so unfortunate as to reach my level. And the bullshit perception, because of that goddamn photograph, is that we’re a bunch of bloodthirsty, gung ho loose cannons. If we indicate the shooter is acquiring a heightened sensitivity to anger issues, we cut some of that perception, and the paper pushers at the Puzzle Palace can go back to their normal job, which is doing exactly nothing. In the meantime I get the pleasure of dealing with this on all fronts and of having to ask one of my best deputies—unjustly—to take some shit for us.” His grimace showed more regret than disgust. “The system at work.”
Tim stood up. “It was a good shooting.”
“Good shootings are relative. I know that what they’re asking is difficult, Rackley, but you have your whole career ahead of you.”
“Maybe not with the U.S. Marshals Service.” Tim unhooked his leather badge clip from his belt and laid it on Tannino’s desk.
In a rare display of anger, Tannino grabbed it and hurled it at Tim. Tim trapped it against his chest. “I am not going to accept your resignation, goddamnit. Not considering what you’ve been dealing with. Take some more time—administrative leave—hell, a few weeks. Don’t make a decision now, in these circumstances.” His face looked tired and old, and Tim realized how much it must have pained him to take the kind of company line Tannino himself had always despised and thought cowardly.
“I’m not going to do it.”
Tannino spoke softly now. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to. Everything else I’ll protect you on. Everything .”
“It was a good shooting.”
This time Tannino met his eyes. “I know.”
Respectfully, Tim laid his badge back on Tannino’s desk, then walked out.
9
ON TIM’S WAY home a white Camry emerged from the crush of midday traffic to inch alongside him. A flurry of movement drew his attention to the car’s backseat. A young girl wearing a yellow dress was pressing her face to the window in an attempt to horrify nearby drivers.
Tim watched her. She mashed her nose against the glass, pigging it upward. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. She feigned picking her nose. Her mother looked over at Tim apologetically.
The car stayed more or less at his side, lurching and braking in time with him. He tried to focus on the road, but the girl’s movement and bright dress pulled his gaze back to her. Realizing she had Tim’s eye again, the girl fisted her straight blond hair out in Pippi Longstocking pigtails. She laughed openmouthed and unencumbered, as only children can. As she looked for a reaction in Tim’s face, her expression suddenly changed. Her smile faded, then vanished, replaced with uneasiness. She slid down in her seat, disappearing from Tim’s view, save for the top of her head.
By the time he got home, Tim’s shirt was spotted through with sweat. He entered the house and slung his jacket over one of the kitchen chairs. Dray was sitting on his couch, watching the news. She turned, regarded him, and said, “Oh, no.”
Tim walked over and sat beside her. Not surprisingly, the chirpy KCOM news anchor, Melissa Yueh, had taken up the shooting. A graphic of a gun appeared in the upper right corner of the screen, in front of a shadowy outline of two hands high-fiving. Tim’s own personal logo. Beneath it stretched SLAUGHTER AT THE MARTíA DOMEZ HOTEL in block letters.
“Did it go as bad as you look?” Dray asked.
“They want to let drop I’ve enrolled in an anger-management course, then desk-jockey me till the storm blows over. It lets them cover their asses without admitting to liability or guilt.”
Dray reached over and laid a hand on his cheek. It felt warm and immensely comforting. “Screw them.”
“I resigned.”
“Of course. I’m glad.”
An attractive African-American reporter came on-screen, soliciting the takes of passersby on the shooting. An obese man with a skimpy goatee and a backward Dodgers cap—the archetypal Man
Tim stood up. “It was a good shooting.”
“Good shootings are relative. I know that what they’re asking is difficult, Rackley, but you have your whole career ahead of you.”
“Maybe not with the U.S. Marshals Service.” Tim unhooked his leather badge clip from his belt and laid it on Tannino’s desk.
In a rare display of anger, Tannino grabbed it and hurled it at Tim. Tim trapped it against his chest. “I am not going to accept your resignation, goddamnit. Not considering what you’ve been dealing with. Take some more time—administrative leave—hell, a few weeks. Don’t make a decision now, in these circumstances.” His face looked tired and old, and Tim realized how much it must have pained him to take the kind of company line Tannino himself had always despised and thought cowardly.
“I’m not going to do it.”
Tannino spoke softly now. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to. Everything else I’ll protect you on. Everything .”
“It was a good shooting.”
This time Tannino met his eyes. “I know.”
Respectfully, Tim laid his badge back on Tannino’s desk, then walked out.
9
ON TIM’S WAY home a white Camry emerged from the crush of midday traffic to inch alongside him. A flurry of movement drew his attention to the car’s backseat. A young girl wearing a yellow dress was pressing her face to the window in an attempt to horrify nearby drivers.
Tim watched her. She mashed her nose against the glass, pigging it upward. She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. She feigned picking her nose. Her mother looked over at Tim apologetically.
The car stayed more or less at his side, lurching and braking in time with him. He tried to focus on the road, but the girl’s movement and bright dress pulled his gaze back to her. Realizing she had Tim’s eye again, the girl fisted her straight blond hair out in Pippi Longstocking pigtails. She laughed openmouthed and unencumbered, as only children can. As she looked for a reaction in Tim’s face, her expression suddenly changed. Her smile faded, then vanished, replaced with uneasiness. She slid down in her seat, disappearing from Tim’s view, save for the top of her head.
By the time he got home, Tim’s shirt was spotted through with sweat. He entered the house and slung his jacket over one of the kitchen chairs. Dray was sitting on his couch, watching the news. She turned, regarded him, and said, “Oh, no.”
Tim walked over and sat beside her. Not surprisingly, the chirpy KCOM news anchor, Melissa Yueh, had taken up the shooting. A graphic of a gun appeared in the upper right corner of the screen, in front of a shadowy outline of two hands high-fiving. Tim’s own personal logo. Beneath it stretched SLAUGHTER AT THE MARTíA DOMEZ HOTEL in block letters.
“Did it go as bad as you look?” Dray asked.
“They want to let drop I’ve enrolled in an anger-management course, then desk-jockey me till the storm blows over. It lets them cover their asses without admitting to liability or guilt.”
Dray reached over and laid a hand on his cheek. It felt warm and immensely comforting. “Screw them.”
“I resigned.”
“Of course. I’m glad.”
An attractive African-American reporter came on-screen, soliciting the takes of passersby on the shooting. An obese man with a skimpy goatee and a backward Dodgers cap—the archetypal Man
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