I am not a believer in God. Except, well, that isn’t quite right. I am not an atheist, not by any stretch. I do believe in something bigger than life…something bigger than myself, I just can’t quite define it. As a child, I was raised catholic, but it didn’t stick, and by the time I’d turned eighteen-a full twenty-two years ago-I’d never gone back to church at all except for weddings and funerals. And, I am hitting the age where I have begun to notice there are fewer of the former and more of the latter. Well… life. Can’t live without it.
It seemed almost everyone wanted to believe that all they had to do was talk to God, ask for their prayers to be answered-which really, I think, amounts to nothing more than asking for stuff — and then God, in His wisdom, will either grant your request or not. The whole concept seems kind of selfish. A little too….feel good. Like comfort food. The idea that a group of people get together once or twice a week and listen while someone stands on the stage and waves a book at them and tells them how to live their lives seems all very….republican. Like it doesn’t matter if you wave the book or wave the flag, in the end it is all very much the same. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.
So. I am a believer of something. What that something might be is just a little hard to pin down. But truth be told, believer or not, over the last eight minutes since I’d heard Sandy on the radio, I was talking to someone, asking…okay, praying, that she wasn’t hurt.
When I finally rolled up to the scene and saw her working on Barney Burns, saw her physically okay, I felt like my prayers had been answered.
And isn’t that, I thought, just a kick in the nut sack of belief.
I slid my truck to a stop at the south intersection, almost a half block away. It was as close as I could get. It looked like every cop car in the city had converged on the Governor’s mansion. I flashed my ID to the city cop and ran through. Sandy had moved over and sat down on the curb across the street from the trooper, her head down, her hands in her hair. I didn’t know who had the overnight duty so I didn’t know who the trooper was, but even as I ran, I could tell it wasn’t good. I detoured around the other cops already on scene and walked over to victim who lay at the end of the driveway. There was a pool of blood under the man’s head, and two entry wounds to his chest. Gone. I looked up and saw two news helicopters circling overhead, and when I crossed the street I saw the fallen Trooper was Barney Burns. That made something click in my chest with an instant heaviness. Barney had been my training officer when I joined the State Police.
I walked over to Sandy and squatted in front of her and saw the blood on her shirt and in her hair. “Jesus, Sandy, are you hurt? Are you hit?”
Sandy shook her head, then leaned into me, her arms around my neck. I felt her shake and sob into my chest. “I’m…I’m all right. Not hit.” She pulled back and rubbed her eyes, then started to try to wipe the blood out of her hair. “It’s Barney’s blood. It’s in my hair. I was trying…I was trying to do CPR.”
I looked at her and for a moment just wanted to scoop her up and take her home. Get her cleaned up. Wanted to take care of her. She was covered in blood. It was in her hair, on her shirt, her hands, her face. I tried to wipe some of it from her cheek, but it was useless. I turned toward the EMTs on the scene and motioned them over, then turned back to Sandy. “Where’s the Governor, Sandy?”
She didn’t answer right away and I had to ask her again. She pulled her hair away from her face streaking it with more blood in the process. “He’s, uh, still inside, I guess. Hasn’t left yet.”
“Stay here. Do not move. Understand?”
She nodded and I went over and grabbed one of the city cops. I looked at his name tag: Cauliffer. “Officer Cauliffer, my name is Detective Virgil Jones, with the State Police.”
“Yeah,” Cauliffer said. I know who you are. “You’re the guy-“
I cut him off. “Listen, Cauliffer, go secure the Governor. He’s inside his house. Keep him there.”
Cauliffer let his face form a question. “Sir?”
“Go, Cauliffer. Keep the Governor inside. Stay right by his side. I don’t care what he’s doing, you stay right with him. If he’s in there taking his morning dump, I want you standing ready with a roll of toilet paper. You got me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Go. Now.”
Cauliffer took off toward the Governor’s mansion and I went back to Sandy. “What the hell happened?” Then before she could answer, I yelled to the EMTs: “Can I get a fucking medic over here?”
Sandy shook her head. “The hell if I know.”
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“I don’t know. I hit my head getting Burns out of the car.” She blew a deep breath out of her mouth. “Jesus, Jonesy, half his head is gone. I mean it’s Barney. Who’d have ever thought something like this could happen to Barney?”
“I know, I know, but listen, it’s alright, okay? You did good. Did everything you could. Do you have anything? Anything at all?”
“Nothing really. I saw a white cargo van just turning west bound from the south corner as I came out of the gate. Couldn’t get the plate. Couldn’t even tell you the make of the van. Chevy, maybe? Or GMC. It had the tall taillights at the top. It was just a glimpse. They were already gone, you know?”
“Okay. But it was a van? You’re sure of that?”
“Yeah. White cargo van. Like a delivery van or something.”
“Okay. Sit still. I’m going to get the medics to look you over.”
“Aw, jeez, I don’t need that. Let me work this with you.”
“It’s not a request, Sandy. They’re going to look at you.” I stood up. “I’ll be right back.”
I went to grab my phone from my pocket but realized it was still in the truck. I jogged back down to where I’d parked a few minutes ago and the phone was ringing when I got there. The caller ID showed a blocked number. I hit the button. “Jonesy.”
“Uh, Detective Jones? This is Cauliffer, up at the house? The Governor’s? He gave me your number.”
“Yeah, Cauliffer, what is it?”
“Well, you think you could come up here for a minute?”
“Why?”
“It’s, um, the Governor. He’s pretty pissed that I won’t let him out of the house.”
I could hear the Governor in the background. Cauliffer was right. He sounded pissed. “Alright. Just sit on him for a minute. I’ll be right there.” I pressed the end button then hit the speed dial for my boss, Cora.
She answered immediately. “What the hell’s happening, Jonesy?”
“Aw, we’ve got a hell of a mess is what’s happening. You better get out here. Be nice if you could handle the politics for me.”
“Turn around, Slick.”
I turned and saw Cora walking toward me. I hit the end button and stuck the phone in my pocket. At fifty-two years old, Cora stands little more than five feet tall, carries about twenty extra pounds, is dark skinned, and keeps her salt and pepper hair high and tight like a man. She began her career as an Indianapolis Metro patrol cop, and the stories of her days on a foot beat are legendary. She once found herself cornered by three gangbangers jacked on meth in an abandoned warehouse. When they closed ranks to take her down, she left her gun in its holster and instead took her nightstick from the chrome loop on her belt and proceeded to offer a free demonstration on the quality of hand to hand combat training offered by the Indiana Police Academy. When it was over she shook a cigarette out of her pack, lit up, and stood over them, the ashes from her cigarette scattered around their broken limbs and bloodied faces. She finished her smoke before she called for EMS on the radio. No one messed with Cora LaRue more than once, and only then at their own peril.
She walked up and put her hands on her hips. “Jesus Christ. I heard it’s Barney Burns.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t believe it.”
“Alright, I’m going to go up and talk to the Governor. Get this scene locked down, then come up and join me, will you?”
“You bet.”
“Jesus Christ,” Cora said again. “Barney Burns. Who’d have ever thought…”