by Frank Zafiro
The thing that always struck me was how active the neighborhood was. People were almost always out and about. People walked their dogs, sometimes to the park, which had a corner reserved for them. They walked or biked past me on their way to whatever their destination was. Unless weather prohibited it, the front porch seemed to be the place most people liked to relax. On the way to the park, I waved to several faces I recognized. Some waved back. We didn’t know each other’s names. Some didn’t wave, and I wondered if those were the ones who’d watched the news last night.
By the time I reached the park, my knee was aching. My gait had slowed considerably and devolved into a limp. I stood at the edge of the park and surveyed the scene, before making for the open gazebo in the middle of the park. The structure was the color of natural wood, stained instead of painted. When I reached it, I settled onto the wooden seat, letting out a long sigh as the weight came off my knee. I flexed it again, gazing out over the green expanse. A couple of men sat on a blanket, having a picnic about forty yards away. On the other side of the park, a young kid threw a ball for his dog. A woman sat on a bench near them, reading a book. Other than that, I was alone.
That’s fitting, I thought. Because that’s exactly how I feel.
I let that feeling wash over me. I knew enough about bad feelings to know that the only way out of that dark forest was through it. So I embraced it. I thought about Clell leaving town without telling me why, and I felt stupid for how that made me feel. He had his own life, and whatever he had to do in North Dakota was his own business. It was ridiculous for me to feel somehow abandoned by it.
But I did, a little.
Adam was the same way. I should never have pressed him for information like I did. He had a family to think about, and a career. I hoped the damage I did wasn’t permanent.
Harrity was the one I should have cared about the least, but somehow that wasn’t the case. I understood why he put some distance between us. It was purely a business decision, and given how smart the guy was, it was probably the right one. But it still stung, strangely.
I felt alone.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. The weak sunlight touched my cheeks. My thoughts drifted around without direction, touching on Adam, then Clell, Harrity, or Marie Brassart. I wondered what was next for her case, and if it would still go to trial.
The sun was warm, the park sounds soft and quiet. I dozed off several times, my head dropping backward and startling me awake gently. I soaked in the tranquility around me, let it push back at the feelings of loss and loneliness inside me.
I don’t know how long I sat there. The slight breeze ruffled the limbs of the trees nearby. The dog chasing a ball barked every once in a while, a happy sound. I could sense a gradual lightening of the mood, one small moment at a time. I liked the park for that. It almost always made me feel better.
Until I heard the unmistakable rack of a shotgun.
57
My eyes snapped open. Adrenaline blasted through me. I whipped my head left and right searching for the threat as I leapt to my feet. My knee buckled and I stumbled slightly. I caught myself, and right at that moment, I spotted him.
The goon Thad Richards owned stood about twenty yards away. In the sunlight, the cold fury in his eyes contrasted with the bright red of his acne-riddled face.
I heard a scream from the other side of the park, male but high pitched. The picnickers. The sound came to me as if my ears were stuffed with cotton. I shuffled to the side, my eyes glued to my attacker.
He said something I couldn’t understand, more of a snarl than words. The shotgun came up to his shoulder. He drew a bead on me. I stared at the massive hole at the end of the barrel. Like a mystic cobra, I was transfixed by the image.
This is what death looks like, I thought.
Followed by I don’t even know your name.
Then, No!
I leapt.
He fired.
The sound of the gunshot was almost comically small, just a small pip. The concussive force of the blast washed past me, though, almost as if we were underwater and it was a current passing nearby. The slightest of zings rippled through my shoulder as I fell.
As soon as I hit the ground, I scrambled back to my feet, pushing up with my good knee. I shot a glance at my attacker. I watched him rack the shotgun again. The crack of the action echoed throughout the park.
He raised the gun.
I ran, zigging and zagging in a frantic, limping sprint. Another blast erupted behind me. I didn’t feel any impact or pain. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder, or stop. I cut to my right, then immediately back to my left when I heard him work the action a third time. I took two steps, then reversed direction again. My knee screamed in pain with the sudden force, but it just barely held, propelling me back to my right.
The sound of the shotgun blast was loud this time, as if an artillery cannon had been fired. There was no pain, but I collapsed. The fragrance of clean, green grass filled my nose when I first hit the ground. A moment later, the wet, coppery smell of blood assaulted my nostrils.
I tried to get up, but my leg wouldn’t cooperate. Something was wrong structurally. I glanced down and all I could see was a red, pulpy mess below my left knee. The panic that had been curled inside my chest exploded outward, a wild, rolling sensation. I gritted my teeth, forcing it down. Instead, I tried to rise up using my right leg.
That was when the pain hit.
It was bad enough to make me howl out in agony. The sound escaped my lips without thought, tearing raggedly through my throat.
I collapsed back to the grass, reaching down and clutching at the wet, painful mess.
“That’s right, motherfucker!” he screamed. His voice was closer than before. Black waves passed across my vision. I struggled to stay conscious.
