“No, we don’t.”
Idiot! When you start a question with “do you think”, the guy can answer any way he wants. Ass-sucking Herald!
“Go ahead, Steve.”
“Good morning, Detective Lynch, Steven Rameau also from the Herald. Do you think…”
Oh, for crying out loud! People waste so much time. What good…wait a minute…what’s that sound?
Others heard it too. It sounded like a chant coming from PCHS stadium, but the Hawks didn’t play on Sundays. Lynch looked up mid-sentence, and his facial expression went from “What can I answer for you?” to “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Everyone who had been giving full attention to Lynch turned around. The first thing they saw was a half-dozen uniformed police jogging towards the street side of the courtyard. Then they saw the first of the protest signs…then more…and more. The biggest read “THE CHILDREN KNOW THE TRUTH.” Another was crafted as a train ticket to hell with the words “ONE WAY” stamped on it. Lynch thought that one was clever, but not clever enough to change his sudden shit mood. He turned to Gomez, who was smiling ear to ear.
“Got my back, Jaime?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
To Philip, the protestors’ chant sounded like “Sell the boot!” After listening to it for a minute, while local law enforcement formed themselves into a barrier, he could hear the actual words: “Tell the truth!”
Whatever.
Philip spun back around and clapped his eyes on his target. Could he chance it? Just like the conversation he overheard at St. Al’s, the distraction caused by the protest seemed providential. He felt almost obligated to take the shot. He looked around. He could do it quickly. Gun out…pow!…gun in. Who would see him? No one! Why not? He flicked off the safety just in time to see the Deputy Mayor and two police officers corral everyone off stage and into City Hall.
Philip exhaled, scrunched his forehead, and laughed to himself.
What was I thinking? Yeah…like no one’s gonna see me. Like no one’s gonna hear me. Idiot. That’s that. Time to go.
He flicked the safety back on and turned up his jacket collar.
Next time.
5. The Protest
The crowd of 200 or so was comprised primarily of married couples who had just finished either church, brunch, or both. Many of them enthusiastically shook sheets of poster board bearing references to bible chapters and verses. Others wielded pictures of their own children as they shouted barely intelligible slogans that took the moral high ground. Some sang. Some held up empty crosses, which made for some ominous shadows on the grass. Sprinkled among the couples were pockets of conscientious youths and a few lefties who looked for any reason to march on anything.
Lynch hated protests. Peaceful or not, the police always came away looking like fascists. His partner’s opinion on the subject differed.
“Someone’s going to do something, Jaime. I can smell it.”
“A disturbance isn’t enough? Now you want a riot?”
Music started. Beneath one of the larger placards, two guitarists and a cajon player laid down the chords and beat for a song called Lord Knows. Lynch, evidently in a minority, hadn’t heard it before. The tune droned on with the monotony of most protest songs.
Lord knows that you can’t hide,
Lord knows God won’t abide,
Take a good long look; the mirror shows,
The truth will free you, Lord knows
…over and over again.
Gomez started humming along. Lynch gave him a backhand to the shoulder.
“Ouch! What!? It’s catchy...”
And just when Lynch thought the morning couldn’t get any worse, some bastard started banging on a tambourine.
“Ernie, get your cuffs out. I’m about to assault a musician.”
With laser precision, the jingles shot through the discord and into Lynch’s eardrums. The arty twat playing the thing had nestled himself between the two guitar players and was belting out the song along with everyone else.
“I’m telling you, amigo. We’re gonna earn our overtime today. Just wait.”
The passing of an hour proved Gomez to be wrong. All the protesters wanted were the sympathetic cameras off of the priests and on the placards, which they got. There was no need to get rowdy.
But the tambourine continued.
“Dude, I’ve got to say something to that bastard. Maybe I can appeal to his sense of humanity.”
“I got your back.”
“I don’t need my back got.”
“I’m coming with you anyway.”
Two things drew Lynch’s attention as he and his partner approached the crowd. The first was the banner being held defiantly above the protest’s epicenter. Upon it was the high school yearbook picture of a good-looking young boy. Its caption was in large block lettering:
REMEMBER
The banner was weathered. It had been used before. The second thing that caught Lynch’s eye was a quartet of young men clad in black trench coats. They’d staked a claim on the protest’s periphery.
“Check it out, Ernie. You might get your wish.”
Lynch only recognized two from the barn: Steve, the stoner, and Arthur, the cocky albino-haired son-of-a-bitch. The other two must have been with the crew at the Iron Wall. The bigger of them came in around 350 pounds. Gomez spoke.
“Did you see that?”
“The fat one reaching into his pocket? Yes, I did.”
Arthur saw it too and reacted with a clutch of the wrist and a whisper.
“Not now, Bubbs.”
The detectives stepped into view with their shields and side arms exposed.
“Welcome to the action, boys. You’re late.”
Arthur gave Bubbs a sharp, demoralizing glance before responding in an overly genteel manner.
“Well, good morning, detectives, or what’s left of it.”
Gomez was downright giddy.
“Whatcha got in your pocket there, hombre grande?”
Clarification from Arthur was required.
“He means you, Bubbs.”
“Huh? Oh, you mean this?”
“Ah! Ah! Slowly. Nice and slow, junior.”
Per Lynch’s admonishing, Bubbs moved imperceptibly slowly and eventually produced an apple. He dangled it by the stem while Lynch and Gomez eased their stances.
“It’s…uh…my lunch.”
“Really? Your lunch? What do you think, Ernie? You think this gentleman maintains his girlish figure on an all-fruit diet?”
“No, Jaime, I would guess not. My guess is we’re looking at a projectile there. You chicas looking to stir up some shit?”
Arthur appointed himself spokesman
