** Author's note: Written through the inspiration and guidance of Gene Radano, whether he knows it or not.
The concern in Ponch's eyes had been touching. "Hey, pal," he had said softly-- not partner, of course, he couldn't remember Poncherello ever calling him that-- "Hey pal, why don't you go home and get some rest?" The advice had sounded good at the time. Rest... sleep all of this away. But now, as Bruce Nelson lay in his bed, staring at the black walls and the black ceiling and the black air, listening to the traffic from nearby Long Beach Freeway, rest was what he didn't need. The darkness was a perfect movie screen to replay the events of--
No. Tossing and turning against the sheets, Bruce's mind continued to tumble like a broken window shade. That incident-- that night-- every time he tried to focus on something else the nagging thoughts persisted, growing in intensity to become a staggering beacon that took over his mind.
Okay, Bruce... just face it. What happened tonight?
Tonight someone had shot at him and he'd been afraid. But worse than that, much worse than that, he knew the people who had been standing around watching with blank faces knew he was afraid.
But I didn't stop! I went after him!
True. After all, he had dropped to the ground after the shot, but hadn't he stood again? Hadn't he continued? Maybe he didn't run quite as fast, though. Maybe. It was tough to say. It seemed as though he had been running as fast... maybe it was the realization that the man had a gun, that he might be killed. Maybe that was why he thought that maybe he wasn't running as fast. Maybe.
Throwing off the sheet, Bruce sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. Who were they to judge? What right did anybody have to expect him to lay his life on the line when dealing with some jerk?
I'm a California Highway Patrol officer... Triple A with a badge, right? I didn't sign on to become someone's target!
Why these thoughts? Why now? Lying back once more, he again tried to capture sleep. He almost had it two or three times, but always, just as he began to drift away, the memory sprang up from the blackness and jolted him back into the night.
Finally he decided, forget it! The night, determined as it had been to remain forever, was now almost gone-- forget it! And so, by ignoring sleep, he was able to capture it easily.
But he dreamed, foggy, persistent, twisting, recurrent dreams. The same dream... he was a sergeant. He watched himself pull over a dented Chevy and gingerly skirt around its generous fender before glancing into the driver's window, at the half-delirious man hunched over the wheel sobbing with a steak knife in one hand.
Bruce was familiar with this dream. He knew it well, and he knew that before it was over the knife would be sunk into his chest.
He watched himself-- the Sergeant-- talk to the man gently, trying to calm him, trying to get some kind of a story. He knew the man was sobbing over a lost job, a failed marriage, one too many parking tickets-- Bruce couldn't hear a word he was saying, like the old silents that sometimes came on television at this hour of the predawn. The door opened; the man stumbled out, one fist over his eyes, the knife still in his hand. The traffic didn't even slow. When the man raised his knife to wave it around at invisible demons, the Sergeant pulled out his gun in a smooth motion and stepped back.
Bruce screamed to the Sergeant who was him, "Shoot! Shoot him, you idiot!" The Sergeant continued to try and calm the man. "Shoot him now!" Bruce knew what was going to happen. The Sergeant asked the man to drop the knife but the man could not hear. He continued to scream, to cry. "Shoot him!" Bruce begged, although he knew that anything the Sergeant did would not be enough.
Slow motion-- the man tore his hand away from his face; wild eyes found the officer, and lifting the knife high above his head, he raced for him. Three times the Sergeant shot him. Bruce counted the shots; three times the bullets exploded from the chamber and still the nut kept coming. It was like trying to hold back rain from the skies. The sick man, already dead from the three bullets in him, didn't stop until his knife lodged itself in the Sergeant's chest.
Bruce watched the two of them lying beside the freeway traffic. Both were dead. He tried to look into the face of the Sergeant, knowing it was his face even though it was blank. "You should have killed him before," he snapped at the dead man who was he. "You should have shot sooner."
And with these words he was wide awake, his breath coming in gasps and his pajamas soaked through with sweat. Sleep had vanished as suddenly as icicles in an oven. The dream... of course, he knew the dream. It had happened, months earlier, an incident that had quickly become a sad legend... Sergeant Kevin Bishop from San Bernardino. A crazy man who had just taken three bullets killed the sergeant with the momentum of his warm but dead body.
He recalled his training in the academy, what the instructor had told them. "Today, we are going to discuss how to protect ourselves at all times. Let me tell you a story." And after the instructor had told them about Sergeant Bishop, he discussed situations that had happened to other officers, and how to handle them. "It's a jungle out there, kids!" he always exclaimed at the end. "A jungle out there!" Bruce had chewed on the end of his pencil and wondered what he would do when he faced one of those moments, then shrugged it off. As if HE would ever be in a situation like that.
Climbing from bed for good, Bruce walked to the open window and leaned on the sill, looking out at the night sky fading into gray. Would Ponch be awake at this hour? Would he appreciate a phone call from his insomniac rookie partner? Maybe.
