Bless You

by Harry Shannon

As the smoggy LA sunset faded, a grim fall evening swept down from the hills. Frigid darkness poured ominously over the lawns and homes of the San Fernando Valley. This is just my luck, Jim Casper thought. I finally land out on the street during a live one, and I’ve got a burned-out, bitter old prick like this for a partner. Bulldog McGee exhaled, and the parked squad car filled with the smell of cheap bourbon. Without warning he rolled down the window, leaned over onto one fat ham and farted. Bulldog grunted something that might have been an apology. Casper held his breath and scowled. This was going to be a long evening.

The radio squawked: “227, 227 possible 182 near Tampa and Victory.”

Casper grabbed the mike. “227, copy. We’re on it. ETA three minutes. 10-4.”

Casper reached down to turn on the siren. “Don’t be an idiot, rookie,” Bulldog snarled. “This could be our killer. You’ll let him know we’re coming.”

“How do we know it’s a man?” Casper said quickly, trying to save face.

“You’re right. We don’t. Now let’s go.”

Casper blushed in the darkness and gunned the engine. They sped along in silence, the open window replacing foul odors with the acrid scent of a chill autumn breeze. Bulldog sneezed.

“Bless you,” Casper said, not meaning it.

“What a bitch.”

“Huh?”

“My wife. She’s a bitch.”

Marge seemed nice enough to me, Casper thought. Said: “Maybe you two can still work things out. Try some therapy.”

“Screw that,” said Bulldog. “Who needs her?”

You do, Casper grimaced. But he stayed silent.

They turned the corner onto Tampa and saw someone running. Casper felt his heart jump, but then noted the steady gait and worn gym clothes. He slowed the car.

The jogger was a tall, slender man in his thirties. He wore glasses and was dressed only in torn gym shorts and a sleeveless red shirt, as if defying the cold weather. There was a fanny pack around his narrow waist. The man runs like a geek, Casper thought. He grinned. The jogger’s long arms and skinny legs were pumping wildly; wasting precious energy. He had a pair of earphones on his head, held in place by a blue sweat band.

“Stop him,” Bulldog snapped.

“Why?”

“Because he’s wrong.”

Casper flashed the cruiser’s brights. The jogger ran on, leaping over a hissing lawn sprinkler and turning towards an alley between two apartment buildings.

“He’s getting away, damn it!”

Casper sighed. “Bulldog, I think maybe he’s just out jogging.”

“Hit the siren.”

Two loud squawks. The runner kept going. Casper thought he saw someone peek through the window of a downstairs apartment, but the curtains closed again in a millisecond. He turned the squad car and followed the man into the alley. He hit the lights again, bright to normal and bright to normal. The man slowed, stopped and turned. He took the earphones off and looked quizzically into the headlights. His thick glasses made him look like the nerd in everyone’s high school yearbook.

Bulldog was out in a flash, his hand on his 9mm for emphasis.

“Freeze, slime ball.”

Casper groaned. “Take it easy, Dog,” he said. “Don’t get your damned shorts all twisted up.”

“He’s wrong,” Bulldog said. “I can smell it.”

They got out and split up: Bulldog to the right and Casper on the left. The younger man stepped forward, his face pleasant, letting Bulldog hang back to keep the suspect covered. I’ve got to cool this down, Casper thought.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. “Please keep your hands where I can see them.”

The jogger smiled wanly. “Good evening, officer,” he said. “What seems to be the problem?” His voice was reed thin, and he seemed overwhelmed. He had a pimple on the tip of his nose, placed precisely between the outsized lenses as if by design.

“Could I see some identification, please?”

“Easy, cowboy!” Bulldog produced his side arm. All three men stopped breathing. “Get your hands up!” Dog shouted. “Do it now!”

"I was just... You said I should..."

Casper nodded. “Just take your wallet out slowly,” he said. “My partner is having a rough night.”

“Jeez,” the man said. “I guess so.”

He produced a thin black wallet, moving like a man trying to put the pin back in a grenade. He put his hands up high. Casper used his long flashlight to examine the contents. He found one temporary driving permit, issued by the state of Nevada. There was no photograph. The party was identified as one John David Lawrence. There were also a few business cards. Each of them read J.D. Lawrence, Attorney-At-Law.

“Kid?” Bulldog called warily, “What you got there?”

“You’re a lawyer?” Casper asked pleasantly.

The jogger nodded. His head jerked back and forth between Casper and Bulldog like a man watching a professional tennis match. He swallowed and licked his lips. “Yes sir,” he said. “Family law, actually. Divorces and wills and things like that”

"In Nevada?"

“Yes sir,” Lawrence said. “In Nevada.”

“Why is this a temporary license, then?”

“I’ve only been here two weeks,” Lawrence said. “I stayed one night at a motel near the airport. Somebody stole my wallet. I called the Nevada DMV and they sent me this as a replacement.”

"What's up, kid?"

Casper turned to the Dog. “Will you just calm down?”

Bulldog didn’t lower his weapon. Casper turned back to the jogger. “If I run you through wants and warrants, am I gonna find anything that will piss my partner off?”

“N-n-no,” Lawrence said. “I’ve never been in trouble before.”

Casper smiled wanly, taking pity on him: “Hey, you may not be in trouble now. I’m going to run a quick check, just to satisfy John Wayne over there. You stay right where you are, okay?”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

“Watch him.”

Bulldog came forward, his weapon aimed at the jogger’s head.