Then he was standing over me, the shotgun held loosely across his chest. A twisted, manic grin shone from his face.
“Stop,” I whispered weakly, but somehow he heard me.
“Stop? Are you fucking kidding me?” He shook his head. “No. Because of you, I’m going to get the needle.”
The needle? My mind scrambled to make sense of what he said. Then it fell into place. He’d been the one to hit Henry Brassart from behind with his car. It was Thad Richards who planned it, but this guy did the dirty work. Somehow, I’d expected as much all along.
“They can’t kill me twice,” he growled. “So I’m taking you with me, you son of a bitch.”
“No,” I said, but my words had no sound.
His eyes bored into me. With a fearsome twitch, he racked the shotgun slide.
I am going to die now.
No images flashed before my eyes. No regrets sang out. No one filled my thoughts. A blank silence fell upon my mind.
I stared up at him and waited.
The barrel swung toward me as he tucked the stock into his shoulder. The black hole at the end of the gun caromed into view. I clenched my jaw and gazed into its dark depths. The only thought that whispered to me was to die like a warrior. It seemed a small, insignificant concept in that moment, but it was all I had. All I knew.
I clutched at it.
A shot rang out.
There was no flash. No pain. Just a frozen moment. Then the tip of the shotgun wavered, and dipped.
A second shot. And then, immediately, a third.
He bucked and staggered to his left. Our eyes locked. His were filled with a confused rage that was already glazing over.
I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again, he’d collapsed to the ground.
“Stef!”
The voice came from far away. Miles and miles.
I blinked again.
When I opened my eyes, she was there.
Anna.
“Stef!” Her face was painted with barely controlled panic. When our gaze met, her panic seemed to flare. Then her expression turned steely. “Hold on,” she ordered me.
I tried to say yes, but could only bl
ink in response.
Before I could open my eyes again, I felt her tearing my belt off. I tried to force my lids open to see her face once more, but the darkness around me pressed in too closely, and then my mind surrendered to it.
58
Frail.
When I woke, that was the first word I thought. It was how I felt. Frail. Old. Broken. And angry. And then I wondered why I wasn’t overwhelmingly grateful.
I was alive.
I stared at the hospital ceiling, blinking heavily and slowly. This seemed to be my newest, best skill. Blinking. I had a sense that I was doped up to the gills, then the thought slipped away. Instead, I focused again on being alive. No matter how hard I focused, the thought didn’t make me feel anything. I drew shallow breaths, through dry, cracked lips. There was no pain, but I could detect the broken limitations of even this simple process.
I decided to move those heavy eyelids again, and blink. But I could only close them, and dive back into the darkness.
59
I flitted in and out of consciousness for what seemed like a week. I later discovered it was only two days, but it didn’t matter. Time had lost meaning for a little while.
When I finally came out of it and was actually cogent, the doctor came to see me.
“Do you feel like you can talk, Mr. Kopriva?”
“Yes,” I croaked, my voice raspy.
The doctor reached for the ice water and held it for me. I sipped through the straw. The water washed through my mouth and down my parched throat. I nodded my thanks.
He put the water down. “I’ve got you on some pretty strong narcotics. Are you experiencing any pain?”
I shook my head. “No, but I want off the meds as soon as possible.”
He frowned slightly. “Do you have an allergy we’re unaware of?”
“No. I had some addiction issues years ago.”
He nodded in understanding. “We can start weaning you a little, then, if you like.”
“I do like.”
“All right. The goal will be to find a place where you’re not experiencing too much pain, but still keep your dosages at a minimum. That won’t be easy, though.”
“Why?” I asked.
The doctor hesitated briefly. Then he said, “Are you completely aware of the extent of your injuries yet?”
I shook my head slightly. “Everything is still…a little fuzzy.”
“I understand.” He paused again. “You suffered wounds from a shotgun. Severe wounds. You lost a great deal of blood, mostly from the leg injury.”
“I was hit more than just in the leg?”
“Yes. One shotgun pellet struck your left shoulder.”
I thought about that, remembering how he’d fired at me several times. One of those other shots didn’t miss like I thought. Adrenaline must have kept me from feeling the injury, or recognizing it.
“Double ought buck?”
“Pardon me?”
“The ammunition in the shotgun. Was it double ought buck?”
He shrugged. “I’m not certain of the caliber.”
I almost smiled. Shotguns didn’t have calibers, but it didn’t surprise me that the doctor was unaware of that.
“Big pellet, or little BB?” I asked.
“The pellet removed was larger than a BB,” he said. “But the shoulder injury was actually comparatively minor, causing some tissue damage. The major wound was to your lower left leg. That one bled profusely, and you’d already lost a large amount of blood before the ambulance got you to the ER. Quite frankly, the police officer who showed up saved your life.”
Anna.
“How?”
“She used your belt to create a tourniquet. If she hadn’t done so, you likely would have bled to death in that park before the ambulance even arrived.”
I remembered her standing over me, and had a vague image of her pulling off my belt. No, not an image. A sensation.
