On july 23rd, I shuffled into the office at about 0930. It was going to be a hot day, with high humidity and forecast thunderstorms. I was in my usual blue jeans and polo shirt, with a fairly good pair of tennis shoes. I’d talked to Hester the evening before, and we had decided that the interviews of the farmers in the area surrounding the crime scene should be redone. By us. Just in case one of the other officers who had done the initial interviews had missed some small thing. That can happen if you’re not fully versed on all the details of a case. What we had done, in our efforts to move things along quickly, was use officers from outside our area to do many of the interviews we considered to be less than likely to turn a suspect. They’d talked to every farmer, or nearly so, for eight miles around the scene. Sixty-one farmers, or their family members. Pretty much anybody on the farm who was available. In the early summer, most farmers are in the fields, so many of the interviewees had been wives or children. None had been productive. None probably would be. But we were desperate, and we needed something to convince ourselves that we were doing all we could.
I went back to my office, coffee cup in hand, and got out the file. I was going over the list of named interviewees, trying to come up with a schedule, when Lamar stuck his head in the door.
‘‘What’s up?’’
I told him.
‘‘Bud and I are goin’ up to serve papers on Herman Stritch, you want us to talk to him for you?’’
Stritch was on the list. His wife had been interviewed; he hadn’t. Their farm was about two miles southwest of the crime scene, nearly half a mile off the nearest county road. If I remembered correctly, the lane was a mess. Lots of big, big holes. Full of water if somebody spit within half a mile.
‘‘Sure. If you want.’’
‘‘Might as well.’’ He grinned. ‘‘You just wash your car?’’
‘‘Last couple of weeks.’’ We had to pay for that out of our own pockets too.
‘‘You could always walk in.’’
‘‘You both going up?’’ Stritch was a little to the right of Hitler, had his land posted saying he would shoot uninvited officers on sight. He was in debt over his head, and didn’t believe in any form of government except himself. We usually didn’t have any real problem with him, or those like him. All you had to do, generally, was be polite and reasonable. Most of the time. But a second officer never hurt.
‘‘Yeah.’’ He grinned. ‘‘You never know.’’
‘‘True.’’ I glanced at the file. ‘‘His wife was interviewed; he wasn’t… was out in the field.’’
‘‘Okay.’’
‘‘This might piss him off.’’ What I meant was that Stritch would probably give Lamar a lot of crap about being pulled away from his work, just for a ten-minute interview. If it lasted that long.
‘‘Well, if it does, it does,’’ said Lamar.
‘‘You need anything, just holler. Hey. Look on the bright side.’’ I smiled. ‘‘Talking about a dead cop and a dead doper will probably cheer him up.’’
Lamar shook his head, and left.
About forty-five minutes later, I was on the phone with Hester. I had just told her that I was going to do the first six or seven interviews while she testified in another case, and that we could plan on joint interviews for the rest of them. She agreed.
The intercom buzzed.
‘‘Just a second, Hester…’’ I put her on hold and pressed the Comm line. ‘‘Three.’’
‘‘Three.’’ It was Sally, working a rare day shift. ‘‘Lamar says not to count on an interview. The man they wanted to talk to saw them coming and is hiding in a little shed.’’
‘‘No shit?’’
‘‘Yeah, so Lamar says that Bud’ll just go to the shed, and if he won’t come out, he’ll read the paper to him and leave it. But he thinks the interview is probably out.’’
I grinned. ‘‘Yeah, I’d say so. Look, tell him it’s fine with me, and Hester and I will do it later. No big deal.’’
‘‘Okay.’’
I got back on the line with Hester for about ten seconds, when the buzzer went again.
‘‘Three…’’
‘‘Three, Lamar says you might want to head up that way.’’
‘‘What’s happening?’’
‘‘I don’t know. He just said that you might want to come up.’’
‘‘Right.’’
