It happened so quickly that I never had a chance to be scared, to be philosophical, to have second thoughts, to do anything but react as I'd been trained. I had no forewarning that the encounter I was initiating was about to take a deadly turn.

The car was a 92 Toyota Camry. The license plate, issued in the great state of Washington, had expired tags on it. Now I'm a patrol officer, not a traffic officer and enforcement of vehicle registration laws is not my primary function. But when you see two obvious dirtbags driving around in a yuppie car at 1:30 in the morning and you have a clear-cut reason for pulling them over, you do so; at least if you're not doing anything else at the time, which I wasn't. Who knows what they're up to? The car could be stolen, they could have some meth or some rock on them, they might have a warrant out. Anything is possible. So you stop them, talk to them, run their names through the computer, find a reason to search the car if you feel it's warranted. It's one of the routine aspects of being a patrol cop. It's something I do two or three times each shift when it is slow.

While following behind them, I called the license number into our dispatch. It came back as expired but not reported stolen. This had been true at the time; the owners had been yet to discover the car missing. I called in the location that I intended to stop them at and the dispatcher sent another unit my way for cover, standard procedure when there was more than one occupant of the vehicle. I lit them up at the next intersection and they pulled over immediately, as I'd figured they would. There was no way they hadn't noticed me following them for the past eight blocks. In retrospect, I should have waited for my cover unit to arrive but I didn't feel that the stop was all that dangerous and I felt pretty comfortable handling it by myself.

They pulled into an abandoned strip mall parking lot and stopped just off the roadway. I pulled in behind them, lighting up their vehicle with my high beams and the spotlight that was mounted on the lightbar. They sat impassively as I exited my vehicle, sliding my baton into its holder and gripping my three-cell maglight in my left hand. My right hand dropped automatically to the butt of my holstered pistol, my thumb nestled on the quick release snap.

I approached carefully as I always did on every vehicle stop, even when it was an old lady I'd pulled over. I remember noting that the window on the driver's side was rolled down but not attaching any particular significance to this. I came up behind this window and shined my flashlight inside, searching for the hands of the occupants first and foremost; it's the hands that can kill you and once you know that they're empty and in sight, you can relax. Well the driver's hands weren't empty.

My standard opening statement to vehicle stop people was on my lips; 'how you doin' tonight?', when I saw the gun in his left hand. It was a cute little chrome plated.380 semi-auto. He twisted in his seat rapidly and tried to point it at my head, intending to put one of those cute little pieces of lead that the weapon fired into my face.

I had no conscious control over what happened next. My left hand, which held the flashlight, slapped sharply at his gun hand, making contact with the weapon, knocking the hand forward and down and sending a sharp pain of vibration shooting up my left arm. The gun went off with a surprisingly loud report, sending the bullet into the car door. Simultaneously, my right hand released the snap and jerked my.40 caliber pistol out of its holster. I brought it up and fired it less than eight inches from my would-be-killer's head. This report was even louder, a sound I'd never heard before without hearing protection on. Brains, blood, and skull fragments sprayed out of the opposite side of his head, splashing the passenger with gore. The gun-toter collapsed forward as the passenger began screaming in horror.

Adrenaline slammed into my body as I realized what had just happened. I took two steps backward and leveled my gun on the passenger, spearing him with the flashlight beam.

"SHOW ME YOUR HANDS MOTHERFUCKER! NOW!"

He jerked his hands up so quickly that I nearly shot him for that. Thankfully I didn't. His hands were empty and trembling madly.

"I didn't do anything!" He screamed desperately. "It was Dave! I told him not to try it! I swear! Don't shoot me!"

"Put your hands on the fuckin' dash and don't move motherfucker!" I screamed at him.

He quickly did as I said.

"If you so much as twitch." I threatened. "I'm gonna blow your fuckin' head off, you got it?"

"Yeah!" He shot back, his voice cracked with fear.

I reached for my radio and put it to my lips. "Alpha twenty-nine." I said into it. "I've been involved in a shooting. One subject down, one at gunpoint. I need cover out here now." When I said this I thought that I'd been speaking in a calm, rational voice. When I heard a tape of this exchange later, I found that I'd been nearly screaming, my voice with obvious panic in it.

It wasn't long before the parking lot was swarming with Seattle police cars, Kings County Sheriff units, Washington State Patrol units, school district cops, and any other law enforcement agencies within thirty square miles it seemed. The vehicle's passenger was jerked rudely out of the car, thrown to the pavement, beat up a bit, and handcuffed before being stuffed into the back of a patrol car. The gun inside the car was secured and the driver was checked for signs of life. There were none. Paramedics arrived and pronounced the driver dead in less than thirty seconds before they were escorted out of the crime scene lest they fuck it up.

