Chapter 11
The first cops on the scene had taken my Browning, cuffed me, and stuffed me in the back seat of a patrol car. That’s where Tony Escalante found me. He was the first detective on the scene. He looked at me in the patrol car, then went over and started talking to one of the patrol officers. They had the whole area cordoned off with crime scene tape. It was dusk, and the light was fading in the alley. Portable lights soon lit the area as bright as day. By now, the local news vans were there, filming everything. There were half a dozen uniforms doing crowd control, talking on their radios, and waiting for the paramedics to leave. The crime scene techs showed up and began photographing everything in situ. From the backseat of the patrol car, I could see them placing little placards with numbers on the filthy and poorly maintained surface of the alley, marking the locations of the spent shell casings.
Tony carefully studied the scene and knelt down examining the body. He spent some time conversing with one of the uniforms who held some rank. Eventually, he sent a patrolman over to the car. I was expecting to be let out of the back seat, but the patrolman drove me to the station and stuck me in a holding cell.
I sat alone in a cell for about two hours before I was taken to an interview room and cuffed to the table. I figured it had probably been at least three hours since the shooting, maybe more.
After a while, Tony came in to do the interview. He was carrying a file folder. He dropped it on the table top, but he didn’t sit down. He crossed his arms and nodded at me.
“This interview is being recorded. I’m Detective Anthony Escalante. We have your name as being John Wesley Tucker. Is that correct?”
“Hello, Tony, it’s nice to see you, too.”
“This is an official investigation into a fatal shooting which occurred earlier this evening. If you would prefer it, Mr. Tucker, I can have another detective do the interview. Hell, maybe I should just read you your rights and throw you back into a cell, instead.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m already in custody. So, if I’m actually under arrest, you have to read me my rights, or take these cuffs off and let me go.”
Apparently he did not find my comment, tone, or attitude, amusing. I figured he should at least be amused to see me cuffed to the table.
“Tell me what happened in the alley, Mr. Tucker.”,
I could’ve held out for my rights and demanded an attorney, forcing his hand. I could’ve sat silently, refusing to cooperate, frustrating him in his efforts to learn exactly what had happened. I was tempted to do the latter, just to watch him get angry. I didn’t do any of those things, because I appreciated Tony’s position and I knew nothing I said would be admissible in court.
“OK, Detective Escalante, here’s the way it went down…” I told him the story.
“…I ducked down behind a dumpster the second I went into the alley. He was good. He came in there to kill me, and he nearly did. He fired three shots. I think he tried to hit me in the head with all three. My eyes and my gun arm were the only parts exposed from behind the dumpster, and he spotted me instantly. He was good.” I said again.
“Did you know him, the man who shot at you?”
“I have no idea who he was. I checked him for ID, but he was clean.”
“Mr. Tucker, do you know why he was trying to kill you?”
I raised my eyebrows and looked up at Tony.
The corners of his mouth twitched a little.
“Yeah, you do have a tendency to piss people off.” he nodded. Then he remembered himself. “Answer the question, Mr. Tucker.” He instructed me.
“No, Detective Escalante, I’d never seen him before in my life.”
He was thoughtful for a while. I waited to see where this was going. It appeared for a moment as if Tony had completed the interview. Then he spoke up.
“Ok. Here’s what we know, so far. Your story checks out, as near as we can tell from evidence at the scene. We found his 9mm shell casings and yours. We traced the shots fired from his Glock to the dumpster where they glanced off. The position of your shell casings supports your being crouched behind the dumpster. He had on Kevlar body armor, which saved his life from your double tap. He had a sound suppressor on his Glock, not the sort of thing we see much of…”
“…Yeah, and he knew how to use that weapon. He fired three shots very fast, and he barely missed me,” I interrupted.
Tony nodded.
“We recovered two of the bullets you fired at him, from the Kevlar. You were very lucky with the third shot…”
I shrugged, and interrupted again “…Actually, I was aiming for his head.”
Tony gave me a dirty look.
“He had no identification, just like you said. We ran his prints and the only thing we came up with is his military service record. Army, spec ops, he was a Sergeant and a squad leader. Saw action in two tours in Afghanistan. Further investigation brought up some personal info. He left with an honorable discharge and apparently went to work as a hired gun. He’s been questioned by the FBI on a couple of occasions, but has no arrest record. He’s never been charged with anything, but he was a suspected button man, and probably would do gun work for anybody who paid him.”
He regarded me again, still with some animosity.
“Mr. Tucker, do you have any idea who might have sent him after you?”
“No, Detective Escalante, nothing I can be sure of.”
“…Theories?”
“No, Detective Escalante, I’ve got nothing.”
