Mag had stared at Frank without responding. Air had breezed through the hole in her chest. Frank had seen holes like that in other people. Most of them had died. Mag was unconscious when the paramedics rushed in. Frank had prayed in the ambulance for the first time in decades.
At the hospital, she'd paced and paced. When the doctor came toward her she'd read his face and felt herself go into free fall. His voice had been dim and far away, saying Mag had never regained consciousness, the damage was far too massive. She'd literally drowned in her own blood. All over a pint of half-and-half.
Shock, coupled with the deep fatigue of an adrenaline crash, was threatening to settle over Frank. She needed coffee and numbly followed the signs to the cafeteria. Standing in line, she was oblivious to the dried blood on her hands and clothes, or the stares around her. The cashier gingerly handed Frank her change, suggesting there was a bathroom just down the hall where she might want to wash up. Frank's only response was a weary blink. The woman lowered her eyes back to the register.
Frank dragged herself back to the waiting area, where Foubarelle, Luchowski, Noah, and Chief Nelson were waiting for her. The head nurse volunteered her office, and the five of them squeezed inside. Frank reflexively gauged their moods: Foubarelle was livid, Luchowski looked sour, and Noah was still amped. Only the chief seemed calm.
"What happened in there?" he asked as soon as he shut the door. He indicated a chair, and even though she'd have loved to sink down into it, Frank stood. She started from the beginning, with the abandonment of the stakeout. At the part where the bust slipped sideways she paused to let Noah explain. He spoke animatedly with big gestures. Frank envied his energy, but knew it was just adrenaline he was running on.
"It was a clean shoot," she concluded.
"How can you say that?" Luchowski exploded. "You might have killed one of my men!"
Without bothering to correct pronouns, Frank said with barely controlled restraint, "No, Timothy Johnston was killing your man."
"Lieutenant Franco, of course we weren't there, but this looks like a gross overreaction. Was it necessary to mortally wound the suspect?"
Frank couldn't believe these dumb fucks. Kennedy's life was on the line and they were asking if it was necessary?
"With Detective Kennedy bleeding the way she was I didn't feel that exposing her to further risk of injury was prudent. Johnston had clearly demonstrated his intent to harm her, and in my mind he wouldn't have hesitated to kill either one of us if he had another chance."
"With a pocketknife?" Luchowski sneered in disbelief.
"Yeah, the pocketknife that put a fucking hole in her throat!" Frank exploded.
"Calm down, Lieutenant," the chief soothed. "What we mean is that with a firearm you obviously had the advantage over a small knife. What we—"
"Yeah, I had the advantage and I used it. Timothy Johnston wasn't a boyscout playing with a Swiss Army knife. This fucker was a convicted felon with a rap sheet longer than my arm and a lot of time in stir. You weren't there, but I can guarantee you he wasn't going back in. And he wasn't going out alone. He'd already cut Kennedy and he was going for her again. I stopped him."
"All we're trying to ascertain is whether this was an overreaction or an absolutely necessary measure. It's possible that in a moment of extremely high stress you overreacted and simply—"
The sound of Frank gritting her teeth was clear to everyone in the room. She spoke each word slowly and with tremendous effort.
"With all due respect, sir, if I had fired out of sheer impulse, I can guarantee you Mr. Johnston would have had more than one bullet hole in him."
She'd seen enough shootings to know that when someone fired in terror, or fury, their victims were usually riddled with bullets. They want the fucker to go down and stay down. But Foubarelle was shaking his head at the floor, and Luchowski was glaring. Noah wouldn't look her in the eye and Nelson wouldn't stop looking at her.
"Did you consider your backboard, Lieutenant?"
Frank patiently explained how she had weighed all the consequences of a bad shot, and how Johnston's head seemed the most reasonable target area, the way he was positioned with Kennedy.
Finally Nelson wagged his head sadly, warning, "You know OIS is going to have to look into this."
"Of course."
"And that you'll be relieved of duty while—"
"Sir, my squad and I are in the middle of a very sensitive investigation and I can't—"
Now Nelson interrupted. "Oh, yes. That Agoura/Peterson case?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's going to be handled by RHD now. It should've been given to them a while ago," he said, with a scowl at Foubarelle.
Frank bowed her head to conceal her disappointment but then quickly raised it, determined to hold on to her case.
"Sir, I respect your judgment on this matter but I've put a lot of time into this case. I think it would be a mistake to let RHD—"
"Lieutenant, you are ROD and the case is downtown. There is nothing else to discuss."
"But Chief, RHD doesn't know the—"
"There is nothing further to discuss, Lieu-te-nant. Or would you rather go back to de-tec-tive?"
Frank clamped down on her back teeth. "No, sir."
"And, of course, you need to hand over your badge and weapon."
He held Frank's gaze for a moment as she slowly unholstered the 9mm. Satisfied that he'd restored order, Nelson nodded to Foubarelle and left the room. Luchowski followed him, throwing Frank an evil look, and Foubarelle stepped up to Frank with his palm up. Gently she placed her weapon in his hand, then the badge. It felt like giving up a major organ.
"I want this written up by the time I leave my office tomorrow," he warned.
She nodded almost imperceptibly. It was Standard Operating Procedure to get RODed after an Officer Involved Shooting. A statement and a written report immediately after a shooting was SOP also. Frank had been in an OIS before, but she'd never killed anyone. She knew she'd have to talk to Clay or another LAPD shrink before she'd be cleared for work, if and when OIS signed off on her.
Foubarelle left with a parting glare, and Frank crossed her arms. She asked Noah, "You want a shot, too?"
"Nope." He paced the tiny room in two steps, his big hands jammed tight into his pockets.
There was silence except for Noah's agitated pacing. Finally he stopped and stared at the floor.
"You know, I should have said something this morning. I mean, it just didn't feel good to me, her going in there. She should have been back at HQ, I mean, it wasn't her bust, or her squad. Hell, even her division. I don't know. It just seemed wrong. But I let you talk me out of it. I gave in. I deferred to you."
Noah said the word like an insult, then he looked squarely at his boss, his friend. "Tell me you didn't have your own reasons for dragging her in there, Frank."
Like a mantra, Frank reiterated her reasoning. "Reston's a bad area. They hate us there. I wanted as much force behind us as I could get. I—"
"That's a load of shit, Frank, and you know it. We had plenty of back-up without her."
"I've got that kid sitting out there as psycho-bait," Frank continued wearily. "I didn't think it was too much to see her in action."
Noah spluttered, "Well, you saw her, didn't you?"
Frank reached around to the back of her neck. Thinking the best defense was a good offense, she tried turning the tables.
"I don't get why you're so defensive about her. You got a hard-on for her or something?"
Noah almost choked. "Me? Hey, you're the one who's been riding her since day-one. You're on her like stink on shit, man, and you're wondering if I've got a hard-on. Jesus, Frank, take a look in the fucking mirror!"