Only the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

the bathroom, and discharged your weapon three times, blind, through a partially open door.’
    ‘That’s correct.’
    ‘And as a result the suspect was struck twice in the torso?’
    ‘I believe so.’
    ‘Do you believe that in this situation you acted in an appropriate manner, with regard to the guidelines stipulated by Police Standard Operating Procedure?’
    ‘Yes, I do.’
    Bowen flicked through some papers, looked up like something had just occurred to him. ‘Sergeant, just a side note: am I correct in saying you’re currently considering leaving the police?’
    ‘Where did you hear that from?’
    ‘I don’t recall. But is that the case?’
    Don’t recall. He’d voiced it calmly, but there wasn’t a flake of truth to it. Devereaux said, ‘No, that’s not correct.’
    ‘You have no intention of ending your employment?’
    ‘That’s correct.’
    Bowen showed no reaction. A brief quiet settled gently as he reviewed his notes. He looked up and said, ‘Can you outline the basis of your reasoning in choosing to discharge a firearm with neither verbal warning nor a visual fix?’
    ‘My reasoning was that if I didn’t shoot, someone could end up dead.’
    Frank Briar said, ‘That might still be the case.’
    Devereaux didn’t answer. He knew a bit about the man: the divorces, the four excessive force accusations, the liquor issues, the cardiac trouble. Whether by design or intention, his job had walled out every other element of his life. Twenty years of drugs and homicide didn’t leave room for much else. He was bloodshot and unshaven, curled hair mussed. He looked worse than his own back story.
    Briar said, ‘There a problem?’
    Devereaux let the question hang a second. He said, ‘I was just trying to think why you might be in here. But I can’t think of a single reason.’
    Briar smiled. ‘How about the fact I’ve never fucked anything up as badly as you just did?’
    Devereaux didn’t answer. Bowen and McCarthy pretended they hadn’t heard, wrote in silence. Devereaux stood up. He dropped his hands in his pockets, trying to look unfazed.
    ‘I didn’t realise we were done,’ Bowen said.
    Devereaux tucked his chair in. ‘If I don’t have a cigarette I’m going to shoot someone else,’ he said.
    None of them smiled. The Don’s stare burrowed straight to the marrow. Bowen clicked his pen closed and gave him the magic words: ‘Don’t leave town, sergeant. And answer your phone. We’ll pick this up later.’

FIVE
    M ONDAY , 13 F EBRUARY , 6.58 P.M .
    S mokeless for nearly three hours. Devereaux lit a cigarette on the way out the front door. He drew some glances, sensed people wanting to stop and chat. A look of stern preoccupation let him pass unhindered.
    Charlotte Greer had gone by the time the meeting finished, probably put out by his decision to decline assistance. He checked his messages when he reached his car: one missed call, courtesy of John Hale. He dialled the number as he turned out onto Wiri Station Road.
    ‘I got your message,’ Hale said. ‘You didn’t answer my call-back.’
    ‘I was in debriefing.’
    ‘How was it?’
    ‘Nobody told me I did the right thing.’
    ‘What did you expect?’
    Devereaux didn’t answer.
    ‘Is he okay?’
    ‘Not really. I shot him twice.’
    ‘Do you want a beer?’
    ‘Yeah. Where are you?’
    ‘The office.’
    ‘Put a couple in the fridge for me.’
    Hale rented office space in a unit on High Street, central city. Devereaux found a kerb slot and took the stairs up. The door was unlocked. He went in and found Hale feet up behind his desk, stereo on soft.
    The fridge sat below the deep, west-facing window, the day in vast orange exodus beyond, the street below quiet and blue-shadowed.
    Bottles chimed gently as he opened the door. He took two beers and de-capped them with an opener waiting on the sill. The motion in silhouette against the patch of late sun on the floor behind.
    Hale said, ‘I like it that you greet the fridge