Eight Pads: Memoirs of an Invisible Man

Prologue

Willard! Get us the fuck out ‘a here! Chester screams out at my driver. Why’s he here—one of the two bleeders stuffed in the rear of this bouncing Humvee?

CRACK! The baseball is eighty feet in the air on a perfect arch. That Chester Quick can really lay-lumber. Not going to be able to field it—its sailing over the fence.

BANG! The mortar—BOOM—shells are so loud their—BANG drowning out the stinger rockets whistling overhead—PING, PING the bullets clinging off the armor plates. The pocketed road is causing all this bucking and bashing. This quandary is making the medic’s job of torqueing Quick’s wounds just about impossible… Argh. This vehicle is being ripped apart… shit, we can’t take much more.

BOOM! Another trough. Don’t stare at Virginia Boy’s mutilated face. Ten minutes ago he had a whole face now it’s an oozing cavity. It won’t kill him but what’s left of his right leg could. That sour taste is erupting again. PING, PING! Come on Willard get us out of range. HANG ON VIRGINIA! Fuck—all this suffering. PING! They need more room back there.

Son-of-a-bitch.

Hang on Chester—you’re gonna be okay. as the bandanna tightens across his bicep. Which of his arms is it?

SMASH! The driver’s windshield is gone. The radio is burping static. Got to get support… let’s go transmit—transmit. WHIRR. Suddenly, the transporter veers 30 degrees to the left, tipping everyone about like bingo balls in a tumbling cage. SHIT! Arghhh!… Voices echo around the cabin.

Virginia wails… WHAT? It’s empty! The driver’s door is flapping—JESUS, where’s Willard? Got ‘ta get the wheel.

BOOM! BOOM! Those freaking craters—I can’t control… CRASH! The passenger door window is taken out.

Chester’s yelling… Give me the radio, I’ll call the coach. WHAT? Got ‘ta grab for the wheel… HAVE IT! Come on accelerate. What the hell is this? What’s she… Lisa’s in the road, she’s got MICHAEL—they’re bleeding. I can’t brake Billy shove them away—WHAT’S HAPPENING? His face—where’s his eyes? WATCH OUT—GET OUT OF THE WAY! SWISH…

HIS TORSO SPRINGS FORWARD like a catapult releasing a spray of sweat onto the sheet. The bare-chested detective first-grade Campbell Mullen is sweating profusely. Bent at the waist his eyes are wide open and frozen, gazing into the darkness of his bedroom. Leaning back on his palms with stiffened elbows, he shakes his head in short brisk motions once, twice… it’s taking a full six-seconds to come around.

Slowly the realization is setting in, he’s in his own bed. Releasing his right arm, he twists reaching for the lamp on the night table. Before pulling its chain, he sees the red digital numbers 3:17. Whoa… is thought as he pulls the pillow up behind, leaning back into its dampness.

Instinctively, Camp reaches for his cell to call Lisa, then stops, realizing how dumb. It was a freaking nightmare. His breathing is receding as he puts the phone down and begins to feel a chill. The breeze from the air ducts is bounding off his perspiration streaked chest. His desire for a smoke began taking hold. But no, he wouldn’t; he’ll continue cold-turkey. Conquering the habit, back in December of 2003, the very day he finished his final tour in Iraq. It was a Christmas promise made to himself. A reward for being part of the First Brigade Combat Team. And part of operation ‘Red Dawn’ that found a rat hiding in a chamber dug out just feet away from a farmhouse in ad-Dawr near Tikrit.

Lt. Mullen had earned his field commission, along with the respect of his entire team. He was lucky to be home with all his parts and pieces—except for two bullet scars: the first taken in the right thigh; and the other left a two-inch horizontal track on his neck, just below the left ear lobe. His two Purple Hearts and Bronze Star were great, but these persistent nightmares that popped up every few months would never sit well with him.

Camp had made it home, scarred to be sure, but alive. His younger brother Sgt. William Alan Mullen wasn’t that lucky. Billy was attached to a ‘Special Operations Command’ unit fighting in Dezful, Iran. No one, including Camp, was privy’d to the fact that the US had SOs carrying out missions that far beyond the Iraqi border. Billy, 18-months younger than Camp, was a trained sniper—and for sure a hell of a good one—until he and his spotter Cpl. Frank Butler became the targets of a grenade-tossing teenager.