One thing about Lamar: when he said ‘‘you might,’’ he meant ‘‘you better.’’ He was never one to ask for help, but when he did, it was pretty urgent. I hung up on Hester, and got in my car. As I was leaving the lot, I was thinking that we were going to have a messy one, and that my incipient ulcer was going to have a field day. Probably going to be a long drawn-out argument, followed by a wrestling match with a screaming family all over our backs. Not to mention a lengthy report, just to cover our collective asses. Great. And me with a murder investigation to conduct. I turned onto the main highway, and couldn’t help smiling at myself. It wasn’t like I was having a lot of luck sleuthing out killers. Might as well get in a fight over some stupid paper service. I let the speed build up to around 80. Very little traffic around 1030 hours.
‘‘Three, Comm, ten-thirty-three!’’
‘‘Go ahead.’’ Ten-thirty-three is, of course, the code for an emergency.
‘‘Just received a 911 call from the Stritch farm, female subject. One needs help fast. Situation isn’t clear, but we have shots fired.’’
‘‘Ten-four,’’ I said, accelerating and trying to reach my red-lights switch with the mike in my hand.
‘‘Female is still on the line.’’
Red lights were on. ‘‘Ten-four, Comm, contact One via radio.’’ I wanted to know what Lamar thought. If he wasn’t too busy trying to duck to talk.
‘‘Ten-four. One, Comm? One, Comm?’’
As she continued, I put the mike down for a second and turned on the siren. As I did, I overtook a pickup and had to pass. Less than gracefully done, the swerve caused the mike to go onto the floor. I had to lean down into the leg well to pick it up, hit the shoulder, swerved again to regain control, and was just starting to breathe when Sally came back on the radio.
‘‘Three, no contact with One.’’
Not good. I took a deep breath. ‘‘Okay, Comm, get ten-seventy-eight lined up.’’ Ten-seventy-eight is the code for assistance. ‘‘As much seventy-eight as possible, and let me know how close they are…’’
‘‘Ten-four, Three.’’
‘‘And keep trying One, and keep the female on the phone.’’
‘‘Ten-four.’’
Passing though 110 mph on one of the few straight stretches of the county highway, I was trying to figure out what to do if things had really gone to hell in a basket. You have to understand that there is always that nagging little voice that tells you you’re being silly, that this really isn’t going to be as bad as you think. That little voice is constantly arguing with a much louder voice that is telling you it has gone to hell, and that you’re going to be in a firefight as soon as you arrive. It pays to listen to the louder of the two.
The loud one was telling me that I was not in uniform, that if there was backup coming from a considerable distance they wouldn’t have the faintest idea who I was, and that I was about to get shot by mistake.
I absently reached down and changed the siren from ‘‘yelp’’ to ‘‘wail’’; the constant up and down of the yelp gets irritating in a hurry.
‘‘Comm, Three.’’ I was getting curious.
‘‘Three?’’
Now, I knew that if she had anything she’d tell me instantly. I knew that. But I couldn’t help asking, after about a minute had elapsed since our last transmission.
‘‘Anything yet?’’
‘‘I’m working on it,’’ she said. Irritated, but sympathetic. In just the right tone to let me know to shut up and let her do her job.
‘‘Ten-four.’’
I slowed from about 120 to 90 as I entered a series of curves. All the way down to 50, as I came roaring up behind a pickup truck. The adrenaline was really flowing. As always, when you slow abruptly from over 100 to about 50, it feels like you could step out and walk faster. And we were in a double yellow zone, and this particular pickup was obviously being driven by somebody who was both blind and deaf. By this point, my bright headlights were flashing, red lights in the grille were flashing, a red light bar on my dash was flashing, my siren was blaring, and my air horn was going full blast. Dum de dum de dum. Finally, we crested a hill, and the yellow line in my lane was gone. Around I went, drawing a startled and confused look from the driver. Hadn’t a clue.
‘‘Three, Comm?’’
‘‘This is Three, go ahead.’’
‘‘Three, no contact with One. Two troopers en route from Unionville, ETA about twenty minutes. Subject on the phone says there may be an officer down.’’
Son of a bitch.
