David Wiltse - Prayer for the Dead

Eric was down before he knew it. There was a knee on his chest, another knee on his balls, on his balls, for Christ’s sake, and pushing down, a hand on his throat and something very hard pressing against his forehead. Both arms were underneath him and felt as if they might break but that was the least of his problems. It was the hard thing pressing into his head that scared him the most. He knew what that was, he had felt that before.

The ski mask had moved in the fall and Eric’s eyes were covered.

“Don’t shoot,” he croaked. “Please, God, don’t shoot.”

All he could hear was breathing, and most of it was his. If the guy pushed the gun any harder it would go right through the bone.

“I’m not fighting. You got me, don’t shoot. Christ, don’t shoot.”

The hand at his throat ripped away the ski mask and Eric blinked and blinked as the beam of a flashlight hit him in the eyes.

The man moved the pistol and pressed it just above the bridge of Eric’s nose. He could smell the oil on the metal.

Eric tried to speak but could only whimper. The look on the man’s face scared him worse than the. 38.

He’s going to do it, Eric thought. He’s going to pull that trigger. He wants to.

The man’s eyes were wide, his lips pulled back from his teeth. The gun began to dance a little tattoo on the bone of Eric’s forehead, as if the man had the shakes.

Eric squeezed his eyes shut. Please, God, he thought. Don’t let this son of a bitch kill me just because he can’t control his muscles. But he knew that wouldn’t be the reason. The man was fighting with himself not to do it. The desire in his eyes was terrifying. He wants to blow me away, Eric thought. He doesn’t even know me and he wants to put a bullet in my skull.

Eric had never seen so many cops in one room before. He felt like he’d been put in a closet with the entire police academy, and every one of them wanted a piece of him. They were breathing in his face, pushing and shoving each other just to get a look at him. Even his first FBI man was here, or maybe his second, depending on what the guy who nearly killed him was. The cops acted as if he was FBI, too, but the other FBI man, the one who had identified himself as Hatcher and flashed his badge as if he were showing off, acted funny toward him. Eric couldn’t quite figure out the relationship, but it sure wasn’t a happy one.

Eric knew Tee, of course, even kind of liked him in a strange way. Tee had kicked him around a few times during questioning, nothing serious, nothing Eric couldn’t take and laugh at. There was never anything mean about Tee’s rough stuff. Eric understood that it was just to get his attention-or out of frustration when Eric was too smart for him.

Drooden, the brown-shirted state cop who acted as if he was in charge of the questioning, was a different kind of rough. One look at him and Eric could tell the bastard was just plain mean. He looked like the kind of man who believed law enforcement was a sacred duty and he was one of God’s chosen enforcers. The kind of man who would lecture you as he beat you and then add a few more licks, not because he wanted to, but because God would like it that way.

The FBI man. Hatcher, looked like a bookkeeper: constipated, prissy almost. One good dump might make him a new man, Eric thought. But he was certainly proud of that badge.

There were a couple of other brownshirts in the room and one or two local cops around the edges, but the only one who bothered Eric was the one who had played a drumroll on his forehead with the. 38 barrel. They called him Becker and he stood in the back of the room, watching everything but saving his best looks for Eric.

“Deep shit, boy, you understand?” It was Drooden. “You are in it up to your eyeballs and sinking.”

“For what? B and E? I’ve been clean for five years, I’ll probably get probation.”

“I thought you gave it up,” said Tee.

Eric shrugged and grinned at Tee. “You give up chasing pussy, Tee?”

Oh, they hated it when he grinned at them. Drooden looked like he was going to swallow his tongue.

“Homicide, boy, murder one!” Drooden was leaning in close, spitting in Eric’s face as he talked. “There are eight skeletons in that house. You seem awfully familiar with the place. How do we know you didn’t put them there?”

“Is that what this is all about? You guys don’t just love me for my own sake?”

“We’re fond of you, Eric.” Tee grinned back at him. “Don’t underestimate your appeal. Captain Drooden is so happy to see you he might decide to keep you.”

“Like a pet, you mean?”

“Like a love slave. Chain you down and have his wicked way with you for about five years.”

“Ooooeee, sounds fun.”

“Terhune,” said Drooden, aghast. He looked at Tee as if the chief had just cut a horrible fart.

The cops were getting in each other’s way, which was all to the good, as Eric saw it. Let them fight with each other; they might have less juice when they concentrated on him.

“What made you choose that particular house tonight, Mr. Brandauer?” This was Hatcher, the fed.

“What house is that?”

“The one you broke into.”

“I don’t think we agreed I broke into any house. I was talking theoretically about B and E.”

“Why that particular house, Mr. Brandauer?”

Becker was moving forward from the back of the room. Eric watched him closely. He stopped just behind Hatcher and studied Eric from over Hatcher’s shoulder.

“No reason. I didn’t see any lights. Did my man really do eight people?”

“We think you may have done eight people, wise guy.” Drooden was back in his face.

“If we really think that, then we better call my lawyer, shouldn’t we?”

“How did he get you into the car?” Becker asked.

This time Hatcher was annoyed by the interference, but he didn’t say anything.

“What car? Who?” Eric looked to Tee; he didn’t want to face Becker directly. “How many people do I have to talk to all at once? I’d like to help you people. I understand you got a problem here. You know me, Tee. I’ve never been a hard ass. Get me clean and I plead and fair’s fair. Now all of a sudden I got to face the nation here. Give me someone to talk to, you know what I mean, we can work something out.”

“Oh, now he’s shy,” said Drooden.

“It’s not really up to you to set the conditions of this interview, Mr. Brandauer,” said Hatcher.

“Better get used to gang bangs, Eric.” Tee’s grin was fading around the edges.

“He’s right,” said Becker. “Why not let me talk to him in private for ten minutes?”

Eric felt his stomach sink. Becker was the last man in the world he wanted to be alone with. But they were considering it; he saw the glances run from Drooden to Hatcher and back. Tee was not consulted.

“This guy tried to kill me! You can’t leave me alone with him! That’s not what I meant. He tried to kill me.”

Hatcher leaned close to Eric and patted his shoulder. The lesser cops were already drifting out the door.

“You’re wrong, Mr. Brandauer. If he had tried to kill you, you would be dead.”

“We are taking a coffee break. We’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to sit calmly by yourself and consider your story and its consequences, son,” said Drooden.

Becker pulled a chair to face Eric. When he sat, their knees touched. “Tee, this guy’s a maniac!”

“What guy?”

“Don’t leave me with him.”

“We’re leaving you alone in a locked room,” said Tee.

Hatcher paused by the door. “Becker.”

“I know,” said Becker. He didn’t look at Hatcher.

“I mean it.”