The doctor was still looking at me, so I nodded to show him I understood.
“She saved your life,” he continued, “but we weren’t able to save the leg.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Both your tibia and your fibula were shattered at approximately the mid-point. In addition, there was substantial muscle damage. The emergency room doctors attempted to repair the damage, but the trauma was too extreme. Coupled with your blood loss, the only reasonable option was amputation.”
The dry, textbook recitation he made resonated in my ears. I soaked it in as if he were talking about someone else.
“Do you understand what I’ve told you, Mr. Kopriva?”
My mouth and throat were dry again. I swallowed thickly, and it felt as if I had been chewing on paper.
“Mr. Kopriva?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I reached for the bed control. Very deliberately, I pressed the up button. Behind me, the bed rose slowly, bringing me up into a sitting position. The doctor stood by, waiting quietly.
The whine of the motor went silent, and the bed lurched to a stop. I didn’t want to see but I knew I had to. With an effort, I looked toward the foot of the bed. The outline of my legs was plain under the sheets and the thin hospital blanket. The lower half of my left leg was shorter than the right, ending suddenly about half way down from the knee.
I tried to pull the sheet aside, but I was weak and it was tucked in. I flailed uselessly for a second before the doctor stepped in.
“Let me,” he said.
The doctor pulled the edge of the sheets out from under the bed mattress and folded them over to expose my legs.
I stared.
Part of my left leg was gone. My body didn’t want to believe my eyes. I swore I could still feel it there. I could even wiggle my toes. But the image before me was unmistakable. The leg ended about six inches below my knee in a heavily bandaged nub. Below that, nothing.
The doctor let me stare for at least a full minute before he replaced the covers. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But you’re fortunate to still be alive.”
I turned and met his gaze. I wasn’t sure what I felt, but words tumbled out of my mouth without thinking.
“I guess we’ll see,” I murmured, and he didn’t answer me.
61
The cops came first. Then Harrity. The news media tried to get in, but I refused to talk to them. Somehow, one of the stations still managed to get through security to the Intensive Care Unit and surreptitiously snap a quick photo through the narrow window on the door to my room. That blurry image of me, disheveled and indistinct in the hospital bed with tubes and bandages, ran next to my police academy picture on all the news stations and eventually in the River City Herald.
I found out all of that later. At the time it happened, I couldn’t have cared less.
The cops were the easiest. Detective Strodtz showed up with his notepad and a digital recorder. His questions were logical and orderly. First he ensured I was capable of giving a cogent interview. Once he established that, he walked me slowly through the particulars of the events. We got into a rhythm, and I anticipated many of his questions before he even asked them.
We circled back around once or twice to clarify points. I held nothing back. I had no reason to. Strodtz made careful notes, even though the recorder was running the entire time. When he’d finished, he expressed perfunctory condolences for my injuries, and left.
Harrity’s visit was part business, part personal. He got the personal part out of the way first, expressing his sympathy and his thanks in one brief sentence. Then he spent the rest of the time filling me in about things that I quickly realized I didn’t care about any more than Strodtz’s questions.
The cops hadn’t been idle after our visit. The subpoena for the financial records of Stoker, Shelley & Bynes came through and investigators dove in. They also began trailing Richards. They spotted him meeting with the goon that attacked me, but didn’t want to tip their hand, so they didn’t arrest him at that point. I couldn’t help but think that I
wouldn’t be laying in a hospital bed if they had simply slapped the cuffs on the guy right then.
“Whose decision was that?” I asked Harrity, but even as I asked, my apathy took over again. The answer wasn’t going to bring back my leg. I barely listened to him as he answered.
“Sergeant Kinkaid,” he said.
They ran the vehicle plates through the Department of Licensing to get the identification on Richards’ goon. His name was Mark Barden. One team kept him under surveillance while the lead investigators brought Richards in and interrogated him.
“He didn’t request an attorney,” Harrity explained, “which was a foolish error on his part. During the course of the interrogation, he ultimately admitted to plotting Brassart’s murder, and hiring Barden to do it.”
The solution to the crime brought me no satisfaction. I simply didn’t have the energy to stop Harrity from explaining. It was plain that he believed it was something he needed to do. Letting it happen was easier than stopping it.
After Richards confessed, the police moved in to arrest Barden. He evaded them at his house somehow, but they seized his car. As far as Harrity could tell, they didn’t find any direct evidence of Brassart’s murder, such as blood, hair, or clothing. But there was clear evidence of recent damage and repair.
“That would likely have been enough to convict him, especially when coupled with Richards’ confession and his eventual testimony,” Harrity assured me. “But that became a moot point when he attacked you.”
I nodded. I knew all about moot points these days.
Harrity stayed a little longer, pinning down all of the frayed, loose ends, but I didn’t listen to him. Things were already clear enough.
Marie Brassart was cleared of her husband’s murder.
The police were convinced she’d acted in self-defense where Walter Garrison was concerned, so she was off the hook there, too.