‘‘Ten-four, call out our people. Get an ambulance.’’
‘‘Ten-four…’’
I didn’t have my bulletproof vest on, since I was in plain clothes. It was in the trunk. With my rifle, my extra ammo, and my first-aid kit. My future in the trunk.
‘‘Comm, my ETA is about five. Get a description of the locations from the lady, and, uh, especially the location of the shooter, uh.. .’’ It’s hard to be glib at these times.
‘‘Ten-four.’’ She knew what I meant. Been there, done that.
I hung up the mike and reached over into the passenger seat and got my walkie-talkie. I shoved it into my breast pocket and hoped it wouldn’t fall out until I could get it into my pants pocket. I touched my left leg, feeling the spare set of keys in my pocket. Good. I could leave the engine running, with the flashing lights going, front and back, and wouldn’t drain the battery when I left the car. It’d be locked up, and I wouldn’t have to worry about it. Make it easier for the responding troopers to find us, with the lights still flashing. Thinking about that, I reached down and turned on my rear-facing yellow flashers in the back window. That’d help too. I had an awful feeling that I wasn’t going to be able to talk to the troopers after I arrived. Speaking of whom…
‘‘Comm, what troopers are responding?’’
‘‘884 and 732.’’
I switched frequencies to LEA, which is Law Enforcement Assistance. Runs off repeaters, and you can talk to any officer within 150 miles.
‘‘884, Nation County Three…’’
‘‘Three, go.’’
‘‘884, we may have an officer down. You comin’ in from Unionville on 288?’’
‘‘Ten-four.’’ You could hear the road noise and her siren over the radio. Moving right along.
‘‘Uh, 884, when you get to Porpoise Road…’’ A board had named the roads in the county, trying to use names that would be inoffensive.
While I was giving directions to 884, Sally apparently got through to One.
‘‘Three, Comm, ten-three!’’ Shut up, everybody, this is important.
‘‘Comm?’’
‘‘They’ve both been shot. I have One on the radio, need help FAST!’’
Fuck.
‘‘Ten-four.’’ What else could you say? I was going as fast as possible. I turned off Porpoise into Stritch’s lane, sliding from gravel to dirt. It was worse than I remembered, and I think I broke two shocks right away.
‘‘Where are they, Comm?’’ The calm in my voice surprised me.
‘‘She says the toolshed and behind a combine.’’
‘‘Ten-four, put me ten-twenty-three.’’ That meant I’d arrived at the scene. I hadn’t, not quite. But I knew that I’d be too busy to talk to her when I did arrive.
I came around a bend in the lane, locked into the ruts, and saw the house. White, two-story. Red barn. Three red outbuildings, one of which was probably the toolshed. Lamar’s vehicle, parked near the house. To my right, a pile of rusting farm equipment, metal roofing, fence posts, other junk. I accelerated to get out of the ruts, and jammed on the brakes just in time to miss his car. I hit the trunk release, and saw a combine parked near one of the sheds. My car slid to a stop, the cloud of dust I had stirred up slowly overtaking me and making it hard to see and breathe. I got out, and heard the crack of a rifle round. I ducked, grabbed my AR-15 from the trunk. Screw the vest, I thought. He’s got a rifle, and it won’t stop one of those anyway.
‘‘Lamar!’’
I couldn’t see anybody.
‘‘Here,’’ croaked a voice to my right. From a pile of rusting junk metal, about fifty feet away. Lamar.
I started toward the pile, and about ten rounds kicked in the dirt and splattered off some cast iron in the pile. I flattened. More rounds, kicking damp, black dirt in my face. I rolled to my side and crawled back toward my car. I couldn’t even tell where the rounds were coming from.
As I came around the rear of my car, I saw a black boot, toe up, in the grass off on the other side of the lane. Green pants leg. Pinkish-gray stripe. Sheriff’s trousers. Bud. The boot wasn’t moving.
‘‘Bud?’’ I hollered. Nothing.
‘‘He’s dead, the son of a bitch killed him,’’ yelled Lamar. ‘‘No reason.’’
