Faye Kellerman: Sacred and Profane

“He’s at the tie counter!” Decker shouted. “Dammit it, clear everyone out of there!”

“Freeze, fucker!” a policeman yelled.

Smithson grabbed the first person he could reach-an elderly gray-haired woman with thick glasses that made her eyes look bulging-and placed a gun to her temple.

“Step back or she’s dead,” he said between gasps of air. “You understand?”

“No one make a move,” the commanding officer yelled. “Everyone back off!”

The woman began to hyperventilate, and her eyes rolled backward.

“Just do what he says,” the commander ordered. “Just do what he says.”

“All right!” Cameron screamed. “You dogs have two minutes to clear out before I do something desperate.” He fired into the air. “I mean it!”

The commander was a man named Pearson, tall and thin, with a hard mouth, penetrating dark eyes, and a leathery face full of creases. He crept along the floor over to Decker.

“No time for SWAT. I’ve heard you’re a crack shot.” He handed him an FAL-Paratrooper. “Take him out.”

Decker took the rifle.

The man deserved to die.

It was up to him.

Arlington would be lost.

But the fucker deserved to die.

Suddenly Decker felt the enormity of playing judge, jury, and executioner. With a steady hand and a clear eye, he brought Smithson’s skull into sight. His index finger gripped the trigger and began to exert pressure while his hand drifted a fraction of an inch.

The blast.

Cameron Smithson stared at the gushing stump that had once been his right hand. Within moments he was down on the floor being read his rights while cops tried frantically to staunch the flow of blood. Decker wondered if he’d bleed to death. He looked at the hostage. She was splattered with blood, screaming hysterically, limbs jerking spastically. Marge gripped her shoulders and the woman slumped into her arms.

Getting up from the floor, Decker brushed off his knees.

“Everything all right?” he yelled.

“She’s okay,” Marge shouted back.

Pearson walked over and Decker handed him back the rifle. The commander was rigid with fury.

“Did you miss or was that on purpose, Sergeant?”

Decker didn’t answer. Pearson repeated the question.

“I aimed for his head, Commander,” Decker said.

Pearson stared at him. “You aimed for his head, but managed to blow off his hand?”

“I aimed for his head,” Decker repeated.

“You have a rep as an ace with a gun. What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Pearson muttered. “You don’t know, huh?”

Decker was silent.

“Were you in ’Nam, Sergeant?”

“Yes.”

“How many gooks did you kill?”

“Point blank, three.”

“Three gooks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you blasted them, did you ask if they were good gooks or bad gooks?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you try to incapacitate them before you wasted them?”

“No, sir.”

“You just blew their fucking heads off, right?”

“Right.”

“And why was that?”

“Because if I didn’t kill them, they would have killed me.”

“Very good, Sergeant,” Pearson mocked. “Very good. You know, Decker, we fought a fucking war out there and we’re fighting a fucking war here. You didn’t incapacitate the enemy out there; you don’t do it here. If you don’t believe me, look up the procedure on how to handle a hostage situation.”

“I aimed for his head,” Decker reiterated.

“I bet you did.” Pearson poked Decker’s chest. “Your captain will hear about this. In the meantime, do some target practice.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pearson walked away and Decker exhaled out loud. Marge came over to him.

“How’s the old lady?” Decker asked her.

“So far, so good. Tough gal. No signs of shock or heart attack. Paramedics will take good care of her.”

“That’s good.”

“Are you in deep shit?” she asked.

“Nah, I don’t think so. Hell, I shot him. My aim was just a little off.”

“Pete, if you’d have aimed for his head, he would have been ready for the meat wagon.”

“If I missed, it was an unconscious thing.”

Marge chuckled.

“Just who do you think you’re shittin’, big buddy?”

Decker shrugged. “Let’s just say I passed the buck to a Higher Source. Besides, I want Arlington and all the other fuckers like him. Can’t get any names from a dead man.”

“Go out and get a breath of fresh air, Pete. You’re white.”

Suddenly feeling dizzy, he knew she was right.

He’d closed a lot of cases, but this one had all the ingredients for sensationalism-pornography, murder, and big names.

From his hospital bed, Cameron Smithson accused Arlington, providing proof of his involvement in the snuff films. Arlington, surrounded by loving wife and children looking teary-eyed into the cameras, maintained his innocence and pointed his finger at others. Prominent people were brought in for questioning, prominent people were arrested.

With every new accusation, out swarmed a new flock of vultures pestering him at the station house or, worse, at his ranch. The ubiquitous microphones shoved in his face. It made him weary, he told Rina. They spoke daily, mostly in the late hours of the evening when both households were quiet.

The more attention he got, the more he retreated. He took to sneaking into the station through the back door. He avoided going home to the ranch at dinnertime, opting instead for long walks in the hills that surrounded the yeshiva. In the beginning Rabbi Schulman had joined him, but as the furor faded, Decker found himself hiking greater distances in solitude.

Sometimes he’d take a book with him as he walked, sometimes a camera, more often than not he’d explore empty-handed and talk to himself. Maybe he was talking to Someone Else.

Mrs. Bates greeted Decker warmly. It was late afternoon and the day had been gorgeous-spring temperatures that had begun to climb into summer heat. He suggested they take a walk. She thought that was a fine idea.

They began their journey in silence, inhaling clean air, taking in sunshine. He heard her breathing, and it sounded a little winded. He slowed his pace, and she smiled at him and said thank you. Their trek took them past two rows of well-tended houses to La Canada Boulevard. Ten minutes later they were in front of a convenience store. She declined Decker’s offer of a drink, so he bought a pint of orange juice for himself. Another five minutes and they were at the edge of a municipal park. Mrs. Bates suggested they sit on a bench under an elm.

Decker drank half his juice and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He said: “ County Hospital called me this morning. Smithson’s dead.”

She said nothing at first, then asked, “How’d he die?”

“Pneumonia.” He took another swallow of juice.

“I thought he had blood poisoning or something like hat,” she said without emotion.

“He did. Apparently the infection from the hand wound wasn’t responding to any of the safer antibiotics, so they gave him a real strong one. It killed the infection, but it also wiped out his immune system. He contracted pneumonia about a week ago and died late last evening.”

“Good. I hope he suffered.”

“I think he did.” Decker looked up at the sky, then down at his lap. “How’s your husband doing?”

“We’ve separated,” she answered.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged.

“We have little tolerance for each other’s faults now,” she said.

Decker nodded.

“Financially, it won’t be easy for either one of us.” She hesitated, then said, “He lost his job, you know.”