The patrol car screeched to a halt and two cops piled out with guns drawn. Their radios squawked as they crouched behind their doors and took aim at Kyle and Bundy. The cop nearest the curb shouted, “Put down your weapons and get on the ground. Hands on your head.”
It was safe to assume he was only talking to Kyle and Bundy, but I wasn’t taking chances. I dropped to the sidewalk face down and clasped my hands behind my head. Gordie did the same, and Raj rolled onto his back and raised his hands in the air.
Kyle rolled his eyes and huffed, like a five year old being told to clean his room. “Do you even know who my father is?”
“Last warning!”
Bundy gazed down at the broken bottle in his hand and swallowed hard.
This was about to end badly and I needed to get out of the line of fire. The cop nearest the curb holstered his gun and lifted a yellow plastic gun from his belt. With arms straight and knees bent, he sidestepped around the car’s door and aimed at Kyle’s chest. “You’re fixing to get lit up!” The other cop drew a plastic gun from his holster and aimed at Bundy.
Somewhere not far away, a car beeped its horn. Kyle let out a groaning sigh. “Call your superior and tell them–”
The plastic guns erupted with rapid clicking and bright flashes as thin wires shot into Kyle and Bundy. The bottlenecks clanked onto the sidewalk and, together, Kyle and Bundy fell to their knees and collapsed face down. Kyle’s body stiffened and curled, like a trout on a hook giving up the fight. Bundy’s nostrils flared and his face strained as he lay rigid.
The rapid clicking stopped and the cops rushed over and kneeled on Kyle and Bundy’s legs, wrenching their arms behind their backs and wrapping handcuffs around their wrists. The bigger cop pressed Kyle’s face into the sidewalk and searched his pockets. Kyle squeezed his eyes shut and moaned weakly.
After patting every square inch of Kyle and Bundy, the cops nodded at each other and dragged them to their feet. The one gripping Kyle walked him to the patrol car, saying, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in the court of law…”
Hearing those words reminded me of when I was a kid and I thought the police were like superheroes. It’d been a long time since I thought that, but I couldn’t complain with the service these two were providing. Gordie gathered his crutches and climbed to his feet. Glancing back at the cops, he started down the sidewalk in the opposite direction to the patrol car at top shuffle speed, and Raj and I got up and limped behind him.
At the end of the street, a second car came around the corner and sped toward us with sirens wailing and lights flashing. It screeched to a halt at the curb beside us, and two cops stepped out and drew their guns.
19. Crossing the Thin Blue Line
Officer Madison leaned back in his chair and stroked his mustache, his silence telling me he was finally out of ways to ask the same question. Over an hour ago, he’d put Raj, Gordie, and me in separate interview rooms so he’d know if we lied. It didn’t matter – we had nothing to hide, or at least nothing I’d be telling them if they didn’t already know, like how we stole the guitar and paid Drac.
The interview room was the size of a bathroom, gray walls and a dark window on one side. On the table, a small box with a red light recorded everything we said.
Madison scratched his chin. “So you want me to believe that Kyle Swindon, the son of Police Chief Swindon, planned to murder you and then proceeded to attack you without provocation? Just like that?”
“I’ve said it fifteen times already.”
“It would be your word against his. Why should a judge believe your story?”
I shrugged, realizing I was being uncooperative but couldn’t think of a reason.
Lowering his voice, he leaned closer. “Look, Mr. Maddox, you need to understand that Chief Swindon is a highly respected member of this community. I find it troubling that you believe his son would behave like a criminal. You need to think carefully about your allegations. You could find yourself in hot water.”
He looked at me expectantly, and I held his stare.
The door clicked open and another cop, bigger and with gray hair, walked in. He pulled out the chair next to Madison and slapped a folder on the table. “I’m Officer Lyons.” He tapped the folder with two fingers. “This is a witness statement signed by the proprietor of Valeshnikov Boxing stating that you attempted to pay him to murder Kyle Swindon.”
My temperature rose. It shouldn’t have been shocking, but it was.
Madison gave a satisfied nod. “The truth comes out. A good cop always trusts his instinct.”
