I nodded. The man with the gun was watching us. He was white, pudgy, mid-forties, clean shaven and wearing a blue suit and a red tie. He looked calm but focused. No tears. No shaking. As if it was perfectly normal to sit in the middle of the street with a pistol at your own temple.
I kept my Colt trained on the perp and took another step toward him. If he flinched, I'd shoot him. The shrinks had a term for it: suicide by cop. People who didn't have the guts to kill themselves, so they forced the police to. I didn't want to be the one to do it. Hell, it was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. I could picture the hearing, being told the shooting was justified, and I knew that being in the right wouldn't help me sleep any better if I had to murder this poor bastard.
“What's your name?” I asked.
“Paul.”
The gun he had was small, looked like a .380. Something higher caliber would likely blow through both sides of his skull and into the crowd. This bullet probably wasn't powerful enough. But it would do a fine job of killing him. Or me, if he decided he wanted some company in the afterlife.
“My name is Jack. Can you put the gun down, Paul?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
That was about the extent of my hostage negotiating skills. I dared a step closer, coming within three feet of him, close enough to smell his sweat.
“What's so bad that you have to do this?”
Paul stared at me without answering. I revised my earlier thought about him looking calm. He actually looked numb. I glanced at his left hand, saw the wedding ring.
“Problems with the wife?” I asked.
His Adam's apple bobbled up and down as he swallowed. “My wife died last year.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. You married?”
“Divorced. What was your wife's name, Paul?”
“Doris.”
“What do you think Doris would say if she saw you like this?”
Paul's face pinched into a sad smile. My Colt Detective Special weighed twenty-two ounces, and my arm was getting tired holding it up. I brought my left hand under my right to brace it, my palm on the butt of the weapon.
“Do you think you'll get married again?” he asked.
I thought about Latham. “It will happen, sooner or later.”
“You have someone, I'm guessing.”
“Yes.”
“Does he like it that you're a cop?”
I considered the question before answering. “He likes the whole package.”
Paul abruptly inhaled. A snort? I couldn't tell. I did a very quick left to right sweep with my eyes. The crowd was growing, and inching closer—one traffic cop couldn't keep everyone back by himself. The media had also arrived. Took them long enough, considering four networks had offices within a few blocks.
“Waiting for things to happen, that's a mistake.” Paul closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. “If you want things to happen, you have to make them happen. Because you never know how long things are going to last.”
He didn't seem depressed. More like irritated. I took a slow breath, smelling the cumulative exhaust of a thousand cars and buses, wishing the damn negotiator would arrive.
“Do you live in the area, Paul?”
He sniffled, sounding congested. “Suburbs.”
“Do you work downtown?”
“Used to. Until about half an hour ago.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Can you give me more than that?”
He squinted at me. “Why do you care?”
“It's my job, Paul.”
“It's your job to protect people.”
“Yes. And you're a person.”
“You want to protect me from myself.”
“Yes.”
“You also want to protect these people around us.”
“Yes.”
“How far away are they, do you think? Fifteen feet? Twenty?”
A strange question, and I didn't like it. “I don't know. Why?”
Paul made a show of looking around.
“Lot of people here. Big responsibility, protecting them all.”
He shifted, and my finger automatically tensed on the trigger. Paul said something, but it was lost in the honking.
“Can you repeat that, Paul?”
“Maybe life isn't worth protecting.”
“Sure it is.”
“There are bad people in the world. They do bad things. Should they be protected too?”
“Everyone should be protected.”
Paul squinted at me. “Have you ever shot anyone, Jack?”
Another question I didn't like.
“When I was forced to, yes. Please don't force me, Paul.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you ever wanted to?”
“No.”
Paul made a face like I was lying. “Why not? Do you believe in God? In heaven? Are you one of those crazy right-to-lifers who believe all life is sacred? Do you protest the death penalty?”
“I believe blood is hard to get off of your hands, even if it's justified.”
He shifted again, and his jacket came open. There was a spot of something on his shirt. Something red. Both my arms were feeling the strain of holding up my weapon, and a spike of fear-induced adrenalin caused a tremor in my hands.
“What's that on your shirt, Paul? Is that blood?”
He didn't bother to look. “Probably.”
I kept my voice steady. “Did you go to work today, Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bring your gun to work?”
No answer. I glanced at the spot of blood again, and noticed that his stomach didn't look right. I'd first thought Paul was overweight. Now it looked like he had something bulky on under his shirt.
“Did you hurt anyone at work today, Paul?”
“That's the past, Jack. You can't protect them. What's done is done.”
I was liking this situation less and less. That spot of blood drew my eyes like a beacon. I wondered if he was wearing a bullet proof vest under his business suit, or something worse.
“I don't want to go to jail,” he said.
“What did you do, Paul?”
“They shouldn't have fired me.”
