The backseat of a police car is interesting. It is designed to be as accommodating as possible while constantly reminding you that you are in trouble.
I remember seeing cops taking their kids to school or somewhere and the kids sat in the backseat. I cannot help but wonder what this does to the developing psyche of the little ones. Sure, the cops will tell their children the area is off-limits to anyone but alleged law-breakers. But when their own child asks for something within reason, few parents can resist.
When I was little, I always wanted to sit back there because it would have been such a different experience. But for the kids to be constantly placed in that area over and over again, that has to damage the whole illusion of punishment. In reality, the backseat of a police car is nothing more than a prison cell, with a better view.
“You hungry?” Steve asked.
Taxicabs, the expensive higher end ones, are very pleasant to ride in. But once you start moving, the doors lock, which transforms you from customer to prisoner. Sure, the belief is the locked doors are for your safety, but in reality we all know it is to prevent people from jumping out of the cab without paying for the service.
“I could sure go for a pizza,” Steve said. “All that thinking of New York got me in the mood for one.”
I coughed.
I’m good for another few sentences before he will really demand an answer.
We sat alone inside a room of the rundown caretaker’s house, wrapped in blankets. The cops had turned the dwelling into a makeshift base camp. Through the window, I kept staring at the empty backseat of a police car parked across from us.
Still have never ridden in the back of a patrol car. Hell, I’ve never even been in one.
The largest officer entered with pursed lips. We frequently saw him, so we assumed he was assigned to us. “I want the two of you to know that what you did was not only careless, but very stupid.”
Shaking his head in sympathy, he left us, rejoining the controlled chaos outside.
“I’m thinking deluxe,” Steve continued. “But just meat is always good.”
The rundown walls are doing little to muffle the noisy exterior. Loud murmurings from curious onlookers and news reporters fill the cemetery. Helicopters hover above with spotlights. Coroners are in corpse heaven as they examine the various perforated bodies on the porch. Paramedics have an easy job. They put Steve and I through minor examinations and tossed a couple of warm blankets over us.
Wherever you look, lights and cameras glare back. They all have every reason to be here. This has been a really big case.
My ear twitched as I heard a woman on the opposite side of my wall.
“Joe,” the woman called, “make sure you get the cemetery and the house in the shot.”
“I gotta move back to get it all.”
“Well, move back then. Audio check?”
“Good.”
“Okay. How much time do we have?”
“Fifteen.”
“Wow, that’s a lot. I’ll be standing by. Let me know when we’re at ten minutes… That’s right… Uh, who did they call in?”
“I think Jack, but he didn’t arrive yet. Just go into it, in case he doesn’t make it.”
“Okay… I’m standing here at the Breezy Pines Cemetery where authorities believe they have caught the notorious bank robbers that have plagued our city. However, in the process, they made a chilling discovery involving a young local man.
“It all started two weeks ago when a team comprised of eight men robbed a bank and got away. Instead of fleeing the state, the group continued their success by robbing several additional banks. In a statement released last week, Police Chief Thompson stressed the issue was now the department’s top priority. A reward was offered for any information pertaining to the arrest of the individuals.
“Local law officials soon learned of a bar where the alleged criminals frequented and launched a week-long investigation to confirm if the suspects were in fact the robbers. However, the culprits fled the establishment before any arrests could be made. The fugitives caused a high-speed pursuit that led officials to their hideout in the old cemetery where a fierce gunfight ensued.
“Trapped in the middle of the shootout were two local men who were searching for their friend. According to the men, their missing friend had reason to believe the old caretaker’s house was the bank robbers’ hideout. The young man went to the location alone to verify his theory. Officials confirm that the missing man was not only killed but that his remains were placed in a military style bag. All eight of the suspects and four officers were pronounced dead at the scene. Three officers suffered multiple stab wounds while attempting to make the arrests prior to the police chase. All three are in stable condition. The two men are safe and have asked to remain anonymous out of respect for their deceased friend. Authorities will release the identities of the other individuals after their families have been notified.
“How did that sound, Joe, too depressing?”
“A little.”
“Ugh, I hope it doesn’t rain. Do you think it will rain?”
“Hey, you got to move back!” the largest officer yelled. “You’re too close!”
“Oh, sorry!” the journalist replied.
“Move now!”
The officers had left us alone, to deal with finding Steve the way we did. They probably didn’t want to be around us in case we suffered a nervous breakdown.
An officer entered our room wearing a very clean and pressed uniform, on the broad chest of which hung multiple badges. Two officers flanked him. “Hello boys. I’m Chief Thompson. Call me Tommy.”
His smile was warm and evoked trust, conjuring up memories of a favorite uncle. “I want you two to know that coming into the cemetery was careless and you are very lucky to not have been injured. But you should not have been subjected to seeing all those bodies and the condition of your friend. If you need someone to talk to, counseling, or anything, let us know. We are here to help.”
While Tommy spoke, all the noise around the house stopped. Steve and I looked at each other, then back to the Chief.
“We are kind of hungry,” Steve said. “So a pizza would be cool.”
Tommy nodded. “Of course. Type?”
“All meat,” I said.
Tommy gestured back to one of his assistants. “Montoya will help with that.”
Montoya looked older than our personal waitress Maggie. Tied back hair, didn’t wear a hat like the others. Taller than most of the other cops, and very fit.
No question. She could easily kick me and Steve’s asses.
Tommy handed us business cards. “Please feel free to contact me if there is anything the two of you need. Don’t worry about the media; we will do our best to make sure they leave you and your families alone.”
Tommy left with his other assistant. Montoya and Steve worked out the details for our pizza.
Yes, I am very lucky. I accept that I will always feel remorse. The sadness lingering in me will never go away—a dull, constant pain that actually has been with me since I killed Steve, just haven’t realized before. But knowing how it all turned out, I would take everything back and not kill Steve.
For a couple of creative guys, Steve and I were sure dumb for not burying the duffle bag to begin with.
THE END
I Didn't Mean to Kill My Best Friend Page 9
