Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017

The Bad Guys by Richard Chizmar

Richard Chizmar is the coauthor (with Stephen King) of the bestselling novella “Gwendy’s Button Box” and the founder/publisher of Cemetery Dance magazine and the Cemetery Dance Publications imprint. His award-winning fiction has appeared in dozens of magazines and has been collected in book form. His latest collection is A Long December (Subterranean Press).

“I’m scared,” the dying cop said.

“You’re gonna be okay. Help’ll be here soon.”

“I’m dying.”

I shook my head. “No, you’re not. You’re gonna be okay.”

My partner of fifteen years coughed and blood bubbled from between his lips. I lifted his head higher, my fingers slick with our sweat. My other hand remained pressed against the bullet wound in his chest, a warm scarlet glove.

“You get him, Ken? You get the bad guy?”

I nodded, glancing at the crumpled figure lying on the other side of the dark parking lot. “I got him.”

He coughed again. A mist of blood sprayed my face.

I didn’t know what else to do. Head up so he doesn’t choke. Pressure on the wound to control the bleeding. I keyed the radio unit hanging on my vest. “Dispatch, where the hell’s my ambulance?”

“Accident on twenty-two. ETA six minutes.”

I didn’t know if he had six minutes.

As if he were reading my mind, he closed his eyes and his head went heavy in my hand. “Hang on, buddy. Ambulance on the way.”

I looked up at the deserted road leading into the warehouse parking lot. I knew my 10–00 would be answered by every officer in the area, but we were way out in the middle of nowhere. In another ten minutes, this place would be a circus. I just prayed it wouldn’t be too late.

“I took... it.”

His voice caught me by surprise, and I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. I looked down and his eyes were open — wide open and fierce. “What? What’d you—”

“I... took the money.”

My entire body went numb. My stomach clenched.

“The money and...” He started to cough again, and then he was moaning in pain. An awful sound.

“Don’t talk, buddy. It’s okay. Don’t—”

“Have... to.”

I didn’t want to hear it. Not another damn word.

“The money... the guns,” he whispered, his eyes closing again. “I took. Parker’s... innocent.”

Rookie Donald Parker. Home on administrative leave these past three weeks pending investigation.

Sirens now in the distance.

He heard them too. He opened his eyes, and my heart broke. My partner. My best friend.

I couldn’t help it. I thought of his wife asleep at home. Jillian. Now that the kids were old enough, she’d just gone back to work at the elementary school. She was excited to teach again. Aaron, his ten-year-old son. His old man had been showing him how to throw a curveball. Kayla, his eight-year-old daughter. He’d just built her a two-story playhouse in the backyard. He’d painted it pink, and she called it her castle. I never once wondered where the money had come from.

The sirens were louder now. Closer.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, knowing even then it was a lie. “Don’t say a word to anyone.”

He surprised me by lifting his head. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I bent closer.

He reached up with a blood-streaked hand and grabbed my arm. “I... I’m sorry.”

He held my gaze, tears spilling from his eyes and running down his cheeks. I started crying then too. Silently, the way men like us are supposed to cry.

I heard the wail of sirens and the screech of tires on gravel behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw a trio of patrol cars. More on the way in the distance. Still no ambulance.

I looked back at my partner and knew it would be too late. His eyes were open and sightless. His body limp. I watched as his lifeless hand slipped from my arm to the gravel below.

I heard the slam of car doors and rising voices.

I took his hand in mine and squeezed it. I thought of his wife and kids at home and the knock on their door that was coming later that night.

I thought of the funeral service. The dress blues and white gloves. The news helicopters and procession to the cemetery.

And then I thought of the body camera I was wearing — and how I would have to find a way to disable it. Damaged in the exchange of gunfire. When I dove behind the car.

I glanced at the bad guy lying dead across the parking lot. It would be ruled a good shooting. I would be okay.

I would be okay.

© 2017 by Richard Chizmar