Manhunt. Volume 2, Number 10, December, 1954

At the same time I could feel young Hollenbeck’s eyes boring into my back and they felt a little like Weigand’s bullets must have felt to Meade. I walked away.

The doc said Meade might go in fifteen minutes or he might last the night. He lapsed into unconsciousness after they took him to Emergency. He might or might not come out of it again, the doc said.

Weigand assigned me to stay with Meade. He thought that was a master touch, I guess. He could see by looking at me how I felt about my idea ending the way it had. The way I felt was not good. And it had nothing to do with the fact that I probably wouldn’t get any commendation now that the gimmick had inadvertently set Weigand up for some live target practice, the way even the Brass in the department felt about him. But I didn’t care about that. That wasn’t what was bothering me.

Weigand and the others were about to leave when Meade came to again and whispered something to the doc. The doc had to bend his head down almost to Meade’s mouth, his voice was now so weak. I heard the doc say: “Okay.”

Then the doc straightened and called: “Sergeant, this man says he’s got something to say to the one who shot him. He said to tell the fat slob who shot him he wants to talk to him. Those were his words.” The doc grinned.

Weigand didn’t like that. He looked hard at the doc and he wanted to say something, you could tell. But what could he say? With a snort of disgust he stalked back into the room. He stood over the rolling table where Meade was stretched out on his back.

“What the hell is it?” Weigand demanded, impatiently.

Meade coughed. “If I’d — known it was you, Weigand, I’d — never — have run. I’ve heard — about you. You — never miss, do you?” He spoke hoarsely, haltingly. His skinny hand clawed toward his throat. “I... I can’t talk loud. It... it hurts my throat. Can’t you bend down so I don’t have to strain so much? I got one last thing to tell you, sharp-shooter. It... it’s important.”

Weigand looked him over. He couldn’t see any danger. Meade was dying and didn’t have strength to hit him or try and grab him or anything. As Meade began to whisper something unintelligble, then, Weigand bent and put his ear close to Meade’s mouth, to hear.

We were all watching. We saw Meade’s hand move suddenly but the angle of Weigand’s head blocked us from seeing what Meade did with that hand. But we saw Weigand straighten like someone had goosed him with a white hot poker. We saw his fat fists pushed against both eyes. He screamed once, a thin, womanish sound that faded in a few moments to a sick whinnying. We all stared, dumbfounded.

We watched Weigand stamp his feet like a kid playing soldier and bend and straighten and then bend again, over and over, while he lurched around the room, bumping into a table and a desk and finally the wall. He leaned against the wall, all bent over and we saw the trickle of blood running down his cheek from under one fist.

The doc ran to Weigand then and forcibly tore the big man’s hands away from his face.

“Jesus!” the doc said when he saw Weigand’s eyes.

I looked at Danny Meade, then. His right hand was across his chest and he still had the first two fingers forked, the thumb holding the others out of the way, and I knew what he had done. There was something like a grin on Meade’s drawn gray face. He whispered loud enough for all of us to hear: “He won’t ever shoot anyone again, will he?”

Weigand didn’t hear it, though. We saw he had fainted. The doc ran out into the hall to get help. I walked over to Meade and when I reached him I saw that he was gone, now, for sure. That same expression, the grin, or maybe it was just a death contraction, I don’t know, was still on his face...

We waited around until the doc came down from the operating room, some time later. He shook his head. He said: “Meade must’ve had nails like a Mandarin’s. There wasn’t much we could do. A specialist might be able to save partial sight, later, but he’ll have to wear glasses thick as headlight lenses. He won’t be much good as a cop anymore, I’m afraid.”

“Hell,” Hollenbeck said, then, belatedly. “He never was.”

I looked at Hollenbeck. I said: “Kid, does a fine, sensitive young sporting gentleman like you ever think about going out and getting roaring drunk? For emetic purposes, only, of course?”

He didn’t look at me but he said: “You’re damn well told. Let’s get out of here.”

And he and I and Smitty, we did that.

Twilight by Hal Harwood

I’ll never forget the way it happened. I’ll remember every detail of that night as long as I live...

* * *