The news of Billy’s death hadn’t reached Camp for almost five weeks. If his CC hadn’t taken him off his duty roster for a week there was no telling how he’d take out his rage. A chaplain, Captain Timothy Martin, counseled Camp the first few days, until the shock could be housed. Those were his demons—never to be divulged. Everyone knew him as the strong, silent type, only voicing opinion when his mind had the words edited for clarity. The Army psychiatrist that Camp saw weekly over several months helped him cope.

There were breathing exercises to relieve the anxiety that the 43-year-old ex-Ranger religiously followed after his daily 7 a.m. runs. The runs are a tad less than three-miles. Starting from his present two-bedroom apartment on Horatio Street––up and onto the High Line Park toward 29th Street and back. Passing twice at 28th Street, he gets a view of the most incredible futuristic residence ever to grace Manhattan island. Its sweeping grandeur and asymmetrical forms are striking. In person, daily, one visual aid to reinforce his mending psyche.

The building seemed to hold a sorcery power. On occasion, strong enough to slow the 6’ 2", structurally fit, 208-pounder from a regimented pace into a jog-in-place count of sixty. Just long enough to survey its unmistakable sensual figure. It simply captivated Camp. So much so, that at each viewing he’d discover new sections of converging lines and curves.

It was after his second encounter that he sort its creator online. The discovery ignited the broadest of smiles. There, staring back, his reflective face on his laptop’s screen. Satisfyingly tickled that a female architect had designed it.

Camp was relatively new to the life of bachelorhood. Though largely responsible, wasn’t ready when his marriage to Lisa Burke ended. Come August, would be two-years ago.

Initially, Camp struggled with the realization that couldn’t be avoided, he had to acknowledge the inevitable. Conversely, on that same week of his moving out, good-fortune ensued.

He got wind of an affordable apartment coming available on Horatio Street in the Greenwich Village. The info flowed from the precinct’s daytime maintenance man, whose third cousin José supers that very building. Being a cop came in handy once its owner found out. He loved the idea of having a detective first-grade as a tenant. Who wouldn’t? No need to go through any security checks or real estate broker.

On top of that, José’s wife Yolanda performs maid duties to some of the apartments. Camp worked out a schedule that she’d come in twice-a-month to help maintain an illusion of order and cleanliness. Plus, Camp threw in an extra twenty-five bucks for Yolanda to launder the washables. She was happy to oblige. For that was her money, not hubby’s… José would just go spend it on those smelly cigars of his.

Lisa was a great wife and is a loving mother to their only child, Michael Bryan. The boy is nearing his 13th birthday and has adjusted well thanks mostly to his mother’s support––along with a self-evoked pact to never speak negatively about his father. Surely, that accord derived from her years of nursing. A profession Lisa had chosen at age nine when hospitalized with a case of tonsillitis. As enjoyable as the post -op ice cream tasted, it was that one nurse, Annie, in the children’s wing, that Liza wanted to emulate.

Presently, mother and son share a non-combatant home base in Hicksville. Absent of marital arguments, it granted Michael the schooling and stability the soon-to-be teenager requires. At the same time the boy’s rate of maturity had quickened with each city visit with Dad. In the interim, was the recipient of all of Grandpa George’s attention.

Camp’s father is the opposite of him—gregarious and very comfortable mixing with people. The oddity was, they seemed to have switched generations. In fact, three-out-of-five of Michael’s friends live with a single parent. Therefore, the Mullen kid is good, and getting better at studying his two male prototypes. Taking from both keeps him centered. Except for a single bug-a-boo, Michael didn’t like that his dad has taken to smoking an occasional cigar.

With tonight’s demon’s departure, Camp shuts the light. After, sliding under the sheet he pounds the pillow––then reverses it before dropping his head down. Time to get some solid shuteye before the damn alarm sounds in a few hours. The room is again safe and silent except for the air conditioner––its thermostat just kicked over. Adjusting the sheet over his bare shoulder he begins thinking of those proverbial sheep leaping fences… It worked many times before, why not tonight?

Three minutes of tossing and thinking about the job had taken over his mind. Working out of the 24th Precinct on West 100th Street, one never knows what tomorrow will bring even though they’re the second-least active of all precincts reporting violent crimes in the borough. So far this year: five homicides; two rapes; and a whole big bundle of burglaries.

