Taggart
Trooper Taggart had finished his call to dispatch a few minutes ago—made the request for a detective and the coroner’s office to report to the scene down here—but he kept the radio mike clenched in his hand and pressed it to his lips. He knew that the sheriff was watching. Waiting to talk to him again. He needed a minute to think. Needed a minute to have another drink.
After he’d gotten the order to head down to Wyalusing, he had grabbed his flasks from his locker. He called them Starsky and Hutch. It was a long trek down here to the sticks, and he thought another drink or two would make the drive a little more bearable. He didn’t usually start drinking until the end of his shift, but he figured why the hell not? He was supposed to be home right now. Not out here in the middle of nowhere.
Who are you kidding, Bill? You always manage to find an excuse to drink. Any excuse is a good excuse.
He kept the flasks hidden in his locker or the trunk of his cruiser. He could fit a fifth into both flasks real nicely. He’d rather have too much than not enough. Be prepared was always his motto. What a great God-fearing Boy Scout he turned out to be.
Taggart looked down at his hands. A wedding band was wedged over the knuckle of his fat left ring finger. Both hands trembled. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had just shot and killed an innocent man or if he needed a drink. Probably both. He pulled one of the oft-used flasks from his bag, Starsky this time, and topped off his cold coffee. Mixed it with his finger and took a long drink.
The hayseed sheriff wouldn’t give him space. He gazed out the windshield at Lester, who paced the driveway, staring at Taggart the whole time. Taggart pressed the mike to his lips and pretended to say something official to buy him some more time from the sheriff.
“Give me one stinking minute here, Sheriff. Christ,” he muttered into the mike instead.
He poured another shot into his coffee and drank it down. He told himself the drinks were calming his nerves and helping clear his head. Why should he feel any regrets about firing his service revolver? The hell with that. Another law-enforcement officer stood at the receiving end of an armed suspect at the scene of the crime. Textbook stuff. If he couldn’t trust his instincts, then it was high time to turn in his badge. He didn’t give a damn if he had a little buzz or not. He would have done the same thing if he were stone-cold sober. He finished his coffee cocktail and put his hat back on. Shook a few Tic Tacs into his mouth, took a breath, and stepped out of the patrol car.
