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“Me,” he said, but without taking his eyes off her. He lowered his voice so only she could hear him. “That list of wishes we talked about earlier? Add to mine that I wish my arm had stopped that bullet.”
Her throat constricted, and she feared she might begin crying again. “If I don’t see you again, I want you to know that I’ll always be grateful to you for trying.”
She extended her hand. He looked down at it, then back into her face, then back at her hand as his closed around it. They shook. She kept it brief, then withdrew her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Hudson.”
I take a bow because…
“We’re uncertain at this time if the unknown suspect was acquainted with Levi Jenkins, or in league with him, or if Jenkins served as a scapegoat to throw first responders off track while the individual who committed this heinous crime made good his escape.”
So says the austere head of the Sheriff’s Office CID department.
This is the third time I’ve watched a replay of this afternoon’s press conference. It’s the best sitcom I’ve seen in ages. The egg on this guy’s face is priceless.
“Hey, genius, it was what you in law enforcement call a crime of opportunity.”
One presented itself, and I seized it. That’s not to say that I hadn’t been patiently watching and waiting for it. It was worth the wait. It was perfect. Wrong place, wrong time for some, including Levi what’s-his-name. But if I’d handpicked a suitable scapegoat, I couldn’t have done better.
The department head goes on. “We’re continuing to try to locate next of kin or someone acquainted with Levi Jenkins. If anyone seeing this photo recognizes him, please notify the authorities.”
Cue the mug shot of Levi, an unwashed, worthless pothead if I’ve ever seen one.
“The shooter acted quickly but effectively to stage the suicide, making Levi Jenkins the last victim.”
“You say that with such undeserved reverence. You just showed us his mug shot. He was a drain on society. Now he’s a saint? Please. No one will miss him. No onehasmissed him.”
Becoming bored, I fast-forward through the section where the guy takes questions. Nothing of substance came from any of his answers. Even the rank and file of grim-faced law enforcement officials standing behind the podium looked pained by some of his blatant sidestepping.
“You’ve got nothing on me, do you? You’re afraid that your viewing audience, of which I’m an avid member, knows it.”
I hit Play when the recording gets to Shauna Calloway. I was a fan of hers even before her coverage of the shooting. She asked about the firearm found in Jenkins’s hand.
“Has it been confirmed that this was the weapon used in the shooting?”
“Yes. All the bullets fired came from this weapon. It’s a semi-automatic pistol. Thirty-eight caliber.”
“Has its ownership been traced?”
“Shame on you, Shauna. That’s such a dumb question.”
He replies, “No. And we haven’t connected it to any other crime. But we’re turning over every stone, following every lead.”
“Exactly what leads are you referring to? You don’t have any. Not one. You should shut up before you embarrass yourself further.”
“Even trace evidence can provide us with a valuable clue,” he says.
“Trace evidence? Knock yourselves out. Waste taxpayers’ money.”
“However, our most reliable asset will be a witness.” Steely eyed, he scans his listeners as though looking for a witness among them. “Someone who saw something that they probably don’t even realize is a clue into the identity of the suspect. There’s a number appearing on your screen. Please call it if you have any information, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Each call will be taken seriously. Your identity will be kept confidential.”
Annnndhere comes the big finish. An impersonation of J. Edgar Hoover.
“We’ll find the individual who committed this unspeakable crime—”
“Good luck with that, J. Edgar.”
“—and see to it that justice is served for the victims and their families.”
I hit Stop, Rewind, Replay. It’s worth sitting through the whole farce to hear that last line. It’s the epitome of irony.
