“What's your name?” I asked.
“Paul.”
The gun he had was small, looked like a .380. Something higher caliber would likely blow through both sides of his skull and into the crowd. This bullet probably wasn't powerful enough. But it would do a fine job of killing him. Or me, if he decided he wanted some company in the afterlife.
“My name is Jack. Can you put the gun down, Paul?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
That was about the extent of my hostage negotiating skills. I dared a step closer, coming within three feet of him, close enough to smell his sweat.
“What's so bad that you have to do this?”
Paul stared at me without answering. I revised my earlier thought about him looking calm. He actually looked numb. I glanced at his left hand, saw the wedding ring.
“Problems with the wife?” I asked.
His Adam's apple bobbled up and down as he swallowed. “My wife died last year.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be. You married?”
“Divorced. What was your wife's name, Paul?”
“Doris.”
“What do you think Doris would say if she saw you like this?”
Paul's face pinched into a sad smile. My Colt Detective Special weighed twenty-two ounces, and my arm was getting tired holding it up. I brought my left hand under my right to brace it, my palm on the butt of the weapon.
“Do you think you'll get married again?” he asked.
I thought about Latham. “It will happen, sooner or later.”
“You have someone, I'm guessing.”
“Yes.”
“Does he like it that you're a cop?”
I considered the question before answering. “He likes the whole package.”
Paul abruptly inhaled. A snort? I couldn't tell. I did a very quick left to right sweep with my eyes. The crowd was growing, and inching closer—one traffic cop couldn't keep everyone back by himself. The media had also arrived. Took them long enough, considering four networks had offices within a few blocks.
“Waiting for things to happen, that's a mistake.” Paul closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. “If you want things to happen, you have to make them happen. Because you never know how long things are going to last.”
He didn't seem depressed. More like irritated. I took a slow breath, smelling the cumulative exhaust of a thousand cars and buses, wishing the damn negotiator would arrive.
“Do you live in the area, Paul?”
He sniffled, sounding congested. “Suburbs.”
“Do you work downtown?”
“Used to. Until about half an hour ago.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Can you give me more than that?”
He squinted at me. “Why do you care?”
“It's my job, Paul.”
“It's your job to protect people.”
“Yes. And you're a person.”
“You want to protect me from myself.”
“Yes.”
“You also want to protect these people around us.”
“Yes.”
“How far away are they, do you think? Fifteen feet? Twenty?”
A strange question, and I didn't like it. “I don't know. Why?”
Paul made a show of looking around.
“Lot of people here. Big responsibility, protecting them all.”
He shifted, and my finger automatically tensed on the trigger. Paul said something, but it was lost in the honking.
“Can you repeat that, Paul?”
“Maybe life isn't worth protecting.”
“Sure it is.”
“There are bad people in the world. They do bad things. Should they be protected too?”
“Everyone should be protected.”
Paul squinted at me. “Have you ever shot anyone, Jack?”
Another question I didn't like.
“When I was forced to, yes. Please don't force me, Paul.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you ever wanted to?”
“No.”
Paul made a face like I was lying. “Why not? Do you believe in God? In heaven? Are you one of those crazy right-to-lifers who believe all life is sacred? Do you protest the death penalty?”
“I believe blood is hard to get off of your hands, even if it's justified.”
He shifted again, and his jacket came open. There was a spot of something on his shirt. Something red. Both my arms were feeling the strain of holding up my weapon, and a spike of fear-induced adrenalin caused a tremor in my hands.
“What's that on your shirt, Paul? Is that blood?”
He didn't bother to look. “Probably.”
I kept my voice steady. “Did you go to work today, Paul?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bring your gun to work?”
No answer. I glanced at the spot of blood again, and noticed that his stomach didn't look right. I'd first thought Paul was overweight. Now it looked like he had something bulky on under his shirt.
“Did you hurt anyone at work today, Paul?”
“That's the past, Jack. You can't protect them. What's done is done.”
I was liking this situation less and less. That spot of blood drew my eyes like a beacon. I wondered if he was wearing a bullet proof vest under his business suit, or something worse.
“I don't want to go to jail,” he said.
“What did you do, Paul?”
“They shouldn't have fired me.”
“Who? Where do you work?”
“Since Doris died, I haven't been bringing my 'A Game.' That's understandable, isn't it?”
I raised my voice. “How did you get blood on your shirt, Paul?”
Paul glared at me, but his eyes were out of focus.
“When you shot those people, did they scream?” he asked.
I wasn't sure what he was after, so I stayed silent.
He grinned. “Doesn't it make you feel good when they scream?”
Now I got it. This guy wasn't just suicidal—he was homicidal as well. I took a step backward.
“Don't leave, Jack. I want you to see this. You should see this. I'm moving very slow, okay?”
He put his hand into his pocket. I cocked the hammer back on my Colt. Paul fished out something small and silver, and I was a hair's breadth away from shooting him.
“This is a detonator. I've got some explosives strapped to my chest. If you take another step away, if you yell, I'll blow both of us up. And the bomb is strong enough to kill a lot of people in the crowd. It's also wired to my heartbeat. I die, it goes off.”
I didn't know if I believed him or not. Explosives weren't easy to get, or to make. And rigging up a detonator—especially one that was hooked into your pulse—that was really hard, even if you could find the plans on the Internet. But Paul's eyes had just enough hint of psychosis in them that I stayed put.
“Do you doubt me, Jack? I see some doubt. I work at LarsiTech, out of the Prudential Building. We sell medical equipment. That's where I got the ECG electrode pads. It's also where I got the radioactive isotopes.”
My breath caught in my throat, and my gun became impossibly heavy. Paul must have noticed my reaction, because he smiled.
“The isotopes won't cause a nuclear explosion, Jack. The detonator is too small. But they will spread radioactivity for a pretty good distance. You've heard of dirty bombs, right? People won't die right away. They'll get sick. Hair will fall out. And teeth. Skin will slough off. Blindness. Leukemia. Nasty business. I figure I've got enough strapped to my waist to contaminate the whole block.”
All I could ask was, “Why?”
“Because I'm a bad person, Jack. Remember? Bad people do bad things.”
“Would Doris...approve...of this?”