The one claiming fewer open cases is the 20th on West 82nd Street. They’re referred to as ‘the morgue’ when it comes to activities. So far this year, their blotter shows: 32 burglaries; 13 grand larcenies; and three murders. For any veteran assigned to either of these precincts would assure them of: 1) never making the evening news and; 2) you’ll have a lot of time hunting for a condo in Florida or Arizona.

By 6:15 a.m. Camp’s under the warm soothing water flowing from the shower head. Camp’s wondering why the dream, why last night? Ah! Must have been the monstrous steak dinner.

Reaping his reward from the bet made with Sey over who would score better at the firing range. Smiling, he shuts down the water and steps out onto the bathmat and begins toweling off when it hits him; Shit today’s Tuesday—four-to-midnight.

Forgotten, today he and Segundo rotate to the second swift—which is approximately twelve hours from now.

SHIT!

CHAPTER ONE

On the job

Its 9:12 p.m.—The sudden June storm hit fast and heavy. The rain had soaked the city for an hour. Only now was reduced into a Scotch mist when the call came into the two-four.

It has been overcast and chilly all day. Presently the temperature reading on the instrument panel is a nippy 55⁰ as the unmarked black sedan carrying its two detectives makes a left off 100th Street onto Central Park West. Then heads south to the flashing lights at 97th Street.

Twenty-seconds later the sedan makes a U-turn and joins the two squad cars. The first responders to the report of gunshots coming out of the park near the transverse road that splits Central Park west-to-east. Two uniforms cordon off the area, keeping the umbrella-sheltered crowd away from the fuss. A third squad car approaching from the south with siren burping and roof lights flashing. It comes to an abrupt stop feet from where the partners stand blocking their eyes.

Both detectives are wearing well-worn outerwear. The Spanish one is in a black canvas walking coat while the Irishman adjusts his very fashionable Macintosh khaki-dyed trench. Individually have found that the shorter length is less cumbersome whenever it becomes necessary to reach for their sidearm. At first, they look at one another, and then in unison turn to the late arrival. A short female rookie officer who jumped out asking, Where do you want us Detective?

Camp doesn’t respond; he just reaches into his breast pocket and extracts a Panatela. Aside from his partner, this prop is the perfect companion to infer a confident hardness. Camp has exploited this impression primarily to intimidate unsavory crowds. In addition, it’s even more daunting when he squints his peepers pretending to have smoke in his eyes. That strong, silent type always seems to rattle the citizenry to keep their distance.

Camp is partnered with Det. Second-grade Segundo ‘Sey’ Stuve. A 42-year-old, six-foot, Puerto-Rican and a ‘first-grade’ prankster. In daylight he shows off an olive complexion and noticeable potbelly––under the streetlight Sey appears darker.

As the ceremony of preparing Camp’s cigar begins Segundo leans over and whispers, Let me have this one.

Nodding his approval, along with a smile, he knows what’s coming. Segundo takes a broad step toward the rookie then answers her, How ‘bout you and your partner work the crowd. Keep them under control and a sharp eye for those gypsy pickpockets we’ve had a report on.

Hitching up her, laded with police gear, service-belt she nods and salutes as she and her veteran partner separate.

As Segundo turns to join Camp, who’s way ahead down the embankment. About to step away the veteran partner leans forward with, May I say, that was beautiful.

Smiling, Sey hustles to catch up when he hears the voice of Det. third-grade Phil Bishop call out, Sey, wait up.

Phil’s a 33-year-old bachelor. Sports a butch-cut, and a silver earring in his left ear. He loves fighting. In the ring boxing—one-on-one. Had placed second in the Golden Gloves over in Newark where he was born. Presently, Phil lives in a loft in Hoboken with his twenty-year-old, blonde girlfriend Heidi and their bulldog Rumble.

When Phil was twenty-two, both the UFC and MMA had caught fire. For a short-lived moment he considered turning pro. Those dreams evaporated when he witnessed the injuries one could sustain in a cage––up close. His thinking was with cauliflower ears he might look ugly, so he decided to just keep toned, get an earring and take a shot at becoming a cop.

Phil trains with some Jersey cops at a heavy-hitters gym. Twice-a-week, looking toned in a navy-blue NYPD emblem T-shirt, dungarees, and black sneakers. He was off duty when he happened into the precinct to clear his locker of the sweaty clothes. Now, he’s strapped and begins pulling on his police-issued windbreaker. Attached to a chain is his gold badge dangling atop his hefty chest.

I heard the call so I thought I’d come over.

