For some reason, they look around the parking lot. Are they waiting for someone else? Why aren’t we hurrying up the path to help Bryan?
“Are you saying someone brought a gun on the hiking path? Did he shoot it? This is a pretty residential area, sir.”
Already tired of these two, I try to keep my cool as I say, “Yes, he shot it. He was trying to kill some animal. Then he was waving it around, and it went off. Just follow me, okay? You’ll see.”
As they hurry to keep up with me while I race along the trail, the woman calls out, “Perhaps we should get the police involved?”
I turn around and glare at the two of them. “There’s a person up here hurt. Call whoever you want, but he needs you two now!”
My anger soars inside me, and I swear at the next community board meeting, I’m going to bring up how ineffective these people are. We pay for this community to be safe. Clearly, we aren’t getting our money’s worth with these two.
The three of us reach the clearing, and I stop dead at the sight of Bryan all bloody lying on the ground. He isn’t moving, and when I zero in on his chest, he’s still.
Oh my God! He can’t be dead. I still can’t figure out how he shot himself. What kind of moron doesn’t understand to keep guns away from your damn body?
The two paramedics quickly jump into action, and as they hover over Bryan trying to save his life, it’s obvious it’s a useless cause. He’s gone.
But none of this makes sense.
For the next ten minutes, I stand there in shock as the man and woman do their job. I hear him make a call to the police, but they don’t speak to me again. I try to understand what’s happened. Nothing works. This is crazy.
When the police arrive, two uniformed officers look down at Bryan’s dead body for a few moments before walking around the clearing searching for something.
After five minutes of walking around, they make their way to where I’m standing off to the side so I’m not in the way. My eyes are drawn to their nametags just above their chest pockets. Ramon and Raintree. Sounds like a sitcom someone in Hollywood would dream up. Two cops from different backgrounds get together and fight crime in a suburban Maryland town where on many days the most exciting thing to happen is someone left their garbage cans out at the curb too long and the HOA has to send a threatening letter saying they’re going to levy a fine if the receptacles aren’t put away properly.
I wouldn’t watch it, but I bet lots of people would.
“What is your name, sir?” Officer Ramon asks, and I lift my gaze to look at his face.
He reminds me of that actor my wife thinks is handsome. Actually, what she says is he’s hot. He’s Hispanic, and she claims there’s something about the way he smiles that does it for her. The man in front of me looks a little more weathered than the guy Jamie drools over, but I bet she’d like him. She has a type. Why she wanted to date me makes no sense when I think of that.
“Connor,” I answer in a flat voice, still not understanding how any of this happened. “Connor Jennings.”
“Okay, Mr. Jennings. And your address?”
I give him my address and then he asks, “You were the person who called this in?” the officer asks as he fishes out a notebook and pen from his shirt pocket.
“Yes. I mean no. I was with Bryan when it happened, but I wasn’t the person who called 9-1-1. That was the girl at the community center. I ran down there to get help.”
Officer Ramon nods and hums as he jots down the highlights of what I’ve said so far and then lifts his head to look at me again. “You and the victim, Bryan Corsei, were just out for a hike this afternoon when he was shot? Is that what happened?”
I nod before answering, “Yeah, but he wasn’t shot. He shot himself.”
That sounds ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to say it.
“Did he say he wanted to kill himself?”
I shake my head, unsure how to answer that. Did he? I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly listening that closely to what he was saying.
“No. At least I don’t think so. It’s hard to say.”
More humming and nodding happen before he looks me right in the eyes and asks, “Why didn’t you just call the ambulance from your cell phone?”
I sheepishly pat the pockets in my pants for some reason, even though I know my phone isn’t on me. “I…I guess I don’t have it. To be honest, I’m not sure why I didn’t realize it before when I was leaving the house, but I don’t have my phone.”
That’s not completely honest, but I’m not really in the mood to explain about how little care my wife takes with my clothes. That information doesn’t seem necessary for these two to know.
His gaze trails down my body to where my hands were feeling around for my phone a few seconds ago and then back up to my face. I see immediately he doesn’t believe me.
