I’ve made some tough calls in my eleven-plus years as a cop. But I was face-to-face with the most excruciatingly difficult decision I’d ever had to make.
I wondered if Dr. Langford had any idea of the ethical, moral, and legal dilemma he had left me and Kylie in. Probably not. Most civilians don’t have a clue about police protocol.
My partner and I were twelve feet away from a woman who had a deadly weapon pointed at us. But she wasn’t a criminal. She was an average citizen who had been transformed into a killing machine by a man who got inside her head and rewired her brain.
By all accounts she was an innocent victim. You might think that two veteran police officers would do everything they could to help her out of this untenable situation. Most people would expect us to talk to her calmly until we could convince her to turn over the gun.
But that’s not what we were trained to do. Our official response in a situation like this was clear-cut: Shoot her dead.
It’s Police Academy 101. If a suspect points a gun, or reaches for a gun in a way that indicates they’re going to shoot, police are authorized to fire. There’s no debate. We are supposed to aim directly at the suspect’s center mass and shoot to kill.
The aftermath of shooting this woman would be horrendous. People would scream police brutality and argue that a person would never do something under hypnosis that went against their personal code of ethics. Did I have any idea whether Karen’s personal code would allow her to shoot a rapist and an abusive mother in cold blood? No. And I didn’t care.
There was only one question on my mind. Could we kill her before she killed us?
I locked eyeballs with Kylie, and then I slowly let my gaze drift to the rug about four feet from Karen’s left. Then I shifted and zeroed in on the corresponding spot four feet from Karen’s right. The message was simple: Kylie would dive to the left, and I’d dive to the right. We’d roll, draw, and fire.
The odds were that Karen had no experience with guns, which meant that even if she pulled the trigger, she would do what most amateurs do and shoot the first round high while we were on the ground. She’d never have time to get off a second shot.
Kylie nodded. She understood the plan.
I angled my body to the right and shifted my weight to my left foot. Then I put three fingers to my face and counted down by tapping on my cheek. One…Two…
“Karen, I am so proud of you,” Kylie said.
My head snapped in her direction, but she didn’t look at me. She was focused on Karen.
“What?” Karen mewed.
“I’m proud,” Kylie said. “Proud of you.”
“For what?”
“For standing up,” Kylie said. “All these years I stood by and did nothing. I’m sorry, Karen. I wanted to help you…”
“You did?”
“Of course I did. I’m your mother,” Kylie said, taking a step toward Karen. “But now you’re doing for yourself what I couldn’t do for you. You’re strong now, Karen. Nobody will ever hurt you again.”
Kylie took another step forward. “I’m so very sorry,” she said. “You’re my daughter.” Another step. “I only want the best for you.” Then another.
It was insanity. The two women were squared off at point-blank range. “I love you,” Kylie said, spreading her arms, begging her daughter’s forgiveness.
Karen stood up. “Oh, Mama,” she whimpered, tears rolling down her cheeks. She reached out for an embrace that was probably decades overdue. Without hesitation, Kylie went from loving mom to deadly commando, delivering a furious knife-hand strike to Karen’s wrist.
Bone snapped, Karen yowled, the gun exploded, and glass shattered. Elephant down. The bullet hit Dumbo right between his eager-to-please baby-blue eyes. A fitting metaphor for Karen’s sad existence.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Kylie said, wrapping her arms around Karen and lowering her to the floor. “It was either this or blow your brains out. Mommy had to make a choice.”
I retrieved the gun, which had fallen from Karen’s limp hand. Then I called for backup and paramedics. “We have a white female, midthirties, in need of a doc to set a broken bone and a shrink to bring her out of a hypnotic state.”
It’s not a call Dispatch gets every day. “What kind of state did you say she was in, Detective?”
“Hypnotic. Like a medically induced trance. Call Dr. Cheryl Robinson at the One Nine. She may be able to help. My partner and I are leaving the scene in pursuit of a murder suspect, Dr. Morris Langford. White, male, midforties, reddish hair.”
I dropped to the floor. Kylie had tucked a pillow under Karen’s head and was about to cuff the dazed woman’s ankle to the coffee table.
“Gosh, you’re the best mom ever,” I said.
“Sorry I couldn’t shoot her, Lucas, but the paperwork’s a bitch.”
She took Langford’s gun from my hand. “Now let’s find Dr. Strangelove and give him his gun back,” she said as we raced out the door.
“Maybe I better take it,” I said.
“Thanks, but I’d rather hang on to it,” she said, tucking the gun into her waistband. “There’s a good chance I may use it on Eddy with a y.”