfamiliar—looking at him with curiosity and without fear. As he stepped out of the Jeep, his tan desert boots sinking into the sand, the women, from grandmothers to young girls, came closer to stare at him before a woman with red kola-juice-stained teeth whispered to the assembly, who broke into a cacophony of laughter, some turning their faces away from him. He smiled at them, knowing he was the butt of their joke.