Brazil looked around at vibrant oriental rugs on polished hardwood floors, at fine oil paintings and handsome furniture in warm fabrics and rich leathers. He was standing in the foyer of Chief Hammer’s splendid restored home, and no one else was around. It was just the two of them, and he began sweating profusely again. If she noticed, she did not let on.
“They’ll X-ray, of course,” she was saying, ‘to make certain the bullet isn’t lodged close to anything important. ”
There was a dark side of +P hollowpoints, Hammer thought. The objective of their design was for the lead projectile to expand and rip through tissue like a Roto Rooter. Rarely did the bullets exit, and there was no telling how much lead was scattered through Seth’s formidable lower region. Brazil was listening to all this, wondering if the chief would ever get around to calling the police.
“Chief Hammer,” Brazil finally felt compelled to speak.
“I don’t guess you’ve called this in?”
“Oh dear.” It hadn’t even occurred to her.
“You’re absolutely right. I guess a report has to be taken.” She began pacing as the reality hit.
“Oh no, oh no. That’s all I need! So now I get to hear about this on TV, the radio. In your paper. This is awful. Do you realize how many people will enjoy this?” She envisioned Cahoon sitting in his crown, laughing as he read about it.
POLICE CHIEF’S HUSBAND SHOOTS SELF RUSSIAN ROULETTE SUSPECTED
No one would be fooled, not for a minute. A depressed, unemployed, obese husband in bed with his wife’s. 38 loaded with only one cartridge? Every cop who worked for Hammer would know that her husband had been flirting with suicide. All would know that there were serious problems in her house. Some would even suspect that she had shot her husband and knew exactly how to get away with it. Maybe it wasn’t his left buttock she had been aiming at, either. Maybe he had turned around just in the nick of time. Hammer went into the kitchen and reached for the phone.
There was simply no way she was dialing 911 and having the call broadcast to every cop, paramedic, reporter, and person who owned a scanner in the region. She got the duty captain on the line. It happened to be Horgess. He was fiercely loyal to his boss, but not especially quick-thinking or known for shrewd judgment.
“Horgess,” she said.
“I need an officer over to my house ASAP to take a report. There’s been an accident.”
“Oh no!” Horgess was upset. If anything ever happened to his chief, he’d answer directly to Goode.
“Are you all right?”
She paced.
“My husband’s at Carolinas Medical. I’m afraid he had an accident with a handgun. He should be fine.”
Horgess immediately grabbed his upright portable radio. He ten-fived David-One unit 538, a rookie too scared to do anything other than what she was told. This decision would have been good had Horgess not failed to overlook the reason Hammer had called him, the duty captain, directly.
“Need you over there now to take an accidental shooting report,” Horgess excitedly said into his radio.
“Ten-four,” Unit 538 came back.
“Any injuries?” ~ “Ten-four. Subject en route to Carolinas Medical;’ Every officer on duty, and some who weren’t, and anyone else with a scanner, heard every word of the broadcast. Most assumed Chief Hammer had been accidentally shot, meaning Jeannie Goode this very instant was the acting chief. Nothing could have sent the force into more of a panic. Hammer had a base radio station in her kitchen and it was on.
“Horgess, you idiot!” she exclaimed in disbelief to no one in particular, inside her kitchen.
She stopped pacing. It struck her that Andy Brazil was still standing in the doorway. She was not entirely sure why he was here and suddenly doubted the wisdom of a handsome young reporter dressed like a cop being in the house with her, in the wake of a domestic shooting. Hammer also knew that her entire evening shift was heading toward her address, flying to investigate the fate of their leader.
W Goode never kept her radio on at home or in her car, but a source had tipped her off, and she was already putting on her uniform, preparing to take over the Charlotte Police Department, as Unit 538 sped through Fourth Ward. Unit 538 was terrified. She worried she might have to stop to vomit. She turned on Pine Street, and was stunned to find five other police cars already in front of Hammer’s house, lights strobing. In Unit 538’s rearview mirror, more cars came, miles of them, speeding through the night to help their fallen chief.