“…And you’re sure you never met him?”
I nodded.
“Answer the question.”
Oh yeah, for the microphone.
“No, Detective Escalante, I never saw the man before today when he followed me into the alley, and I have no idea why he was trying to kill me.”
Tony was thoughtful again for a moment.
“Very well, there are no charges being filed against you, at this time. You’re free to go.”
“I’d like my gun back.”
“…Eventually. We’ll hold onto your Browning for now. Your other personal property is at the front desk. You can get it on the way out.” He simply walked out, leaving me cuffed to the table.
A few minutes later, a uniformed officer came and released me. He took me to the front desk where I got my jacket, tie, shoes, belt, wallet, watch, pocket knife, empty holster, car keys and self-respect back. The check was still in the jacket pocket.
At 9:30, I was sitting in the bar at the Olive Garden, when Tony came in. Technically, his shift had ended at 8:00, but he had caught my case, and had to finish the paper work. Like every day for the last few months, Tony came here to eat, drink, and remember. He sat in the bar, because it was right in the middle of the restaurant, well-lit and public. It helped him regulate his drinking.
In practice they closed the place at 10:00, but several employees didn’t get to go home till midnight. The manager was a friend of Tony’s. He knew what I knew.
Tony didn’t want to go home to an empty house, and find himself alone, drinking, with his service gun in his hand.
This restaurant was one of Marcia’s favorites.
Tony’s wife, Marcia, and son, Billy, had been in the ground for three months. Ninety days of grief turned to depression. Today was the anniversary of the day Tony had lost them to the highway. Tony’s wife had drifted off the shoulder at 70 miles per hour, on I-20, headed toward Dallas. She over-corrected, veered suddenly across the highway, hit the median, and rolled the SUV. They were both pronounced dead at the scene.
I had a cold beer waiting for him.
“Hey Tony”
“J.W.” he nodded. “Don’t you get tired of coming here all the time? I think I see you here two or three times a week.”
It had taken me a few weeks to figure out what he was doing with most of his evenings. I had only met him here, maybe a dozen
times over the last few months. I was keeping an eye on him.
He was just now figuring it out.
“I will, when you do,” I replied.
“You OK?” he asked.
“Terrific, considering the way the day ended.”
“You’re lucky we live in Texas. If this had been California or New York, you would still be in a jail cell, having been charged with manslaughter.
“Oh come on, Tony. I’m a licensed professional and I have a concealed carry permit. In America, a man has a right to defend himself when he’s attacked.”
“In this part of America, maybe, other parts of America, not so much.”
“Who was that guy?”
“His name was Hudson, Jefferson Hudson. He went by ‘Huddy’ back in his uniform days. He was a real bad boy, J.W. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“Yeah, I know. The point is somebody wants you dead. They hired a hitter. He didn’t even try to make it look like an accident. I don’t expect they’ll stop, till they stop you. Who have you crossed this time?”
I considered the implications of his statement.
“I really don’t know who or why, at this point. I’m working a couple of cases that could go sideways. Sometimes it’s something from the past. I just don’t know.”
“Officially, I can’t offer you any help. You know you can count on me, personally and un-officially.”
“I know, Tony, thanks.”
“Guys like him might not even know who they work for. There could be several layers of cutouts.” Tony reminded me.
“I know that too.”
He nodded, and sipped at his beer. I noticed his hand begin to shake. He set down the glass and gripped it very tightly, so tightly, I was afraid he would break it.
“I wish it had been me in the alley. I wish the guy had shot and killed me.” He said it quietly, but with intense conviction.
“No, Tony. No you don’t. I know you’re struggling, but you’ve got to hold on.”
“Why?” he choked. “Why would God…do this, to me?”
Good question. I had nothing to say. I can’t answer for God. Should I tell Tony everything was going to be alright? Should I point out the fact God is God and not answerable to our limited understanding of His plans and purposes? Should I mention being angry at God is sort of foolish?
He composed himself.
“I do take some comfort from knowing they’re in heaven. I know I will see them again,” he sighed.
I nodded.
“The thing is this, how do I go on without them? Where do I go from here?” He asked.
I waited a beat.
“Do you mean after you leave the Olive Garden? I hear IHOP is nice, and they’re always open.”
His head snapped around.
I lifted my eyebrows, innocently.
He laughed. He hadn’t laughed in a long time.
“We’re both alive, Tony. We have to go on; we just keep putting one foot in front of the other, till the race is run.”
He sighed and nodded.
“Yeah, I know. So what’s your next move?”
“Tomorrow is another day. My next move is to get some sleep. I’ll see you, Tony.”
“Be careful.”
“Right back at you,” I gave a little wave on my way out.