J Bertrand - Back on Murder

He’s anxious for me to go, and since I can’t think of any excuse that would stall him awhile longer, I oblige. The moment I’m out the door, though, the office next to his opens. Thinking it might be Thomson’s, I pause. Salazar puts a hand on my back, urging me along, but I slip his grasp, pretending something’s just occurred to me.

“What?” he says under his breath.

I smack my forehead, buying a few seconds.

From the open door, Reg Keller emerges. He takes one step outside, then freezes, drawing in breath like he’s just stepped on something. His flame-blue glare zeroes in on my shoes, as if he somehow recognizes them as mine, then slowly works its way upward, taking me in inch by inch.

“Sorry, boss,” Salazar says.

Keller makes no reply. He’s an inch or so taller than me, menacingly fit, with a shaved head and a tight row of clenched teeth. He wears his stiff navy suit like a uniform, shirt crisp with starch, tie knotted just so, knife-edge creases everywhere you look. As much as I hate the man, there was a time I admired him, and coming face-to-face like this it’s hard to keep myself from reflexively cowering. In a dream, now would be the time to throw my punch, but in the flesh I find there’s more flight in me than fight.

He plants his hands on his hips, leaning forward aggressively, a vein going rigid in his neck. “You want to tell me what he’s doing here?”

Salazar sputters, hands spread.

“Instead of just standing there, maybe you should do something about it.”

With surprising power, Salazar takes me by the elbow, pulling me back. I dig in at first, but he shoulders me along.

“Come on, man,” he whispers.

The secretary stands, one hand to her chest, shrugging emphatically in Keller’s direction, her chin ducked as though worried he might be able to hit her from across the room.

As Salazar bunches me through the door, I glance back at Keller, who still hasn’t budged an inch. His cheeks flush with outrage, nostrils flaring, and at that moment it wouldn’t surprise me if he charged. A note of protest sounds at the back of my mind. What have I ever done to him? What’s he got to complain about? He should be the one they’re afraid of. They should pack him out the door.

Then I’m in the hallway and the door swings shut. The last thing I see is the apologetic wince on Salazar’s lips.

The whole exercise was pointless. If Thomson was there, I didn’t see him and he didn’t see me. I shouldn’t have wasted my time. All the old feelings come rushing back, the vengeful drives I surrendered back when it seemed there was no hope of ever fulfilling them. My leg rears back of its own accord, and it’s all I can do to keep from kicking the shut door.

But I don’t. That would only make a bad situation worse. And besides, the visit isn’t a total loss. They’re going to be talking about it for a while in there. Maybe Thomson, if he wasn’t already lurking behind a closed door, will hear about the incident, and realize it’s time to get in touch.

Sergeant Nixon settles behind the wheel of his cruiser, giving me a sideways glance. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Detective. It’s not a taxi service I’m running here. But you used to be one of my boys, so that entitles you to some special treatment.”

“Thanks, Nix,” I say. “I appreciate this.”

The last time I saw him was at the Morales scene, when he sent me on the wild goose chase across the street, interviewing the hot Latina who’d witnessed nothing much. Before that, we’ve bumped into each other a few times, him always making a point of addressing me by my rank, the way a proud father would. I started out under Nix, driving one of his patrol cars, and while we hadn’t formed anything like a special bond, I have a few fond memories of his sarcastic lectures and crass practical jokes.

Seeing him in the car pool, already feeling a bit nostalgic after my run-in with Keller, I decided to hitch a ride. Northwest was far out of his way, but he told me to hop in regardless.

“You remember Reg Keller?” I ask.

He snorts. “He always thought he was something, didn’t he?”

“Still does.”

“I take it you two haven’t made peace yet? That’s what I figured. I wish you could have brought him down, Detective. He was ripe for it back then, but I’m afraid you done missed your chance.”

I’m tempted to contradict him, but I don’t.

Nix is one of the few people who knows the story about my beef with Keller. When Big Reg showed up in Central, he was already larger than life, with a ready-made entourage of corner-cutting patrol officers fawning on his every utterance. I was one of them, or at least I wanted to be. For the longest time, Keller shut me out, treating me like the unimaginative, by-the-book stuffed shirt I was afraid I really was. I’d see the guys he took under his wing, strutting around like they were God’s gift to law enforcement, and I wanted nothing more than to be one of them.

Noticing this, Nix took me aside for a heart-to-heart, telling me I was lucky Keller hadn’t taken a shine to me. The guys he groomed had one thing in common: a moral flaw. The way Nix put it, they’d rather have the gun than the badge.

“You warned me about him,” I say. “All those years ago.”

“Did I?” He rubs his mustache, a little pleased with himself. “Did it do any good?”

“Not really.”

Everybody knew Keller was moving up the chain, sloughing off the uniform to get a shiny new detective’s shield. Rumors circulated, as they always do. He’d be taking some cronies along with him. This was the time to get yourself on Big Reg’s radar screen. So one night as we’re tooling up for patrol, I go up and tell him he can ride shotgun with me, assuming he wants to. I can’t remember the exact words, but it came out like a challenge and that kind of bravado appealed to Big Reg. Before I knew it, we were on the street. I finally had my chance to prove myself.

Nix must be remembering, too, because he sighs against the driver’s side window. We’re taking I-10 through the middle of town, hooking up to the Loop and then heading up the Northwest Freeway.

“I should have listened,” I say.

He just grunts.

Near the end of the shift, desperate to impress, I floored it over to a convenience store robbery in progress called in by an employee hidden in the back room. As we rolled up, Keller press-checked his grandfathered Government Model in the passenger seat, confirming the round in the chamber. I popped the thumb break on my sig Sauer, leaving it holstered for the moment.

Two men burst through the glass doors. The one up front saw us and stopped short, but the second one ducked around him, breaking off to the right. Keller went after him, shouting. The first guy, meanwhile, leveled his pistol right at me.

The distance was about thirty feet, but I recognized his weapon. I’d worked all through school at my uncle’s gun shop off of Richmond, selling handguns and hustling on the indoor range, priding myself on the knowledge thus acquired. He was pointing a nickel-plated Browning bda at me, or possibly a Beretta Model 84 – essentially the same thing, though they tended to be blued. The fact I had time to register this is a testament to how everything slows down under stress. I noticed the gun, then a split-second later noticed the plume of fire coming from the muzzle.

I didn’t take evasive action. I didn’t move for cover. I just stood there flatfooted and let the bullets whiz by. When he ran, I was still standing there, my hand on my holstered side arm.

It was the first time anyone had ever shot at me. I couldn’t quite believe it.

Keller’s kid had bolted, but I could still hear him shouting around the side of the building. I started off after mine.