Resolve (13 page)

Undaunted, he pushed forward, so I pulled sharply on his sweatshirt and executed a decent shoulder toss. I should have kept my grip on his shirt and slammed him flat on the ground, but I released him in midair. I expected him to land on his back and either go unconscious or submit, but some part of his kickboxing training must have taught him the correct way to roll out of a fall. He tucked his chin into his chest and minimized the damage by curving his back and rolling onto his right hip. I couldn’t believe it. The tire iron was still in his right hand. He was back on his feet in an instant.

We danced in a circle near the front wall of the garage, both panting.

“Steven. Get a hold of yourself. You don’t want to do this.”

I thought about how absurd this was.

“I know I outed you, but this is a little extreme, don’t you think?”

Without a word from his face that was dripping with crimson, he came right at me.

Having plenty of room to maneuver, he had the advantage. I took a left jab to the chin, a kick to the stomach, and another left to the side of the face. I tasted his rage as it dripped down the back of my throat. He feigned like he was going to finally unleash the hand choking the metal rod, and then he delivered a low kick to my left knee. Before I knew it, I was kneeling with my victimized knee down and my healthy one up. The shoulder that had taken the initial blow felt like it had spent the night in a trash compactor. When I had thrown Steven, I felt a tingling sensation all the way down to my right wrist. If the injured limb stopped working, I was going to have an even bigger problem. I had a good idea what was coming next, and I was going to need that arm for one last task.

Steven stood above me, unrecognizable with the flattened nose and accompanying fountain of color. I tried one last time to reason with him. If ever there were an overreaction, this was it.

“You have to stop,” I spat red. “This can be fixed. It’s not the end of the world.” I held my left knee, intentionally communicating that it was useless.

He edged closer and wiped blood away from his mouth with a sleeve.

“Steven! Think, for God’s sake! You’re not a killer!”

It was when his sleeve pulled away. It was right there on his face. That’s when I knew that I had miscalculated everything up to that point.

“Sorry, Cyprus. Can’t take the chance.”

He raised the tire iron above his head, wound his hips up, and let the corkscrew unwind in order to deliver the fatal blow.

Pushing off my right foot, I leapt back and the weapon slashed diagonally past my face. My right arm was hanging across my body as I held my damaged but still-functioning left knee, and I said a silent prayer as I prepared it for battle. Steven had shifted all of his weight forward with the powerful swing and he was leaning slightly to his left after the follow through. I brought my right forearm across the right side of his neck with all the force I could muster, by turning my torso and slingshotting my arm while stepping forward.

The result was predictable, to a point. The quake caused by the impact on the side of his neck was enough to cause a hiccup in his carotid artery. The blood simply stopped flowing to the brain just long enough to cause disorientation, or even a momentary loss of consciousness. The overly aggressive slash with the tire iron was the opening in his defenses I was waiting for. The blow landed precisely as I had hoped and Steven’s internal CPU went into standby mode. The problem was, he was nearly toppling over before I struck him. When I unleashed all of my strength into his neck, his feet left terra firma and his head cartwheeled toward it.

Mile 8

N
orth Shore Drive runs behind both the baseball and football stadiums and winds past the downtown casino. This time of year, Heinz Field serves only as a taunting reminder to the Steeler-crazed city that football season is still a lifetime away. During the season, I’ve seen fans tailgating at eight in the morning for a four o’clock game. You can’t drive two blocks in western Pennsylvania without seeing a Steelers car magnet, license plate frame, bumper sticker, or window flag. I’ve seen scores of vans, pickup trucks, and sedans that are painted black and gold and look like Terry Bradshaw vomited memorabilia all over the interior.

But for now, the stadium is just a landmark for distance. Last May, this street wasn’t on the route, but this year it takes us on the stadium tour that concludes with a long ramp onto the West End Bridge. The climb isn’t really that bad. The fact that you can see it coming for several blocks is what settles into your conscious and subconscious thoughts, and nags at you with every step.

No crowd here. I easily hit a water station before making the climb. It’s a sidewalk oasis in an otherwise unpopulated area. This is the extreme western part of the course. The smart fans will stay downtown near the local businesses that serve hot coffee and breakfast pastries. No reason to claw your way to a remote outpost just to see a madman or crazy woman streak by. No. Stay close to base. Stay centered. If you start trying to see all of the things, you end up missing everything.

C
oncrete is harder than asphalt. Most people don’t realize that. I doubt that Steven knew it.

The sound when his head hit the concrete bumper at the front of the parking space we were occupying was sickening. It was like a hammer hitting a stone under ten feet of water. The released tire iron competed with it by producing an ugly tune, but even it couldn’t drown out that horrible sound. Not exactly a crack. Not exactly a thud.

Knowingly, I kneeled down and put two fingers on his neck, exactly where I had struck him. I sat down on a neighboring concrete bumper and stared at a blue light bulb hovering over the emergency phone on the far wall of the structure. When picked up, it rang directly to campus security. They could be here in three minutes—but to save Steven they would have to have gotten here two minutes before I sat down.

Another minute passed and I had gathered myself enough to make the call, but I never made it to the phone. As I stood up and started walking toward the blue light, the sound of sirens filled the campus. Security vehicles screeched into the parking lot from each end, triangulating me in their headlights and spotlighting Steven’s lifeless form behind me.

