Free The Disposables by David Putnam

alone in the back door of the house and saved the kid from Johnny Wayne Bascombe. I hadn’t known he’d been the one. Why wouldn’t it be him? He had always championed theunderdog, walked the line, often venturing into the gray area of the law to throw assholes in jail. He’d taught me to do the same. For that and nothing else I knew I was going to help him. Before I could form the words, he said her name before I could stop him. “I’m calling in your marker, pal, for the little girl twenty years ago. You owe me for Jenny.”

Chapter Fifteen
    That night, I had been assigned code-three to a traffic accident, car vs. pedestrian. I beat the paramedics and other patrol cars. Jenny was down in the street, knocked right out of the crosswalk, knocked right out of her shiny black patent leather shoes.
    The night was hot. Groups of people clustered on the sidewalk, quiet, pointing, as if I wouldn’t see Jenny.
    At first I thought Jenny was some little girl’s doll tossed haphazardly from a passing car.
    No first aid or medical attention was going to help her.
    Half her face was mashed, the other half was perfect, angelic in the scant aura of the streetlight.
    There was very little blood.
    Mercifully, she died on impact.
    Her blue gingham dress masked the horror underneath.
    Sweaty Marty said later he came up and spoke to me but I was “zoned out,” that “I had the blood spore with my nose to the ground.”
    From the debris field, the bits of headlight glass and aluminum trim knocked off the car on impact, I knew the car was old and large. Then I noticed the asshole had hit poor Jenny hard enough that her little body ruptured the radiator. I started following the water trail in the street, a trail that would be gone in minutes, evaporated into the hot summer night. Theswath started out large and wide and narrowed as the murderer picked up speed as the coward fled.
    I ran.
    The water narrowed further and then turned to sporadic blotches.
    Then, to droplets.
    At an intersection, I lost it entirely. He’d caught the green, only I didn’t know which way he went. I ran in a big arc, cars skidded to a stop to avoid the tall, black uniformed deputy who’d lost his head and ran in a circle in the middle of a busy intersection.
    My flashlight dimmed as it started to fail.
    I thought I picked up the trail headed north that meant a left turn. I got down on one knee and still wasn’t sure. I got down, in a prone position, and sniffed. I then got up and ran in a full sprint, fighting the heat that now helped the suspect to escape, drying up the evidence.
    The foot race worked.
    At the next intersection the murderer caught the red and left behind a puddle. He continued on through, went two blocks, and turned on Spring Street. He’d been close to home, a mile and half away when he ran Jenny down.
    The water turned rusty and led up a concrete drive to a garage door closed and padlocked. I took a minute to catch my breath and tried to shove back the lion that wanted to get even, to make things right.
    In the academy they called it “your professional face.” No matter what happened, you had to put aside your personal feelings and be professional.
    I went up to the door, sweat stinging my eyes, my uniform wet under the arms. I wiped my eyes clear on my short sleeve that left a sweat smudge.
    I knocked.
    The door opened immediately. The room on the inside was dark, the screen door between us. I couldn’t see him and didn’t know if this man, who without conscience, ran down a defenseless little girl in the crosswalk, had a weapon.
    His rich and deep timbre voice said, “Can I help you, Officer?”
    â€œYes, I would like you to come out here and open your garage door.”
    Silence for a long moment. “Heh, heh, I don’t think so, Officer. You don’t have a search warrant.”
    I carefully, with as little movement as possible, reached up and