Cold in July

2

The cops were nice. Real nice. There were ten of them. Six in uniform, the others plainclothes detectives. The detectives weren’t anything like the television cops I expected. No frumpy guys in open trench coats dripping chili dogs down their ties. They even wore nice suits. No bad manners. Very polite. No suspicions. They took in what had happened easily and surely.

The man in charge of the investigation was a lieutenant named Price. He looked like a movie star. Must have been about thirty-five. Had perfectly combed hair and bright blue eyes that matched his expensive suit. He had such a shoe shine it jumped at you.

He came over and touched me on the arm. “You doing okay, Mr. Dane?”

“Yeah,” I said, still tasting the aftereffects of the vomit. “Peachy.”

“You couldn’t have done much else. He shot at you first.”

I nodded. I didn’t regret what I had done, just hated that I had been forced to do it.

“I had to kill a man once,” Price said. “In the line of duty. But it was tough getting over. To be honest, you never quite get over it. If you’re human you shouldn’t. But you can’t blame yourself.”

“I don’t. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.”

Ann had gone into the bedroom with Jordan, who had finally awakened to the sounds of the police poking around. She was keeping him in the back so he wouldn’t have to see the dead man.

Dead man.

I glanced at the couch where the man had been sitting, at what I imagined was the indentation his body had made, but knew truthfully was a permanent impression formed by long wear and weak springs. There was a messy swipe of blood on the cushions to mark his passing, and the stuff on the wall and across the landscape looked in that odd moment like a wild abstract painting.

I remembered how the justice of the peace had come in looking sleepy-eyed, wearing a pajama top and jeans with one pants leg stuck down in a cowboy boot, the other pulled over. He pronounced the man dead and grumbled about how even small towns should have coroners. He went away then, and the police checked the corpse over, took photographs, and two men from the funeral home carted off the body.

I looked at the wall some more, and the blood mess no longer looked like a painting, but like someone had tossed some rotten tomatoes against it. That thought made me woozy, and I dry heaved because there was nothing left inside me to throw up.

I took a deep breath, but that didn’t help. It contained the sour aroma of stale vomit and the coppery smell of blood.

“Better sit down,” Price said.

“I’m all right,” I said.

“Sit down anyway.”

I guess my face had gone white. Price helped me to a chair and squatted down beside me.

“Should I get you some water?” he asked. “Something?”

“I’m all right. Do you people know this man by any chance?”

“Quite well. Name is Freddy Russel. Small-time guy. Did burglaries from time to time, mostly in this area, which is where he’s from, I’m sorry to say. Been in and out of the joint, just like his old man. You did the creep a favor.”

“Sure.”

“You’d be surprised. Sometimes guys like that get careless on purpose, just hoping to get caught, get back to the joint where it’s easier for them. Or maybe they hope for something a little more permanent. Like a bullet.”

“He wasn’t trying to get killed when he took a shot at me.”

Price smiled. “Good point. So much for backyard psychology.”

“Thanks for trying to make me feel better. It’s decent of you.”

“Like I said, I been through this. Listen, you think you could come down to the station? Let me get a formal statement? Won’t take long. Patrol car will take you and bring you back. We’ll leave a patrolman here with your wife and boy. She can come in tomorrow sometime to make her statement.”

“All right,” I said. “Let me tell Ann and I’ll get dressed.”