Segundo waves him down in the direction Camp took.

As the two carefully navigate the hill. They’re looking over Camp’s head at the crime scene twenty-yards ahead on one of the paths. The scent of gunpowder hangs in the moist air as they approach. The two first responders are present protecting the integrity of the area from the die-hard joggers running up to and around both grounded bodies. The one nearest is standing over a rain-soaked body and the other kneels next to a body ten-yards further away.

The kneeling uniform appears to be talking to the guy on the ground. Sey and Phil continue to descend, taking short strides at a 90-degree angle, until they arrive at the corpse.

Down among the trees the drizzle is being deflected. It’s not too muddy. They stare at the victim who’s clad in an open purple-colored windbreaker with a bloodstained white shirt, dark trousers, and black loafers.

He appears Spanish and in his mid-30s with wounds to his face, neck and chest. His right hand is still clutching a Ruger P97 near his hip. Camp looks up at Patrolman Patsy Riggins. A rookie himself. He’s been at the 24th for only two months. Camp isn’t certain if it’s raindrops or sweat on the Patsy’s face. Turning to Bishop he asks, What’s with you Phil? Don’t you ever socialize?

Smiling, Phil answers, Isn’t this the way to San Jose? The dumb reference brought a double-take from Camp and Sey.

Look, I’ve got plenty of time to party, but I can sure use a higher pay grade. As of ten minutes ago I’m on the clock. Gazing over he adds, Is that Randell I see over there?

Sey smirks with his suggestion, Why don’t you wander over there and find out? Phil nods and leaves.

Bending over the corpse Camp asks Patsy, Patrolman Riggins, mind if I borrow your flashlight? He responds by switching on the flashlight and handing it to the lead.

Thanks. Camp shines it on the weapon. Without looking off he states, This isn’t junk swag he was holding.

Standing, Camp returns the flashlight.

Any I.D. on him?

Riggins responds, None Detective.

You ever see this guy around the neighborhood? Probing his memory Riggins shakes his head no. Okay then, go up top and get some evidence bags from my car.

Just then a scream is heard. Followed with a callout: Get me a doctor and an umbrella you dick.

Puffing on his cigar, Camp and Segundo begin to walk toward ‘Redhot’, which happens to be Randell’s street tag. As Riggins departs Camp asks his partner, Did you pick up on anything around the victim? Sey stops walking, as well; so does Camp. Well?

I saw what you saw when you held the flashlight on the Ruger. Look Camp, go easy on him. He’s a good kid. A bit green, but solid. Segundo is referring to the way the gun was sitting in the dead guy’s hand. The middle finger was set on the trigger––not the expected index one.

When he returns ask him for a rundown when he and his partner first heard the shots. And don’t mention the grip; we’ll talk to him about it later. Camp winks and starts walking. Come on Sey, let’s go pay our respects to Redhot. And Phil, I think I heard the EMS siren. Why don’t you go up and check? If so, show them down––will ya do that for me?

Phil nods and begins his climb back up the hill. Approaching Redhot Camp notices a handgun on the ground several feet above Redhot’s rain-soaked head. The attending patrolman steps back to give the detectives more room. Asking for a flashlight to be shown Camp extracts a pen from his jacket and squats near the Beretta lying to the rear of the immobilized ex-con.

Nice piece fella. Camp knows this brand firearm—this semiautomatic is a Beretta M96 that chambers .40 caliber Smith & Western cartridges. It’s a larger caliber weapon than the military issued M9. His sidekick over in the deserts of the Middle East and the model he prefers in New York.

Using the pen he lifts the gun off the leaf-covered ground and pulls it to his nose and sniffs. Hearing rapid, abrasive footsteps approaching, he stands with the pistol dangling from the pen. That was quick. Here Sey, take this for me. Segundo takes a bag from Riggins and places it under the Beretta as Camp drops it in. Riggins. I want you to take my pen and go over to the stiff and bag his weapon. Sey will go with you and make sure you tag them properly. Okay? Looking at his partner he continues with, That good for you?

Segundo grins, winks, then departs with Riggins. Bringing his cigar back to life he turns his attention to Redhot. Squatting down next to him asks, How’s it going Randell?

Get that cheap fucking cigar out ’a my face screw.