I poked my head up, just enough to see into the trunk of my car, and got my first-aid kit. They’re small and not worth much. But better than nothing.
‘‘Lamar!’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘You hit?’’
‘‘Yeah, the legs, I think.’’
I could barely hear him, and wished I’d turned off my car. Too late now, it was running and locked.
‘‘Okay.’’ A dumb thing to say, as though he was asking if it was all right to get hit… What to do? As I pondered, my eye caught a black object on the ground between me and the junk pile. My walkie-talkie. Great. It had fallen out of my pocket when I hit the ground.
Well, I was going to have to have it. And I was going to have to either get to Lamar or get my first-aid kit to him. And I was going to have to find that son of a bitch with the rifle. So…
I half stood up, leaving my rifle at the back of my car, and ran straight toward my walkie-talkie. As I reached it, I bent down, scooped it up, threw my first-aid kit toward the junk pile, and spun around as the first shots rang out. Two of them hit my car, but I made it back all right. I grabbed my rifle and hunkered down behind my car again. I was breathing very hard and sweating a lot. And I hadn’t seen where the shots were coming from. I could live with two out of three.
‘‘Lamar!’’
‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘You get the kit?’’
‘‘I can see it.’’
Oh, good. ‘‘Can you get to it?’’
‘‘Don’t think so.’’
‘‘Where is he?’’
‘‘I think he’s at the window to the left of the door…’’
‘‘Can you get it if I keep him busy for a few seconds?’’
‘‘Maybe.’’
‘‘Okay, let’s do it!’’
I rose to a kneeling position, saw the window he was talking about, and was bringing my rifle to my shoulder when the man fired. I didn’t hear the round so much as I felt it. Like somebody had snapped my cheek with their finger, hard. Very, very close. Very high velocity. I fired at the window, fast but not too fast. Twenty-eight rounds later, I stopped, and ducked back behind my car. Empty magazine. I reached in, found the gym bag where I kept my spare magazines, and reloaded my rifle, thinking to place two extra magazines in my back pocket. I thought I heard Lamar, but couldn’t be sure, as I was now almost completely deaf from the noise of my rifle. I stuffed three more magazines in my pocket, and crawled a little way behind my car, trying to lose the sound of the exhaust.
‘‘Lamar?’’
‘‘Got it…’’
‘‘Good.’’
I was wondering if I’d gotten the man with the gun. My ammunition would have absolutely no problem penetrating the wooden sides of the shed. And continuing on through whoever was back there. If I’d hit him. Cautiously, I got to my knee again, near a big wooden corner post on the right side of the lane. As soon as my head cleared the tall grass, I saw a muzzle flash. From the window to the right of the door. I ducked. Damn.
‘‘He’s still with us, Lamar. Stay low.’’
Lamar mumbled something. I still hadn’t seen him.
‘‘The kit doin’ any good?’’
‘‘Yeah.’’
‘‘Okay!’’
I grabbed my walkie-talkie, turned it on. ‘‘Comm, Three!’’
Nothing.
‘‘Comm, Three!’’
Obviously she couldn’t hear me. But 884 could, and she sounded close.
‘‘Three, 884, what you got?’’
‘‘Two officers down, man with a high-powered rifle in a shed, I’m pinned but fine.’’
‘‘Right.’’
‘‘When you come down the lane, you should be able to see my car. Stop as soon as you do, and I’m in the grass to the right of the lane, by a corner post.’’
‘‘Ten-four.’’
‘‘Stay low. I think I can crawl back out, but I have a wounded officer in a junk pile, and he needs to come out.’’
‘‘Ten-four.’’
