AS THE TWO OFFICERS EMERGED from the hallway onto the ninth-floor landing, the older one stumbled. “Ah, damn,” Liam Conway said. “Bum knee. I should be riding a desk, not doing sweeps in a piece-of-shit tenement in Harlem with a rookie.”
An obese man whose prodigious belly folded itself over his equipment belt, Conway looked around the stairwell with distaste, making a face as if he’d swallowed something particularly loathsome. The only light was supplied by a small grimy window four feet above the floor, but it was enough to see the graffiti-covered walls and the trash on the floor. He sniffed. “Bah, smells like every junkie in the building pissed in here. Bunch of fucking animals.”
The “rookie,” Officer Bryce Kim, didn’t say what he was thinking. His partner was a racist who had nothing good to say about anybody who wasn’t white. He even made little remarks about Kim’s Korean ancestry and didn’t hesitate to use “gooks” and “slants” to refer to Asians. He was also a lousy cop who’d never made it past patrolman due to his tendency to rough up suspects, and a history of “minor” transgressions like being on the take and demanding sex from hookers. Each time Conway had landed in hot water, though, the police union had saved him.
Now the brass were trying to get him to take early retirement by giving him lousy assignments. Such as walking a beat in one of the most crime-ridden neighborhoods in the city with a rookie partner he obviously disliked based on his race, and the fact that Kim took the job seriously.
“Come on, Conway,” Kim said. “Let’s get this over with.”
In response, Conway bent over and winced as he rubbed his knee. “You go on ahead. I’ll catch up as soon as I work this kink out.”
Kim knew that the delay had nothing to do with Conway’s knee. In addition to all of his other foibles, his partner couldn’t make it through a shift without draining a pint flask of bourbon. He usually showed up for work with alcohol already on his breath, and when they first started working together he’d made a joke of his frequent nips “for medicinal purposes.” After Kim complained to the desk sergeant, who happened to be a friend of Conway’s, the boozy officer was more circumspect when he took his “medicine,” but he hadn’t stopped.
Kim knew Conway wanted him to go elsewhere so he could have a drink. He shook his head and shrugged before starting down the poorly lit stairs. The sounds of the residents emanated from behind the apartment doors. Children laughing or crying. Adults arguing. Doors slamming. Loud music blaring. But still he was conscious of his own heavy breathing, aware that if anything happened, he had no real backup.
Not every hallway had a working lightbulb. Most of the light from nearby streetlamps was blocked by surrounding buildings. The gloom that enveloped the hallways and stairwell got to Kim.
Every cop working in the city, especially Harlem, was on edge after the Cippio shooting. This guy, Nat X, who’d claimed responsibility, was still out there, threatening more executions. There was no way of knowing whom he’d target next.
Kim unfastened his holster and drew his 9 mm despite knowing it was against departmental policy. His nerves almost got the best of him as he came to the top of the flight of stairs above the fourth-floor landing and was surprised by a sudden movement. A woman smoking a cigarette near the open window gave a little cry when she saw him and scuttled back through a door that had been left ajar. He realized that he’d raised his gun.
No wonder she was frightened, he thought. He was about to reholster when there was more movement at the bottom of the next flight of stairs. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing. In the shadows stood a young black man. He was short, pear-shaped, wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses, and he looked scared. Only then did the police officer see the silver-colored gun in the young man’s hand.
There was a flash and a deafening roar when the youth pulled the trigger. And almost on top of that, a second blast when, reacting defensively, Kim raised and fired his weapon. For a moment, both young men stood there as if surprised by the sudden violence that had erupted between them.
Kim ducked back up the stairs. In shock, it took him a moment to realize that his assailant had missed. He listened. There was the sound of someone stumbling down the stairs below him and shouts from other parts of the building. One of those shouting was his partner.
“Kim! Are you okay?” Conway called down.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Kim responded. “Suspect’s heading for the street.”
Up above, Conway called it in on his radio. “This is a ten-thirteen. Officer in distress. Shots fired. We need backup NOW!” Kim could hear him laboring down the stairs, and then his florid face poked around the corner. He was holding his gun out, his hand shaking. “Jesus Christ, Kim, what the hell happened?”
“I . . . uh . . . I came around the corner and this kid, he had a gun. He tried to shoot me.”
Down below they heard the heavy door leading out onto the streets burst open. “He’s getting away,” Kim said. He stood up and began moving down the stairs.
“Wait for backup,” Conway insisted.
“There’s blood here,” Kim replied. “I think I got him. I’m going down.”
“Dammit, wait,” Conway replied, but his partner was gone.
Kim went cautiously, following the trail of blood. He paused briefly at each floor, half expecting to see the gunman waiting, before pressing on. On the second floor, an older black woman and several children stood with the door open to the stairwell.
“Get back inside,” Kim ordered before proceeding. They retreated, slamming the door behind them.
Reaching the ground floor, Kim hesitated. The gunman was obviously wounded, but he didn’t know how badly. He might be waiting for you, his brain cautioned him. But he steeled himself and kicked open the door.
Whatever he expected to see, he wasn’t prepared for what he found. A trail of blood across the sidewalk led to the prone body of the shooter. He wasn’t moving.
An extremely large black man knelt at the suspect’s side and looked up as Kim approached. “You killed an unarmed boy,” he said loudly.
“Back away,” Kim told him, his gun trained on the body on the ground.
“He ain’t got no gun!” the large man shouted as he stood up.
People were starting to gather, so the man repeated himself. “This cop just shot a black kid who ain’t got no gun!”
“That’s not true,” Kim replied, frowning. “He had a gun.”
“Liar,” the man shouted again and held up his hands, which were covered in blood. “There ain’t no gun.”
The crowd began to murmur and tried to move closer. “You’re right,” a woman yelled, “there ain’t no gun!”
Conway appeared from the doorway, his gun drawn. “Back off,” he shouted at the gathering group of onlookers. He walked over to the figure on the ground and felt for a pulse.
Meanwhile, Kim radioed for help. “I need an ambulance!”
“Won’t do any good,” Conway said. “He’s dead.” He looked at Kim. “What the hell?”
“He had a gun. He shot at me!”
Looking back down at the body, Conway’s lips twisted. “There’s no gun now.”
“Murderers!” screamed the large black man. “The cops murdered this boy!”
Others in the crowd took up the cry. “Murderers!”
Conway looked at the mob that was growing and getting angrier by the moment. “Better call again for backup,” he said. “This ain’t going to be pretty.”