The Poet (Samantha Jazz)

As to how truly profound is this night, the boy who was bullying Detective Jazz, who just made her first judgment kill, was thirteen. The same age as the bully I’d killed when I, too, had been thirteen.

Sirens sound nearby, and I ease through a crack in the fence, disappearing into the stormy night, but I will not be forgotten. Of this, I am certain.

Chapter 71

In the moments that I try to save that boy, I have flashbacks to the night I’d leaned over my father, blood on my hands, life out of my reach.

And, just like that night, EMS arrives and I’m pushed back, out of the way. Patrol blocks off the scene and I ensure the entire complex is included. Lights are beamed into the walkway. EMS techs continue to work.

I stand there, helpless, utterly helpless and covered in blood from the wound seeping from the boy’s chest. I didn’t chase that boy or any boy. I chased a man, tall and broad. I know I didn’t chase this little boy who has now left this world. I grab a patrol officer. “Do not let anyone go any farther down this path than they already have. Cover it now to protect it from the rain. Look for adult footprints. There was a man here. We need a shoe print. We need to prove he was here with the boy.”

He nods and takes off, shouting out as he does to fellow officers.

The rain might lower the statistical rate of murder, but tonight it offered The Poet shelter in far too many ways.

One of the EMS techs steps to my side, giving me a grim shake of his head. The boy is beyond his ability. He’s beyond saving.

“There was a gun,” I breathe out, after the emergency crew cave to their failure and my weapon’s success.

“I think it was a flashlight,” one of the EMS techs replies.

“A flashlight.” The words are acid on my tongue. “I killed a little boy over a flashlight. That bastard tricked me into doing this. He’s made me a killer all over again. Bag the flashlight!” I yell out to the patrol and motion another forward to bag my weapon.

The next hour goes by in a hurricane, rather than a rainstorm. There is a special investigative team from another agency that shows up, as per protocol when an officer shoots someone in the line of duty. I’m removed from the scene and my clothes become evidence. I’m now in uniform pants, a police T-shirt, and a jacket. The investigation team walks the scene. I then walk the scene. Detective Martinez, a twenty-year veteran of the police department, joins the scene as my liaison. He’s a good guy who knows his job, compassionate, too, about the boy and what it’s like to be in my shoes. He helps out rather than push my buttons. The press shows up. It’s impossible to avoid, considering the apartment complex population.

The captain also makes a showing, here to do damage control. “What the hell happened?” he demands as if him punching words at me is what I need right now.

I can feel myself withdrawing. That’s how I operate. I don’t scream. I don’t shout.

“The Poet was at my door. I have a video to prove it. It was him, not a boy. Somehow when I rounded the corner, the boy was wearing the same clothes. He flashed what I thought was a gun. It was a flashlight.”

“How is that even possible?” he demands.

“The same way he leaves no DNA. He’s smart. He turned me into a killer. That’s what he wanted. I have them looking for footprints. I have the video. It’s clearly a large man.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to tell the press?”

“An evil monster used the kid as a shield. It’s the truth.”

“They know he’s called The Poet.” Accusation laces his tone. “You named him. Did you let this out to pressure the mayor over Newman?”

“That’s what you think of me? He leaves poems in their mouths. A crime scene has a hundred other people on it. I’d like to think that my calling him The Poet was oh so inventive, but it’s not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Captain. I’m covered in a little boy’s blood. I need to go shower and get to the station to give my formal statement.”

“While I stand here in the quicksand of your making.”

“I used to think my father hated you because he was dirty and you weren’t. I was wrong. He hated you because you’re an asshole, Captain. Sir. I’m going to shower and pick up the security feed from my apartment. I’ll text you a clip as well. Then I’m going to the morgue to try to figure out whose child I took.” I don’t wait for his approval or for him to tell me I’m on mandatory leave pending the investigation. I know. That’s not stopping me from going to find this child’s identity. I walk away, leaving him and Martinez in charge of the scene as if I have a choice.