I moved just a bit to my right, and very cautiously stuck my head up out of the weeds. I got my first truly good look at the layout of the farmyard. I had a high, tree-covered hill to my right, and nestled at the foot of that hill was the shed where the fire was coming from. About midway between me and the shed was a pile of junk that contained old lumber, scrap metal, and Lamar. Behind the shed was an old chicken coop with a drooping roof, which had a faded red combine nestled up against it. The lane behind me, as it passed through the fence I was behind, pretty well split the yard in half. On the left side of the lane was a wood pile. Behind that, a large rundown barn. All the buildings were that purplish gray that red faded to after years in the weather. At the end of the yard, and about two hundred feet directly ahead of my fence post, stood the house. Two-story, white, frame, no shutters or any other decoration. The paint was flaking, and one of the front steps was swaybacked. Right in front was a year-old blue pickup truck, and a five- or six-year-old four-door Mercedes, in a maroon shade that complemented the outbuildings. Strikingly enough for it to catch my eye. A large satellite TV dish stood to the right of the house, the newest and best-cared-for piece of equipment on the place. Behind the barn, and continuing to the left for almost a quarter mile, was a cornfield, with cornstalks about four to five feet high, that transitioned into a grassy hill in the distance. I concentrated my gaze back toward the shed/fort, and lifted my head a bit higher. Great. No shots. I brought my rifle to my shoulder, and pointed it at the window at the right side of the door. I was hoping that when 884 arrived, she’d draw some fire, and I could just take out the side of the shed it was coming from.
Just as 884 pulled up, and before I could put my little plan into effect, a young man in blue jeans and a gray tee shirt stepped off a path out of the wooded area at the base of the hill to the right of the shed, and hollered.
‘‘What the goddamn hell is going on here?’’
Right to the point.
I hollered back at him. ‘‘We have a man with a gun in the shed. He’s shot two people already. Get back!’’
‘‘Were they cops?’’
Now, that’s a funny question. As he asked, he was looking closely in my direction, trying to figure out where I was.
‘‘BACK OFF, MISTER! GET BACK AWAY FROM THE BUILDINGS!’’ That was 884, on her car’s PA system.
‘‘Were they cops?’’ Again.
‘‘Yes!’’
‘‘Good!’’ With that, he turned and ran toward the house. I looked back over my shoulder, and could see the top of 884’s head as she knelt behind her car door. I called her on my walkie-talkie.
‘‘884?’’
‘‘Go.’’
‘‘Look just to your right… see my hand?’’ I held my right hand up, out of the deep grass. There was a pause, then…
‘‘Ten-four.’’
‘‘Okay, I’ll be coming your way, so don’t shoot.’’
‘‘Ten-four.’’
With that, I stooped and ran as fast as I could, expecting to feel a round slam into my back at any moment. None did. I was moving so fast, for me, that I went right past her car, and slipped in the wet dirt of the lane as I tried to stop. Not graceful, but I made it. When your weight slips up over 250 pounds, momentum can be a problem.
‘‘Hi.’’ 884 motioned me up toward her car door. I went, keeping remarkably low. She seemed a little cavalier about the whole thing, half standing. No shots had been fired since she arrived, so she was dealing with sort of an academic appreciation of the situation. But suddenly shots were being fired. Just as I got up to her door. One slapped the hood and went singing off into the cornfield to the left of the lane. Another hit the spotlight on the driver’s window post, and glass and bits of metal went all over us. I got a scratch in my right arm, and she got small bit of glass embedded in her forehead. She flinched just like I did, and instantly was settling in at my level.
‘‘Hi,’’ I said.
‘‘Is he pissed or what?’’
‘‘He seems pissed. Look, my sheriff is in the scrap-metal pile over to our right. Did you see it?’’
She nodded.
‘‘Our civil deputy is in the weeds to the left of the lane, just about the level of my car. He’s dead, I think.’’
She nodded again.
‘‘My sheriff is alive, but he’s been hit in the legs. I threw him my first-aid kit, and he got it all right, but his voice seems to be getting weaker.’’
‘‘Got it.’’
‘‘Look, I’m gonna have to go back up toward Lamar. Try to protect him until we can get him out.’’
‘‘Who’s the dude who went into the house?’’
I sighed. ‘‘I don’t know. It could be his kid. I think it’s the old man who’s doing the shooting, but I don’t even know that for sure.’’
