4th of July

Chapter 132

IT WAS A RARE place for me to be: I was sitting in the backseat of a patrol car with Martha. I rolled down the window, undid the buttons on my blazer, and took in the excitement that was building on Main Street.

A marching band tuned up on a side street where Boy Scouts and firefighters were dressing flatbed trucks as floats. Men on ladders hung banners across the roadway, and flags flew from light posts. I could almost smell the hot dogs grilling. It was the Fourth of July.

My new buddy Officer Noonan let us out in front of the police station, where Chief Stark was standing before a crowd of bystanders and reporters six deep.

As I made my way through the crowd, Mayor Tom Hefferon came out of the station house wearing khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and a fishing hat covering his bald spot. He shook my hand and said, “I hope you’ll spend all of your vacations in Half Moon Bay, Lieutenant.”

Then he tapped on a microphone and the crowd quieted down.

“Everyone. Thanks for coming. This is truly Independence Day,” he said, a tremor cracking his voice. “We’re free, free to resume our lives.”

He put up his hand to quell the applause. “I give you our chief of police, Peter Stark.”

The chief was in full uniform, complete with brass buttons, shiny badge, and gun. As he shook hands with the mayor, the corners of his mouth turned up and, yes, he smiled. Then he cleared his throat and bent over the mike.

“We have a suspect in custody, and he has confessed to the murders that have terrorized the residents of Half Moon Bay.” A cheer went up into the morning mist, and some people broke down and wept with relief. A little boy brought a lit sparkler up to the platform and handed it to the chief.

“Thank you, Ryan. This is my boy,” he said to the crowd, his voice choking up. “You hang on to that, okay?” The chief pulled the child next to him, kept his hand on his son’s shoulder as he went on with his speech.

He said that the police had done their job, that the rest was up to the DA and the justice system. Then he thanked me “for being an invaluable resource to this police department” and, to more and wilder cheers, he handed a brass medal on a ribbon to his son. A patrolman held the boy’s sparkler while Ryan hung the medal around Martha’s neck. Her first commendation.

“Good dog,” said the chief.

Stark then credited every officer in his command and the state police for all they had done to “stop this one-man crime wave that took the lives of innocent citizens.”

As for me, by bringing in the killer, I’d gotten back into my own good graces.

I was still “a damned good cop.”

But even as I basked in the moment, I had to fight down a disturbing thought. It was like the little boy who was waving his sparkler and pulling on his father’s sleeve and demanding attention.

It was a thought like that.

What if the “one-man crime wave” didn’t stop?