I read on.
… When a strange male lion comes into a pride he kills all the cubs too small to escape him. He kills because it ends the mother lion’s investment in her cubs and brings her back into fertility sooner.
But …
Sometimes the female lions band together and roar as a group to drive the killer male away. They roar as one to make sure their cubs survive.
That night, when the roaring builds to its crescendo, I lay there and listen. I listen, trying hard to interpret the sounds, trying hard to hear my own heart.
I was sitting in my personal car, Hoffner’s old chipped gun on the seat next to me. I hadn’t brought my service weapon or either of the other two guns I had locked up at home. I didn’t want to take any chances that I would somehow screw it up and use the wrong one.
I had never worried about things like that before.
Confusing guns or being seen somewhere I shouldn’t or worrying about performing my duties in the way I had been trained. I was a professional.
But I had never killed someone before.
Not even in the line of duty. Until now, I had been grateful for that. But somewhere in the last few days, and more so in these last few hours spent sitting outside Angela’s apartment building, I had the unforgivable yearning to know what it felt like to kill.
I checked my watch. Nine p.m.
Angela had left earlier for her job, turning to blow a kiss to her teenage daughter who stood in the doorway holding the baby.
I was relieved that Angela had not left the baby alone with Streeter, but I was worried for the daughter.
I knew I couldn’t go up there. I needed to be invisible right now, to Streeter and to my fellow cops. I only hoped that I could make my move before Streeter made his.
If he made one.
My thoughts were shifting again, drawn to that basic human hope that men were not wild animals. And for a moment, I questioned what I was doing. But only for a moment, because this job had taught me different.
I checked my watch again. Nine-twenty.
A light went out in the apartment. I knew it was in Angela’s bedroom and I let out a breath, thinking that Streeter was going to bed. I would have to wait. Wait and hope he didn’t do anything.
I had just reached for the keys when the apartment door opened and Streeter hustled out. His leather jacket caught the orange beam of the streetlight before he disappeared into the darkness.
I started my car and followed slowly, hugging the curb but keeping my distance. He seemed intent on his destination, his pace quickening as he crossed the street and made a turn south.
I thought he may be heading to the bar over on Woodward, but then he just jagged east, head down, hands sunk deep into his jacket pockets. As he entered a block of abandoned houses, he slowed, looking to the structures as if he wasn’t sure which one he wanted. I knew then what he was doing.
Out of prison three days and already sniffing out a new supplier.
He found it at the corner.
It was a listing shingle-sided house missing half its porch. The windows were boarded up but a faint light was visible behind a web of curtain in the small upper-story window.
Streeter stopped on the sidewalk, half-hidden behind a mound of trash. He stood in a glistening puddle of broken glass, his head swiveling in a nervous scan of the street. I had stopped halfway down the block and was slumped low in my seat, confident my rust-pocked Toyota didn’t stand out in the ruins around us.
He went inside.
I waited.
He was out again in less than three minutes, hand again in his pocket, unable to resist fondling the rock of crack as he walked. I slipped down in the seat but he didn’t even look my way as he hurried past. He was already tasting his high. It would be the only thing on his mind.
I rose, and in my rearview mirror I watched his retreat. I started the car and eased away from the curb.
He was going home.
And I would get there before him.
In the few seconds before he arrived, I took small, calming breaths and I hoped for things I had no right to hope for.
I hoped the T-shirt I had brought to put over the gun would muffle the sound. I hoped the people who lived here were too used to gunfire to even hear it anymore. I hoped no one had seen me move from my car to the shadows at the side of the apartment building. I hoped Angela would not grieve for this man too long.
I heard his footsteps before I saw him.
It kicked my heart up another notch and I drew what I knew would be my last full breath for the next few minutes.
I raised the gun. Kept it close to my side so it was partially obscured.
The sheen of his leather jacket caught the glow of the streetlight first. Then I saw a slice of skin and the glint of an eye that for a second looked more animal than human.
Two steps further and his entire body came into focus. He was walking straight toward me, but the emptiness of the night made me invisible to a man seeing only the weak yellow light of his front door.
He stopped at the stoop, nose and ears turned up to the air, as if he could smell my presence.
I stepped from the darkness.
I waited one second for my face to register in his brain because I wanted him to know who I was and why he had to die.
When I saw the fearful recognition in his eyes I fired. Once.
Trusting my ability to hit him in the heart. Knowing one shot would attract far less attention than six.
He fell straight down, his knees hitting the pavement with a bone-jamming thud. His hand went to his chest, and for a second he was frozen in that position, eyes locked open, blood pouring from between his fingers.
He fell face first with a fleshy smack to the concrete.
I made myself a cup of tea and took it to my bed. The television was on, the sound low but the light putting out something close to a comforting glow.
My hand trembled as I brought the cup up to my lips and took a drink.
There was nothing about Streeter on the 11 o’clock news but I knew there wouldn’t be. A crack addict getting shot on a random Detroit street didn’t merit a mention. Still, I watched.
The talking heads lobbed it over to sports. I hit the mute and leaned back on my pillows as the silence filled my small basement room.
I would go see Angela in a day or two. Give her enough time and space. Give myself enough time and space.
My head was pounding with fatigue. I set the cup aside and closed my eyes.
The ring of the phone jarred me awake. The TV was still on. I caught the green dial of the clock as I went for the receiver. Twelve-fifteen.
“Yeah, hello?”
“Detective Sheffield?”
The voice was deep but definitely female, with an authoritative calm that sent a small chill through me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Detective, this is Lieutenant Janklow over at the Western District.”
I felt my heart give an extra beat.
“We had a report tonight of a shooting in your district, a Curtis Streeter.”
I closed my eyes.
“Detective Sheffield?”
“A shooting, yes …”
“We know what you did.”
I couldn’t move.
“Don’t worry, detective, you’re not alone.”
I brought a shaking hand up to my sweating face.
“There are six of us now,” the woman said. “The others asked me to call you and welcome you to our group.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then the woman’s voice came back, softer now.
“Good night, detective.”