‘‘Right.’’
‘‘We’re gonna need a little help.’’
‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ she said emphatically. ‘‘I’ve asked for a TAC team.’’
‘‘Swell. But doesn’t that have to come from a sergeant?’’
‘‘Yes, but they’re sending one.’’
‘‘From where?’’
‘‘Post sixteen.’’
‘‘That’ll take about an hour.’’ I started to move back around the rear of her car. ‘‘Look, when my people get here, let me know. I can’t see too well from up there. We’ll try to get Lamar out of there fast. Before they get anybody else.’’
She nodded. ‘‘I’ll tell ’em to get the team assembled and ready. That way, when the supervisor orders it, they can be here real fast.’’
I was beginning to like this 884.
I sort of duck-walked back to her and stuck out my hand. ‘‘Carl Houseman.’’
‘‘Diane Blakeslee.’’
‘‘Buy you a doughnut when we’re done.’’
‘‘Sold. Keep your ass down.’’
‘‘Yep. Tell our office what’s happening, will you?’’
‘‘Sure. I think an ambulance is almost here. What do you want to do with them?’’
‘‘Let me know when they get here, but don’t let ’em in until you clear it with me.’’
‘‘Okay.’’
I half crawled back to the rear of her car again, and then went thundering back toward my fence post. Stepped in a puddle, slipped, fell, got up, continued, got to the post, and no shots. Whew. After I got some breath back, I said, ‘‘Lamar,’’ in a loud voice.
‘‘What?’’ He did sound a little weaker, but still relatively healthy.
‘‘Cavalry’s on its way. Can you move at all?’’
He was quiet for a few seconds, and I thought that he hadn’t heard me. ‘‘Lamar?’’
‘‘Just give me a second.’’
I gave him about fifteen, and was just about to say something again when he spoke up.
‘‘Just a little. I backed up your way. You see me?’’
I peeked up. YES! By God I could. I could see about the lower half of him, between a crumpled sheet of rusted steel siding and a disorganized pile of twisted steel fence posts. But I wished I hadn’t a moment later, when I got a good look at his right leg. He had taken his belt and applied a tourniquet, but his foot was just about blown off. I could see what looked like bone sticking through his boot, and the whole thing was at a weird angle. There was a white bandage wrapped around his left leg, below the knee. Well, it had been a white bandage. It was now red and rust-colored. If I could get to him, I’d have to drag him. He’d never be able to move on his own. Damn.
Lamar has the constitution of a horse. He’s known for that. Otherwise, I think that he would have gone into shock long before I got there. He was going now, however. I could see his legs quivering. Now what? I didn’t know if he’d bleed to death first, or if the shock would get him. Either way, he had to come out of there, and had to do it now.
Just then, when I thought things were bleak before, I heard the rumble of thunder. I looked up, and the sky to the west was black, and threatening. Even as I looked, the wind came up, and little bits of dust and debris began blowing through the air. Rain. All I needed was fucking rain.
I picked up my walkie-talkie. ‘‘884?’’
‘‘Go ahead.’’
‘‘You got an ETA on that ambulance? I don’t want it to rain on him. Shock.’’
‘‘Stand by…’’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘‘About three or four minutes.’’
‘‘Okay.’’
I looked at the open trunk of my car. I thought about my emergency blanket, which was waterproof. I thought about my raincoat, which was too. Both in the trunk. Naturally. I could almost see my headstone: ‘‘Died trying to stay dry.’’
Resolved to get soaked, I forgot about the contents of my trunk, and tried to see if there was any movement in the shed. Nothing. I got 884 on the radio again.
‘‘See if they’re still in contact with the people in the house. Tell them we have an ambulance, and if anybody else is hurt, we’ll be glad to take them out with One.’’
‘‘Ten-four.’’
‘‘Then just tell them that a plainclothes officer is going to go to the sheriff with a blanket, and will stay with him until the ambulance gets here.’’
There was a pause. ‘‘You sure about that?’’
‘‘Nothin’ else to do.’’
