Dan O'Shea - Penance

The EMT walked around to the front of the unit.

“How you feeling, John?”

Lynch shrugged. “Like I got shot a couple times and mainlined some adrenaline.”

“You’re a lucky son of a bitch, you know it? Looks like the guy got four rounds off from about six feet inside a cement box, and all you picked up were some fragments.”

“Yeah. Remind me to grab some Lotto tickets on the way home.” Lynch gave a little grunt, shifted on the gurney. “The OPS guys happy?” Lynch had already given a quick statement to the office of professional standards investigators who looked into all officer-involved shootings. They had his gun.

“Far as I know,” said Starshak. “Hard to see where they can have a problem. Priest backs up your story, crime scene matches up. They wondered a little did you have to shoot the guy so much. You put eight rounds into him between his belt and his collarbone.”

“Yeah, well, he was shooting at me. I got a little excited.”

“What I told em. Right before I told em to go fuck themselves. You know who you popped?”

“Didn’t get a great look. Dark down there, and he was spitting up a lot of blood.”

“Jose Villanueva.”

“The second-story guy?”

“That’s him.”

“He’s doing churches now, boosting chalices? Seems a little low-rent for him.”

“Wasn’t after the chalices. Had a baggie in his pocket with some hi-tech crap in it. Priest told me what you were thinking about the confessional being bugged. Looks like you were right.”

“The electronics point anywhere?”

“Sending them down to the tech weenies, see what they can make of them.” Starshak let out a long exhale, his breath clouding in the cold, damp air. “Fucking cold. You don’t figure he shot old lady Marslovak? Coming back to pick up his stuff?”

Lynch shrugged. “Toss his place, I guess, see if you find a long gun. Be for-hire if it’s him, but I don’t remember him doing anything like this. And he would have had to learn to shoot somewhere. He ex-military?”

“Slo-mo’s checking.”

“More likely somebody hired him to clean up.”

“You mean after they hire somebody else to pop the Marslovak woman?”

“Yeah.”

“Lotta hiring. Jose didn’t work cheap, either.”

Lynch nodded. “He said something right before he died. Said ‘fucking chink.’ Said it a couple of times.”

“So?”

“So somebody says fucking chink in this town, who do you think of?”

“Paddy Wang?”

“Yeah. Did I tell you he turned up where I was eating a couple nights back? Picked up my tab, told me I gotta show up at the Connemara Ball this year.”

“Think we should haul him in, shake him up a little?”

“Shake up Paddy Wang? With what? A nuke? Nah. Let me think on it. I’ll figure some way to come at him.” Lynch saw Father Hughes and Liz Johnson standing across the street by the curb. Her face was red and her eyes looked puffy. She gave a little wave, uncertain. He waved back, smiled, which made his face hurt.

“OK, Lynch, get yourself patched up. I’ll see what we can make of Villanueva. So that the blonde from McGinty’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Think now that your face is all messed up she might be looking for a replacement?”

Lynch flipped him off. Starshak smiled, clapped Lynch on the shoulder, and gestured to the EMTs. They came back, strapped Lynch to the gurney, and rolled it inside the unit. Lynch watched through the back window as the ambulance pulled out, the flashing lights washing through the rain-dampened branches of the trees and into the sky, staining everything red. Lynch was tired suddenly, and feeling empty. And cold.

At Northwestern, the ER docs irrigated and sutured the wound on his leg, picked nine bullet and cement fragments out of his head and neck, and removed a shard of cement from his eye. It was almost 3am when they were done.

“All right, detective. We’re going to have to keep an eye on that leg, make sure we don’t get an infection.” The doctor handed Lynch two bottles of pills. “The antibiotics should help. You’ve had some here. Take four when you wake up, then two every four hours until they’re gone. The other bottle is for pain. No more tonight. We’ve shot you up pretty good. You’re going to hurt in the morning, though. Same deal, two every four hours. Also, you need to keep that eye covered for at least three or four days. Any questions?”

Lynch shook his head. He felt groggy. His leg was throbbing faintly. He couldn’t feel it clearly. It was more like a premonition. The side of his head was still numb from the local they’d injected before they went to work.

“You got a ride home? Got somebody to stay with you tonight?”

Lynch tried to focus. “One of the uniforms’ll get me home, I guess.”

“OK,” the doctor said. “You’ve got some people waiting for you out front.”

A nurse wheeled Lynch to the waiting area. Starshak and Bernstein were standing by the door. Johnson was sitting in a chair.

“He gonna be OK, doc?” Starshak asked.

“Lucky man,” said the doctor. “The fragment in his neck came real close to his carotid, and the eye could have been a lot worse.”

Bernstein squatted down next to the chair. “How you feeling?”

“How do I look?” Lynch asked.

“You look like shit.”

“Feel worse,” Lynch said.

“You want me to get you home?” asked Bernstein.

Johnson stood up. “I can get him home.”

Bernstein looked at Johnson, then looked back at Lynch.

“Yeah,” said Lynch. “Thanks anyway, Slo-mo, I got a ride.”

The doctor walked over to Johnson. “Can you stay with him tonight?”

Johnson looked at Lynch, he nodded. “Sure,” she said.

The doc pulled her aside. “He’s a macho guy, isn’t going to ask for help. Keep him warm. Keep him quiet. Liquids are good — orange juice, water. No booze. Food is fine in the morning. This probably hasn’t all hit him yet, but it will. Be there for him for that.”

“I will,” she said.

Johnson got Lynch home and stripped the ruined clothes off him. She found a big mixing bowl in the kitchen and filled it with warm water. She got a washcloth and some towels and soap from the bathroom. She laid the towels out on the big easy chair in the living room and helped Lynch into it. Then she carefully washed the blood and sweat from his body, drying him gently. She found an old Boston College sweatsuit in a closet and helped Lynch put it on. Then she slipped her arm under his and helped him walk back to the bed. She tucked him under the covers and pulled a chair up next to him.

“Guess I ruined your date,” Lynch said.

She shook her head. “I can wait on dessert.”

“Good thing,” Lynch said. “Kitchen’s closed for repairs.”

Johnson started to laugh, but cried instead. “I was so scared,” she said.

“Me too.”

She nodded. Tried to speak, couldn’t.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said.

She kissed his hand again, held it to her. “You sleep,” she said. “I’ll be here. I’ll be right here.”

Johnson slept in the chair, waking as Lynch tossed. Around 5.00, he bolted up in the bed, throwing off the blankets and lurching to his feet. His eyes were wide and panicked, and his face glistened with sweat. He swung his right arm wildly, then stumbled on his bad leg, banging into the wall near the door. He was shouting something, but the words were choked and garbled. He froze for a moment, his eyes seeming to clear, then staggered toward the door, panting, starting to retch.

Johnson ran after him to the bathroom. Lynch was down on his knees, his forearms along the sides of the toilet seat, as he vomited violently into the bowl. Johnson knelt next to him, her arm across his back. He stopped, finally, collapsing against her, a string of mucus hanging from his chin. She wiped it from him with her hand and held him against her. She felt his head pressed against her breast. She felt him start to shake. She stroked his hair and held him to her tightly. Finally, the rigidity left him. His body slackened and he sank into her. Johnson sat on the tile floor with her back against the wall with Lynch curled like a child in front of her, his head on her lap, and he wept.