Free Cicero's Dead by Patrick H. Moore Page B

protected.”
    “That’s what I thought. Okay. Bye, Dad.”
    She slung her shoulder bag over one shoulder and
marched toward the cafeteria, not a tomboy, not a girly-girl either, in her
jean jacket and straight-legged jeans. I felt a rush of love and intense
protection, against the Arnold Clippers of the world.
    On the way to East L.A., as Brad steered us
through the morning traffic, I was struck by a sudden thought. “I forgot to
tell you guys, but Arnold Clipper wears the most fucked-up, dirty and
disgusting old Reeboks you can imagine.”
    “Maybe he’s got a new pair.”
    “Sure, maybe so, but people might recognize him
based on the old pair. It was an obvious affectation. Didn’t match his smashing
workout outfit.”
    Brad nodded thoughtfully. “Bobby and I talked to a
lot of people yesterday. Although nobody told us much, I had the feeling that a
couple of people knew exactly who Arnold was, and maybe Richie too, for that
matter.”
    “How did Bobby do?”
    “Fine. He looks like the ultimate rough trade masher.”
    “Don’t tell him that. Might hurt his feelings.”
    “He’s a good guy. Reminds me of some of the guys I
met in rehab, except he seems more sincere. When I was in recovery, a lot of
guys were still scamming; heavy persona ,
very little substance. I don’t think that’s the case with him.”
    “Correct.”
    “He told me something very interesting.”
    “Yeah?”
    “He said that what puts a guy with PTSD over the
edge, is not getting shot at or living in constant fear, or sleeping in the
jungle in a foxhole with centipedes crawling all over you. It’s not even
necessarily seeing your friends killed.”
    “What is it then?”
    Brad glanced over at me. “Killing people. We’re
not set up for that. God knows, we’re capable of a lot of raunchy shit, but
killing people and being human don’t go together very well.”
    He changed lanes, smoothly pulling in front of a
Kenmore 18-wheeler. I thought about the two guys I’d shot. I was glad they’d
both lived, even though they’d had it coming and the world was better off with
them out of commission.
    The first guy was a white meth head in Fontana. It
was back in my early days before I had Audrey to tail the adulterers. I was
sitting in my car. It was about 120 degrees, and I had the windows down. The
husband was in Room 211 at the Easy Rest Motel, on the edge of town, getting
nasty with a peroxide blonde. Suddenly this freak appears at my window,
brandishing a stainless steel hunting knife. Tells me to give him my wallet,
get out of my car and leave the keys in the ignition. I complied with all three
requests and a fourth he hadn’t asked for. As he was getting in, his amped-out
jaw twitching like a jackhammer mashing rivets, I shot him in the back of the
leg with my .38. It was ruled self-defense on my part and the freak, who had a
record, got 10 to 25 for attempted armed robbery, brandishing and
carjacking.   I remember my lawyer
telling me that I was very lucky this happened in Fontana and not in a more
liberal community. This was during the late ’80s when victims still had more
rights than perps in some parts of California.
    I felt sick for weeks, haunted by the thought that
I didn’t have to shoot him; I could have just clubbed him with the gun. The
people I talked to, though, including Tony, told me I’d done the right thing.
Clubbing a guy is too risky. He might not go down and turn around and stab you.
    The second time was one of those occasions you try
to bury so deep you hope it never comes up. I’d been retained by a desperate
mother to find her six-year old son, who had been kidnapped by her psycho ex-husband.
Perp was running on empty, armed and dangerous. The police were in on this one,
too, but I just happened to get there first, tracking him down in an apricot
orchard, north of Corona. When I got there, he had his son tied to a tree with
a gag in his mouth. He was digging a grave for his boy with a