Charlie's Requiem Novella Read Free Page B

Drosky replied to dispatch that he had received the A.P.B. The young officer turned at the next cross-street and reversed back toward the intersection of Colonial and Bumby, his head on a swivel as he searched for anyone matching the description given by the victim.
    The officer had traversed about a quarter of a mile back, driving on a street one block south of Colonial Drive, when he saw a young man walking with a strange gait down the sidewalk. One look at his face, red and flush from tears and a possible dousing by pepper spray, told the policeman all he needed to call in a possible suspect sighting from the clinic attack.
    Drosky stopped the vehicle and turned on his blue strobe lights. He exited the vehicle and rocked the hood forward on his Safariland SLS holster, freeing his Sig 226 for a quick draw. He slowly approached the young man, noting the lack of movement of his right arm. The physical description couldn’t have been more accurate. The backpack, jeans and polo shirt were a perfect match in color. The young man moved as in a daze, mumbling under his breath as he slowly wandered down the sidewalk. He moved without a purpose, his mind unfocused even though Drosky’s police car stood just a few yards away with its lights flashing.
    “Sir!” the office said. “Stop right there and keep your hands where I can see them!”
    The officer had his right hand on his service pistol, ready to draw it if any sign of violence were to occur. The policeman pointed with his left hand at the boy.
    “Sir!” he repeated. “Stop and keep your hands where I can see them.”
    The young man, really a teenager, suddenly looked up and noticed the officer. He gave the policeman a funny look, like he had just woken up, and did the craziest of things. He smiled.
    “Sir! Please do me a favor and stop. Keep your hands away from your body.”
    The teenager stopped and turned to the officer, his hands away from his body, palms open and facing out.
    “Young man,” the officer said in a more quiet tone, “please lay face down on the sidewalk.”
    The teenager responded as ordered. He unsnapped his backpack, letting it drop to the ground. The young man went prone, and officer Drosky came up behind him and helped him spread his legs and arms, almost like a snow angel.
    “Son,” the officer said. “Do you have any weapons? Any drugs or needles I need to know about?”
    The boy pointed at his backpack, but said nothing. After carefully patting him down, the officer placed the boy in handcuffs. Another patrol car rolled up allowing Drosky a chance to search his backpack. The officer was surprised to see high school books and notepads, all neatly packed and perfectly maintained. After removing all of the school items, he opened the flap on the side of the bag. He shook his head and reaching in with gloved hand, gently removed a kitchen butcher knife.
    “I have a weapon,” Drosky announced.
    A shame, the officer thought. If the stupid kid hadn’t had the knife, he could have been out on the street tonight. Even though he hadn’t brandished it to the victim, it wouldn’t sit well that it was in his possession.
    “What is your name?” Drosky asked.
    No reply. Both officers tried to get the young man to talk. He refused to say a word. Instead of being afraid, or belligerent or acting like most other young drug addicted youths did, the boy just lay there with a slight smile on his face. Drosky had never seen a perp look so sedate, so content with his lot in life. Most druggies talked. They denied or pleaded with him. This one just didn’t. No words. No violent or angry attitude. Nothing about this guy indicated he was capable of assaulting another human being.
    Drosky radioed in that the suspect was in custody and ready for him to transport. He had his wallet and learned that although he was still 17, the presence of a large knife linked to a violent attack mandated that they take him to the 33rd street jail for processing with the