Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (ereader iphone .TXT) 📗

“But there’s something off here,” I say.

“I don’t give a fuck if one of them says they’ve been to Mars. You don’t have any evidence to bring them in here.”

“No, Ryan’s right. Something feels weird about this,” Kate says.

“You have five minutes, during which time you better pray to God they don’t lawyer up and call the media the moment they get out of here. The public is on their side, certainly not yours.”

He’s looking at me. I appreciate the five minutes, but he’s right: People don’t like us. People don’t like me. I’m a good detective, I swear. It’s just, other people don’t always see it that way. I’ve been investigated a couple times. It’s no big deal, really. I was exonerated in both cases. It’s just, once you’ve been investigated, Internal Affairs is always a little suspicious, and the public is, too.

The first time I was investigated was during my very first case as a detective. It was a simple drug bust, so I felt pretty confident I could have a win under my belt, with my very first case as lead. Sarge tries to do that for us. Give us a little confidence. It’s not easy to start as a detective. It’s not easy to start as a beat officer. People don’t give cops enough credit; it’s one of the toughest jobs out there.

Everything had gone according to plan. The undercover officer set up a meet, and we busted in at just the right time and found enough pot to keep the entire city high for the rest of the year. The problem was, they said we planted the pot. Can you believe that? They said we planted all those drugs. It’s impossible. Well, I suppose nothing is impossible, but it’s pretty damn close. No one really believes a drug dealer, and even if I did do it, which I didn’t, I couldn’t have done it alone. But since I was in charge and the guy apparently had some evidence that I’d planted the pot, which he must have fabricated, I had to be investigated.

Like I thought, the evidence must have been bullshit, because I was cleared after a week and back on full duty. I was so relieved. I mean, I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, so I wasn’t worried, really, but there’s always that little thought in the back of your mind that maybe they’d think I framed this guy. Plus, I couldn’t handle desk duty. I felt like I was literally chained to the desk.

The second investigation wasn’t too long ago. Just last year, in fact. It involved a gun that I’d shot, and more time sitting at that damn desk.

Serial bank robbers were practically terrorizing the city at the time. Who wants to go to a bank when one is being robbed practically every other day? I was put in charge of the task force, since I had been successful at catching bank robbers before. The robbers had taken hostages in this bank, right in the middle of the busiest part of town. After hours of unsuccessfully trying to talk them down, we had to go in. We just had to do it. We couldn’t let those people die, and we had to catch these robbers. When we went in, we secured all the hostages and the robbers, except one, who ran.

I ran after him, on pure instinct and adrenaline. When I had him cornered, he pulled a gun. I tried to talk him down again, and really thought I could, but it just didn’t happen. I swear, I thought he was going to shoot me. I saw my life flash before my eyes. So I shot him first. Fatally.

It turns out, he had a fake gun.

When I saw it up close, held it in my hands, even, I knew instantly it wasn’t real. I’d never been in any real danger. But in that moment, it had all felt so real. I’d never been so scared in my life. I wasn’t ready to die, so I decided I wasn’t going to let that happen.

I don’t regret it. Not at all. I did the best I could with the information I had in that moment. There was no other option but to make a split-second decision, so I fired. I killed him.

If I could go back with all the information I have now, I wouldn’t kill him. I’d just take him down and grab the fake gun and arrest the son-of-a-bitch. Then again, if I could time-travel and retain necessary information, I would have won the lottery a long time ago, and much as I love it, I wouldn’t be on the force a second longer.

Every day I think about that man. I dream about the shooting. I relive it over and over again, especially when I’m in a similar situation. Practically every time I hold my gun in my hands, I flash back to that moment, that decision, even after all the therapy the station mandated for me. I don’t want to make the wrong decision again.

Sometimes I have to shake my head to snap myself out of the dangerous reverie that takes me out of the situation I am in. One day, killing that man is going to cost me my life.

The investigation declared me within my rights as an officer. No one would have known the gun wasn’t real. I’m sure it didn’t hurt that the guy was a total scumbag, and that the streets are safer without him. Still, it’s not good to have two incidents on my record.

Kate says she thinks it would be better if I interrogated Margaret Moore. I protest briefly, but she’s probably right, so I walk into the interrogation room.

Kate’s the toughest cop I know, certainly tougher than me, but people have misconceptions about female officers. I wish they didn’t, but I suppose I’m guilty of making snap judgments too.

I’m not sure what I expected; maybe a nervous, distraught, crying