It had started at about six o'clock that night-- late to still be on patrol. It was quite warm, even by California standards. The neighborhood he cruised slowly through was one of poverty, of crumbling apartments and rundown bars, of garbage-filled alleyways and thin shadows of people curled in doorways. Ponch had left several minutes earlier to head back to Central, and Bruce was about ready to give up looking for the lime green Chevy that had taken out two mailboxes, a line of shrubbery and-- almost-- a elderly man shuffling his way across the street. Ponch had smiled at him-- "Don't take things so personally, Brucie! Sometimes they get away." And there might have been a flicker of self-disgust in Ponch's eyes at the way the words came out, but the sunglasses hid anything that was there. And then he was gone and Bruce was reminding himself that there was a heap of paperwork waiting for him and after all, they had the license plate so why waste any more time-- and then he looked down a narrow alley that connected Ivers Lane with Eccles Street and saw two men standing there, like two figures at the end of a long tunnel. They were standing oddly-- not the way people normally stand when talking-- and he quietly stopped his bike, sliding from the seat and ducking into the alley. It was then that the men separated, one rushing towards him while the other moved away down the street.
"What is it?" Bruce asked, as the heavy-set young man reached him.
"That guy robbed me," the man gasped.
Bruce raced to the end of the alley and saw a man in a red T-shirt on the other side of the street. Tall and thin, he hurried along the sidewalk with a brown paper bag tucked under his right arm.
"Hold it!" Bruce yelled.
The man turned for a quick glance, snatched the paper bag out from under his arm, and took off like wind through the trees. His strides were long, and the sidewalk disappeared effortlessly beneath his feet.
Bruce slipped the gun from its holster at his hip and felt a surge of excitement rush through his system, like a sprinter at the start of the Olympic fifty-meter dash. The robber disappeared down a side street and Bruce was after him. The tall man raced with incredible speed and even though Bruce knew the chances he might lose him in this unfamiliar neighborhood were good, he was reluctant to actually use the glinting weapon in his hand. "Stop right there!" he yelled, time and again, but the robber gave no signs of hearing. He continued his flight, now dashing down another alley, clearing garbage cans and passed-out drunks with splendid leaps.
Bruce raised the gun above his head and, in mid-jump over the spilled contents of a dumpster, squeezed off a warning shot into the air.
The robber stopped, and Bruce felt another rush. He was surrendering now, he knew he was taken.
Then Bruce saw the gun in the robber's hand. Of course, the paper bag had a gun in it and he took the gun out as he ran and now he's going to kill me. Before that thought actually had a chance to translate, the robber turned and fired point-blank.
For a single, pure moment, the world froze. A ping as the bullet struck something; my God, did he just shoot that thing? ; a sharp tug on his shoulder; a flash of rust-gold from the muzzle of the weapon; and now, the pavement in his face. Had he fallen to the ground because he was shot? Had he fallen because he didn't want to get shot?
The robber spun and took off at full speed once again. Beyond conscious thought, Bruce raised up to one knee and aimed his gun at the middle of the man's back, a target as broad and wide as the moon. No way could he miss. This would be like sinking a putt into the Grand Canyon. But there, beyond the racing desperado, there was a small knot of people on the other side of the street, outside of an apartment building. Did he dare fire, with them so close?
No.
The gunman skidded around a corner; Bruce flashed to racing after a car cornering on two wheels as he sprang to his feet and picked up the chase once more. He was about to barrel headlong around the corner when it suddenly occurred to him that the robber might be waiting.
Stop! Stop, idiot!
How could he stop? He couldn't protect himself if he ran around that corner. How could he stop? Those people were watching him. They already hated cops, and what on earth would they think of a cop with a big yellow streak down his back that skidded to a halt in the middle of a foot pursuit!
And he kept running. He clenched his jaw and braced himself for a bullet. The corner leapt upon him and he jerked to the side, giving it a wide berth-- throw off his aim, give myself the time I need-- and he circled the brick building with his gun ready, waiting for the rust-gold flash, his senses super heightened, his gaze sweeping over the twilight street-- nothing. No one.
Where could the gunman have gone? Ducked into a building? A yard? Surely he had not taken so long to get there that the man had disappeared?
He glanced over his shoulder; the people in front of the apartment building looked back blankly. "Where did he go?"
They continued to watch complacently. Bruce felt curses rising in his throat. How could they just stand there-- how could they not--
He tried the hallways of a few buildings but with no success. The gunman was gone; vanished like icicles in an oven. And Bruce wanted to find him, if for no other reason than to punch him hard in the mouth.
I gave you a chance! I could have killed you! I didn't, and you tried to kill me!
But who warns a cop before they shoot at him?
Twice, he had the opportunity to shoot the robber. The first time, he had fired a warning shot. The second...
The curses rose again in his throat.
The story he had told his partner, the story he had told Getraer, had sounded different. There was no hesitation in his actions then, no fear. And just as he knew those blank-faced people outside the apartment building saw him as a coward, he knew Ponch saw right through into his soul. "Hey pal, why don't you go home and get some rest?" Had his partner ever been there? What would Ponch have done?
That night, in the locker room, as he was changing into his normal civilian clothes, he noticed a tear in the shoulder of his uniform. That must have been the tug he felt-- before the shot? After it? And then he knew the order of things-- a flash of rust-gold from the muzzle of the weapon; my God, did he just shoot that thing? ; a sharp tug on his shoulder; a ping as the bullet struck something; the pavement in his face.
The pavement... in his face.
If the bullet had been aimed a little better, he never would have gotten back up from that pavement.
Would it have been better if he had fired three quick shots? If he had shot sooner? If he had hit him, he could say the other two were warning shots, couldn't he?
And what's wrong with that?
It's a jungle out there, kids! It's a jungle out there!
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