“I’m just not sure. Just not sure at all”

The man’s hand was stuck, as if by a magnet, or glue, to his forehead. Pushing up his grey bristly hair. The night air was cold and clear. The only clouds being fogged breath.

The officer had seen plenty of gun wounds during his time at the front. Get a man shot to his side and he’d hold his hand like that. Like holding it in. Though you can’t hold it in if you been shot in the forehead. He’d never seen anyone waiting for the med tent holding his head in.

“Well,” he said, lowering his notepad. “What did you see?”

“Oh I don’t know. I don’t know a lick what I saw. I really don’t. Really don’t.”

From the way his eyes bulged out from his sockets, like cooked fish, the officer figured he must seeing it all over again. He remembered the last time he went fishing with Kenny. His brother then, well then, brother, well. Brother. At the ‘lucky’ spot they used to call it. Not lucky just because that’s where they’d take their girls. Though, nevermind.

There was this log over hang, and the rest of trunk poking up. Splitting the slow water for a perfect pocket they could rest. Rest yourself too, shaded with that patchy grass. And the fish couldn’t see you from the bank from where the tree went down it brought all the loose with it. Left you with a good edge to get your line over. Hardly needed to do more than dip the pole.

They’d really eat anything. Back then, after dad went and ma’ pinched her finger in the door jam so bad she couldn’t work the press. Neighbors would bring by a casserole here and there. Sorry and all. And Jo had her bunch of chicken eggs to share if we raked her leaves up. But the fish would bite on anything. Just as hungry as us we always laughed. Dug up worms, bread crumbs, Kenny’s pocketful of shines. Just dip the pole in and we’d have dinner. Always careful though, not to over fish it.

The ambulance pulled away, siren off. The flashing red and white lights went off into the distance for a while. Then they shut those off too. No use.

“Maybe! No. not at all” The old bastard had a start for a second, but then fell back to the curb.

This really seemed pointless. Cold and pointless. The tire marks told the officer everything. That the man must had really seen something. But a two ton like that just didn’t slow quick, would it.

It wasn’t ethical, or whatever damn class they’d made him take. But it was just him and the old tart. They’d book him once another officer arrived. It was just him and the old tart for now. Might as well get something down.

“He came out from the sign didn’t he.”

The hand came off from the forehead. Eureka.

“Yeah, yeah.” Slow nodding. “He came out from the sign.” Motioning with his hand hooking to the left. Then sticking it right back onto his scalp. Where it seemed to belong.

“And you couldn’t stop.”

“Oh no. Oh, I couldn’t stop.” Finally the fish eyes weren’t shore dry. And he held his face down. “I couldn’t.”

The officer had seen that look before too. He couldn’t place quite where though. Maybe when the call came in to the FO that all that hell they had spent the better part of an quarter hour loading had come in short and hit our line up bad. But, no he had just adjusted the charge and shot himself later that night. Where had he seen that fella holding his head down like that? He just couldn’t place it.

Anyway the other squad car was pulling up. The two helped the old tart up and into the back. Before heading home he knelt to take one last look at the bicycle tore up under the two ton’s grill. Funny, he thought. Both seemed made of steel. He reached over and spun the little stuck out pedal. But only the bicycle was all tore up.