I raised my voice, trying to sound annoyed. “Drac, the fighting coach? Kyle's fighting coach? You think I'd try to pay a professional fighter to attack his own student? How much of an idiot do you think I am?”
Madison pointed his finger at my face. “You paid a trained martial artist to murder the Police Chief’s son. Do you even realize how much trouble you’re in? I’d advise you not to make matters worse.”
It was probably that I wasn’t thinking straight, but I couldn’t imagine anything that’d make this worse. Lyons slipped his notepad into his pocket and pushed his chair out. “There’s someone outside who wishes to speak with you. If you play your cards right, you might get out of this without being transferred to grown-up prison on your eighteenth birthday.” He and Madison stood from their chairs and disappeared through the door, pulling it shut behind them.
I stood and stepped over to the dark window. Cupping my hands to the glass, I tried to make out shapes on the other side, searching for any sign of movement. The interview room’s sterile emptiness and eerie silence was like a jail cell. If it was supposed to make me feel like I’d be going to prison, it was working.
Maybe Madison was right. I should have told them Kyle’s a pillar of society, and taken my punishment. I slumped into my chair, exhausted and pissed off, the knot in my stomach tightening.
Time passed. I didn’t know how much. They say dogs can’t tell how long they’ve been left alone. You could be out for only a minute and the dog would feel like it’d been a year. Turns out we're not so different. This room had no way to tell time, no view of the outside world, and not enough air to breathe easily. I tried the door. Locked. “Let me out!” I slammed my hand against the wall.
Legal rights are something I’d never paid much attention to, but I was pretty sure I was allowed to call a lawyer. I moved over to the dark window and pounded the glass. “You can’t keep me locked up! Do you hear me?”
I paced the room and hammered the door with my fist. Claustrophobia had never been a problem for me, but this was something different. I slumped into my chair, crossed my arms on the table, and rested my head on them. My mind spun with a heavy, dizzy feeling that reminded me of how long it’d been since I last slept, and I gave into the urge to close my eyes.
Some time later, the door swung open and a giant of a man stepped through, stooping under the doorframe. He pulled the door shut behind him, his enormous bulk filling the tiny room from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. I recognized him immediately. It wasn’t his decorated police hat, or the five stars on his shoulder; it was from seeing him a hundred times on the evening news.
Jack Swindon, Chief of the Detroit Police Department, stepped forward and eased into the chair opposite me, like an adult sitting at the kids’ table. Kyle had no chance of standing up to this genetically fucked-up super-gorilla.
For a long, uncomfortable moment, his red-veined eyes drilled me, examining my face. “Interview terminated at six fifteen P.M.” He pressed a button on the recording device and the red light went off. “I understand you’ve had an altercation with my son. Is that correct?”
Even if I’d wanted to respond, my brain wasn’t up to the task of speaking.
He glanced at the dark window and reached into his pocket. With his eyes on mine, he unfolded a sheet of paper filled with small faces of men, women, and children. Printed at the top
was: “Missing Persons – Detroit.” A name and a date were written under each photo. He flicked the sheet with his fingernail. “Know what this is?”
Was he about to accuse me of being a murderer? I managed a slight nod.
He stared at me, unblinking. “Would you like to be on it?”
The room suddenly shrank smaller, like I was trapped in a miniature closet. I fought to breathe.
His oversized hand shot across the table and grabbed a fistful of my hair. With a turn of his wrist, he twisted my neck and yanked my head down hard against the cold metal table. His grip tightened, sending my already burning scalp into searing pain. Leaning close to my ear, he said, “Four of these people are missing because they made the wrong decision. Are you about to make the wrong decision, Chris Maddox?”
His heavy old-man cologne was stronger than his grip. I squinted at him, trying to get a handle on what he was saying.
He studied my expression and then turned to the dark window. “I understand you’ve also been dealing with an associate of mine. Is that correct?”
It took a second to figure out what he meant. He detected the realization on my face and his expression hardened. He leaned on my head. “You need to remove yourself from my affairs. Completely. Your only priority is to not end up on this page.” He shook the missing persons list. “This is extremely important. Do you understand?” He pressed
Killer of Giants Page 31
