Two hours later, Roddy sat there, all alone, in the office of someone named Detective Conaway. He was munching on a bag of Funyuns from the vending machine, waiting in a wooden chair that looked like it escaped from a 1960s schoolhouse.
“Funyuns? That’s the best they could do?” a raspy voice called out.
Roddy didn’t look up as Officer Bull hobbled into the office, plopping into the seat next to him. Once the EMTs had given him some apple juice, his blood sugar stabilized, which is really all they can do—though he was still moving with the grace of a land-bound walrus.
“They should at least give you the extra quarter for Cool Ranch Doritos,” Officer Bull added.
Roddy stayed quiet, rubbing Funyun dust from his fingertips.
“You know they’re calling you a hero,” Bull said.
Roddy rolled his eyes. Even he thought it was absurd.
“Want to know what I think?” Bull asked. Before Roddy could answer, Bull pulled out the plastic bag with the screwdriver and slapped it against the desk.
Roddy stared, looking confused. “Wha? You’re letting me go?”
“What’re you, insane? Of course not. You vandalized multiple cars, stole hood ornaments, and slashed a doctor’s forearm. He wants his pound of flesh for that. But since my wife got a good report, and I’m in a really grateful mood right now, instead of felony assault, I’m gonna ask for reduced charges. I’ll also be testifying on your behalf in the juvenile court,” Bull explained. “The judge’ll probably have you do community service, but here’s the catch . . .” Bull paused for a solid ten seconds. “That community service—a full year of it—is gonna be done right here . . . in police headquarters.”
Roddy’s eyebrows knit together. “I don’t get it. This a punishment, or—？”
“What you did today . . . that was a good thing,” Bull explained. “And yeah, with the screwdriver, you also did a bad thing. But no one’s all one thing. That’s how it is for all of us. Like my favorite detective taught me, it’s not what you’ve done—it’s what you do next that defines you. Does that make sense?”
“Not really.”
“You’re not a bad kid, Roddy. Y’hear me? You’re not a bad kid. Today, when the crap hit the fan, you picked the right side. You gotta keep picking the good one.”
Roddy shook his head, still confused. “Why’re you doing this?”
Bull thought about it. “You’ll see.”
He was right. When Roddy’s community service was done, they brought him on as an intern, where he worked until he got his GED. Eventually, when Roddy applied for the police academy, Bull wrote his recommendation: Roddy was on the path to being a ringleader—but now he’s a real leader.
He was right about that, too.
91
Today
There was a bug in her car. A tiny larder beetle, black with mustard spots, crawling diagonally up the windshield. Waggs knew it on sight, from an incident a few years back when she learned larder beetles feast on dry pet food.
Assuming it was outside, Waggs hit the windshield wipers and the gas, hoping highway speeds and aerodynamics would clear it away.
The wipers never touched it. The beetle was inside.
“Does every damn creature on the planet need something from me today? You need something, too?” she asked.
Overhead, the car’s hands-free speakerphone let out a throaty ring, Waggs still waiting for the person to pick up on the other line. In the pause between rings, she rolled down the passenger window a few inches, as if the small gap would affect the level of suction.