‘‘Okay.’’
I waited about a minute. The door of the house opened, and the young man came out, this time with a rifle in his hand.
‘‘Just one,’’ he yelled. ‘‘Just for the ambulance.’’
‘‘Okay,’’ I yelled back. ‘‘Are you all right too?’’
Silence, as he stood there, looking generally toward me. Then: ‘‘Yeah!’’ Pouty. Like I shouldn’t have asked, shouldn’t have cared. Well, I didn’t. But he’d gone for it.
I got 884 on the radio again. ‘‘You hear that?’’
‘‘Yes. You believe it?’’
‘‘I think so. Might as well. Unless you can think of anything else?’’
No answer.
I stood up, very slowly. Leaving my rifle by the post. I was carrying a. 40 caliber S amp;W auto under my shirt, but forgot about it until I was halfway to my car. Well, what the hell. If they were going to find that, they’d have to do it up close. I got to the trunk, got both the blanket and my raincoat, and walked slowly toward Lamar. I kept looking at the shed, but could see no movement, no silhouette, nothing. I was beginning to wonder if he was still in there.
When I got to Lamar, he was just about out. I knelt beside him.
‘‘Hi there.’’
He looked up, tried very hard to focus his eyes. ‘‘Yeah,’’ he said, weakly. His head went back down. I reached down and put my hand on his shoulder looking for the first-aid kit. It was a little further away, just past his head.
‘‘You’ll be fine. We’re getting you out of here real soon.’’ I ripped off the plastic cover of the emergency blanket, and the wind whipped it toward the shed. It snagged in the fence posts, then some old wire. It was a struggle, but I finally got it around him, just as big drops of rain splattered down.
I got 884 on my walkie. ‘‘I think you can send the EMTs in now. We’re lookin’ good.’’
I put on my raincoat, and looked back. There were about five cop cars sitting in the lane, and an ambulance was coming around them, lights flashing. Good. Very good. It was raining harder all the time, but we could handle that now. I watched the first two EMTs struggle in their bright yellow raincoats, leaning into the wind, as they came around the corner of their unit, and putting their heads down, they trotted through the rain. Brave people. When they got to us, I recognized them both. One owned a hardware store, and one was an electrician. In rural areas, they’re all volunteer EMTs.
‘‘Hi.’’ I gestured toward Lamar. ‘‘Gunshot, both legs, pretty bad. Shocky, he’s been out here for a while. The guy who did it is in that shed there. If he starts to shoot, just get out of here.’’
‘‘You got that right,’’ said the hardware man. They immediately began doing their EMT things, but keeping as low as they could. ‘‘Who bandaged his legs?’’ asked the electrician, looking at me accusingly.
‘‘He did.’’
‘‘Oh.’’
It began to rain harder.
The two ambulance people motioned, and two more EMTs came forward with a stretcher. It was becoming difficult to see the police line clearly, through the rain, and through the water running off my balding head. My coat didn’t have a hood, and I’d forgotten my hat.
‘‘I’ve got a dead officer over there,’’ I said, pointing. ‘‘I’m going over to him as soon as we get Lamar out. One of you want to come too?’’
‘‘I will.’’ She was one of the EMTs with the stretcher, and was a bank clerk. I knew her too. She looked like she was squatting down in a shower, with the rain running down her face. Or the sweat. It was ungodly hot under the raincoats.
‘‘Okay.’’
I put my hand on the lead EMT. ‘‘Look, as soon as you leave with him, I’m going to stand up and talk to one of the people in the buildings. I’m gonna tell him what I’m gonna do, and then I’m gonna do it. I’ll wait till you’re back under cover at the ambulance before I do it. But if I motion you back, we can pick up the dead officer, too. Okay?’’
‘‘Got it.’’
That’s what I did. As soon as I saw the three of them back at the ambulance, I stood up, and bent to tap the one left with me. We had remained in full view of the shed all the time, so there wasn’t any doubt who we were. ‘‘Here goes. Wait for my signal.’’ I hoped that the people back at the ambulance area could see us clearly.
