more respectable? Is that what you were going to say?”
She deflated. “No, that’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say city hall, and photography. That’s what most of your newspaper experience has been about.”
I stood there another five seconds, then turned and walked out. “Zack,” Sarah called out. “Zack, please.”
I put my notes about the Wickens story and all relevant phone numbers into the computer and e-mailed everything to Cheese Dick. Then I grabbed my jacket, slipped it on, and started making my way out of the newsroom.
“Hey,” Dick said as I passed within shouting distance of his desk. I kept on walking. “Hey, Walker!” I stopped, looked over at him. “I need to talk to you for a sec.”
I took my time walking over to him. “I sent you the stuff,” I said.
“Yeah, I see that. Thanks. So Sarah, she explained it to you?”
I nodded.
“It’s not personal,” Colby said smugly, enjoying immensely just how personal it actually was. “I’m just more suited to this sort of assignment. When you stumble into something, like you did, it’s okay to write the first-person story, you know, what happened to you, but after that, it’s really my area, you know? I mean, you don’t see me trying to cover a Star Trek convention, do you?”
I found myself thinking about what constituted justifiable homicide. My definition of “justifiable” might, I feared, differ from the justice system’s, so I decided not to act on an impulse to grab Colby’s keyboard and beat him to death with it.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Actually, yeah,” Colby said, looking for a piece of paper on his cluttered desk. “Where is it…where the fuck is it?…Okay, here it is. Since I’m doing you a favor, taking this story off your hands, maybe you could do this one for me. You’d have to get moving, though. It’s in an hour.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Good story, man, could really use your touch. And if you don’t want it, it just means I’m going to have to go over to Assignment and tell them you didn’t want it and they’ll have to pull somebody off somethin’ else to do it and then they’ll figure you’re some kind of fucking prima donna or something.”
“Give it to me,” I said. It was in Colby’s own handwriting, some notes he’d taken. I could make out “police union” and “stun gun” and a time and location. “What is this?”
“It’s a demo. Some new kind of stun gun. The cops would like to have them; the police board’s been saying no fucking way. So this guy who sells them is putting on a performance, just for some members of the police union. Some cops, they might decide to buy one, even though stun guns haven’t been approved for use. They figure it’s better to take heat for using one of those, blasting a guy with a few thousand volts and seeing him get up again, than face Internal Affairs after pulling their regular guns and killing a guy. Photo desk already knows about it.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll do it.” I was pissed, and felt like walking out of the building and not coming back, but I didn’t want to get a reputation as an asshole, either. Or for those who already thought I was one, a bigger asshole.
“Great,” Colby said, handing me his notes. “Feel your way carefully, though. I heard about this on the Q.T. from a cop. The union may not be crazy about you being there. The board won’t like it when they hear the cops have been looking at these things.”
The demo was scheduled for 11 a.m. I was still planning to meet Trixie Snelling at 1 p.m., at a coffee shop only a few blocks from police headquarters. She was making a trip in from Oakwood to see me, and I didn’t want to have to cancel on her. I didn’t think there’d be a problem.
On my way out of the building, I passed Magnuson’s office. The door was open partway, and I could see the miserable bastard sitting at his desk, no doubt plotting ways to ruin other people’s lives as much as he seemed intent on ruining mine.
There were a few chuckles among the roughly two dozen cops who’d dropped by this meeting room in the police board’s offices to see what was going on. A couple of them were clutching crudely produced flyers headlined “Stun Gun Sale, Demo.”
Lesley Carroll, the Metropolitan photographer who’d accompanied me to this event, and I had encountered a bit of trouble getting in. A cop at the door said it was for union members only, and I’d told him, as politely as possible, that if he didn’t let me in, my story would have to say that the police had held a secret meeting to consider whether to arm themselves with stun guns, and that might send the message that the police were acting as though they had no police board, or public, to answer to. If he let me in, I argued, readers would see that the police weren’t trying to pull any fast ones, but were hoping to open a debate on the issue of whether officers should be issued these nonlethal weapons.
The cop thought about it. “Fine.”
Once inside, Lesley, who was in her early twenties and interning with the paper, hoping to get hired on staff in a few months, said, “Nice one.”
Merker, a lean man with closely cropped black hair, pointed chin, and piercing eyes, waved what looked like a plastic toy gun in his hand as he performed for the officers in an open area at the front of the room. The floor had been covered with gym mats, which suggested to me that a demonstration of some kind was imminent.
The gun in Merker’s hand looked as though it had been drawn by a cartoonist, with fatter, exaggerated edges.
“But with the Dropper,” he said, “instead of two wires coming out, two highly concentrated streams of highly conductive liquid come out. Each stream contains a different charge, if you will, and when they connect with the target, fifty thousand volts are discharged, completely interrupting the ability of the brain to send any messages to the body.”
Someone in the audience quipped, “Maybe that’s what happened to the chief.” More chuckling. Disputes between the chief of police and the rank and file were legendary.
“Because,” Merker continued, “there are no wires to rewind, no gas cartridges to replace, it means that you can fire the gun more than once. Three times, to be exact. The unit needs no time between the first and second, and second and third shots to recharge or be rewinded, what have you. You can fire off three stun shots as quickly as you can pull the trigger. Now, this is not the first liquid stun gun, but is the first to come in a handheld, manageable size.”
There was some murmuring among the police officers, about two-thirds of them male. A woman spoke up. “What about if we drop somebody with one of these? Is there any chance they’ll die? And if they don’t, are there any lasting effects? ’Cause, like, I don’t want to get my ass sued off.”
“I wouldn’t want anybody hurting that ass of yours,” a male cop said, and everyone laughed, including the female cop.
Merker shook his head confidently. “The subject is instantly incapacitated, for several seconds, as his central nervous system collapses, but within about fifteen or twenty seconds, he starts recovering. Allow me to demonstrate.”
This caused even more murmuring, this time a bit on the agitated side, as if the police officers in the room were worried that they might be volunteered for a demonstration. But then, to everyone’s collective relief, a tall, lumbering, round-shouldered man in the first row got to his feet and approached Merker.
“I’d like you to meet my associate, Mr. Edgars. He is, as you can see, a big, strapping individual, 240 pounds, six foot four. It would take a lot to stop someone like him. Even an officer armed with a conventional weapon would feel unnerved if someone like Mr. Edgars was charging him.”
Edgars grinned. Somewhat stupidly, I thought. He had a kind of “gentle giant” quality about him.
“But not only will the Dropper drop Mr. Edgars, it will leave him unharmed. Leo,” he said, addressing Edgars by what was evidently his first name, “you’ve been shot with the Dropper, in demonstrations such as this, how
