He didn’t.
The suspect’s left hand remained somewhere in front of him out of Vega’s line of sight. His right one stayed planted on his left shoulder. Was he shot? Reaching for a weapon? From this angle, Vega couldn’t be sure. In the time it would take to be sure, it could all be over. Several years ago while working undercover, Vega had witnessed one drug dealer shoot and kill another. One minute, they were standing around arguing the disputed weight of the merchandise. The next, one of the dealers was lying on the ground, bleeding out. It had happened that fast. Vega never saw it coming.
“Let me see your hands!” Vega shouted again.
No response. No compliance. Was he stalling? Vega scanned the woods. This was just how that rookie in Connecticut got disarmed. He thought he’d gotten the drop on one of the gang only to find himself surrounded by three more.
Vega switched to Spanish. “Soy el policía! Déjeme ver sus manos!” I’m the police! Let me see your hands!
Nothing.
“Are you deaf, pendejo? Está usted sordo?”
The man straightened but kept his back to Vega and his hands hidden. “Hay una razón”—the man choked out between gasps of air—“por la que . . . hice esto.” There’s a reason I did this.
So they were going to conduct this interchange in Spanish. Fine. At least now Vega knew. But why wasn’t the suspect cooperating? What could he possibly hope to gain by refusing to obey a police officer with a gun pointed at him? “I don’t care about your reason, pendejo,” Vega replied in Spanish. “Put your hands where I can see them.”
“You are making a mistake,” said the man in Spanish.
Was that a threat? “Show me your hands! Now!”
Vega felt a burning in his gut—that fight or flight instinct that every officer has to conquer in order to survive. You can’t back down when you’re a cop. You can’t negotiate a command or turn it into a request—or, God forbid, a plea. You’re no good to anybody if you do. Not to other cops. Not to civilians. Not even to yourself. You have to own the situation or one way or another, it will own you.
“I’m not gonna tell you again,” shouted Vega.
“But you don’t understand. You can’t do this—”
The man lifted his right hand off his left shoulder. Vega thought he was going to raise it in the air. Instead, he shoved it into the right front pocket of his jeans and spun around to face Vega.
One. Two. Two seconds. That’s all the time a police officer has to make a decision.
One. Two. A lot can happen in two seconds.
An object can fall sixty-four feet.
A bullet can travel a mile.
And an indecisive cop can become a dead one.
Vega wasn’t aware of squeezing the trigger. But he heard the shots. Like burst balloons.
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
Bam.
The man crumpled to the ground. The confrontation was over.
The pain had just begun.
Chapter 2
Jimmy Vega’s hands were shaking so much, it took him several tries before he could press the button on his radio.
“This is County twenty-nine,” he said, trying to squeeze the breathlessness and panic from his voice. “I’m in the woods behind Oak Hill Road. Suspect on the ten-thirty-two is down on a four-four-four.” Local code for an officer-involved-shooting.
It was like waking from a dream. Just fifty or sixty feet farther down the hill Vega could see the flashing lights of police cars bathing the woods in a strange, otherworldly glow. Did they just show up? Or have they been there all along? He’d been so focused on the suspect, he’d blotted out all other sensations.
Two uniformed patrol officers with heavy-duty flashlights began climbing cautiously toward him. Vega took a step forward into the pool of light. The suspect was lying on his back, not moving. From this angle on the hillside, all Vega could see were the soles of his sneakers and his tan baseball cap, now lying on the ground near him, soaked with blood. Vega wanted to rush over and begin CPR. That’s what he was trained to do after a shooting. But he couldn’t—not until these officers cleared him to move. He wasn’t in uniform. For all the police knew, he was another perp. He dropped his gun to the ground, slowly removed his gold detective’s shield from his belt, and cupped it in his left hand. Then he raised both hands in the air.
“Police officer! Don’t shoot!” he shouted, waving his shield.
The two Wickford cops stepped into the floodlight. A man and a woman. The woman had a soft chin and frizzy bleached hair that reminded Vega of a dandelion. The man was shaped like a torpedo—with a shaved head beneath his cap and a wide torso made wider by his Kevlar vest. Both officers holstered their weapons as soon as they recognized him from the station house earlier. They were closer to the suspect than Vega was. Vega noticed the woman’s mouth form a perfect O at the sight of the man. Torpedo raised an eyebrow and stepped back.