No Witness But the Moon(5)

Vega ignored them all. He crouched down next to the dead man. The suspect’s bloody right hand was turned palm-side down. There was something underneath. It was too small to be a gun. A knife, perhaps? A box cutter? Vega knew he wasn’t supposed to touch anything. But he had to know. He uncurled the fingers slightly. Staring up at him was a creased, blood-smeared photograph of two Hispanic men and a teenage boy.

There was nothing else in the dead man’s hand.

Vega’s stomach lurched. He felt light-headed and dizzy. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, ran over to the nearest tree, and vomited. He heaved again and again until there was nothing left inside of him. The man I killed was involved in a home invasion robbery, Vega reminded himself . He ran after I identified myself as a police officer. He refused to surrender. He turned on me.

He had no weapon.

That thought beat out every other in Vega’s brain.

The other officers on the scene gave Vega space. No one said anything to him. They probably thought that’s what he needed right now, and a part of him did. But another part of him would have given anything for someone to tell him he’d done the right thing. Instead, everyone went about their business like actors on a stage waiting for someone to feed them their lines. Nobody knew what to say. Two EMTs started up the hill but were quickly turned back. Vega watched their faces absorb the news in the ghoulish alternating flashes of red and blue light.

Hammond eventually walked over and patted Vega gently on the back.

“Come sit in my car, Jimmy. Okay? Maybe call your family? No sense you being out here.”

Vega nodded, not trusting himself to speak as Hammond led him down the hill and into the front passenger seat of Hammond’s unmarked Toyota.

“I thought for a moment you were gonna put me in back,” said Vega.

It was meant to be a weak joke but Hammond’s response gave Vega pause. “Take as long as you need to get your thoughts together, okay, Jimmy?” The detective’s smile had too many teeth in it.

Hammond’s unmarked Toyota smelled of peppermints and Lysol, but it calmed Vega down to be encased in this tomb away from the murmurs of other cops. He felt certain everyone was judging him. How could they not? He would.

Hammond got in the driver’s side and radioed a request for the medical examiner and the county crime scene unit. The uniforms began cordoning off the area with yellow police tape. Vega felt like he was watching it all unfold underwater. Voices and sounds came at him disconnected from their sources. The dispatcher’s voice over the radio provided a constant update of all the additional vehicles and agencies that were now being directed to this tiny lane in Wickford. All because of Vega. Because of what he’d done.

When Hammond left the car to go back up the hill, Vega took out his cell phone and dialed Adele. He could barely get the words out before he started to choke up.

“I just shot and killed a man.”

“What? Oh my God! Mi amado, what happened? Are you okay?”

Vega’s head was pounding. His eyes burned like someone had rubbed them with sand. He took a deep breath and heard it catch in his lungs. He hadn’t felt the urge to cry this strongly since that day nearly two years ago when a Bronx detective called to tell him his mother had been found beaten to death in her apartment. At least then, no one would have blamed him if he’d broken down. The crime was brutal. It was still unsolved. But now? This was different. The police officers on the scene would take it as a sign of weakness. Worse, they’d take it as a sign of guilt.

Whatever you do, stay strong, he told himself. If he stopped believing that he’d had no choice about what he’d done, why would anyone else believe it either?

He tried to steady his voice and state the facts as dispassionately as possible. “Dispatch reported a home invasion and shots fired at a residence here in Wickford. I was nearby so I took in the call. The suspect refused to surrender and turned on me.”

“Oh, Jimmy, how awful. Are you hurt?”

“No.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that the man he’d killed probably wasn’t armed. He needed time to wrap his head around that one. He still didn’t want to believe it was true.

A silence hung between them. It was just a moment’s worth but Vega felt the sting. Was she judging him? Or was he judging himself so much that he read every hesitation as a criticism?

“It’s going to be all right,” she cooed softly. “Where are you? Peter was going to drop Sophia off after he took her to the movies.” Peter was Adele’s ex. “Maybe I can get her babysitter Marcela to come over.”

“There’s no point,” said Vega. “They won’t let you within a hundred feet of me.”

“Have you given a statement yet? Spoken to counsel?” Adele had been a criminal defense attorney before she started La Casa. It was still in her blood.

“No.” Vega squinted through the windshield. Already things were heating up. On the other side of the yellow crime-scene tape were civilian onlookers, news cameras, and more police cars. A lot more police cars. “It’s going to be a long night,” said Vega. “Can you call Joy and let her know?” Vega’s eighteen-year-old daughter was a freshman at the local community college. She lived with Vega’s ex-wife.

“Of course. I’ll do that now.” Adele hung on the line for a moment without speaking. “A delicate question,” she said finally. “The uh—suspect. Was he white? Black?”