Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [27]
“Hey!” Klayman yelled. He’d entered the area from the other direction, weapon drawn, and stood fifteen feet from the Dumpster. The dealer turned and aimed at Klayman, the smile still on his lips.
“Get down, Ricky!” Johnson called.
But Klayman began closing the gap between him and Ortiz, walking deliberately, step-by-step, weapon held out in front with both hands and aimed at the dealer’s head. “Don’t be stupid,” he said in a firm voice. “Drop it. Just drop it.”
Johnson crawled toward his gun but never took his eyes from the face-off between Klayman and Ortiz. It was as though Klayman had hypnotized the dealer, a cat stalking a mesmerized bird. Johnson reached his weapon when Klayman was only a few feet from Ortiz. He came up to a sitting position and squeezed off a single shot. It struck Ortiz in the left temple, shattering his skull and sending a plume of blood into the air. Ortiz’s finger froze on the trigger of his pistol as he fell to his right, the remaining rounds from his weapon popping like Fourth of July firecrackers.
Johnson scrambled to his feet and joined Klayman, who stood over Ortiz’s lifeless body.
“You crazy bastard,” Johnson muttered, his breath coming hard. “Why didn’t you take cover?”
“He would have shot you,” Klayman said. His eyes were still on Ortiz. He was numb, disassociated from the reality of what had just happened and its aftermath. Johnson had lowered his weapon to his side; Klayman still held his in both hands, pointed at the dead drug dealer. They heard sirens and cars coming to a noisy halt in front of the ramshackle buildings.
Johnson shook his head. “You should’ve taken cover, Rick.”
Klayman returned his gun to its holster beneath his arm. He nodded. “I know,” he said, walking away. “I know.”
Because Johnson had used his weapon and a death had occurred, a department inquiry was conducted, a pro forma hearing. There was no question that the veteran detective had been justified in shooting Ortiz in order to not only save his own life but his partner’s as well. When Klayman was asked during the proceedings whether he considered his actions to have saved Johnson’s life, he replied in a voice so soft that the chairman of the investigative panel had to ask him to speak up: “I don’t remember anything about it,” he said. “It’s all a blank.”
He didn’t have to recall the incident, for word of his bravery quickly made the rounds at First District headquarters. Johnson recounted the experience every chance he got, and Klayman basked in its glory.
“ARE YOU FEELING ALL RIGHT, Richard?” his mother asked.
“I feel fine. You?”
“All right, I suppose, considering my age. Did you speak with your sister today?”
“No. She left a message while I was out. I’ll call after we hang up.”
“Please do. She isn’t happy.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t think the marriage is going well. Harry is such a difficult man, so stubborn. I wish—”
“I just got in, Mom, and I haven’t had dinner. I’ll call Susan. I promise.”
“Good. I worry so about you and Susan. The doctor says it isn’t healthy for me to worry. How is your lady friend?”
“I—who are you talking about?”
“I don’t remember her name. You mentioned her once. Rachel, maybe. Or Roxanne.”
“Rachel. She’s fine. Heard from her today, in fact. Have to run. Glad you and Dad are doing okay. Love you both.”
He was relieved when he reached his sister’s answering machine. He heated up a can of tomato soup, sliced some bread, and ate in