Anything You Say Can and Will Be Used Against You by Laurie Lynn Drummond Page B

man is crying. Tears stream down his puffy chalk-white face. It is cool in here, a weather warp from the ninety-degree day outside. A ceiling fan wisps in lazy circles overhead. The old man’s eyes are rolling around and around in their sockets, darting back and forth. The gun is closer now to the living, pacing, crying man’s foot.
    â€œI really didn’t mean to. He kept coming at me, miss. You saw, Daddy. I couldn’t. I had to.” He pounds one fist against his chest, the other arm thrown wide.
    A father and son—sons? Where’s Mom?
    Where’s Mom? I say to my father. I am ten. He tilts his head toward the hall closet. I unlock the door, sit on the floor beside her, watch the door swing shut, hear the latch turn.
    â€œOkay. We’re all right here, now.” I speak slowly. “I didn’t catch your name. What’s your name, sir? I’m Officer Burnnet. Mona Burnnet.”
    This is the first step: soothe, lull, distract. It’s been maybe two minutes. We have all the time in the world. I take off my hat, toss it on the floor behind me. I want the man to see me, not the badge, not the gun.
    â€œVictor. That’s my name, miss. My name’s Victor Franconi, and this here’s my brother. We don’t look much alike, I know. Everyone says so.”
    A hard point to dispute; one of them is dead.
    Victor has backed up against a table and is rocking from the waist. He keeps glancing at the gun on the floor. “My only brother, Frankie. Frankie Franconi. I hurt him bad. Yes? I didn’t mean to.”
    â€œOf course you didn’t mean to hurt him. We’ll get it straightened out, Victor. But first I need to check on your brother, see if he’s still alive.”
    Victor stops rocking and looks down at the body. “Oh, he’s dead, miss.” His voice has gone flat; there’s a metallic taste to the tone. “Dead as my turtle. Dead, dead, dead. Shot him three times, maybe four. Had to make sure. He wouldn’t stop.”
    His voice rises. “You saw him, Daddy. You saw, I had to stop him, miss.”
    â€œI believe you, Victor. You had to defend yourself. It happens. It’s going to be all right.”
    The dad’s eyes are still rolling, but they are fixed on me now. I wonder about the twisted, frozen smile—what was he doing when this illness caught up and squashed him? What was so funny?
    Suddenly I sense movement. Behind the door blocked by the dad’s bed. I watch the door swing inward, seven inches or so. I watch Victor. I watch the door. My hand is sweaty, gripped tight around my gun. I relax the muscles in my legs and prepare to drop back, to my knees, away.
    I see eyes, tiny brilliant blue eyes, eyes with depth to them on a doll-sized person, the face framed by a wad of paper white hair. The mother? She watches me, the back of her hand up against her mouth. I shake my head slightly: No, I am telling her, stay put. She nods and turns her hand around to put a finger to her lips.
    Victor is pacing again, mumbling to himself, throwing wild-eyed looks my way. What I’d like him to do is throw himself at the dad’s feet—beg for mercy, cry, whatever will erase from his mind the possibility of the gun nearby. I could rush him, I could pull my own gun and advance into the room, but I don’t want him to go for the gun. I don’t want to kill anyone. As is, Victor’s thinking too much; there is the potential for choices. Shoot himself? Shoot Dad? Me? There are either one or two bullets left.
    The first time my father pulls his gun on my mother I am twelve. My oldest brother tackles him from behind. The gun flies from his hand, slidesalong the floor, and rests at my feet. My mother yells at my brother not to hurt my father. I kick the gun away.
    â€œVictor,” I say. “Victor, think of your father. Let me come check your brother. Step away from your brother, Victor.” I begin to ease myself