Suspect

again.

The first man out of the truck was tall and thin, and immediately opened fire into the Bentley’s windshield. The second man was thick, with a large gut that bulged over his belt. He swung his rifle toward Scott, and the AK- 47 bloomed with yellow flowers.

Something punched Scott hard in the thigh, and he lost his grip on Stephanie and his pistol. He sat down hard, and saw blood welling from his leg. Scott picked up his pistol, fired two more shots, and his pistol locked open. Empty. He pushed to his knees, and took Stephanie’s arm again.

“I’m dying.”

Scott said, “No, you’re not. I swear to God you’re not.”

A second bullet slammed into the top of his shoulder, knocking him down. Scott lost Stephanie and his pistol again, and his left arm went numb.

The big man must have thought Scott was done. He turned to his friends, and when he turned, Scott crabbed toward their patrol car, dragging his useless leg and pushing with his good. The car was their only cover. If he made it to the car, he could use it as a weapon or a shield to reach Stephanie.

Scott keyed his shoulder mike as he scuttled backwards, and whispered as loudly as he dared.

“Officer down! Shots fired, shots fired! Two-Adam-twenty-four, we’re dying out here!”

The men from the gray sedan threw open the Bentley’s doors and fired inside. Scott glimpsed passengers, but saw only shadows. Then the firing stopped, and Stephanie called out behind him. Her voice bubbled with blood, and cut him like knives.

“Don’t leave me! Scotty, don’t leave!”

Scott pushed harder, desperate to reach the car. Shotgun in the car. Keys in the ignition.

“DON’T LEAVE ME!”

“I’m not, baby. I’m not.”

“COME BACK!”

Scott was five yards from their patrol car when the big man heard Stephanie. He turned, saw Scott, then lifted his rifle and fired.

Scott James felt the third impact as the bullet punched through his vest on the lower right side of his chest. The pain was intense, and quickly grew worse as his abdominal cavity filled with pooling blood.

Scott slowed to a stop. He tried to crawl farther, but his strength was gone. He leaned back on an elbow, and waited for the big man to shoot him again, but the big man turned toward the Bentley.

Sirens were coming.

Black figures were inside the Bentley, but Scott couldn’t see what they were doing. The driver of the gray sedan twisted to see the shooters, and pulled up his mask as he turned. Scott saw a flash of white on the man’s cheek, and then the men in and around the Bentley ran into the Torino.

The big man was the last. He hesitated by the sedan’s open door, once more looked at Scott, and raised his rifle.

Scott screamed.

“NO!”

Scott tried to jump out of the way as the sirens faded into a soothing voice.

“Wake up, Scott.”

“NO!”

“Three, two, one—”

Nine months and sixteen days after he was shot that night, nine months and sixteen days after he saw his partner murdered, Scott James screamed when he woke.

2.

Scott threw himself out of the line of fire so violently when he woke, he was always surprised he had not jumped off his shrink’s couch. He knew from experience he only made a small lurch. He woke from the enhanced regression the same way each time, jumping from the dream state of his memory as the big man raised the AK-47. Scott took careful, deep breaths, and tried to slow his thundering heart.

Goodman’s voice came from across the dim room. Charles Goodman, M.D. Psychiatrist. Goodman did contract work with the Los Angeles Police Department, but was not an LAPD employee.

“Deep breaths, Scott. You feel okay?”

“I’m okay.”

His heart pounded, his hands trembled, and cold sweat covered his chest, but as with the violent lunge that Goodman saw as only a tiny lurch, Scott was good at downplaying his feelings.

Goodman was an overweight man in his forties with a pointy beard, a ponytail, sandals, and toenail fungus. His small office was on the second floor of a two-story stucco building in Studio City next to the L.A. River channel. Scott’s first shrink had a much nicer office in Chinatown at the LAPD’s Behavioral Science Services, but Scott didn’t like her. She reminded him of Stephanie.

“Would you like some water?”

“No. No, I’m fine.”

Scott swung his feet off the couch, and grimaced at the tightness in his shoulder and side. He grew stiff when he sat for too long, so standing and moving helped ease the pain. He also needed a few seconds to adjust when he left the hypnotic state, like stepping from a sun-bright street into a dark bar. This was his fifth enhanced regression into the events of that night, but something about this regression left him confused and uncertain. Then he remembered, and looked at his shrink.

“Sideburns.”

Goodman opened a notebook, ready to write. Goodman constantly wrote.

“Sideburns?”

“The man driving the getaway car. He had white sideburns. These bushy white sideburns.”

Goodman made a quick note in his book, then riffled back through the pages.

“You haven’t described sideburns before?”

Scott strained to remember. Had he? Had he recalled the sideburns, but simply not mentioned them? He questioned himself, but already knew the answer.

“I didn’t remember them before. Not until now. I remember them now.”

Goodman scribbled furiously, but all the fast writing made Scott feel more doubtful.

“You think I really saw them, or am I imagining this?”

Goodman held up a hand to finish his note before speaking.

“Let’s not go there yet. I want you to tell me what you remember. Don’t second-guess yourself. Just tell me what you recall.”

The memory of what he saw was clear.

“When I heard the sirens, he turned toward the shooters. He pulled up his mask when he turned.”

“He was wearing the same mask?”

Scott had always described the five shooters in exactly the same way.

“Yeah, the black knit ski mask. He pulled it up partway, and I saw the sideburns. They were long, here below the lobe. Might have been gray, like silver?”

Scott touched the side of his face by his ear, trying to see the image even more clearly—a faraway face in bad light, but there was the flash of white.

“Describe what you saw.”

“I only saw part of his jaw. He had these white sideburns.”

“Skin tone?”

“I don’t know. White, maybe, or Latin or a light-skinned black guy.”

“Don’t guess. Only describe what you clearly remember.”

“I can’t say.”

“Can you see his ear?”