“Hey!” The jogger cried. “Take it easy, man!”

Casper sighed. “Put that thing away, will you?”

“Maybe I will,” Dog said calmly. “But then again, maybe I won’t.”

Casper hurried to the car. He grabbed the mike and called in the DMV info, license number and name and address. He asked for any outstanding warrants. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the curtains move in a window, then close for a second time. He looked back into the tableau illuminated by the headlights. The jogger’s hands were still up high. Bulldog was weaving slightly, now; the whiskey seemed to be winning the war. He had the 9mm aimed right between the jogger’s eyes. The poor guy looked like he was close to a nervous breakdown.

“I think you’re the bastard. I want,” Bulldog was saying. “I think you’re the one what’s been killing all those people around here. I figure you are way wrong. We have the death penalty in this state. Did you know that? They stick a needle in you and pump you full of poison.”

Come on, come on, Casper thought. This whole night was starting to turn sour. He wanted to get moving.

“I-I-I’m just in town on business,” Lawrence was saying. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’re a shyster, Lawrence?” Bulldog sneered. “Family law? Always screw over the husbands, right? Protect the bitch and her boyfriend?” His gun touched the pimple between Lawrence’s eyes. The jogger whimpered. A small stain appeared in the crotch of the running shorts. No, don’t you do it, Bulldog, Casper thought. Don’t cap the fool.

Lawrence went from fearful to outraged, probably because of the humiliation of having wet himself. He slowly lowered his hands. He scowled. “Listen officer,” Lawrence spat. “Cut me some slack. Whatever the hell you’re angry about, it isn’t my fault. I don’t even know you. I don’t represent your wife or girlfriend, although you make me wish I did.”

It happened in a flash. The 9mm went up high and came down sharply, splitting open Lawrence’s forehead. Casper knew that scalp wounds tend to bleed heavily, and sure enough the jogger’s face was running scarlet in a matter of seconds.

“Damn it!” Casper shouted. “What did you go and do that for?”

“Oh, you wish you did, huh?” Dog sneered to the jogger. “You want to represent her now, asshole? Huh?”

Lawrence was whimpering in pain. His shoulders were shaking. He seemed totally broken. A woman’s voice came from inside the small apartment. “Hey,” she called angrily. “What the hell is going on out there?”

“227,” the radio hissed. “227?”

“Yeah. Yeah. What have you got?” Casper couldn’t take his eyes of the gory mess Bulldog had made of the jogger’s face. Great, he thought. We’re screwed. The curtains moved again, and this time the woman’s features appeared. She looked tough as a drill sergeant and way pissed off. She had been watching the whole thing. And she’s probably going to go get her video camera any second. We’re gonna be on the eleven o’clock news.

“227, Mr. John David Lawrence comes back clean,” the radio said. “No wants or warrants at this time.”

Casper thought quickly. The squad cars lights were shining right into the woman’s window, and directly into the jogger’s eyes. She wouldn’t have seen the number painted on the car, no names had been mentioned. This is my freaking career we’re talking about here. He jumped out of the car and trotted over to his partner. Dog looked bewildered by his own conduct, as if he were suddenly feeling sober. Casper pried the gun from his fingers. He yanked him back towards the patrol car. Over his shoulder to the jogger: “Mr. Lawrence, I would suggest you forget this ever happened.” He threw the thin wallet at the man’s feet. With a macabre grin, he said: “And thank you for your cooperation.”

In the squad car, driving off, Casper lost it. He shouted. “That’s it, Bulldog. Tomorrow you put in for retirement, or I swear I’ll bury you.”

Bulldog didn’t answer. He was crying softly into cupped palms.

The jogger picked up his wallet and put it back in the fanny pack. He staggered a few steps and then dropped to his knees. He tried to use his shirt to stop the bleeding. A porch light flickered on, and a middle-aged woman in a tattered white robe came out. She had curlers in her bleached hair. She was attractive in a doughy sort of way, but her face was pinched with rage. She was holding a baseball bat. “Those damned pigs,” she said. “They think they can do anything they want. You okay, mister?”

Lawrence nodded. “Yes,” he said. He looked up at her and looked back towards the alley. His voice was filled with gratitude. “Bless you.”

“I hate cops,” she said. Gruffly: “You need anything?”

“No,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just take a drink of water from your hose.”

“Fine.” She stared at him for a long beat. Her eyes went feral, and he stepped back in alarm. “No, fuck that,” she said. “You come on in. I’ll get you some ice for that cut.”

“I’m okay. Really.” He swallowed dryly.

“I insist,” she said. She meant it, too.

Obediently, Lawrence followed her inside.

A few moments later, she put down the baseball bat. Within seconds the long hunting knife he’d kept hidden in his fanny pack sliced into her stomach. The copper scent of blood filled the tiny kitchen. The jogger whispered, “bless you, bless you”, over and over again, until she was dead.

Harry Shannon has been an actor, a singer/songwriter, a recording artist in Europe, a music publisher, a film studio executive and worked as a free-lance music supervisor on films such as “Basic Instinct” and Universal Soldier.” He is currently a counselor in private practice. His short fiction has appeared in several magazines including “Blue Murder,” “Twilight Showcase,” “Crimestalker Casebook,” ‘Futures,” “Alternate Realities” “ShadowKeep” and “Terror Tales.” Harry has just completed his first novel. He can be contacted via his web site, located at: www.harryshannon.com.

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