11: Before Boiling

If you aren’t in over your head,
how do you know how tall you are?

T. S. Eliot

As usual, Em parked a couple blocks away. If you’re not around during the alternate side of the street parking melee early in the morning, you take whichever spots you can find. Sweeping her hair back, she locked the vehicle and power-walked home to burn off the day’s stresses. She preferred the longer walk from downtown—a several mile hike—but after driving around the city the past couple days, it wasn’t an option.

She waved and nodded to her neighbors as she approached the familiar brick apartment building. Em appreciated the anticipation of spending time with her niece once aga—

“Auntie Em!”

She turned and saw Becky, the person she was thinking of, rushing towards her. Em smiled, throwing her arms open in a welcoming gesture. As Becky enveloped her, Em bent over, kissing her head, when a distinct pop sounded nearby.

She’d heard the sound often enough to recognize it. Something whizzed by her head, ruffling her hair. Realizing she’d only escaped death by the slimmest of margins, she shoved Becky backwards. Becky yelped as she fell, sprawling on the ground. Em dropped and rolled clear to the side. By drawing the gunman’s fire, she hoped to spare her niece while presenting the smallest possible target. Around her, the entire block’s activity came to an abrupt halt.

While most didn’t recognize gunfire as quickly, they froze at the unexpected noise. When they saw her respond, they made the connection.

“GUN!”

Pandemonium erupted. People ducked for cover or ran, and bodies were moving in different directions. While it seemed chaotic, the block emptied in moments and the movements of so many distracted the gunman.

As the street cleared, Em tried to determine where the gunshot originated. She observed a figure in dark clothing standing by her building, obscured by the by the scurrying crowd. Seeing her opportunity, Em rolled over, extracting her Glock 19 from its shoulder holster, before rolling back to her previous position. Another shot rang out and another projectile ripped through the air above her head. But now, she had a clear view of her attacker.

A small man wearing torn, ragged, dirty clothing and hidden by a hoodie, stood with a two-handed grip. Another flash erupted from his gun, followed by another bang—sounding louder and more distinct despite the distance remaining the same.

Rather than rush, Em took the time to take careful aim. “Drop the gun or I’ll drop you! You’re under arrest.”

The man shifted his pistol slightly, trying to hit the diminished target. Em couldn’t afford to waste time with useless warnings. A second’s delay might endanger civilians—like her niece. However, as her finger shifted to the trigger she considered how important the lone assailant was.

The interrogation of Mathews went nowhere. The man knew enough to keep his mouth shut and insist on his lawyer, who miraculously appeared soon after—as if waiting in the wings. They insisted, speaking in tandem, that he wouldn’t say anything regardless of any deals or penalties. Which meant this single crazed killer might be essential to any future investigation. All their previous leads shriveled on the vine.

“Frig!” Shifting her Glock, Em squeezed the trigger just as the shooter was preparing to fire. Her single shot caught him in the shoulder, spinning him around just as he fired. The movement caused his shot to go wild. Em hoped everyone kept their heads down and weren’t viewing the action from their apartment windows—a frequent New York hobby.

Considering her niece, Em glanced in Becky’s direction. She lay where she’d been pushed, face down with her arms over her head, watching her aunt with wide eyes.

“Are you OK?”

“Ye ... yeah.”

“Then get the hell out of here. Run for it, but don’t enter the building. Circle the block.” Without waiting to see what she did, Em launched herself to her feet and raced for the assailant.

The man, lying flat on his back cradling his shoulder, attempted to sit up and raise his gun with his left hand. Rushing forward, Em kicked it from his grasp, sending it skittering across the sidewalk to clank against the brick wall. She shoved the man back down with her foot and stepped on his chest with her boot, aiming her pistol at his face.

His eyes darted. He had the appearance of someone not entirely right in the head, but Em was convinced this wasn’t a random shooting. The timing was too perfect. This was clearly an assassination attempt and she needed to determine who orchestrated it.

“Move and your brains will color the kid’s chalk drawings for weeks,” she warned. That seemed to reach the rational part of his mind, and he stopped resisting, glaring up at her. His eyes continued to flicker, jumping from one object to the next.

Taking her eyes off the suspect, she glanced over her shoulder. “Was anyone hit?”

There was no immediate response, though she heard the sound of running feet. A voice rang out from a short distance. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Could you check for me, and someone call the damn police!”

The man under her foot shifted, drawing her attention. Taking her foot off his chest, she stomped down hard on his damaged shoulder. He howled, clutching at her boot, but she didn’t move.

“Try that again and the super will spend hours scooping your blood out of the crevices!”

Again, the man took her at her word, nodding quickly. Even so, his eyes bore the same skittish appearance of the mentally deranged.

Keeping her pistol trained on the expanse of his forehead, she fished in her jacket pocket for her plastic restraints. She carried them for emergencies, never knowing when she’d be called out on a case.

“Why are you gunning for me?”

“I had to,” he argued, spitting the words out through a grimace as he continued clutching at her unwavering boot.

“You scuff the leather, you’ll be sorrier than if I’d killed you,” she warned. “Why? Do you even know who I am? You’re not from around here. I’ve never seen you before.”

“I ... I’m from Sixty-seventh Street. Someone ... paid me, five thousand upfront. They promised me ten if I wounded you, thirty if you died. For someone ... living day to day, that’s a life-changing amount.”

“You a vet?”

He shook his head, muttering under his breath.

“Didn’t think so. If you were, I’d be dead now. But someone showed you how to hold and aim a pistol. Who hired you?”

“Don’t know. He paid cash. Never seen him before. Drove up in a fancy car. Been watchin’ me. Said he could help me, iff’n I ‘elped him.”

“You realize he left you high and dry? You’ll never see him again.”

He shrugged as best he could. “What choice I ‘ave? If I don’t, I die on the street. If you shoot me, it ends sooner. Yet with money, I can escape this filthy city.”

Em shifted her Glock, holding it in one hand as the sounds of movement came from around her. Lifting her foot, she leaned down, grabbed him by his shirt and jerked him into a sitting position. He reached for his shoulder, but before he could recover, she spun him around, throwing him face down and yanked his arms behind him. He yowled again as she pulled his wrists to clip them together before rolling him back over.

“They say they’ll be here soon,” a female voice advised her.

“In a New York minute,” Em muttered under her breath. “Is everyone OK?” she called out in a louder voice.

“Yeah, shaken up, but we’re all fine.”

“Has anyone seen this loser before?” she enquired of the few people on the street. There was a general murmuring negation, so Em assumed he’d spoken the truth.

“He was standing there for several hours,” the woman who’d phoned the cops said.

“I’ll need a statement.” Em motioned her forward as she retrieved his weapon.

“You police?”

“Detective, first class,” she said, turning to regard her as she yanked the man to his feet. “If you could, call them back and advise them there’s been an officer involved shooting. Give them my name, Emma Rules, and ask for an ambulance for the perp.”