Alone (Detective D.D. Warren, #1)(9)

Killing someone was a big deal, even for a cop. The sooner he faced it, the sooner he could get on with his life.

Then the EAU guys were gone, and the investigators took their place.

It was three-thirty in the morning now. Bobby had been up for nearly twenty-two hours. He followed the investigators to the DA's office, where they all had steaming cups of fresh coffee and sat around a scarred wood table, like old friends shooting the shit.

Bobby wasn't fooled. He was bottomed out and bone tired from buckets of adrenaline dumping suddenly into his bloodstream, but he was still a sniper, a man who could narrow the world down to a single set of crosshairs, and maintain that concentration for hours.

They all began the dance.

Where was Bobby when he got the call?

Boston Beer Garden, he answered, and immediately lost points. He added he'd been drinking Coke, the bartender would verify, and regained some ground.

He'd started work at what time today? He'd ended his shift at what hour? A fifteen-hour shift earned him a frown; the sidebar that he was trained to handle long hours didn't seem to rate him a second chance.

How had he gotten to the scene, how fast was his response time, what could he recall of his conversation with Lieutenant Jachrimo? They were searching here, looking for something, so Bobby's answers grew shorter. He felt the threat in the conversation, but couldn't identify the source. The investigators finally moved on, but the collegial atmosphere was fast eroding. Questions were sharper now, and answers harshly judged.

He had to explain how he'd determined to access Mr. Harlow's residence. He described his setup on the card table, why he chose to crack the window, why he went with bonded-tip ammo.

What did he see in the house, who did he see in the house?

Bobby did better here. White male subject, white female subject. Didn't give them names, and didn't give them presumed identities such as husband, wife, or child. He was as neutral as possible. He'd shot a man, but it was nothing personal.

Finally, they got to the heart of the matter. Did he know the victim was James Gagnon?

And for the first time, Bobby paused.

Victim. Interesting choice of words. The man was no longer a suspect, someone who had pointed his gun at his own wife and tightened his finger on the trigger; he was a victim. Bobby thought now might be a good time to ask for that lawyer. But he didn't.

He answered as truthfully as he could. Lieutenant Jachrimo had identified the family as possibly being the Gagnons, but at the time of the incident, Bobby had received no verification of those names.

The investigators sat back again. Mollified? Suspicious? Hard to tell. They wanted to know if he'd met the wife, personally, socially. Had he spoken to her during the incident?

No, Bobby said.

Now it was time for the nitty-gritty. What made him decide to fire his weapon? Had he been okayed for use of deadly force by the CO?

No.

Had the victim made any verbal threats toward Bobby or another officer?

No.

Had the victim made any verbal threats toward his wife?

Not that Bobby had heard.

But the victim had a gun.

Yes.

Did he fire it?

There were reports of gunfire.

Before Bobby arrived. But what about afterwards? Did Bobby actually see the victim fire his weapon?

His finger was pulling the trigger.

So he fired his weapon?

Yes. No. Not sure. He was firing, I was firing; it all happened so fast.

So the victim didn't fire his weapon?

Not sure.

So possibly, the victim was just pointing his gun? Hadn't he been pointing the weapon for a while?

The man's finger was on the trigger.

But did he squeeze it? Did he try to shoot his wife?

I believed there was an immediate threat.

Why, Trooper Dodge, why?

Because of the way the man smiled. Bobby couldn't say that. He said instead, “The subject stood two feet away from the woman with a nine-millimeter pointed at her head and his finger moving on the trigger. I perceived that to be an immediate and compelling threat.”

Do you really think a man would kill his wife with his kid still in the room?

Yes, sir, I believed he would.

Why, Trooper Dodge, why?

Because sometimes, sir, shit like that happens.

The investigators finally nodded, then repeated the same questions all over again. Bobby knew how it worked. More times you made a man tell his story, the more he might trip up. Lies growing more embellished, truth more strained. They were giving Bobby rope and waiting to see if he'd hang himself with it.

At six-thirty they finally gave up. A new day was dawning outside the stifling conference room, and the collegial air returned. They were sorry they had to ask all these questions, you know. It was just a matter of procedure. Unfortunate night. Bad for everyone. But it looked good for Bobby that he was cooperating. They appreciated that very much. Everyone just wanted to get to the bottom of this, you understand. The sooner they got to the truth, the sooner everyone could put it behind them.

They'd have more questions. You know, don't go too far.

Bobby nodded wearily. He pushed back his chair and, when he went to rise, swayed on his feet. He saw one guy notice, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

And Bobby had the sudden, disconcerting urge to sock the man in the gut. He left the room and found his lieutenant waiting for him in the hall.