Murray Hill || A Superhuman Tale - 1

Chapter Four

The officers brought Che in on an outstanding warrant and his companions on immigration issues. The rest of the evening was spent at the police precinct, where one hour soon stretched into three and where Tommy took no liberties. He just translated, didn't volunteer information or opinions, and even pretended to not understand Gon from time-to-time to add a touch of reality to his act.

Don't draw too much attention to yourself, he reminded himself time and again.

By about 10:00 pm, the detectives had a much clearer understanding of the shooting that had occurred earlier in the evening. Through the careful probing and follow-up questions Tommy translated for the detectives, Gon's story had become sharper, and the other detainees had cooperated to various degrees. Li finally had fessed to speaking some Cantonese and had spilled his guts to Officer Wuan, and even Che had volunteered some information about the shooter in newfound English. The officers and detectives were good at their jobs.

Tommy assumed his participation was more-or-less complete when officers took Gon down to await transfer to ICE custody.

However, as he readied himself to depart, Detective Thomas, who, to Tommy's amusement, went by the nickname "Tommy" among her fellow detectives, came into the room and asked whether he wanted to go on a "field trip."

He smiled at her turn of phrase. Apparently, one of the detainees—it wasn't clear whether it was Li or Che—had indicated that the supervisor at the warehouse where Gon and Li lived and worked knew the identity of the shooter. Since there were other residents at the warehouse who spoke the same obscure dialect, Detective Thomas hoped Tommy might come along and help sort things out.

The hour was late, but the detectives and officers were all in high spirits for having made such rapid progress, and all hoped to put a homicide to bed PDQ. According to the detective, there was nothing to suggest anyone at the warehouse was armed or dangerous. But to be on the safe side, they would meet several patrol cars and some armed federal agents at the facility, to which Gon had provided a surprisingly detailed diagram and another detainee had given an address.

Tommy found himself swept up in the mood.

Twenty-five minutes later, a dilapidated building a few blocks off 38th Street loomed in front of them. It didn't appear originally to have been a warehouse, but an old office building that may have been partly converted to apartments at some point. Several patrol officers already were present when they'd arrived.

After the detectives conferred with the patrol sergeant for a few minutes, the sergeant gave the detectives directions to a room on the second floor where a local informant had said the property manager had his apartment. They decided the best approach would be to leave several units to cordon off the building, front and back, and the rest of the officers would start at the top floor and work down. Warrants had been obtained for the entire structure with little delay.

While the sergeant organized the cordon and search teams, Tommy went with detectives Mueller and Thomas to speak with the manager and to secure any keys that might be necessary.

As they often did, things went sideways with little warning.

The lighting in the building was abysmal, so as the three came to what they believed was the correct door, Detective Thomas produced a small flashlight to check the number.

That was the point at which time slowed for Tommy. The detective had stopped square in front of the door when Tommy, who'd been paying scant attention to their surroundings, heard the slight squeak and grind of a trigger being pulled—it had been a long while, but the sound was unmistakable—and he sensed there was someone standing just on the other side of the door.

So quickly did he interpose himself between Detective Thomas and the door that even in the best of light no witness could've followed his motion. As Tommy moved into place, an enormous jet of wood and metal erupted from the door, and Tommy took the full blast of the 12 guage-00 buck in the chest.

In the split second that followed, Detective Mueller dropped to one knee, instinctively reaching for his weapon, and Detective Thomas fell back against the wall opposite the door.

Tommy stood there. The impotent shot, mangled and now useless, dropped to the floor along with bits of splinter from the door.

"Oh, crap," said Tommy. Anger wouldn't describe his reaction, just ... resignation.

Resigned or angry, he wasn't going to allow the person inside the apartment get off another shot. The door mostly was still intact, and Tommy struck it with one fluid and effortless kick that tore the thing from its frame with such force that it scooped up the shooter, sending door and shooter flying through the apartment and down a short hallway, like leaves blown before the wind. The furious motion of man and wood ended only when both smacked an exterior wall and came to rest on the floor.

Tommy followed the shooter with easy strides. When he reached the semiconscious man, he toed the shotgun safely into a corner. A quick look told him there were some broken bones and a few missing teeth—from the look of it, there were internal injuries as well—but there was nothing immediately life-threatening.

So, no reason to be gentle. And there was no reason to playact anymore. He grabbed the fool by the belt and lifted him with all the effort one might exert to recover a stray shoe. With the same ease, he walked the felon back to the entry and tossed him on the floor near where the fool had fired his shot.

Detective Mueller stood half in the door with his pistol out and his free hand resting on what remained of the doorframe. It was obvious that the lad was deeply shaken.

"You're one of them," he said.

Tommy glanced down. His 'Too Drunk to Fuck' t-shirt had become a casualty of the war on crime. There was an enormous hole in the center of it, around which were stray bits of splinter. As he pulled it off, rolled up its remnants, and shoved them in his back pocket, he asked the detective, "Is there any way you can leave my name out of this?"

The sound of uniformed officers climbing the stairs echoed down the hallway as Tommy loosed the work shirt from his waist and slipped it on.

Mueller looked as if he didn't know what to say. Tommy knew what he was asking of the policeman. Finally, he heard Detective Thomas' voice.

"Yes. Get out of here." She stood there on unsteady legs, still leaning against the hallway wall. But the certainty in her voice tipped Mueller in Tommy's direction.

"Get outta here, kid," the older detective said with sudden conviction.

Tommy didn't wait. He beat-feet out the door. Behind him, Detective Mueller called out, "All clear! Let him go," as Tommy passed a group of incoming patrolmen. Going down the stairs, he could still make out snatches of conversation. "Nobody hurt ..." "... no, he didn't see anything ..." "maybe a gas explosion ...."

Tommy slipped out the building's front door, walked half a block toward home, and then broke into a jog.

Not the evening you planned on, dumbass.