Blood Men: A Thriller

“Get away from me,” I say, and the words come out evenly and forcefully and he doesn’t argue. He steps away and I don’t watch where he goes. For a while nobody else approaches me. They see my dead wife and they know I didn’t shoot her so they leave me be. Somewhere else in the city they’re chasing the van, maybe they’ve caught it already. There’s been a shoot-out and all six bank robbers are dead. They’re all dying slowly from horrible, horrible gunshot wounds.

I want these people to be dead. I need them to be dead. Media vans speed into the street and brake heavily behind the barriers that have been set up. They jump out of their vans as if they’re on fire. Dozens of lenses and hundreds of eyes all staring at me, I’m sure some of them are making the connection, their synapses firing, thinking, we know that guy, we know that guy, their hunger for the story evident in the way their eyes almost bug out of their skulls as they stare in excitement, evident in the way they try to push past the officers forming a perimeter. I want to walk among them, wipe my wife’s blood on their faces, over their hands, I want to make them part of the story and ask them how it feels, ask how they can thrive on such suffering.

I don’t have the strength, and if I did, it would only add to their frenzy, offer up sound bites and make them more money. All I can do is cradle my wife and watch her become blurry as the anger and despair take their toll and the tears fall freely, dripping onto Jodie’s face.

Police push the barriers further back. They try clearing the street but the show is too good for these people to miss. Arguments turn into shouting matches. Some of the reporters yell questions at me. In the end the police are outnumbered. The police are always outnumbered. Reporters appear at the windows of neighboring buildings, filming us from the floors above.

A woman comes over and touches my shoulder and tells me it’s time to let Jodie go. I don’t want to, but I know I have to.

“Get me something,” I say, “to put over her.”

“Sir . . .”

“Please.”

She comes back with a thick white sheet. I bunch up a corner of it into as good a pillow as I can make and prop it under Jodie’s head. I spread the rest over her. I step back and can’t pull myself away from the shape beneath it. I can still taste the lunch in my mouth, can still feel her hand in my hand as we walked to the bank.

“We’ll take care of her,” the woman says, and she puts her hands on my arm. “Please, it’s time to come inside,” she says, and I let her lead me, my wife left outside, my wife an item now, a piece of evidence, and I crouch over and throw up before stepping back into the bank.





chapter five


Where there is room, the cars pull over for him, his siren warning of the urgency. The problem is there isn’t always room and he gets caught up at intersections, boxed in by traffic that on Friday afternoons takes on a life of its own. Cars that try to pull over for him end up blocking the way, people panicking and almost causing accidents. Schroder’s already heard the bank robbers made a clean exit. Heard about the victims. There are plenty of armed officers on the scene but it’s all too late.

The entire block is cordoned off. Suction Cup Guy is out of Schroder’s mind as he parks outside the barriers, ducks under the police tape, and walks into the carnage. There’s a body in the middle of the street with a sheet over it. The woman. There are hundreds of onlookers and dozens of media and he figures, as bad as this is for the people who were in the bank, as bad as it is for the dead woman in the street, today is turning out to be a great day for the media and sightseers. A bad day for the cops is gold for the six o’clock news. A couple of street performers are hanging out behind everybody else, juggling bright-colored objects and trying to cash in on the gathering crowd.

Inside the bank people are pale, they’re lost and confused and there is streaked makeup from tears and swollen eyes. He’s the third detective on the scene, and he’s quickly given updates from the other two. There’s a body lying outside an office, this one exposed. He gives an instruction to cover it, hoping it will go some way to calming the witnesses.

The husband of the woman killed is sitting in another office.

“Edward Hunter,” one of the detectives says, pointing toward him.

“Hunter?”

“Yeah. Why? You recognize him?”

“I think so, but the name doesn’t line up. Anybody spoken to him yet?” Schroder asks.

“He only just came inside. We almost had to pull him away from his wife.”

The office has new furniture and a rubber plant in the corner with leaves coated in dust. Schroder steps inside and closes the door and Edward Hunter looks up from the desk and watches him with eyes that are bloodshot.

“It’s colder in here than before,” Edward says, then pulls his shirt away from his body. It’s covered in blood and sticking against him.

Outside the office more people are arriving, other detectives to take statements. Men in white nylon suits are scouring the scene for evidence—the problem is the scene has been trampled over by too many people already.