I was sat down in the front of my sergeant's car and given a cigarette by him. I took it gratefully even though I'd quit smoking three years before. The carcinogenic smoke was harsh but soothing as I trembled and sucked on the Marlboro, wishing for a double shot of tequila like I never had before. First the sergeant and then the lieutenant got the basic story of what had happened from me. While the passenger was hauled off to jail, I still sat there, watching the crime scene investigation take place.

I was numb, trying to cope with what had just happened. I'd just killed a man, something I'd never done before. Sure you come into this job knowing that you might have to do it some day but its one of those things that you simply believe will never happen to you. Someone else maybe, but not you. In my five years as a cop I'd probably drawn and pointed my gun at people a thousand times, but I'd never fired the thing before outside of the range. I used to worry whether or not I'd have what it took if the time ever came. Well, now I knew, didn't I?

My gun was taken away from me by the crime scene investigators. I was driven to our downtown office by one of the homicide cops. I spent the next six hours in an intensive investigatory interview that was recorded on video and digital audio for prosperity. We went over my story no less than eight times, starting with the beginning of my shift that night at 8:00 PM and ending with the arrival of the first cover unit after the shooting. By the time I was released to go home at 9:00 the next morning I was buzzing with caffeine intake and my lungs were sore from cigarettes.

I was driven back to the station that I worked out of. Thankfully all of the units that worked out of there were already out on the streets and I didn't have to answer a bunch of questions asked by my curious co-workers. I certainly wasn't in the mood for that just then. I changed out of my uniform and put on the jeans and sweatshirt that I'd come to work in the previous night. I strapped the 9mm off-duty weapon that I carried to my right hip and covered it with my shirt. After five years as a cop I've become paranoid. I carry a gun EVERYWHERE. I don't go outside to mow my lawn without a piece stuck inside a fanny-pack.

Our department chaplain was waiting for me at the doors to the station. He asked how I was doing and I told him I was okay, which was pretty much true at that point. He noted the bulge beneath the sweater on my right hip.

"Don't you think," He asked gently. "That it might be a good idea to leave your off-duty gun here for awhile?"

This statement genuinely confused me. "Why?" I asked.

"Well," He seemed uncomfortable. "Just in case, you know, that you feel some guilt, and well...."

My eyebrows raised. "You think I might shoot myself?" I asked, astounded.

"Well, it's always a..."

I scoffed. "You gotta be shittin' me chaplain. I ain't gonna kill myself over this. Besides, it wouldn't do any good anyway. I got five or six other guns at home that I could use if I felt the need." I patted him on the back as I headed for the door. "Don't worry. I did the right thing tonight and I ain't gonna trip about it. I'm cool."

He seemed somewhat taken aback by my statements so I chose that moment to make my leave. Twenty minutes later I was home. I opened the first of what would be many beers that day and sat down to watch TV. I fell asleep (or passed out, if you like complete correctness) about two in the afternoon. When I woke up I had a monstrous hangover but mentally, I'd put the encounter into perspective. He'd tried to kill me for whatever reason but I'd killed him first. Black and white. Simple as could be. I saw no other alternative course of action that might have changed the outcome. I was cool with it.

I was of course placed on paid administrative leave while the investigation into the shooting was underway. It was determined that the man I'd killed was one David Jorgeson, a twenty-two year old methamphetamine addict with an extensive criminal history. He'd just been released from prison a month before after serving two years for armed robbery, his second conviction for a violent crime. Had he been arrested for a third violent crime he would have been in danger of being prosecuted under our three strikes law and given twenty-five to life. Now since this upstanding citizen is no longer with us we can only speculate what was going through his mind (besides my bullet that is) during his last few minutes of life. His passenger, John Amsted, a one time loser in the violent crime department, told our guys that Dave had been worried about catching that third strike and that was why he'd elected to try shooting it out with me. If that is so, Mr. Jorgeson was not very bright. You see, he hadn't committed a violent crime when I'd pulled him over. He was wired to the gills on meth and had some in his possession at the time of the stop. He was driving a stolen car (more evidence that he wasn't too swift, if you were going to steal a car, would you steal one that had expired tags on it?). He was also in possession of a handgun, a felony for a parolee, but he had done nothing that would have qualified for that third strike. The most he would have got was another year in the slam. He probably wouldn't have even got that. His own stupidity killed him. But, like many other things in life, it probably seemed like a good idea at the time. Too bad, so sad for Mr. Jorgeson. The world, I'm sure, is better off without him.