I’m not a fan of lawyers. It’s not that I despise them. That would be illogical. They serve a certain purpose and they are an essential part of our legal system. Understood. Kierkegaard seemed to understand, and be in awe of, Abraham’s willingness to kill Isaac, but he was terrified by the acts that could be justified by blind faith. Lawyers have the tendency to declare that the ends justify the means more than most people. They seek out loopholes and absurd mitigating circumstances and smile when an animal is set loose on the public—to hell with the detritus left behind. It was for the greater good. The system. I’m in awe of that. But do not confuse that with admiration.

So I sat in the small interviewing room at the Zone 1 Police Station on Brighton Road. They used to call these things interrogation rooms. But, then again, they used to call the areas around them precincts. Now they were interviewing rooms inside of zones. I would wait and not ask for an attorney unless they put the cuffs on me.

My cell phone had survived the battle royale and I had been permitted to call Kaitlyn. I told her that I had been attacked, that I was okay, and that I had killed the attacker. She was mortified and insisted on coming to me right away. I told her where the station was and told her that I would be giving a statement for a while. I could almost hear her hands shaking when she hung up.

Once campus security had arrived at the parking garage, a hailstorm of activity had taken place. The two security patrol cars were followed by two Pittsburgh PD cars. Then two more. Then the ambulance. Unmarked Crown Vics with detachable bubble-lights found their way through the logjam that had formed. I knew eventually the medical examiner, or coroner, or whatever they called it here, would make an appearance.

I answered some cursory questions thrown at me by the officers. Yes—I was attacked. Yes—I defended myself. No—I did not use a weapon. Yes—I knew the . . . victim. The EMTs from the ambulance treated me, and told me they wanted to take me to Allegheny General for x-rays and a CAT scan. I gingerly rotated my injured shoulder and politely declined. They shook their heads as I signed a waiver confirming my stupidity.

A detective from one of the unmarkeds approached to have me relive the scene again. He smelled of cigarettes. Knowing where this would eventually go, I told him to reach out to detectives Shand and Hartz. I mentioned that they were working a case that involved me and the . . . and Steven Thacker. I figured that even if the duo didn’t pick up the chatter on the scanner, they would certainly hear about this soon enough. The man from one of the Crown Vics suggested that they take my full statement at the station. I started walking toward his car to avoid being put in a marked cruiser. I dreaded the next few hours. Two people were dead. I was a common denominator.

So I sat in the little room. I sat and waited.

When the detectives who were already familiar to me entered the room, they were cordial and concerned. Shand and Hartz took seats opposite me, with a beat-up metal table occupying the space between us. They told me they were sorry that we had to see each other again under these circumstances.

Build rapport every chance you get.

They told me that I looked awful. I had checked myself in the two-way mirror on the wall when I had first arrived. Awful was a compliment. If there was ever going to be a sequel to “Fight Club,” I’d be a hit at the casting call. My pants and sport coat were in shambles. My white shirt was streaked and spattered with a mixture of B-positive and whatever Steven was. I didn’t know what my shoulder and upper arm looked like, but I envisioned an abstract artist’s rendition of an old British flag. My knee seemed fine—at least I had
that
going for me.

Detective Hartz started the interview with the greatest question of all. It’s the question that investigators all over the world often forget to ask, yet it can be the most insightful interrogatory of them all.

He asked, “What happened?”

I recounted the night’s events starting with my walk to the Jeep. The crush of the tire iron. The fight. The swipe at my head. The arm against his neck. The end.

They listened patiently and quietly. Shand was taking a few notes, but not many. I guessed a camera was running on the other side of the mirror. When I finished, Hartz asked me if I needed anything. A glass of water? Coffee? Then Shand told me that he was sorry that I had to go through that attack. It must have been an awful experience. Was I sure that I didn’t need medical attention?

Express empathy toward the subject.

Hartz leaned over and lowered his voice. He said, “Look, we need your help understanding all of this. Obviously, you did what you had to do. Steven attacked you. He had a weapon. You fought back. We know this. Some students were getting ready to head up to a car on the third tier and they saw you two fighting, and they said . . .” He looked to Shand who flipped back a page in his notepad.

“That freaky guy in the sweatshirt had a lead pipe and was try’n to decapitate that old dude.”

Old dude? I still get carded at the liquor store! Kids can be cruel.

“One of them used a cell to call campus security, but the response was too late.”

Hartz continued, “So, Thacker came at you, and nobody would blame you one bit if you somehow got that tire iron away from him and had to use it against him.”

Divert blame away from the subject. Provide a justification.

“I never had the tire iron. He had it in his right hand until . . . until the very end.”

Scratching of pen on paper came from Shand’s direction.

“Okay. We can go with that. But the
why
of the whole thing is what we can’t go with. Why would he attack you like that? You two worked together.”

While I was waiting for the detectives, I had thought a lot about the
why.
It didn’t make sense. Steven was wound tight, but to snap, go off the deep end, and become homicidal over someone exposing the fact he was a homosexual was beyond my comprehension. I could see him filing a complaint. Maybe even confronting me verbally. But looking for a speedy way to remove lug nuts from my brain? Come on! There was only one other reason I could think of why Steven would come after me, but I couldn’t make myself believe it.

“I think he knew that I told you guys he was gay. More importantly, that I had told you in public and people overheard us.”

By
us,
I meant
me.

“He wasn’t open about being a homosexual, and I’m sure he would have been angry about the information getting out there.” I waved my hand toward a wall which apparently represented
out there.

Pointing a thumb in Shand’s direction and squinting slightly, Hartz said, “We were both there. It wasn’t the most delicate way to yank somebody out of the closet, but do you really think Thacker would find it worth
killing
you for?”