14th Deadly Sin

CHAPTER 96

MY CAR WAS a reasonable barricade against the fusillade of gunfire to my left, but I wouldn’t call it safe. I heard the banshee cry of an ambulance siren, then a second one, the sounds cutting out as the EMTs parked under the freeway.

I sat cross-legged on the ground next to Swanson. He was humming “The Star-Spangled Banner,” breaking into words now and then. “Mmm-mmm. Rockets’ red glare. Mmm-mmm, bursting in air.”

I folded the vest and put it under his head. He seemed peaceful. Maybe he was going into shock. Maybe he’d taken a hit to his spine. Maybe he was bleeding out.

He said, “It’s been good knowing you.”

“Not so fast,” I said. “You’re tougher than this. We’re cops, right?”

“I want you to do something for Nancy. The kids.”

“That’s your job, buster.”

“Say that I died … on the job. That’s the truth.”

“Talk to me, Swanson. It’s the least you can do.”

“… that our flag was still there.”

“Swanson, are you known to some people as One?”

I heard an engine start up, tires squeal. There was renewed gunfire. From the sound of it, a vehicle was making for the freeway exit at the far end of the street.

Swanson said, “Numero Uno. That’s me.”

Did he understand me? Did he know what I was asking him?

“You were the number one guy in the Windbreaker cop crew?” I asked.

He laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“The way it sounds. Numero Uno and the Windbreaker Crew.”

“Why did you fucking do it?”

He sighed. “If I did it, it was a victimless crime.”

“What the hell do you mean by that? Over a dozen people are dead.”

“Stealing drugs from dirtbags. That’s victimless.”

How did a man become a cop—a superstar—and think like that? But I knew the answer. They were called public-service homicides. In other words, he figured, justifiable.

“What about Calhoun?” I asked him.

He lifted a hand and pointed in the general direction of the gunfire that was still raging.

“Poor Tommy.”

Swanson’s voice slurred. His hand dropped.

“Ted. Ted, don’t you dare leave me.”

He coughed up blood. I gripped his hand.

I heard a cop shouting from afar.

“Get out of the car with your hands up! Get out of the car now!”

A voice shouted back, “You’re a dead man!”

There were loud bursts of automatic gunfire. Then an echoey silence. I heard Brady’s voice coming over my car radio asking for the buses to come in.

I stood up and shouted his name over the roof of my car. A moment later, Brady, our homicide lieutenant with the shining blond hair, was standing with me.

“You OK?” he asked me.

“Yes. Are you?”

“I’m good.”

He bent at the waist and said “Swanson” to the downed man in the SFPD Windbreaker. “Swanson, speak to me.”

“Yo,” Swanson said. His eyes were closed. His breathing was shallow.

“He’s losing blood,” I said. “Where the hell’s the bus?”

Brady left to direct the ambulance, and I stayed with Swanson until the paramedics got to us. I watched as they loaded him onto the board, strapped him down, and lifted the board into the bus.

Unlike Robertson, Swanson had a family, and the only way they’d get benefits was if he died on the job. And there Swanson was, with holes in his SFPD Windbreaker. He’d seen his chance and he had taken it.

I grabbed one of the EMTs, pulled him to the side of the bus, and asked, “Is he going to make it?”

First the EMT shrugged; then he shook his head; and then he climbed into the bus and closed the doors.

I had wanted Swanson to tell me who else was in his “crew.” But I had a strong feeling that even if he’d lived, he wouldn’t have given his people away.