Read an excerpt . . .
September 20, 1980
LAPD Officer, Steve Fischer, “Don’t worry Kenny, you’re gonna be fine, everything’s gonna be just fine.”
The words were meant to reassure me, but I never in my life wanted to hear them, especially lying flat on my back, after being shot three times at point blank range. I knew what Steve was trying to do and I appreciated it.
He and I had gone through the academy together a decade ago. Inches away from me, my assailant, who in legal parlance would still be referred to as the suspect, lie bleeding out, as the result of a single gunshot wound to the head. A river of blood flowed out of his cheek, down the sidewalk, and into the gutter. In the darkness of the night, the blood looked black, like crude oil.
In the distance sirens were wailing, as every officer in the vicinity was racing to the call of: “Officer needs help – shots fired - officer down.” I had done so myself in the past and joined in the screaming posse, I just never imagined they would be riding to me.
I stared up at Steve. He was a good cop, and a good man. I could trust him to do what I needed him to do next.
“I’m hurtin’ real bad Steve,” I said. “Tell my wife and my sons that I love ‘em.”
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