“Suck yourself,” Roddy shot back.
That was his first mistake: picking the fight. His second was thinking he had a chance. Roddy was fourteen. The anesthesiologist had at least fifty pounds on him. As the man rushed forward, Roddy instinctively sliced the screwdriver through the air—in self-defense, really—slashing a deep scratch across the man’s forearm. That was his final mistake.
Six seconds later, Roddy was facedown on the ground, screaming in pain, his shoulder dislocated, his arm pinned behind his back. When Officer Bull arrived on scene, his first reaction was laughter.
“You don’t even realize what you did, do you, dumbass?” Bull asked as Roddy took a seat in the interrogation room.
Roddy didn’t say a word, even as Bull placed an evidence bag, with the screwdriver, on the table in front of him.
“Moron, know what happens when you use a weapon?”
“That ain’t a weapon—”
“You slashed his arm. It’s a weapon, which means you just kicked this up from robbery to felony assault. Happy birthday, fool. No more juvie for you. Now you’re all mi—”
“Bull, your wife’s on line three. Again,” announced a female voice through Bull’s walkie-talkie.
Bull didn’t move.
“She sounds upset,” the female voice added.
With a huff of air through his nose, Bull undid Roddy’s handcuffs and recuffed them to the thick metal bar bolted to the table. “Don’t move,” he warned, stuffing the screwdriver in his pocket and heading to the door. What he didn’t say was that his wife was at a doctor’s appointment this morning. They’d found a lump.
“Can you at least get me a snack? I heard you give snacks,” Roddy called back as the officer reached the threshold.
Bull never made it.
Crumpling sideways, he hit the floor with an awkward thud.
At first, Roddy thought it was a joke—a pratfall—or that he’d tripped on the plastic wastebasket. But as Roddy craned his neck . . . “Officer? You okay?”
Bull was curled on his side, wheezing, his body convulsing, his eyes rolled back in his head. Later, they’d say his blood sugar dropped, causing a diabetic seizure. As with any emergency, the key was how quickly they could react.
“Officer . . . ?”
A small puddle of blood expanded from Bull’s forehead. He’d hit his head when he fell.
Roddy’s mouth went dry. He tried standing up, but his handcuffs were chained to the table. He couldn’t get up, much less get near him. Roddy glanced around. He could still yell for help—get someone to come.
Then a new thought hit Roddy.
Peeking out of Bull’s pocket . . . there it was . . . the plastic bag. The screwdriver. If Bull died here . . . if he didn’t get help . . . No one would know what happened.
All Roddy had to do was keep his mouth shut.
On the floor, the convulsing and wheezing stopped, replaced by a stillness that Roddy had never seen before. Bull’s head jerked slightly. He was foaming at the mouth, frothy saliva making the puddle of blood pink.
Just stay quiet, Roddy told himself. It’s your chance for a new start.
Bull wasn’t moving. At all.
Roddy stayed locked on the bright yellow handle of the screwdriver.
The room was so quiet, he could hear the crick of his own neck, little bones shifting.
Just keep your damn mouth sh—
“Help! Someone . . . ! He needs help!” Roddy shouted, leaping to his feet. When no one answered, he banged the table, screaming louder. “Please! Someone help! This dude’s dying!”