Three days after the shooting it was ruled justifiable homicide by our homicide investigators. They passed the case to our internal affairs department to see if any violations of our shooting policy had taken place. They found no such violations. The case was then forwarded to the district attorney's office for final review. The DA rubber-stamped the previous findings. I was officially absolved of any wrongdoing. It was a " good shoot" , as the terminology went.

Captain Jacobs, the patrol division south commander, told me this news. Jacobs, I was told, had been a street cop for all of ten minutes before being promoted up the ladder and into management. He is destined, I'm sure, to be our chief some day. He smiled magnimoniously as he informed me that I would not be fired, prosecuted, or in any way chastised for blowing away Mr. Jorgeson.

"Thanks Cap." I told him, as he slid my.40 caliber, department issue gun across his desk, officially returning it to me. "So I can go back to work tonight?"

"Well," He said, shaking his head. "Not quite tonight."

"Oh?" I said, confused. What more could they possibly want of me? " Why not?"

"Well," He said, checking the time on his watch, probably for his next appointment. "You haven't gone through CISD yet."

"CISD?" I asked. This stood for critical incident stress debriefing, one of the buzzwords of the late nineties in our field. It looked great in the recruitment pamphlets and press releases to say that we had a CISD team. As far as I know, no cop has ever actually asked to talk to this team, they've all been forced to. Apparently I was going to be too. "But Cap," I pleaded. "I'm okay with what happened. I don't have any nightmares or anything. I don't wanna come in here with an AK-47 and blow everyone away. I'm cool with it. I just want to go back to patrol."

"As soon as you talk to Laura Barrows, the psychologist." He told me. "You have a two hour session scheduled for tomorrow morning at nine." He slid a card across the desk towards me. "Here's her address. She'll help you through this and give me a report. If she agrees, you can go back to work."

"And if she doesn't agree?" I asked.

"Well, then you'll have to man a desk until she says you're all right to return to duty of course."

Shit. The cynical part of me could see what might happen. Laura Barrows would be getting paid by the hour by our department. If she cleared me for work after the first appointment, she would only get two hours of pay. But if she decided I was unfit to return to duty and I had to keep seeing her, how much could she soak our department for? Twenty, thirty hours? More? In the meantime she would give me a reputation as a psycho. I could kiss goodbye any future promotion opportunities or cushy transfers to the boat patrol or helicopter detail. But there was little I could do but take her card and promise to show up at the prescribed hour the next day.

Her office was located in a run-down building on the outer fringes of downtown. Looking at the sign out front I saw that five lawyers and two dentists shared the building with her. I walked up the stairs to the second floor, opening the door of the suite that was listed on the card. An elderly female secretary was talking on a phone behind the desk. When she finished I told her who I was and why I was there. She had me sign in and then take a seat in an uncomfortable chair. A stack of magazines sat on a table next to me. I looked them over finding that the most current was only nine months out of date. With a sigh I waited.

Soon the door behind the secretary's desk opened up and I got my first look at Laura Barrows. She was attractive I was pleased to see. A shorthaired brunette with thick glasses perched on her nose. She wore a simple summer dress that hung to her knees. Her legs, though slightly thick, were nice to look at. They were bare of nylons. She smiled at me, addressing me by name and beckoning me to enter her office.

She had an actual couch for me to lie on I saw with disbelief. I'd always assumed that the couch was just a cliché. It was brown and looked like it was probably comfortable. It sat before her desk, which was scattered with a few files, one of which I saw, had my name on it. I recognized it as a copy of my personnel package from the department. On the wall behind her desk hung several framed degrees. One was a Bachelor's degree from Washington State. The other was a Master's degree from the same school. The subject of both was psychology.

"Hi, I'm Laura Barrows." She said after closing the door. She smiled warmly and held out her hand to me. "You can call me Laura."

"Okay, Laura." I shook with her. Her hand was soft. "You can call me Jason."

"Make yourself comfortable Jason." She told me, waving at the couch. "And we'll get started."

"All right." I said, wanting nothing more than to just get this over with. I sat down on the couch, refusing to lie on it. It really was quite comfortable.

"Go ahead and lie down if you want." She offered, sitting behind her own desk.

"If it's all the same to you." I told her. "I'll just sit."