Free (2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' by Michael A Diaz

his eyes taking in first Turner and then the man laying dead on the ground.
    “Yeah…yeah. I’m…fine”, Turner said, his hand wiping the sweat from his face, his breath coming shallow and fast. He turned around, facing Thompson.
    “Miller…?” he asked softly, dreading the answer, feeling his heart slowing down.
    “He is…okay”, Thompson answered, his usually calm voice shaky now. “Paramedics are…with him.”
    Turner shook his head slowly, running fingers through his hair. The main suspect was now dead and they were back to square one. They still had a thousand questions and no answers again. Why did the man run? Was it because he didn’t like cops or because he had been involved in Dunbar’s killing? He glanced at the man’s shoes, working boots, at least a size twelve. He breathed deeply of the cold air, clearing his head.
    “Son of a bitch”, Turner mumbled to himself, shaking his head at the way things were shaping up now. Dudley’s shoe size was nowhere near what they had found at Dunbar’s crime scene. ‘There is going to be hell to pay on this one’, he thought grimly. With those thoughts in mind, he started walking, making his way back to Miller.
    * * * *
    Turner’s fingers massaged his aching temples, his eyes glancing at the pile of papers and reports on top of the desk. He felt drained, lethargic, knowing he had not been able to get enough sleep lately. They had spent most of the night at the hospital, waiting for word on Miller, taking care of his family and reassuring them as much as they could…and listening to Assistant Chief Crawley ranting and raving about the investigation and about the man now dead.
    “Yeah, last night was bad’, he said to himself, thinking about Miller in the hospital. He had lost a great deal of blood, but after emergency surgery, had regained consciousness around midnight and was even able to smile at his wife. The doctor was sure he was going to make it, the bullet had missed his important organs, but…it was going to take time. He stood up now, his mind running with all the questions, finding no answers to any of them. He glanced at his watch, breathing deeply of the stale air in the office. He looked at the pile of forms on his desk and sat down again, resigned to the fact that the damn paperwork had to be done. He also had to review the tape made of the burial, even if he thought it would be a waste of time.
    Adding to his misery was the fact that in a few short hours he had an interview with IA, (Internal Affairs) concerning the shootings of the suspect and Miller. The Assistant Chief was on his ass, IA was snooping around concerning the shooting and the way it had turned out and they still had a dead cop and no answers. He shook his head in disgust again. Yeah…it was going to be one hell of a day, he though, bending his head to the task at hand.

CHAPTER 8  

    East Downtown Chicago Mickey’s Bar and Grill 115 St. January 27, 1995
    02:35 a.m.
    She sat in the SUV, perfectly still, waiting patiently, the quiet hum of the engine soothing her overwrought nerves. She forced herself to remain as still as possible, conscious of her surroundings and the fact that if she moved too much inside the vehicle, someone might see her and later on remember that. It was cold outside and late and the streets were void of people, as was the parking lot behind the bar. There were four cars left now and in all probability the place would close their doors shortly. She realized this was not the nicest part of town and that her SUV would stick out like a sore thumb, but she was counting on the fact that people coming out of a bar at two in the morning were more than likely under the influence of alcohol and would not pay much attention to a lone car parked behind the bar. Still, she knew she was taking a considerable risk by trying to kill a policeman where people could be around, but that intensified her emotions, the adrenalin rush almost incredible as she sat still,