I straightened up, and walked slowly toward the shed.
‘‘Stop right there, Carl.’’
It was old man Stritch himself in the shed. I could recognize his voice, especially when he said my name. He always had pronounced it like there was a u after the r. Good to know. He would pay, sooner or later.
‘‘I’ve got a dead officer over there, Herman. We’re going to remove him too.’’
‘‘Only if I say so.’’
‘‘I ever lie to you, Herman?’’
He thought. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘Then believe me now. We’re going to get him now, and if we don’t, there won’t be a living person on this farm in ten minutes. We don’t want that, but we’ll do it. And you know we can.’’
He thought again. I was right, at least about our being able to do it. Right at that moment anyway. As it turned out, it would be the last time for quite a while.
‘‘Go ahead.’’
‘‘The offer still stands, if you’ve got anybody hurt. We’ll get medical treatment for ’em. No strings.’’
‘‘We’re fine.’’
Shit.
I heard a beep, and I thought I heard him say, ‘‘Hello.’’ Phone in the shed. Neat. Lots of farmers had them in the barn, or the milk house. Why not a shed? It had just never occurred to me.
I turned and motioned to my EMT. She came directly to me, and together we went to Bud’s body.
He was crumpled up, but it looked like he’d been hit several times, at least once in the head. His handgun was still in its holster, the retaining strap still snapped. We bundled him up as best we could, and as I turned to signal the ambulance, it began to leave. I learned later that Lamar was beginning to ‘‘sour’’ on the EMTs; a term they use when they think they’re going to lose a patient. It only threw me for a second. Hell. Bud wasn’t going to need any treatment. I walked slowly back to the shed.
‘‘Herman!’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Herman, we’re going to have a couple of officers come in and help get Bud out. The EMTs have left in the ambulance, and we want Bud out now. Don’t shoot.’’
He didn’t say anything. I took that for assent. I was getting a little shocky myself, by this time, as the adrenaline was starting to wear off, and was getting an attitude.
I hollered toward the line of officers back in the lane, who were out of sight of the shed, but not the house. I told them to leave any long guns back there and to come on in and help us. Three of them came in, and together we wrapped Bud in a blanket and carried him back to the police lines. He was a heavy load, and with the plasticized blanket being wet, we nearly dropped him twice. I had a cramp in my carrying hand by the time we got to the cars.
I went back into the yard, at first just to get my car, but then saw my rifle near my hiding place. I couldn’t leave that. And it was getting soaked. I would have hoped that another officer would have retrieved it. No such luck. Then I decided I wanted to talk to Herman again. What the hell. I was on a roll.
‘‘Herman!’’ You asshole.
‘‘What?’’
‘‘I’m taking my car out. I want to talk to you. Give it up, Herman. We have enough people hurt now. Why don’t you just come on out?’’
‘‘Go to hell.’’
At that point, the door to the house opened, and the young man came out. He walked up to me. He was wearing a cammo raincoat with a hood, and he had put on fatigue pants and boots. The title of a movie came into my mind: A Soldier in the Rain. ‘‘Soldier’’ being the key word.
‘‘You better get out of here,’’ he said, stopping about twenty feet away.
I just looked at him. ‘‘I’m going over here, and I’m picking up my rifle, and putting it in my car.’’
‘‘Leave your rifle.’’
I was getting angry. ‘‘Listen, kid. One time. Don’t fuck with me. I said I’m getting the rifle, and that’s what I’m gonna do.’’
‘‘Dad’s got a bead on you, cop.’’
‘‘I’m sure he does. And I can kill you before the old fart gets off the first round.’’ Our eyes met. I shook my head in disgust, turned my back on him, walked to the post, and picked up my rifle. I was very, very careful to pick it up by the carrying handle on top. No point in pushing it too far.
As I got to my car, Junior spoke up again. ‘‘We’ll see you in the People’s Court!’’
‘‘Only for contempt, dickhead.’’
I got in my car and backed up the lane.