Anything You Say Can and Will Be Used Against You by Laurie Lynn Drummond Page A

empty.
    Then: The gun, a blue steel .357 across the room in front of me, there on the floor, lying next to the body. Dispatcher said, Man with a gun; possible shots fired. She was right.
    Next: The face of the man near the gun, a quick study of his features—eyebrows, forehead, mouth, cheeks, jaws: muscles, it’s all about the muscles in the face—his body language. A threat, but not imminent, not at this particular moment.
    Last detail: Blood. Lots of it. Two additional doors, both on the right side of the living room, one in the back corner, one toward the front. A quick glance back over the six hands of the two living and one dead. Yep. Still empty. I check the body’s hands last; I’ve had bodies come back to life and start shooting. But this body is a body. Bet my life.
    Finally: Process everything. Old man in a raised hospital-type bed in front of the door in the corner closest to me. A gaunt, witheredcelery stalk of a man. Oxygen and IV attached. Hasn’t moved a muscle except his eyes since I arrived. Mouth open in a perpetual twisted smile. Paralyzed.
    Other man, late forties, stands near the body. Blood on his shirt. Upper left side of head caved in—missing?—old injury?—maybe birth defect? Fresh bruises, large welts on his face and neck. Wailing, agitated, early signs of shock. Over and over he chants softly, “Mommy’s gonna be mad, so mad, mean mad.” He is too damn close to the gun on the floor.
    As I sweep the scene again with my eyes, the room twists and blurs; a parallel world slips in and I see my brothers and my father in place of the three men. They are all grinning at me, even the dead brother, I think it’s my oldest, he’s grinning, too.
    What the fuck you think you know, my father yells.
    I blink. Quickly. Knowing it will go away, this vision.
    There are three strangers, a gun, and too much blood in front of me. I am first on the scene. My father is not here. I am his daughter, empowered to protect the living and keep the peace. Officer in charge.
    First, lower potential violence. Defuse. I slide my revolver back into the holster, leaving it unsnapped. I put both hands out, palms down, close to my body. “Move away from the gun. To your left. Move!” I speak firmly but softly.
    The man pauses for a moment, frowning and sniffling. Almost as though he’s listening to something.
    â€œNo!” he screams, throwing his hands out. “Lady, you go away. You go away now.”
    Four slow steps back into the hall foyer, three-quarters of my body tucked tight behind the door frame. The front door is open behind me. My right hand, fingers spread wide, hovers gently above my holster.
    â€œAll right,” I say, calmly, cajolingly. I am good at this. It is amusing yet bewildering at times: me, twenty-one years old, and they, decades older, hand over their lives for inspection, correction, solutions.
    Too early to tell which way this one will go. My portable radio’s breaking up, and there’s no chance of anyone just swinging by. Tooshorthanded. Everyone’s on call already, and most supervisors won’t move from the office without a Signal 63. Dispatcher should send backup when she doesn’t hear my Code 4.
    â€œOkay, mister. It’s all right.” I tilt the palm of my gun hand toward him, gently pressing the air between us. If he was kneeling here in front of me, this gesture would be a benediction: thou art forgiven.
    He squints his eyes, lower lip thrust out. “Everything’s all bad. Go away. No more hurting.” His voice is high and breathy, like a child’s. He wipes a sleeve against his nose. The lower half of his face is much larger than the upper half. Something about this guy is not all there. More than the stress, the emotion, the killing.
    â€œNo one’s going to hurt you. I’m here to help.” I croon it like a lullaby.
    I will help you, I tell my mother, he hits you again.
    The