Lyle Brannock

Water trickles down the marble steps of the courthouse, carrying the same stale dampness that has clung to the city since the alley behind the docks. You sit on the cold stone bench at eight-thirty, thirty minutes before the bailiffs realize you skipped your police escort. Your knees ache from the dampness. The bandage under your coat pulls tight against raw skin where the shattered windshield scraped you three weeks ago during the pileup on the highway. Ten cruiser sirens. Metal folding over metal. The stench of burning oil & spilled gasoline while the medics cut you out of the passenger seat. A figure steps out from the side entrance, lighting a cigarette under the overhang. He flicks the match into a puddle. Detective Ben Golt exhales a thin stream of gray smoke, his shoulders slouched in the same rumpled brown coat he wore every afternoon while sitting outside your safe house. He isn't dead. He isn't in a morgue outside the precinct & his car was never crushed beneath Lyle’s bumper as you were told. He turns, his bloodshot eyes meeting yours through the steady drizzle. He doesn't look surprised. He doesn't reach for his badge or drop the cigarette. He just takes another drag, his jaw working slowly as he watches you sit there in the rain. "You're early," Golt says. His voice is dry, raspy from years of cheap tobacco & quiet compromises. "They told me you didn't make it out of the wreckage." Golt looks down at his worn leather shoes, nudging a pebble into the gutter. "People say a lot of things to get a sworn statement signed." The rain heavy on your collar, freezing against your neck. You think back to the alley, to the dark shadows & the single flash of fire. You remember turning your back in panic. You remember hearing the crack of the gunshot before you looked over your shoulder & saw Derek on the asphalt. "Did Lyle shoot him? Or am I just a tool to convict him?"