“The bullet passed completely through the orbital bones of the left socket and out. The brain was physically untouched except for hydrostatic shock, but I’m afraid the eye is completely gone.”
I reached up to touch the bandages swathing the left side of my head and face. Even through the excellent dope they had me pumped up with, I could still feel throbbing pain in the hole where my eye had been.
“How’s about bringing me a mirror?” I said.
Dorcas, the same blonde nurse I’d first woken to, went and fetched one. I held it up to take a gander at myself. They’d done a good job; the bandages were wrapped pretty neatly.
The right side of my face looked completely normal. I plucked at the clean white gauze concealing the left half, lifting the bandages away.
Doctor raised a hand as if to stop me. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Markus.”
I looked at him, and his hand dropped. Even though I was a convalescent Cyclops, I was still twice as wide as him and fully conscious this time.
“Let’s just call it a self-diagnostic, Doc,” I said as I finished pulling the bandages off. “I’ll be my own second opinion.”
I raised the mirror and studied my reflection: the angry red pit where my left eye had been; the stitches radiating outward from the weeping hole like the cracks you’d see fanning out around a bullet hole in a windshield after someone got shot helpless and terrified in their car.
Slash had popped me at point-blank range so the muzzle gases had left a grayish stain surrounding the wound; the packing and un-ignited cordite had peppered into my skin. I’d be wearing that facial tattoo for the rest of my life as a sweet little additional embellishment.
The empty eye socket and the gunpowder stain looked fake somehow, like something out of a horror movie. It wasn’t me, couldn’t be.
But it was. My jaw clenched so tight the muscles thrummed a drum roll in my temples that wouldn’t stop; my teeth squeaked and ground together.
Someone fumbled at me, holding me down as a needle slid into my arm and everything started feeling right again. As I slipped back home into darkness I opened my eye and spoke to the faces surrounding me.
“It’s all right,” I said. “It’s all good. I wasn’t much to look at before, so no harm done, eh?” I rolled my head on my pillow, closing my eye to shut them all out. After a short while I got to go to sleep again.
Chapter 14
When I came to the next time I was surrounded by cops; they filled my hospital room to overflowing. I cringed inside, flashing back to the day they took me from my family. I recognized a few of the veterans, seven years older now. But most of the cops in the room looked like rookies, their faces unfamiliar. There’d been a lot of turnover in the SBPD while I was away.
A lot of these Badges were smiling at me, which wasn’t reassuring at all. The only times I could remember members of law enforcement being happy around me had been when they were about to put me in a major hurt locker.
“Hello, Markus,” the cop with the most insignia said from a folding chair next to my bed.
He appeared extremely young to be chief; he also looked somehow familiar. He had a bear-like girth; he could probably use a little cardio work. He was wearing makeup, which was none of my business of course.
“I am Chief Jansen,” he said, palms together and fingers steepled. “How are we feeling today?”
His eyes roved my maimed face boldly, paying close attention to the bandages concealing my wounds. I looked away toward the corner of the hospital room where a lanky horse-faced woman perched on the edge of another folding chair, typing on a court recorder machine.
One cop aimed the mike of a tape recorder at me; another officer discretely clicked away with a digital camera, alternating his shots between me and the Chief. A third pointed a camcorder my way, making sure to include Chief Jansen in the frame as much as possible. I flashed then that Jansen was wearing the make-up so he wouldn’t appear as corpse-like as I was going to on the deposition video.
“We will have your statement,” the Chief said. “We have many questions. We are very interested in hearing what you have to say.”
“I want a lawyer,” I said.
Jansen pursed his meaty lips, and then smiled. “We can supply representation if that makes you feel more comfortable. But why do you even think you need a lawyer, Markus?”
My one remaining eye commenced with a nervous tic. Did he think I’d gotten a sudden case of amnesia? Did he think I’d forgotten that the last time I talked to the cops I’d done seven years for a crime I didn’t commit?
But keeping my mouth shut would’ve been chicken-shit and useless. I was in the fish bowl just like inside, I couldn’t make this a safe place just by playing possum.
“I’m ain’t copping to nothing, but obviously I was at the scene,” I said, as if grudgingly.
“Yes, you were. Forensics has put most of it together. That was an incredible fight you fought, a true work of art. We just need you to fill in a few of the blanks for us.”
“I’m not trying to play coy here, but let’s call a spade a spade: It was multiple homicide – not a ‘fight,’ as you put it. That’s a capital crime in most states, last time I looked.” I said.
Jansen’s mouth quirked. He looked around at the surrounding officers, gestured regally at the stenographer, the camcorder, and the camera.
“Your need to protect yourself is understandable,” he said. “For the record, we say the case will be closed as justifiable homicide.”
“I’d like to hear that from a higher authority than you,” I said.
Now the Chief appeared steamed. It was interesting to study the vein throbbing in the middle of his forehead, me keeping my face as stupid as I could while enjoying his discomfiture. He opened his mouth to say something I figured was going to be on the unfriendly side of things, to put me in my place as it were.
One of the cops approached the Chief, managing to catch Jansen’s attention even while simultaneously doing his best to be invisible. Jansen calmed down immediately, nodding to him as if doing a tag team handoff.
This new cop was tall and what most would call handsome, with broad shoulders, wavy black hair, and a uniform shirt tailored to accentuate his muscles. He seemed preoccupied with leather and cop paraphernalia; he was festooned with polished black straps and buckles, and had a lot more gear weighing him down than most of the other cops seemed to find necessary. He looked like a recruiting poster.
“Hi, Markus,” he said with a boyish, plastic smile. His eyes didn’t quite meet mine. “I’m Officer Rick Hoffman.”
He stuck out his paw and I touched it for a moment, then let go. He pulled out a cell phone and hit a speed dial number, waited.
“Hello, Mister Gallico?” he said. “It’s like we talked about, he needs to speak to you.” He held out the phone to me, and I put it to my un-bandaged ear.
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“This is Tom Gallico, District Attorney. Do I need to prove it?”
“No,” I allowed. “I guess you’re who you say you are.” Gallico had never spoken the times he was present during my courtroom crucifixion seven years before, but I recognized his voice from campaign commercials. Hell, I’d even voted for him.
“Well, Officer Hoffman said I’d need to talk to you, and it looks as though he was right as he is so often. I just want to tell you, Markus, we have no plans to file charges against you in this matter. In fact, I’ll cut right to the chase: If you did violate any laws on that day, I’m prepared to offer you complete immunity. Put Chief Jansen on again, please.”
I handed the cellie to the Chief and he listened as Gallico’s declamation issued tinnily from the ear piece. He handed the phone back to Officer Hoffman and looked commandingly around again at the stenographer, the camcorder, and the camera.