RIGHTEOUS KILL
by Jim Winter

Chief Tom Jefferson sipped from a Tower Coffee mug, but his breath wreaked of Irish whiskey. Morgan wondered how much longer the chief could go before everyone stopped pretending to be fooled. He hoped soon. Morgan could use the promotion.

“Now you know the Sheriff will have to conduct the investigation,” said Jefferson. “But all the evidence is in the locker. We have the video from your ride, and more importantly, we have Wyatt's gun.” He took another gulp of his spiked coffee. “It's up to you, Ed. Do you want an FOP lawyer present right now?

Morgan shrugged. “Anything I say here is off the record without him present. Say what you've got to say.”

Jefferson's mouth twisted into a crooked smile, powder from a donut earlier falling out of his mustache. “Just an informal chat. I wanted to go over your story to make sure I'm not losing my sergeant. So let's run through it one more time.”

His lawyer would shit a brick if she knew he was talking to Jefferson this way, but screw it. He knew the story by heart. More importantly, he'd watched enough dirtbags game the system during interrogations to know nothing he said to Jefferson was admissible. One of the advantages of having an alcoholic police chief.

“On the night of the second,” said Morgan, “I pulled into the PNC Bank on Beechmont across from the chili place. I spot two cars in the lot parked side by side patrol style.”

“And this would be Keith Wyatt and Jack Norman?”

“Yes.”

“In your statement, you said Norman claimed he was collecting rent from Wyatt on a house on Cambridge.”

“He said that.”

“You know Wyatt is a mechanic down the hill at Midas, don't you?”

“Of course. He changed my muffler about three months ago.”

“No wonder you shot him.”

Morgan glared at his boss. “Anyway, isn't rent usually paid by check or money order?”

“You know about Wyatt, don't you? Went to a check-cashing place a couple of years ago and got held up.”

“So then write a check.”

“Keith Wyatt didn't have much of a bank account. Paid cash for everything, especially after the banks went sour last fall.”

Morgan looked at his watch, then back up at Jefferson.

“What's the matter, Ed?” said Jefferson. “You're on paid leave. It's not like you have to be on patrol.”

Morgan shifted in his chair. “I'd just like this over with. Anyway, I see two cars parked in a bank lot, driver window to driver window. They're obviously not cops. And Wyatt's handing Norman a wad of money.”

“Did you hit your lights?”

“Of course.”

“And did you ask both men to step out of the car?”

He gave Jefferson a dirty look. “I've done this a couple of times.”

Another swallow of coffee/whiskey. “All right, Ed. All right. I'm only trying to establish the facts for myself. This is not even an official chat. At what point did you draw your weapon?”

“When I saw the baggy of pot.”

“After you had Norman and Wyatt up against the cruiser?”

“Yes.”

“Who had the gun?”

“Wyatt. Pulled it out of his boot.”

Jefferson shook his head. “That's a pretty big gun to stash in your boot. And Wyatt wasn't wearing an ankle holster.”

“Look,” said Morgan, “he pulled a gun out of his boot. How in the hell he stowed a Sig Sauer 10mm in his boot I'll never know. I only know one thing when someone pulls a gun on you: Shoot.”

“What about Norman? Why's he dead?”

Morgan smirked. “Got in the way. Protecting his best customer. I don't know.”

“You do know Lynn Norman is suing Mt. Washington for wrongful death.”

“Fuck her. Her husband was selling pot in my town...” He stopped when he saw the look on Jefferson's face, that You're-not-the-chief look Morgan still found unsettling despite how much he despised the man. “Jack Norman was running weed in our town, and Keith Wyatt was selling it for him. You saw what was in Norman's trunk, didn't you?”

Jefferson put up his hands. “Relax, okay? I got off the phone with the US Attorney's office. They've started forfeiture procedures on the Normans. If she's lucky, the widow Norman will get a nice settlement from life insurance.” He heaved himself from his chair, towering over Morgan. “We've got Wyatt's gun, the dime bag, another couple of keys in Norman's trunk, and the three hundred dollars took from Norman.” He came around the desk and squeezed Morgan's shoulder. “Don't worry, Ed. It's a righteous kill. You've got nothing to worry about.”

**********

Out behind the municipal center, Morgan located his cruiser. Popping the trunk, he leaned in and took out a duffel bag he kept there for special purposes. As he took out the remaining $900 from the $1200 he'd taken from Wyatt, he saw it.

“Oh, goddammit,” he said. At the bottom of the bag lay a little .22 pistol he'd taken from a meth dealer he'd busted down on Kellogg. Why couldn't he have found it the night of the shootings?

He zipped up the duffel bag and slammed the trunk. Next time, he'd keep the smaller guns inside the car on patrol. If Jefferson hadn't been so buzzed off Irish coffee, he'd have never bought the Sig Sauer story. And if Jefferson bought the story, the Sheriff's Department would buy it.

That made it a righteous kill.

BIO: Jim Winter is a computer technician by day and a writer and 40+ year old college freshman by night. He is a regular reviewer for January Magazine and Mystery Scene. Jim lives in Cincinnati with his wife, Nita, and stepson, AJ.