Redhot’s left shoulder wound has begun to cauterize. And if Camp had to guess the bullet passed clean through him––leaving a large ugly mess and the sounds of anguish behind. He’s sure that the round had to have fractured some bones. Or, at the very least, ruptured muscle and tendons––or else Redhot would have joined the joggers and been long gone. With the weapon landing off to the rear he’s already visualizing his version of what went down.

Smoke bothering you cowboy? Honoring Redhot’s request, Camp stands and begins stepping around him attempting to connect the dots of the shootout. From the looks of it you were a better shot then your buddy tonight. Feel like telling me what it was that set off your temper? Three hits: that’s pretty good shootin’ partner.

Yeah, well fuck him. That stupid Benny pulled first. And I’m still breathing right? Meanwhile, where’s the doctor?

Stopping, Mullen is scanning the immediate area thinking, First getting hit in the left shoulder would have spun him back. Turning from the waist, he more than likely had lost his grip on the Beretta, sending it flying backwards to where it landed.

He turns his glance downward asking, You left-handed? Redhot, disgustedly, turns his head away without a reply.

The less-fortunate of the dualists took three shots, any of which would have been enough to drop him. So how does a good cop figure it out? By asking the one left breathing.

You change your mind about giving me your version of how it went down… huh? It might be better if you cooperate.

Sure, when you get me out of this mud. Where the hell are the medics? Redhot’s trying to sit, pushing off with his arm.

Here, let me give you a hand. Camp bends over and helps get him seated. Turning to the patrolman he says, Officer, do me a big favor and let me have your rain slicker. The patrolman doesn’t hesitate and removes it and hands it to Camp. Thanks. Now go topside and see Detective Bishop, he’s looking for the medics. Tell him to check my car for another jacket for yourself.

And don’t forget the doctor … you prick.

Is that nice Randell? The young officer just gave you shelter and you curse him? Camp randomly throws the slicker down over Redhot’s head and turns away. Thinking, the only probable way that this went down was this scumbag was standing close to Poncho and drew hitting him first in the neck or the chest and the third shot right in the face. Meanwhile Poncho was pulling his Ruger a little too late and only got off a couple of random shots one finding this shithead’s shoulder.

The sound of Bishop’s voice brings Camp out of his scenario mode. "Over here Doc, and be careful; it’s slippery.

Hey Detective, I see you have him sitting up. So states the paramedic. Entering, he immediately kneels, placing his case down and begins examining Redhot with the aid of the patrolman focusing his flashlight on the shoulder.

Yeah, he’ll live. By the way, the other guy’s dead. Phil you stay here; I’m going over there. Camp casually points his cigar toward Sey and Riggins and starts walking away.

Phil is now looking down at Redhot’s wound. You want more light than that flashlight?

The paramedic never looks away from the wound stating, No thank you, I’m fine with the flashlight. Just then two medics slide down the muddy hill––one has a stretcher. Turning toward them he says, We won’t need that. Once we get on his feet he’ll be able to walk on his own.

Fuck you, Doc. I want to be carried out.

Fine. Come on fellers get him strapped in. And I’m not an M.D. But if it matters to you, we’ll leave you here until one arrives. Standing the paramedic adds, Patrolman, can you please give them a hand?

The uniform nods. Sure thing Doc.

Camp has been whispering to Segundo as a nervous Riggins stands over Poncho waiting to be confronted. Breaking away Camp steps over and faces Riggins.

What have you got to say for yourself young man?

Regarding what Detective?

Don’t go and get all defensive on us here. Remember, we’re on the same team. Just be calm and tell us what made you do such a dumb thing?

Sey leans in with, Patsy, we’re curious as to why?

Riggins has his head down, too embarrassed to look the detectives in their eyes. You’re talking about the gun, right? Raising his chin, he sees both of them nodding.

Jesus detectives, when my partner and I ran down here this one here was still twitching and jerking around … I reacted. And just as I pulled it away from him he crooks. So I put it back in his hand. His chin drops waiting for the shit to hit the fan. But all he hears is low sounding laughter which brings his chin back up––real quick.

Camp and Segundo stop their laughing and begin smiling at Riggins as Camp says, Good job Officer. I’m sure you’ll be getting some sort of commendation from the Mayor for keeping the park safe. You deserve it for all the sweating you’ve displayed. Come on Sey, let’s head up.

As the partners ascend the hill, Riggins takes out his handkerchief and starts swabbing his brow.

