through the heart with a crossbow. ‘You gettin’ to be some kinda bad po-lice.’
Bo had been one of only two long-term partners I ever worked with, the other being Floyd Zito, a story in himself, who had the kind of unpredictability and atmosphere of danger about him that made him interesting to women and kept bystanders alert. Bo, who’d partnered with me for six and a half years before he died, hadn’t had quite that kind of star quality. He’d been tough and lanky, about my height, quick and coordinated enough to play shortstop but looking at first glance more like a beach bum, and he’d come closer than anybody I ever met to being a man without fear. He’d also been too much of a gambler, the kind of guy who ordered raw jalapenos with everything and saved the worm at the bottom of the mescal bottle for dessert.
But the night I got myself shot for the second time I’d come around long enough to hear him praying aloud andwith no embarrassment beside my hospital bed: ‘Lord, I know I’ve been out of touch for a while, but this fool here is my partner that I’m nearly used to by now and I need him out there with me because when it comes to having a guy’s back he’s not that bad, so I humbly beseech that you will see fit to keep his haemoglobin up and his white count down, and if you can do anything about his IQ now while we’ve got him in the shop, that’d be much appreciated too.’
His wife Lynn, from an old Arkadelphia family, was shy and thoughtful, had a magical touch with potted plants, flowerbeds, or anything else that grew, and loved opera and ballet. She had raised their daughter Kimberly to be a classical guitar player like herself, a thinker and an animal lover, and I enjoyed the serious way Kim talked with me, along with her spur-of-the-moment guitar recitals whenever she had learned a new piece.
Kim was eleven and her mother thirty-three when they died. A sidewalk drug dealer named Jeremy Tidwell carjacked their Kia when they stopped for a light on their way back from an after-birthday pool party some of Kim’s friends had thrown for her. Sixteen hours later a family on a picnic found the Kia at Fox Lake, and an hour after that a reserve deputy found their nude bodies. Both had been raped, strangled and left posed in sexual positions.
‘Oh Christ, no, Bis, no. No. No,’ Bo whispered, his knees buckling.
Hugging him, holding him up, blinded by my own tears and choking on the rocks in my throat, I said, ‘Hold on, man, hold on. I’ve got you. Just hold on.’
Tidwell was caught that afternoon at the back of the old cemetery on Spring Road. There were no civilians at the scene yet, and the uniforms who had run him downdouble-checked that their collar microphones were off and sent word back mouth-to-ear to ask if Bo and I wanted to come up. Bo should have been on leave by then, and he shouldn’t have been carrying his weapon. Everybody knew it was a mistake for him to be here and armed, but it was a mistake everybody in the department was willing to make. Anyway, nobody had been able to look into his eyes and ask for his gun or try to make him go home.
‘Suspect’s right in there, sir,’ a uniform said tightly. ‘You want to take him?’
The killer, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, old jeans out at one knee and ratty sneakers, stood with his back against the wall of the sexton’s shed, trying to pull a couple of sprigs of chokecherry over in front of him as if they could protect him. He was thin, with jailhouse swastikas, skulls and dragons up and down his arms, SS lightning bolts on one side of his neck and a patchy beard that had never quite come in. As I registered these things I clearly saw what was going to happen, but too late, because in the same moment I was already hearing Bo’s gun clear its holster.
‘Give yourself time to think, Bo,’ I said. ‘That’s all I’m asking – just think about where we’re goin’ here, partner.’
‘Hey, man, I give up, okay?’ the
Bo had been one of only two long-term partners I ever worked with, the other being Floyd Zito, a story in himself, who had the kind of unpredictability and atmosphere of danger about him that made him interesting to women and kept bystanders alert. Bo, who’d partnered with me for six and a half years before he died, hadn’t had quite that kind of star quality. He’d been tough and lanky, about my height, quick and coordinated enough to play shortstop but looking at first glance more like a beach bum, and he’d come closer than anybody I ever met to being a man without fear. He’d also been too much of a gambler, the kind of guy who ordered raw jalapenos with everything and saved the worm at the bottom of the mescal bottle for dessert.
But the night I got myself shot for the second time I’d come around long enough to hear him praying aloud andwith no embarrassment beside my hospital bed: ‘Lord, I know I’ve been out of touch for a while, but this fool here is my partner that I’m nearly used to by now and I need him out there with me because when it comes to having a guy’s back he’s not that bad, so I humbly beseech that you will see fit to keep his haemoglobin up and his white count down, and if you can do anything about his IQ now while we’ve got him in the shop, that’d be much appreciated too.’
His wife Lynn, from an old Arkadelphia family, was shy and thoughtful, had a magical touch with potted plants, flowerbeds, or anything else that grew, and loved opera and ballet. She had raised their daughter Kimberly to be a classical guitar player like herself, a thinker and an animal lover, and I enjoyed the serious way Kim talked with me, along with her spur-of-the-moment guitar recitals whenever she had learned a new piece.
Kim was eleven and her mother thirty-three when they died. A sidewalk drug dealer named Jeremy Tidwell carjacked their Kia when they stopped for a light on their way back from an after-birthday pool party some of Kim’s friends had thrown for her. Sixteen hours later a family on a picnic found the Kia at Fox Lake, and an hour after that a reserve deputy found their nude bodies. Both had been raped, strangled and left posed in sexual positions.
‘Oh Christ, no, Bis, no. No. No,’ Bo whispered, his knees buckling.
Hugging him, holding him up, blinded by my own tears and choking on the rocks in my throat, I said, ‘Hold on, man, hold on. I’ve got you. Just hold on.’
Tidwell was caught that afternoon at the back of the old cemetery on Spring Road. There were no civilians at the scene yet, and the uniforms who had run him downdouble-checked that their collar microphones were off and sent word back mouth-to-ear to ask if Bo and I wanted to come up. Bo should have been on leave by then, and he shouldn’t have been carrying his weapon. Everybody knew it was a mistake for him to be here and armed, but it was a mistake everybody in the department was willing to make. Anyway, nobody had been able to look into his eyes and ask for his gun or try to make him go home.
‘Suspect’s right in there, sir,’ a uniform said tightly. ‘You want to take him?’
The killer, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, old jeans out at one knee and ratty sneakers, stood with his back against the wall of the sexton’s shed, trying to pull a couple of sprigs of chokecherry over in front of him as if they could protect him. He was thin, with jailhouse swastikas, skulls and dragons up and down his arms, SS lightning bolts on one side of his neck and a patchy beard that had never quite come in. As I registered these things I clearly saw what was going to happen, but too late, because in the same moment I was already hearing Bo’s gun clear its holster.
‘Give yourself time to think, Bo,’ I said. ‘That’s all I’m asking – just think about where we’re goin’ here, partner.’
‘Hey, man, I give up, okay?’ the
Similar Books
