The Fall and Rise of Cain. Greg T. Nelson

the Bursa. Grabbing my cane from the stool to my left and laying a ten-dollar bill on the bar I eased myself off the stool. I read the card before putting it in my back pocket,

      GRANGER INDUSTRIES

      Clifford Childs Loss Prevention Manager

      713-555-9022

      I turned and walked out. I could feel my heart pounding as I reached the front door and almost went back for another drink, but it was time to go.

      My Impala was already oven hot inside so I rolled down all four windows as I pulled away from the curb and drove east towards my apartment. I still didn’t think of it as home, just a place to mark time between physical therapy and the crap tables. I pulled through the open gate that was supposed to always be closed and parked in my assigned space. I had paid extra for a ground floor furnished place, away from the pool but close to the parking lot. Worth a few dollars for shorter walks and no stairs.

      As I unlocked and entered the front door, I noticed for the thousandth time how dreary the place was. Furnished for an extra forty dollars a month, the place consists of cheap carpet over a small living area, a bedroom and a kitchen all used by me and me alone. The only other person who had been in was the maintenance guy to spray for bugs and he did that when I was gone. I had a phone but I just used it to pay bills or place bets, there was no one I had wanted to talk to for a long time. The kitchen had a coffee pot and an ice bucket. I lived on Pizza and Chinese food.

      I had planned this trip the day I moved in and a hundred times since, so getting ready was easy. Pulling a soft duffle bag from the hall closet, I packed quickly. Some jeans, shirts, underwear and a shaving kit. I threw the .380 under the jeans and put my Beretta .40 cal on a right hip holster and covered it with a lightweight denim jacket. Adding six full clips to the bag, I was ready to go.

      I hesitated at the bathroom then reached into a drawer for the bottle of Vicodin. It had been a year since the surgery and I’d been trying to cut back on the pills but Houston was a long way and better safe than miserable. I’m pretty sure I take them for the pain and not the peaceful haze and sounder sleep. I sat on the couch and made the calls I needed too. One to tell Peggy at the Hospital I wouldn’t be in for therapy this week or until I called back, then another to the apartment office so they could get my mail. I was still holding the phone trying to decide if I should drive or book a flight. Flying meant checking the guns through luggage but driving meant five hours without stretching. That’s hard on the leg. I was about to call Ed and ask him to pick me up at the airport when the knock came at the door. I yelled a reflex “Who is it” and had started to stand when the door exploded.

      I was on the floor with the Beretta in hand trying to take stock. Lots of smoke, wood chips still drifting down and my ears were ringing, no pain but that didn’t mean I wasn’t hit, no time to check now. Must have been a shotgun aimed at where my chest would have been if I had made it over there. I held the pistol at arm’s length and risked a peek around the sofa. The door was still closed but there was a head-sized hole in the center of it. Hoping the shooter would look through the hole I held my aim there for a moment, trying to keep my breathing quiet. The hole stayed empty and my mind raced. Going out the door after him or them was no option. I’m too slow and there were too many unknown factors like how many and how good were they. The windows, they were barred against burglary, I couldn’t get out but someone might shoot through one of them. No back door. I had to wait for them to come in or help to arrive. I tried to estimate and finally decided, it had been ten seconds since the shot. The ringing in my ears faded to a dull hum and I heard a slight tap as the barrel of a shotgun pushed the door open. As it swung back, I took aim at a spot on the wall to the left of the gun barrel and fired two shots into the plaster. In the movies, bullets bounce endlessly off brick walls but here in real life, most brick is just cheap decoration and the forty caliber steel balls punched through in a cloud of cement dust. A second later, a beat up 12 gauge fell across the doorway, then a second later a man. He landed on his shoulder, both hands holding his throat and bright red blood pumping between his fingers. Our eyes met briefly before a cloud settled over his and as the crimson slowed to a steady flow I heard myself sarcastically mumble, “Hello Jimmy”. A few seconds later I heard sirens.

      I couldn’t be sure the dead man was alone but I could be sure that if a young beat cop saw him dead and me with a gun I could get just as dead. I waited until I saw a uniformed officer pass the window and then tossed the Beretta about half the distance to the doorway as I rolled over on my stomach and put my hands on the back of my head. I wasn’t surprised when they came in and handcuffed me.

      I was searched and then moved to the bedroom where my driver’s license and gun permit were taken and my story heard. Then a polite Sergeant removed the cuffs and stationed a rookie to keep me company, casually leaving my cane against the doorjamb, out of reach. I sat on the edge of the bed for an hour watching down the short hallway as a well-practiced team measured, photographed and discussed my apartment. It was all familiar, the chatter and the careful collection of evidence.

      I’ve seen maybe a hundred homicide scenes as a cop, maybe half of those as the guy in charge. This was different. I was just a spectator as the CSI team found and picked up the spent brass casings from the Beretta. I watched with interest as one of them pushed a long sharp thermometer through Jimmy’s stomach and into his liver and made careful note of the reading that would tell within a few minutes what time his heart had stopped. I found I was staring into Jimmy’s dead eyes and asking myself the same questions over and over. I was jarred back to myself when two men with a rolling stretcher were heaving Jimmy into a black vinyl bag and another of the team pushed a laser pointer into one of the bullet holes in my wall. A red dot fell on the carpet within an inch of where I’d fired from and more pictures were taken. As the team finished their assigned task and began packing gear, a rumpled man of about sixty wearing slacks and a white cotton shirt came in the front door and was shown around by the Sergeant who told him my tale in hushed tones and gestures as the Detective made notes in a small book. Then he nodded, asked a few questions as he leaned over and looked at Jimmy with a practiced eye before letting the two men zip up the bag and roll the corpse away. Speaking to the Sergeant one last time he looked carefully at the pool of Jimmy’s blood. As the team of uniforms filed out the door, the rumpled Detective moved towards me and the rookie that was still standing nearby. He spoke to me as he came to the bedroom door, “Sergeant Cain, my name is John Hershaw, and I’m a lieutenant in the Homicide Division, Fort Worth PD.”

      I stood and shook the offered hand, “I’m retired, Lieutenant, just a civilian now.” Up close, I could see he was past sixty by at least ten years; unusual for a cop still working in the field. He looked like he expected me to keep talking when I didn’t, he smiled.

      “Ok, Mister Cain, as I’m sure you know, you’re not under arrest but I’d appreciate it if you could tell me what happened here?” he said gesturing for me to sit back down. I did and he leaned back against the dresser and crossed his arms.

      I spoke carefully and politely. The last thing I wanted to do was piss off a Fort Worth Cop. I doubted I could be convicted of anything. But a day in an interrogation room could easily be arranged. “I was packing for a trip when he knocked at the door, before I could get there he shot through it. I got to the floor and fired twice. He dropped the gun and fell where your guys found him.” Just the facts, no thoughts or suspicions.

      Hershaw waited to see if I was finished and I saw him start to smile again. “You ever see him before Mister Cain?”

      If this had been a poker game I would have pegged the smile as Hershaw’s tell. It would mean he had an ace in the hole and wanted me to bluff a big pot. I didn’t have time to play, I needed the Lieutenant to believe me and move on so I spoke without hesitation.

      “He looks a lot like a guy I arrested a few years ago, Jimmy Pecos. If it’s him he should be in prison.”

      Hershaw fished a plastic card from his shirt pocket and held it up for me to read. I had seen many cards like it, “TEXAS DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS” and under that, a picture of Jimmy Pecos, probably taken on the day he was released. Below the picture was the word “PAROLE” and a bar code Jimmy would show when he visited his Parole Officer and went for whatever