It’s a big buck, full grown, antlers in velvet, and it turns to face the cop straight on. They always do that. Crippled deer know about eye contact. You can’t shoot me now.
“What do I do now?”
This car, the cop has decided, no matter what the driver says, is not going to be drivable. Another cop on the scene, that’s what he wants. Another cop could put a bullet into that deer, end its suffering. Different departments, different policies. That’s the way the police business works.
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The cop turns to the driver of the shattered Taurus. “I have to go. Chicago is on the way. Just stand tight.” As if the poor guy could do anything else.
From the nearest phone the cop talks to his office, gets his message. It’s David. Already he’s called twice and left his number. The cop drops another coin in the phone–his own money–and dials. Busy. He waits, dials again. Busy again. And again. And again. David O’Mara wants him to call a perpetually busy number.
He heads back to the accident scene, back to the steady, sensible driver who may still be waiting for Chicago to show up. Out here on the outskirts of the city, it sometimes takes a while for the Real Police to arrive. The cop is feeling more pangs of guilt. Then he sees the flashing blue of a Chicago squad.
