Ninety seconds later, he moseyed back in, this time with a pistol in each hand.
The only good news: near closing, the joint was almost empty. An hour earlier, five times the number of people could have died. As it was, we had four victims: one dead bartender; one dead waitress; one dead twenty-two-year-old college student who’d pulled an all-nighter and stopped in for a drink to unwind; and a regular at the bar, a guy from the neighborhood who spent most nights drowning his sorrows with shots and beers. That guy, lucky stiff, lived. At least so far. He was in the ICU, holding on by his fingernails.
While I stared down the guy across from me, I thought about the squad of cops spreading out over the city, ringing doorbells. Family members would answer, little suspecting that they’d receive the worst news of their lives. One family would head to the hospital, perhaps arriving too late to say goodbye. The other three vics were never coming home. Last I heard we were still looking for next of kin for the college student. His family would never see him walk across the stage at graduation, never celebrate when he landed his first real job, never dance at his wedding. The waitress? The bartender? That’s where it got really sad. A total of five kids between them, the oldest twelve. What would happen to them?
I thought about the three bodies on the way to the morgue. Such a waste. Those folks woke up yesterday morning never considering that it would be their last. Life? Well, it’s not always fair.
In my world, events make that clear entirely too often.
Our office door reads: CRIMES AGAINST PERSONS. Although fairly new, only a detective for the past three years, I pull the toughest cases—murders and sexual assaults. At Dallas PD, I have something of a jacket, a reputation. I work leads to death, no pun intended. The truth is, I have a lot of time on my hands, since I don’t have a life outside the job.
That’s how this particular shooter became the focus of my undivided attention.
My shift didn’t start until eleven, but I arrived early. My calendar empty, I didn’t have anything else to do on a Saturday morning. So I was at my desk dissecting a case folder when this guy shuffled through the door in leg irons and cuffs at 8 a.m., two beat cops piloting him by his elbows. Somebody heard shots and called it in. They found my companion passed out with his head on the bar, his hand curled around a half-empty beer mug.
Guns don’t mix well with stupid. Guns and stupid are even more dangerous when paired with crazy drunk.
“You know, booze can make you do things you wouldn’t otherwise,” I said to the guy. I gave him a sociable smile. As much as I wanted to vaporize him, I needed him to cooperate and talk. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to hurt those folks. Really the alcohol is to blame, don’t you think?”
We had an open-and-shut case, no doubt about it. But the DA’s office always appreciated not only a wrapped package but one with a well-fluffed bow. I wanted to tie the guy up with a confession on the wall-mounted video camera focused on his face. I also had a rep in the department for being able to draw confessions out of perps. As serious as the cases were, and this one certainly was, I saw it as something of a chess game. I enjoyed the challenge of working angles to convince the bad guys to talk.
In particular, I wanted no wiggle room for this one. He was going down.
“Damn it. I told you. I didn’t kill those people,” he said. Not a bad-looking guy—he had a mop of curly blond hair and a beard to match, deep-set smoky brown eyes and a muscular neck that spread into well-developed shoulders. I figured he worked out. He’d have a lot of time to firm up his pecs in a prison cell.
“You have someone else we should investigate for the killings? You were the only one there. Just you and the four victims in the bar,” I told him. “And we have you on camera, holding up your guns like Rambo.”
At that, he twisted his mouth far to the side, digesting my words.
“I don’t remember nothin’ about shootin’ no one. I didn’t do it.”
“You want to see the video again?” I offered. “Happy to cue it up on my iPad. We can even order in some popcorn.”
At that, the guy’s eyes turned to suspicious slits. “Videos can be doctored. I see it all the time on the Internet.”
I let loose a long sigh and leaned across the table toward him. He looked uncertain, but I smiled like he was my new best friend. “I really think you need to get in front of this,” I advised, dropping my voice low to pull him in. “I mean, you killed those folks, and it’s memorialized on a video. You’re not walking out of here.”
The guy scooted back, putting distance between us. “I didn’t—”
“Don’t give me that!” I brought my hand down flat with a bang. The table shook. The guy jumped, eyeing me like I was the crazy one.
“Lady,” he said. “I don’t—”
“Detective,” I corrected him. “Detective Clara Jefferies.”
“Detective Jefferies, I…”
He stopped talking, I figured unsure of what to say. I waited a bit, let him stew, and then I offered, “Let’s figure out your best option.” I sat back in the chair, appearing to relax. “Like I said, my bet is that the booze made you do it.”
The guy thought about that. “Well, I guess…”
Almost have him, I thought. Almost there.
“If you hadn’t been drinking, you wouldn’t have killed those folks, right?”
At first nothing, but then, just as hope faded, he nodded.
Got him.
The prosecutor, judge and jury wouldn’t care that he was drunk. It wasn’t an excuse. But if he
