Free Fall

70

When I am absolutely certain that Mr. Joseph Ceepak has lost the ability to harm anyone else, I whirl around.

Christine is okay. Shocked, but okay.

I can’t say the same thing for the pizza shop’s Coke case. The sliding glass doors are shattered. Foamy orange soda is spewing out of the row of innocent Fanta cans that took a direct hit from Mr. Ceepak’s second bullet.

I hop up and over the counter. Nearly beat the team of paramedics to Ceepak’s side.

They roll him over onto their body board. Mrs. Ceepak is weeping when I help her up off the ground. She nearly faints when she sees the fountain of blood jetting up out of her son’s wounded leg.

Fortunately, Christine came running out of the pizza place right behind me. Officer Getze, too. They gently take Ceepak’s mother by her elbows and guide her away from the horror show. Christine automatically switches into the calming nurse mode I saw in action when that kid was choking on his seafood.

“Let’s move back inside, Mrs. Ceepak,” Christine says, her voice soft and soothing. “Let the paramedics do their job …”

“Johnny?”

“It’s all good, mom,” Ceepak says weakly. And even though his wound must hurt like hell, he manages a small smile for her.

I lean down near his head while the two EMTs apply pressure with a jumbo gauze square to his leg.

“Take it easy, partner.”

Ceepak looks me in the eye.

“Danny … did you … were you able to?”

“Yeah.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Ceepak closes his eyes as all sorts of paper cups and sandwich wrappers and scattered trash start swirling around us. I hear chopper blades thumping and whumping overhead, obliterating poor David Rosen’s cries for help from the peak of the StratosFEAR.

The SWAT team has arrived.

A black-suited ninja rappels down a line.

“What’s our situation?” he screams over the rotor wash.

“Secure,” I say. “We need to medevac this man to Mainland Medical. Trauma unit. Stat.”

“Roger that.”

The armored warrior makes a series of hand gestures. The helicopter touches down in the middle of the boardwalk. Four SWAT team members hop out to make room for Ceepak, the EMTs, and all that first-aid gear.

The chopper lifts off.

I know Ceepak will be at Mainland Medical in less than five minutes.

That’s how long it took for the whirlybird to make the trip with Katie Landry after she was shot.

“I’m taking Mrs. Ceepak to Mainland,” Christine hollers as she leads Ceepak’s mom out of the pizza place. She makes sure to steer her in a direction away from the StratosFEAR control booth where her dead ex-husband, slumped against the blood-streaked back wall, looks like a floppy scarecrow sleeping off a really bad three-day drunk.

“I’ll meet you there,” I shout back as they leave.

Then Mayor Sinclair gets in my grill.

“What the hell did you do, Detective Boyle?”

Chief Rossi leads a squad of uniforms over to the control booth to deal with Joe Ceepak’s body. They need to remove his corpse to make room for Shaun McKinnon. Hopefully, the operator can work the knobs, feather the air brakes, and safely lower David Rosen down to the ground.

“What the hell did you do?” The mayor won’t let up. He props his hands on his hips and glares at me.

“My job, sir.”

“Your job? Killing that mentally deranged man on my brand new ride? Chief Rossi told you not to fire. I heard him. I told you not to fire. You disobeyed a direct command from your superior officer. From me!”

“If I hadn’t done what …”

Mayor Sinclair gives me the palm of his hand.

“Save it. You’re done, Boyle. Done!”

I hang around outside the pizza place for thirty minutes.

Nobody says a word to me.

The uniform cops act like I’m not even there.

Finally, after Shaun McKinnon works the controls for fifteen minutes and lowers David Rosen to within five feet of the StratosFEAR’s loading dock, Chief Rossi comes over to have a word.

“Detective Boyle?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I need to notify the county prosecutor about what just happened here. It’s mandatory whenever the discharge of a police officer’s firearm results in a death.”

Trust me: when the police chief starts reciting the Internal Affairs handbook at you, you know you’re in trouble.

“Sir,” I say, trying to say what Ceepak might, “I believe it was a lawful and appropriate use of deadly force.”

“You killed a man, Boyle. After I issued an order not to fire.”

“But he was going to …”

Now Chief Rossi gives me the palm of his hand.

“There will be an investigation. At that time, you will be given a chance to present your side of the story. You might want to hire yourself an attorney. I need your weapon.”

I give him my Glock. It still smells like an exploded firecracker.

“You’re going on administrative leave, Officer Boyle.”

I just nod. I wonder if administrative leave means I get to leave early every day. Hey, I started this job as a beach bum. Guess I can end it that way, too.

I hear a commotion. David Rosen’s feet have finally touched something besides empty air.

“Dude!” shouts McKinnon, relieved, maybe even surprised, to have the stranded rider safely back on the boardwalk. “Whoo-hoo!”

David Rosen is in no mood to celebrate.

His legs are so wobbly, two cops have to hold him up and walk him off the ride’s loading dock.

“An ambulance is on the way, sir,” says the chief.

“None of what I said can be used in a court of law,” Rosen stammers. His whole body is quaking. Someone drapes a blanket over his shoulders. “I don’t care if you people recorded it. You didn’t have my permission. It was a coerced confession.”

“Any of you would’ve said whatever David said in a similar situation!”

I turn around.

Judith Rosen, escorted by Sal Santucci, has arrived. They didn’t bring Little Arnie with them. Good.

Judith runs over to her man. Hugs and kisses him.

“Are you okay, David?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. But you people?” He wags a finger at all the cops who just helped save his life. “I’m going to sue you! All of you! And we’ve got money to hire a good lawyer!”

I remember that thing Christine said about mean people. How they shouldn’t get away with the horrible stuff they do.

But you know what?

Sometimes they just do.