he always dresses to play down his physique at work.
I have a bachelor’s in social science from PSU, and I always, always, use my fighting skill as a last resort. In fact, I’ve never had a hint of an excessive force complaint, not even from the guy who spent eight days in Kaiser after our mano y mano in a skid-row armpit of a bar.
I’m partnering with Tommy until I get my groove back, probably for a week or so, then I’ll be handling my cases all by my lonesome. He’s a good guy and I enjoy chatting with him, but I prefer working alone, always have. I liked working a one-man car when I was in uniform and I like working alone as a detective. I’d rather just focus on a case and not have to think about what my partner is or isn’t doing.
Since we sat down, we’ve been talking about ways to increase poundage on our bench press. He wants to add a little more chest size because he’s thinking about entering the Mr. Northwest Physique Championships in six months, and I want to increase my poundage to add a little more zip to my punching power and speed.
“I suppose we ought to do some detective work,” I say during a pause. “What’s on the agenda?”
He dabs his mouth with a napkin. “Got a burglary of an Asian boutique. Uniform took the report and found some good prints. The owner left a message on my phone this morning that she had some photos of the missing items, real unique stuff. We just have to retrieve the pics and do a little PR with her.”
“Sounds good. Let’s do it.”
Ten minutes later, Tommy is guiding our brown, unmarked sedan through the core area of downtown Portland. It feels good to be in a police car again but also a little strange. It’s at once new, familiar, comfortable, and off-putting. What would Kari say about that? Probably that I’m like that soldier who returns home and thinks everything is different, when in reality only he has changed.
Tommy stops for a light. I watch a bag lady push a loaded-down-with-crap grocery cart across the crosswalk. She shoots us a toothless smile, not fooled by the unmarked police car. I start to ask Tommy if she might be carrying his baby when it dawns on me where we are. Forty feet from the driver’s side window is the now infamous second-hand store. I squirm a little and drum my fingers on my knees. I’ve got to deal with it. It’s a main intersection and I’ll be driving through it for the next twenty years.
“Sorry, Sam,” he says, looking over at the store and then at me. “I wasn’t thinking. I should have gone another way.”
“That’s okay.” My voice is tight. I know why I’m reacting to it but knowing doesn’t keep me from feeling like girly man.
“How long were you off, anyway?”
“Two months.”
“Why?”
I look over at him. “Why what?”
“Why did you take so much time off? It was a good shoot.”
I tighten my lips and take a deep breath. I look at a cluster of people waiting at a bus stop. Tommy might be the first but he won’t be the last to show his ignorance. I tell myself to calm down, stop over-reacting to innocent questions.
“I needed the time. It’s one thing shooting at paper targets and bullshitting about blowing somebody up, but it’s a whole other thing to do it and then watch the life drain out of the person’s eyes.”
He frowns. “The guy deserved to be—”
“True,” I interrupt. “But it’s still hard. Maybe it’s my Catholic upbringing, but it’s hard to have killing etched on my soul.”
“Understood,” he says softly. He drives another block, then, “Please don’t think I’m being insensitive. I’m just interested in this new program the bureau has for cops who’ve used deadly force. I minored in psych.”
“No offense taken,” I say, meaning it, and happy I didn’t give voice to my initial conclusion jumping.
“Speaking of religion,” he says, “I don’t know if it helps, but what I understand of the Bible is that the commandment is supposed to be ‘thou shalt not murder,’ but it was changed in translation to ‘thou shalt not kill.’ You didn’t murder the guy. The decisions the suspect made created a situation where you had to make a choice: Stand there and allow the perp to kill an innocent man, or shoot the perp to save a life. You did what you’d been trained to do: Protect the people. You did the right thing, Sam.”
I nod. “I’ve thought about it a lot. In fact, I thought about it for two months, ad nauseam. Sometimes thinking about it as ‘the right thing to do’ helps and sometimes it doesn’t help at all. What does help is to hear someone else say it, especially a copper.”
Tommy grins. “Good, you can buy lunch.”
“Soy burger with tofu and sprouts?”
“Ten four, spaghetti arms. Hey, what’s dispatch saying?” He turns up the radio.
“… Tenth and Yamhill. All uniform cars are tied up on a fatal.”
I retrieve the mic. “Four-Forty, we’re at Twelfth and Yamhill. Say again.”
“Thank you Four-Forty. All district cars are tied up on a fatal crash on Four-oh-Five. Need someone to see a white male transient at Tenth and Yamhill. He’s thirty to thirty-five, medium build… appears to be drunk, shadowboxing and swinging at passersby. Complainant is anonymous.”
“Let’s do it,” Tommy says.
“We’ll take it,” I tell radio. I replace the mic feeling myself smile. It feels pretty good to be back in the saddle. I might have some doubts about remaining in police work, but I can’t deny the adrenaline rush I still get from it, even on a no-big-deal call like this one.
A couple minutes later we’re at the corner and, sure enough, there’s a raggedy-looking guy in front of Oscar’s Jewelry dancing around and snapping out air jabs like a white Muhammad Ali. A huge backpack leans against the store’s wall, complete with bedroll, an attached canteen, and dangling eating utensils. An uncapped bottle of wine lay on its side by the pack. Curious faces peer out the jewelry store window and a group of noontime office-types look on from the sidewalk.
Tommy activates the flashing grill lights and anchors it about twenty feet away from the guy. We get out and excuse our way through the rubberneckers.
“Sir,” Tommy calls out, moving to the guy’s front, stopping about ten feet away. I move around behind him and stay back a couple of strides, an old trick that splits and confuses the subject’s attention. Tommy casually raises his palms. The man stops bobbing and weaving, and blinks dumbly several times at him.
“Good morning, sir,” I say, to make him turn around, which he does with a stumble and a couple of sways that nearly sends him to the sidewalk.
“Who the fu…?” he mumbles, struggling to focus on me.
“Sir, look back this way,” Tommy says. “Right here, at me.”
“Godz-damn-its,” the man slurs, working his way back around.
“How can we help you?” Tommy asks kindly.
“Joo