Up at street level the crowd has grown to over forty as the drizzle has again turned back into a full spring shower. With umbrellas on high, New Yorkers come prepared. And tonight’s rain hasn’t lessened this group of curiosity seekers––stretching their necks to get a clear view of whatever.

Only now there are two additional vehicles double-parked alongside the civilian cars at the meters. A black stretch limo is idling with its wipers sweeping the rain as the headlights burn off steam. The other, also black, is a body-transporter depositing two burly men––one carrying a body bag. Their jackets show CORONER stenciled across the backs.

One of the paramedics had called for the coroner’s office to dispatch a vehicle to retrieve Poncho. Having examined him to make certain there wasn’t a heartbeat.

Camp and Segundo have reached the wet cobblestone pathway that circles the entire circumference of the park. Stepping carefully on the bubbled stones––never meant for pedestrian traffic when set back in 1859.

The partners are just ahead of the two paramedics carting Redhot. Camp’s standing alone, puffing hard on his stogy to keep it alive. It’s been his habit since he took to cigars.

Voila, it’s smoking. Camp smiles as he admires its flaming tip—life’s little wonders. Segundo is over at the sedan on his cell checking in with the duty officer at the two-four.

Two minutes later––here comes the show with the medics on either end of the stretcher laboring the dead weight of the wounded. An assortment of oohs and ahs emanate from the spectators as Camp puts out his hand halting the procession. Stepping closer to the shithead on the stretcher, Camp simply says, See you at the hospital Wyatt. Then he flicks an ash onto Redhot’s chest while placing a finger to his lips as a warning that he’d better not open his mouth again.

Turning his attention to the medics he suggests, Hey fellers, why don’t you take the ‘Hansom Carriage’ route to the hospital? He’s out of danger and his bleeding stopped a half hour ago. Smiling, as they load Redhot into the ambulance.

Phil’s telltale grin shows he’s been amused by Camp’s antics. Walking over, his thumb imitating that of hitchhikers, he announces, Looks like you have visitors.

Lifting his chin he glances over Phil to see three gray-colored umbrellas headed straight toward him. Segundo beats the umbrella carriers to Camp. Is that who I think it is?

As the lead canopy lifts backward they see that it’s Camp’s old partner. The impeccably dressed 5’ 9", fifty-year-old Louis ‘Choo’ Chechoccio, president and founder of ‘SAFES—The Last Word In Security.’ The company logo is tastefully displayed on every other panel of the golf-size umbrellas.

Camp’s thinking to himself, ‘That Choo, always promoting’. While giving the uniform the hi-sign that it’s okay to admit them. As if on cue, the rain stops abruptly. Thus, their umbrellas also close exposing Choo and his two henchmen.

What ‘a got Campo? Choo hands his umbrella to one of his guys and steps forward and bear hugs Camp. After a second or two he steps back and pulls Camp’s cigar from his lips and tosses it over the stonewall. With a tight smile reaches into his suit jacket and extracts a crocodile covered cigar case. Opening it wide exposing its cedar-lining, he says Here Pal, experience how the private sector smokes.

Camp takes not one but three. Leaving a single in the case produces an expected response, You cheap bastard. Always taking from the rich. You’ll never change will ya?

Cut the crap Choo. I know you keep a couple of boxes in that hearse you ride around town in. Tucking them away, he turns to Sey and with a hand gesture says, Choo, say hello to your replacement, Segundo Stuve. Sey, this here is the prince of the city, Louis the-first from Ozone Park, Queens.

Shaking hands Choo says, Pleased to meet you. As he steps back, he spreads his arms and looks upward. You believe this? Looking at Segundo, he continues. I copped to one of my client’s box seats and in the fifth inning we get pissed on. Ya know those seats behind home plate are great if it doesn’t rain. Anyway, we picked up the call just as we were leaving the stadium. So what’s up here? I recognized that scumbag on the stretcher … Randy … Reggie something? Urr? Randell, right? Camp and Segundo nod yes. We got him for attempted murder five or six years ago. And here he is out on the streets already.

Camp has been scanning the area while Choo was rattling on. Assured that the extraditions were going smoothly he says, Yep, released only a month or two ago. Only this time we have Wyatt Earp and a corpse. I’ll say one thing for that Randell: the son-of-a-bitch can hit a target. Sey why don’t you go over to where they’re loading the sharpshooter and make sure you get the medic’s case number? I want to chat with this. Okay? Sey nods to Choo and heads for the ambulance as Camp and Choo