Die Man.
That was Olav’s immediate response when he saw the hoodie. In the days when he was on patrol, a hood was always reason enough to stop someone, and surprisingly often it resulted in illegal weapons, narcotics or someone they were looking for. Only when he saw the glint of a knife did Olav start to doubt that he was seeing Die Man. And his mistake was confirmed—fortunately for him—when he heard the trembling voice:
“Give me your money!”
The voice was that of a boy, and he was standing so far away he would have had to take at least two steps before he could use the knife. Die Man would never have sent a frightened amateur out without a gun.
“Easy now, got my wallet here,” said Olav as he dug his hand in under his jacket. The boy didn’t protest. Olav pulled the SIG Sauer P320 from its shoulder holster and leveled it at him.
“Don’t move or I’ll kill you,” he said calmly but very clearly. In his experience, use of the simple, precise word “kill” had a more powerful effect than any macho stuff about “blowing your brains out” and other such euphemisms.
The figure twitched. Flight mechanism—the fight reflex had already disappeared.
He stayed where he was. The freeze alternative had triumphed.
Definitely an amateur. A pro would know the chances of someone bothering to shoot a fleeing would-be robber in the back, someone armed only with a knife, were minimal.
“I’m a police officer,” said Olav. He pulled his jacket aside with his free hand to let the boy see the badge on his belt. “Drop the knife and raise your arms up in the air. Do it quickly, because I still feel like killing you.”
The boy did as Olav said, and Olav felt something he hadn’t felt for years. A combination of excitement and calm. Of control in a critical situation. Of mastery. That was what he had been sogood at, on the football field, on patrol, and in his first years as a homicide detective. Too good, perhaps. He had started to believe he could control everything.
The knife clinked against the pavement and when the boy raised his arms above his head his hood slid down. Olav nearly jumped. Not just because the kid was so young, but because for a fraction of a second he reminded him of Sean. Sure, the kid was younger, and he was black, but the next thought came along just the same. That it could have been Sean standing in this kid’s shoes. That he could only hope Sean hadn’t already made the wrong choice, like the one the kid standing in front of him had made this evening. The boy’s lower lip was quivering, as though this was a result, a defeat, that didn’t come as any surprise. How old could he be? Sixteen? Seventeen? Alone, in a world of gangs, armed with a knife in a world of guns, still an amateur when kids of fourteen already had three or four shootings behind them. It was probably not the first criminal act the boy had committed, but perhaps the first robbery, it almost looked that way. And taken that decisive step into a world in which he did not belong, but one in which the door would slam shut behind him. The one wrong choice he would have to look back on for the rest of his life. Unlikely maybe, but not unthinkable either.
“What’s your name?” asked Olav.
The boy stopped staring at the gun and looked up at him and said nothing.
“Your first name’ll do,” said Olav.
The boy swallowed. “Elliot,” he said, a sob in his throat.
“Okay, now listen here, Elliot. What do you need money for?”
“Need?”
“Is it for dope? Or for your sick mother?”
“For shoes,” said the boy.
“Shoes?”
“New Nike shoes.”
Olav wasn’t shocked. He gave an exasperated sigh. “How much do they cost?”
“Cost?”
“Roughly?”
“Two hundred and forty-one dollars.”
“Okay,” said Olav. He pulled out his wallet, wondering whether he was about to make yet another wrong choice. He lowered the gun and counted out the notes. “Here’s two hundred, it’s all I have. Is that enough to…?”
The boy nodded hesitantly. He looked as though he was wondering what kind of trap he was being lured into.
“All I ask is that you promise me…or no, that you promise yourself one thing. That this is the one mistake you get away with. Like a mulligan in golf, get me?”
Olav saw that the boy didn’t understand. He held out the money to him.
