Read Online The Lightning Rule by Brett Ellen Block - Free Book Online
Authors: Brett Ellen Block
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Mystery & Detective, Police Procedural, Detectives, Newark (N.J.), Detectives - New Jersey - Newark
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a gurney, while the other helped lower it onto the tracks. The fluorescent lamps were a comfort compared to the dark, yet Emmett couldn’t catch his breath. His knees were about to give.
“You okay, sir?” From the platform, the younger officer held out his hand to him.
Emmett ignored the gesture and hoisted himself up unaided. “I’m fine. It’s the heat.”
Red-faced, the patrolman went to the entrance to await Rafshoon while the older one accompanied the coroner’s crew to the body, the gurney clattering over the train tracks. Alone on the platform, tension eased its stranglehold on Emmett. He uncurled his stiffened fingers from the flashlight, picturing the victim’s muddy nails as he shook the powdery dirt from the tunnel floor off his own hands. It didn’t make sense. Nothing about murder made sense to Emmett. In the past, he had been able to disconnect himself from compassion or anger because he was dealing with robberies and thefts, not death. With a murder, compassion and anger could overtake him as the tunnel had. Emmett had to ignore his feelings. Feelings wouldn’t help him. Logic could. He wondered how thebody had gotten in that far and who would have wanted to put it there. Then he wondered if he really wanted to know. If he did, it was going to cost him.
He had two choices: let the file on the boy’s murder sink or allow himself to drown. The victim was beyond saving. Emmett had to decide whether he was too.
SEVEN
Daylight felt like a beating. The sun was a jab to the face, the heat an uppercut that knocked the wind from Emmett’s lungs. He would take that kind of abuse over a tunnel any time.
The coroner’s wagon had drawn a clump of people who gathered outside the subway station, trying to peek in past the signs. The patrolman would wave them away, and they would move off a bit, then inch in again, similar to shooing pigeons. As Emmett cut through the throng, someone shouted to him, “What’s going on in there?”
“Why’s the cops here?” another asked.
“Sign says repairs,” Emmett told them.
“Cops don’t do repairs.”
“That’s exactly what we do,” he said.
At his car, he realized that he had accidentally walked off with the flashlight the officer loaned him. He was clutching it as though he didn’t trust the blaring noon sun to stay bright. Returning the flashlight to the patrolmen would have been the right thing to do, but Emmett couldn’t bring himself to go back into the tunnel. He would replace the flashlight in the storage closet at the station instead, just not yet.
A flyer was stuffed under the windshield wiper of his car. In boldprint, it read: “Stop Police Brutality. Come and join us at the mass rally tonight at the Fourth Precinct at 7:30.”
If anything, the rally would be an invitation for more brutality and an encore of last night’s disorder. Whether that was the organizers’ goal was open for debate. Emmett folded the flyer into his pocket. To be safe, he got his spare radio from under the front seat of his car and propped it on the passenger seat, close at hand. Edward had rigged it to the police band frequency for him. The department didn’t have the budget for walkie-talkies, and only the patrol cars were equipped with radios. Assuming another riot broke out during the rally, Emmett wanted to know where not to be.
When he switched on the radio, dispatch was summoning the Traffic Division for any available assistance. Teams of reporters with television cameras were assembling around the Fourth Precinct and attracting a crowd. By normal standards, it was hardly an emergency. After the riot, normal standards no longer applied.
Factoring in Albert Rafshoon’s usual delays, the coroner wouldn’t get to the victim’s autopsy for hours. Emmett had calculated for that when he phoned to make his appointment earlier that morning. He stowed the borrowed flashlight in his glove compartment and drove home, unsure what was in store for him.
The
“You okay, sir?” From the platform, the younger officer held out his hand to him.
Emmett ignored the gesture and hoisted himself up unaided. “I’m fine. It’s the heat.”
Red-faced, the patrolman went to the entrance to await Rafshoon while the older one accompanied the coroner’s crew to the body, the gurney clattering over the train tracks. Alone on the platform, tension eased its stranglehold on Emmett. He uncurled his stiffened fingers from the flashlight, picturing the victim’s muddy nails as he shook the powdery dirt from the tunnel floor off his own hands. It didn’t make sense. Nothing about murder made sense to Emmett. In the past, he had been able to disconnect himself from compassion or anger because he was dealing with robberies and thefts, not death. With a murder, compassion and anger could overtake him as the tunnel had. Emmett had to ignore his feelings. Feelings wouldn’t help him. Logic could. He wondered how thebody had gotten in that far and who would have wanted to put it there. Then he wondered if he really wanted to know. If he did, it was going to cost him.
He had two choices: let the file on the boy’s murder sink or allow himself to drown. The victim was beyond saving. Emmett had to decide whether he was too.
SEVEN
Daylight felt like a beating. The sun was a jab to the face, the heat an uppercut that knocked the wind from Emmett’s lungs. He would take that kind of abuse over a tunnel any time.
The coroner’s wagon had drawn a clump of people who gathered outside the subway station, trying to peek in past the signs. The patrolman would wave them away, and they would move off a bit, then inch in again, similar to shooing pigeons. As Emmett cut through the throng, someone shouted to him, “What’s going on in there?”
“Why’s the cops here?” another asked.
“Sign says repairs,” Emmett told them.
“Cops don’t do repairs.”
“That’s exactly what we do,” he said.
At his car, he realized that he had accidentally walked off with the flashlight the officer loaned him. He was clutching it as though he didn’t trust the blaring noon sun to stay bright. Returning the flashlight to the patrolmen would have been the right thing to do, but Emmett couldn’t bring himself to go back into the tunnel. He would replace the flashlight in the storage closet at the station instead, just not yet.
A flyer was stuffed under the windshield wiper of his car. In boldprint, it read: “Stop Police Brutality. Come and join us at the mass rally tonight at the Fourth Precinct at 7:30.”
If anything, the rally would be an invitation for more brutality and an encore of last night’s disorder. Whether that was the organizers’ goal was open for debate. Emmett folded the flyer into his pocket. To be safe, he got his spare radio from under the front seat of his car and propped it on the passenger seat, close at hand. Edward had rigged it to the police band frequency for him. The department didn’t have the budget for walkie-talkies, and only the patrol cars were equipped with radios. Assuming another riot broke out during the rally, Emmett wanted to know where not to be.
When he switched on the radio, dispatch was summoning the Traffic Division for any available assistance. Teams of reporters with television cameras were assembling around the Fourth Precinct and attracting a crowd. By normal standards, it was hardly an emergency. After the riot, normal standards no longer applied.
Factoring in Albert Rafshoon’s usual delays, the coroner wouldn’t get to the victim’s autopsy for hours. Emmett had calculated for that when he phoned to make his appointment earlier that morning. He stowed the borrowed flashlight in his glove compartment and drove home, unsure what was in store for him.
The
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