He nods and takes off, shouting out as he does to fellow officers.
The rain might lower the statistical rate of murder, but tonight it offered The Poet shelter in far too many ways.
One of the EMS techs steps to my side, giving me a grim shake of his head. The boy is beyond his ability. He’s beyond saving.
“There was a gun,” I breathe out, after the emergency crew cave to their failure and my weapon’s success.
“I think it was a flashlight,” one of the EMS techs replies.
“A flashlight.” The words are acid on my tongue. “I killed a little boy over a flashlight. That bastard tricked me into doing this. He’s made me a killer all over again. Bag the flashlight!” I yell out to the patrol and motion another forward to bag my weapon.
The next hour goes by in a hurricane, rather than a rainstorm. There is a special investigative team from another agency that shows up, as per protocol when an officer shoots someone in the line of duty. I’m removed from the scene and my clothes become evidence. I’m now in uniform pants, a police T-shirt, and a jacket. The investigation team walks the scene. I then walk the scene. Detective Martinez, a twenty-year veteran of the police department, joins the scene as my liaison. He’s a good guy who knows his job, compassionate, too, about the boy and what it’s like to be in my shoes. He helps out rather than push my buttons. The press shows up. It’s impossible to avoid, considering the apartment complex population.
The captain also makes a showing, here to do damage control. “What the hell happened?” he demands as if him punching words at me is what I need right now.
I can feel myself withdrawing. That’s how I operate. I don’t scream. I don’t shout.
“The Poet was at my door. I have a video to prove it. It was him, not a boy. Somehow when I rounded the corner, the boy was wearing the same clothes. He flashed what I thought was a gun. It was a flashlight.”
“How is that even possible?” he demands.
“The same way he leaves no DNA. He’s smart. He turned me into a killer. That’s what he wanted. I have them looking for footprints. I have the video. It’s clearly a large man.”
“What the fuck am I supposed to tell the press?”
“An evil monster used the kid as a shield. It’s the truth.”
“They know he’s called The Poet.” Accusation laces his tone. “You named him. Did you let this out to pressure the mayor over Newman?”
“That’s what you think of me? He leaves poems in their mouths. A crime scene has a hundred other people on it. I’d like to think that my calling him The Poet was oh so inventive, but it’s not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Captain. I’m covered in a little boy’s blood. I need to go shower and get to the station to give my formal statement.”
“While I stand here in the quicksand of your making.”
“I used to think my father hated you because he was dirty and you weren’t. I was wrong. He hated you because you’re an asshole, Captain. Sir. I’m going to shower and pick up the security feed from my apartment. I’ll text you a clip as well. Then I’m going to the morgue to try to figure out whose child I took.” I don’t wait for his approval or for him to tell me I’m on mandatory leave pending the investigation. I know. That’s not stopping me from going to find this child’s identity. I walk away, leaving him and Martinez in charge of the scene as if I have a choice.
I make my way through the many members of law enforcement now on the property and head into my building. I make it all the way to my door and halt when I find it open. Tension ripples down my spine. I know I left it open. What I don’t know is if anyone, namely The Poet, might be inside waiting for me. And I’m unarmed.
“Detective Jazz.”
At the sound of Officer Jackson’s voice, an odd mix of unease and relief fills me. I rotate to place the door and him both in profile. “What are you doing here, Jackson?”
“Anything you need me to do. I’m on your team, remember?” He eyes my door. “Is that supposed to be open?”
“I left it open. I’m unarmed. Can you search the apartment for me?”
“Right away.” He draws his weapon and hurries into the apartment without any hesitation. It bothers me, but then, I’m back to the obvious. The Poet wants me so on edge that I see him everywhere. Even in a little boy.
Chapter 72
I don’t stay in the hallway.
I follow Officer Jackson into my apartment, both of us streaking my hardwood floors with mud. Weapon drawn, Jackson scans the living room and kitchen and then walks toward my bedroom. I calmly enter the kitchen and open my special drawer. Anyplace I keep a gun right about now is special. I remove my personal Glock 43, a compact number that sits just right in my hand. I round the counter again and enter the living room as Officer Jackson is about to head upstairs to my war room.
“I’ll take care of that room.”
He eyes my weapon and then me. “You sure about that?”
“Positive. Thank you.”
He hesitates. “I’ll wait right here.”
“No,” I say, the idea of going up those stairs and being trapped in that room with anyone behind me not a good one. “I got it.”
He hesitates again and then harnesses his weapon, rotating to fully face me. “You want me to leave.”
I’m not big on denial. Reality is reality and I keep things real. “I need some time alone.”
“Understood. If you need anything—”
To turn back time a few hours, I think, but I say, “Thank you. Just help me catch this guy.”
“Understood.” He walks to the door and I follow him and, despite one unsearched room, relief rolls off me as he steps into the hallway. I shut the door firmly behind him and flip the locks. I needed him out of here, but I waste no time standing there rejoicing his departure. That unsearched room calls me, and I pause at the bottom of the stairs. If The Poet is here waiting for me, I’m ready to play.
My cell phone rings. It’s Lang with his impeccable timing. I decline his call for about the fifth time tonight. My Glock and I walk straight up the stairs to find the room empty and smelly, compliments of bags left behind after our taco takeout. Those bags and The Poet need to be taken to the trash, but neither is going anywhere right now. I walk downstairs and hurry into the bathroom, where I set my Glock on the counter. My cell phone rings and this time when I spy Lang on the caller ID, I answer.
“What the hell, Jazz? I’ve been worried.”
“I had investigators and hell suffocating me. I needed to get past at least some of that.”