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Authors: Laura Lippman
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the same sarcasm. He was out of his car and he had his own revolver drawn. “Let the kid go.”
“Hagen told me this kid was with him,” Cooper said.
“I didn’t do it,” I said.
“Let him go,” Kastel said.
“These kids are full of lies.”
“I know.”
“Put that gun away,” Cooper said, but he had nothing to bargain with now that his own pistol was in the holster.
“It’s homicide, let’s go back into the station,” Kastel said. He was talking about the Central Station, now half a block away. I guess he was going to leave his car at the curb.
“He killed both of them,” I said, and Kastel started to chuckle.
“How about putting the gun away,” Cooper said again.
“Kid’s dangerous. You go on ahead with him.”
Cooper still had me by the arm and he was marching me back to the entrance at Central.
“You don’t need the gun with two of us watching him,” Cooper said.
“I know,” Kastel said, but he didn’t put his gun away.
In rapid succession, Cooper swung me around and pushed me into Kastel. He drew his own pistol and pulled me back. I was in worse shape now, because Cooper had his pistol and he was now using me as a shield.
“You back away, detective,” Cooper said.
Something about the way he said it made me think he was going to kill me and Kastel too. Kastel must have thought that as well, because he aimed his gun at Cooper’s head. Cooper could no longer afford to hold his own gun on me and he raised it—but he didn’t fire.
The flash of Kastel’s gun stung my face and blinded me for a moment. I heard the crack, but I heard no sound from Cooper or his gun. He squeezed my arm hard. I looked over my shoulder to see a bloody hole where his left eye had been. He was just standing there, holding his gun with one hand and my arm with the other.
I had no idea whether Cooper held me a few seconds or a couple of minutes, but it seemed like forever before he finally released me and slumped sideways onto the sidewalk. His gun fell into the street.
I did not feel safe until Kastel checked his pulse and told me he was dead.
Apparently, my grandmother had finally figured out that I was looking for Kastel not to confess but to tell him who I thought had killed Birute. A friend who spoke English had found him at home. He was on his way to the Central Police Station when he saw Cooper Joseph Braddock, C.J. Braddock, Cooper the Cop, pulling me along the sidewalk.
He asked how I knew it was Cooper and I told him that Cooper always came down and asked questions but never came down after Birute Ludka’s murder. I explained that I didn’t go to Central first because I didn’t know homicide detectives worked out of there. It was why I called Southwestern in the first place, and accidentally got Cooper on the telephone.
“You could have gotten yourself killed,” Detective Kastel said.
“No shit,” I answered, and my cheeks went straight to hot.
Kastel chuckled.
“You’d better take me home. My grandmother is probably worried about me.”
“I’ll tell her that you’re a hero.”
“Yeah,” I said.
I would be a bigger hero if I told the truth in the first place—but I might be dead.
OVER MY DEAD BODY
BY R OB H IAASEN
Fell’s Point
I n the John Wilkes Booth at Casey’s in Fell’s Point, I’m drinking Bass Ale on Palm Sunday afternoon. Above the booth, the April 15, 1865 front page of the New York Herald is preserved in a dime-store frame: a skinny black number separating at its corners. On the newspaper page, six leggy columns bring us the official dispatches on the “Death of the President.” Lincoln died at 7:22 a.m., which I did not know. “There is intense excitement here,” the paper reported. No intense excitement here today, but I have hope. Fell’s Point, once the major shipbuilding spoke of Baltimore, once a nest of sailors, once a place where Labradors could slurp a National Bohemian at the Full Moon Saloon, is now a gentrified waterfront community.
“Hagen told me this kid was with him,” Cooper said.
“I didn’t do it,” I said.
“Let him go,” Kastel said.
“These kids are full of lies.”
“I know.”
“Put that gun away,” Cooper said, but he had nothing to bargain with now that his own pistol was in the holster.
“It’s homicide, let’s go back into the station,” Kastel said. He was talking about the Central Station, now half a block away. I guess he was going to leave his car at the curb.
“He killed both of them,” I said, and Kastel started to chuckle.
“How about putting the gun away,” Cooper said again.
“Kid’s dangerous. You go on ahead with him.”
Cooper still had me by the arm and he was marching me back to the entrance at Central.
“You don’t need the gun with two of us watching him,” Cooper said.
“I know,” Kastel said, but he didn’t put his gun away.
In rapid succession, Cooper swung me around and pushed me into Kastel. He drew his own pistol and pulled me back. I was in worse shape now, because Cooper had his pistol and he was now using me as a shield.
“You back away, detective,” Cooper said.
Something about the way he said it made me think he was going to kill me and Kastel too. Kastel must have thought that as well, because he aimed his gun at Cooper’s head. Cooper could no longer afford to hold his own gun on me and he raised it—but he didn’t fire.
The flash of Kastel’s gun stung my face and blinded me for a moment. I heard the crack, but I heard no sound from Cooper or his gun. He squeezed my arm hard. I looked over my shoulder to see a bloody hole where his left eye had been. He was just standing there, holding his gun with one hand and my arm with the other.
I had no idea whether Cooper held me a few seconds or a couple of minutes, but it seemed like forever before he finally released me and slumped sideways onto the sidewalk. His gun fell into the street.
I did not feel safe until Kastel checked his pulse and told me he was dead.
Apparently, my grandmother had finally figured out that I was looking for Kastel not to confess but to tell him who I thought had killed Birute. A friend who spoke English had found him at home. He was on his way to the Central Police Station when he saw Cooper Joseph Braddock, C.J. Braddock, Cooper the Cop, pulling me along the sidewalk.
He asked how I knew it was Cooper and I told him that Cooper always came down and asked questions but never came down after Birute Ludka’s murder. I explained that I didn’t go to Central first because I didn’t know homicide detectives worked out of there. It was why I called Southwestern in the first place, and accidentally got Cooper on the telephone.
“You could have gotten yourself killed,” Detective Kastel said.
“No shit,” I answered, and my cheeks went straight to hot.
Kastel chuckled.
“You’d better take me home. My grandmother is probably worried about me.”
“I’ll tell her that you’re a hero.”
“Yeah,” I said.
I would be a bigger hero if I told the truth in the first place—but I might be dead.
OVER MY DEAD BODY
BY R OB H IAASEN
Fell’s Point
I n the John Wilkes Booth at Casey’s in Fell’s Point, I’m drinking Bass Ale on Palm Sunday afternoon. Above the booth, the April 15, 1865 front page of the New York Herald is preserved in a dime-store frame: a skinny black number separating at its corners. On the newspaper page, six leggy columns bring us the official dispatches on the “Death of the President.” Lincoln died at 7:22 a.m., which I did not know. “There is intense excitement here,” the paper reported. No intense excitement here today, but I have hope. Fell’s Point, once the major shipbuilding spoke of Baltimore, once a nest of sailors, once a place where Labradors could slurp a National Bohemian at the Full Moon Saloon, is now a gentrified waterfront community.
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