Lisa Gardner: Alone

Now the shit would hit the fan.

The entry team descended upon the house, confirming one male subject, now missing half of his head. Then the entry team beat a hasty retreat. The residence no longer belonged to STOP. It had just become a crime scene.

The call went out to the DA's office, Suffolk County. An ADA got roused out of bed, assembled a task force of investigators, and arrived on the scene. Bobby's Sig Sauer was entered into evidence. His teammates were immediately sequestered and interviewed as witnesses.

Bobby got to sit in the back of a patrol car, technically not in trouble, but feeling very much like a truant kid.

Media was already gathering outside the yellow crime-scene tape. Television lights were blazing, while reporters vied for the best position-So far, the DA's office had everything wrapped up tight. The body had already been transported from the scene; Bobby was sheltered inside the patrol car.

Name of the game was never to provide too many visuals. Denied on the ground, however, the media would soon take to the air. His LT, John Bruni, arrived at the scene. He came over to the cruiser and clapped Bobby on the shoulder.

"How you feeling?"

"All right."

"These things are always lousy."

"Yeah."

"Employee Assistance Unit will be here shortly. They'll explain your rights, give you some support. You're not the first guy this has happened to, Bobby."

"I know."

"Just answer what you feel like answering. If you get uncomfortable, call it a day. The union provides a lawyer, so don't be afraid to ask for legal counsel."

"Okay."

"We're here for you, Bobby. Once part of the team, always part of the team."

Bruni had to go. Probably to check in with Public Affairs, which would soon be making a statement to the press: Tonight an unidentified officer was involved in a fatal shooting. The DA has taken over investigation of the incident. No comment at this time.

And so it would go. Bobby had seen it happen once before. A trooper was ambushed when making a routine patrol stop. Two Hispanic males in a beat-up Honda opened fire on the officer. He fired back, wounding one and killing the other. The officer had gone on immediate paid leave, disappearing from the barracks, disappearing from life, while the press tried his case in the papers and the Hispanic community accused him of racism. A month later, the DA's office ruled that the case didn't merit criminal charges-maybe the fact that the officer had a bullet lodged in his upper arm helped. The press never seemed to notice, though. A brother of the fatally shot man launched a civil suit against the officer, and last Bobby knew, the trooper was dealing with a million-dollar lawsuit.

He never returned to duty. And most people in Boston probably did think he was a racist.

Was it bad to have just killed a man, then sit here worrying about what that meant for your career? Was that totally self-absorbed? Inappropriate? Or was it just the way these things went?

Bobby was thinking of the woman again. Slender. Pale. Holding her child tight against her body. Thank you, her lips had said. He had shot her husband in front of her and her kid and she had thanked him for it.

Fresh knock on the window. Stupid, since the car door was open. Bobby looked up and saw one of his teammates, Patrick Loftus.

"Hell of a night," Loftus said.

"Yeah."

"Sorry I missed it. Just got here a few minutes ago. When all was said and done." Loftus lived on the Cape. Probably only an hour away. So the shooting had happened that fast. Bobby realized for the first time that he had no idea what the hour was. He'd gotten the call, jumped in his car, set up his rifle. The whole thing was already a blur in his mind, a series of actions and reactions. He came, he saw, he did. Holy shit, he had killed a man. Honestly, blown off half a man's head.

Thank you, the woman said, thank you.

Bobby leaned out of the car.

"Cameras?" he asked.

"Got 'em covered."

"Good." Bobby vomited onto the street.

"I'm really sorry," Loftus said quietly.

Bobby leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes.

"Yeah," he said.

"So am I."

The EAU guys came next. Fellow officers, sort of like a peer support group. They walked him through the process. Investigators from the DA's office would be interviewing him shortly. He should answer the questions truthfully, but as briefly as possible. He had the right to an attorney-the State Police Association of Massachusetts, SPAM, would pay for his lawyer. He had the right to end questioning whenever he felt uncomfortable. He had the right against self-incrimination.

He should be aware that the guidelines for use of deadly force stated that lethal force was appropriate if you felt your own life, or someone else's, was in immediate danger. Something to consider, you know, when the investigators asked their questions. The ADA would probably need at least two weeks to study the events. Bobby's gun would be examined, tapes of the radio conversation between him and the command post analyzed. They would do ballistic tests at the crime scene and take statements from everyone, including Bobby's teammates, the woman and child, and good old Mr. Harlow.

At the end of the investigation, it would be up to the DA's office to decide if the facts warranted criminal charges. If it was a righteous shoot, then Bobby was okay. Public Affairs would issue a statement, the DA would issue a statement, and Bobby would be back in action. If the DA did decide to press criminal charges… Well, let's not put the cart before the horse.

From here on out, Bobby was on paid administrative leave. It wouldn't be a bad idea to use that time to come to terms with tonight. Maybe talk to some other guys who'd been through it-the EAU could arrange it. Maybe even, if he wanted, sign up for some post-critical-incident counseling. The EAU had a shrink they highly recommended and it would look good on Bobby's record.

Killing someone was a big deal, even for a cop. The sooner he faced it, the sooner he could get on with his life.

Then the EAU guys were gone, and the investigators took their place.

It was three-thirty in the morning now. Bobby had been up for nearly twenty-two hours. He followed the investigators to the DA's office, where they all had steaming cups of fresh coffee and sat around a scarred wood table, like old friends shooting the shit.

Bobby wasn't fooled. He was bottomed out and bone tired from buckets of adrenaline dumping suddenly into his bloodstream, but he was still a sniper, a man who could narrow the world down to a single set of crosshairs, and maintain that concentration for hours.

They all began the dance.

Where was Bobby when he got the call?

Boston Beer Garden, he answered, and immediately lost points. He added he'd been drinking Coke, the bartender would verify, and regained some ground.

He'd started work at what time today? He'd ended his shift at what hour? A fifteen-hour shift earned him a frown; the sidebar that he was trained to handle long hours didn't seem to rate him a second chance.

How had he gotten to the scene, how fast was his response time, what could he recall of his conversation with Lieutenant Jachrimo? They were searching here, looking for something, so Bobby's answers grew shorter. He felt the threat in the conversation, but couldn't identify the source. The investigators finally moved on, but the collegia! atmosphere was fast eroding. Questions were sharper now, and answers harshly judged.

He had to explain how he'd determined to access Mr. Harlow's residence. He described his setup on the card table, why he chose to crack the window, why he went with bonded-tip ammo.

What did he see in the house, who did he see in the house?

Bobby did better here. White male subject, white female subject. Didn't give them names, and didn't give them presumed identities such as husband, wife, or child. He was as neutral as possible. He'd shot a man, but it was nothing personal.