OFFICER DOWN
David DeLee
The Freeport Road 7-Eleven
Senior patrol officer Dave Powell holds his gun firmly in a two-handed grip. He’s a lefty. His right hand supports his left: his arms form a triangle. The gun is aimed forward. Facing the perp. Exactly the way he was trained at the academy—fifteen years ago.
Most cops go their whole career without ever shooting someone. Dave Powell wanted to be one of those. But that wasn’t in the cards for him.
Gil Halley puts out his hand, grasping the slide of Dave’s Glock-nine service auto. He pushes the gun, gently, so it points to the grimy linoleum floor. “Dave, put the gun down.”
Dave turns toward the voice in his ear.
“Dave. It’s me, Gil,” says detective sergeant Gil Halley. “Your best friend, Dave.”
Dave blinks. He’s in shock. He says, “He shot Kip.”
Gil glances at the smashed aluminum-frame doors, at the shattered glass panel now a gummy pile, sparkling like diamonds. One door is angled open, wedged that way by the body of Freeport patrolman Kip Lawson. His legs splay outward: his back leans against the door frame. His head droops so his chiseled chin rests on his chest. Two splotches of blood soak his uniform shirt and blood spatter dots his pretty-boy square jaw. Bloody spittle has leaked from the corner of his mouth—drying now. He wore no vest. Damn rookies, think they’re invincible.
In his hand is his gun. Unfired. He never even got off a shot.
Gil takes the gun from Dave, steers him away from the doors, away from the October gusts whistling through the broken glass. The wind cuts a swath through the 7-Eleven, carrying with it fumes from the gas pumps outside, stirring papers on the grimy tile floor.
Blue emergency lights flash through the store windows, sweep the aisles of canned, boxed and bagged foods, the filthy tile floor—and the blood. Kip’s cruiser sits dark at the far end of the driveway. His approach to the armed robbery had been silent: no sirens, no lights. Dave’s approach was silent too—until shots were fired. Then he flipped on the siren and full lights, running balls to the walls to aid his fellow officer, his subordinate.
The gunman lies a dozen feet from the front doors, one aisle away from the refrigerated drink case lining the back wall. He has on a brown hoodie and five-dollar sunglasses. His Saturday Night Special—a small, cheap .38 revolver—sits on the floor a few feet away, where it spun from his hand when Dave shot him twice: once in the gut, once in the chest.
“Like whoa, dudes.” The dark-haired clerk pops up from behind the counter, his eyes wide. “That was wicked intense.”
Dave leans against the front counter, needs it for support. The clerk stands, watching from the open register, staring at him and Gil through the open service window framed by little racks of candy and gum and hanging lottery tickets.
Gil pats Dave’s shoulder. “You okay?”
Dave stares at the floor, at the gunman he’s just killed. His first. Dave manages to nod. “Yeah.”
Gil follows his gaze to the dead perp. “Any idea who he is?”
Dave frowns. “Nope. Just some junkie, I guess.”
Five weeks earlier
Dave Powell pulled his nine-year-old Nissan into the driveway of his house, a crappy little clapboard ranch with two bedrooms, a sun porch and a lawn that he had neither the time nor the inclination to take care of. The leaves on the two maples dominating the front yard had already started to turn a fiery red. Soon, they’d fall, and he’d be spending what precious little time he had off raking the damn things up.
He wore a pair of sweat pants and a sleeveless gray sweatshirt. A ‘V’ of sweat darkened the collar, and perspiration dotted his wide forehead. Dave got out and ran a hand through his thinning hair. Worn out from his workout and angry because of it, he grabbed his gym bag from the back seat. Heading for the house, he stopped as the white Mustang following him
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