My friend Libby Fischer Hellmann edited an anthology called Chicago Blues, published by Bleak House in 2007. I wrote a Jack story for her, based on a premise I thought of while stuck in traffic downtown. Why do cars get gridlocked? Here’s one possible answer…

The man sat in the center of the southbound lane on Michigan Avenue, opposite Water Tower Place, sat cross-legged and seemingly oblivious to the mile of backed-up traffic, holding a gun that he pointed at his own head.

I’d been shopping at Macy’s, and purchased a Gucci wallet as a birthday gift for my boyfriend, Latham. When I walked out onto Michigan I was hit by the cacophony of several hundred honking horns and the unmistakable shrill of a police whistle. I hung my star around my neck and pushed through the crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk. Chicago’s Magnificent Mile was always packed during the summer, but the people were usually moving in one direction or the other. These folks were standing still, watching something.

Then I saw what they were watching.

I assumed the traffic cop blowing the whistle had called it in—he had a radio on his belt. He’d stopped cars in both directions, and had enforced a twenty meter perimeter around the guy with the gun.

I took my .38 Colt out of my purse and walked over, holding up my badge with my other hand. The cop was black, older, the strain of the situation heavy on his face.

“Lt. Jack Daniels, Homicide.” I had to yell above the car horns. “What’s the ETA on the negotiator?”

“Half hour, at least. Can’t get here because of the jam.”

He made a gesture with his white gloved hand, indicating the gridlock surrounding us.

“You talk to this guy?”

“Asked him his name, if he wanted anything. Told me to leave him alone. Don’t have to tell me twice.”

I nodded. The man with the gun was watching us. He was white, pudgy, mid-forties, clean shaven and wearing a blue suit and a red tie. He looked calm but focused. No tears. No shaking. As if it was perfectly normal to sit in the middle of the street with a pistol at your own temple.

I kept my Colt trained on the perp and took another step toward him. If he flinched, I’d shoot him. The shrinks had a term for it: suicide by cop. People who didn’t have the guts to kill themselves, so they forced the police to. I didn’t want to be the one to do it. Hell, it was the absolute last thing I wanted to do. I could picture the hearing, being told the shooting was justified, and I knew that being in the right wouldn’t help me sleep any better if I had to murder this poor bastard.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Paul.”

The gun he had was small, looked like a .380. Something higher caliber would likely blow through both sides of his skull and into the crowd. This bullet probably wasn’t powerful enough. But it would do a fine job of killing him. Or me, if he decided he wanted some company in the afterlife.

“My name is Jack. Can you put the gun down, Paul?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

That was about the extent of my hostage negotiating skills. I dared a step closer, coming within three feet of him, close enough to smell his sweat.

“What’s so bad that you have to do this?”

Paul stared at me without answering. I revised my earlier thought about him looking calm. He actually looked numb. I glanced at his left hand, saw the wedding ring.

“Problems with the wife?” I asked.

His Adam’s apple bobbled up and down as he swallowed. “My wife died last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You married?”

“Divorced. What was your wife’s name, Paul?”

“Doris.”

“What do you think Doris would say if she saw you like this?”

Paul’s face pinched into a sad smile. My Colt Detective Special weighed twenty-two ounces, and my arm was getting tired holding it up. I brought my left hand under my right to brace it, my palm on the butt of the weapon.

“Do you think you’ll get married again?” he asked.

I thought about Latham. “It will happen, sooner or later.”

“You have someone, I’m guessing.”

“Yes.”

“Does he like it that you’re a cop?”

I considered the question before answering. “He likes the whole package.”

Paul abruptly inhaled. A snort? I couldn’t tell. I did a very quick left to right sweep with my eyes. The crowd was growing, and inching closer—one traffic cop couldn’t keep everyone back by himself. The media had also arrived. Took them long enough, considering four networks had offices within a few blocks.

“Waiting for things to happen, that’s a mistake.” Paul closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again. “If you want things to happen, you have to make them happen. Because you never know how long things are going to last.”

He didn’t seem depressed. More like irritated. I took a slow breath, smelling the cumulative exhaust of a thousand cars and buses, wishing the damn negotiator would arrive.

“Do you live in the area, Paul?”

He sniffled, sounding congested. “Suburbs.”

“Do you work downtown?”

“Used to. Until about half an hour ago.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Can you give me more than that?”

He squinted at me. “Why do you care?”

“It’s my job, Paul.”

“It’s your job to protect people.”

“Yes. And you’re a person.”

“You want to protect me from myself.”

“Yes.”

“You also want to protect these people around us.”

“Yes.”

“How far away are they, do you think? Fifteen feet? Twenty?”

A strange question, and I didn’t like it. “I don’t know. Why?”

Paul made a show of looking around.

“Lot of people here. Big responsibility, protecting them all.”

He shifted, and my finger automatically tensed on the trigger. Paul said something, but it was lost in the honking.

“Can you repeat that, Paul?”

“Maybe life isn’t worth protecting.”

“Sure it is.”

“There are bad people in the world. They do bad things. Should they be protected too?”

“Everyone should be protected.”

Paul squinted at me. “Have you ever shot anyone, Jack?”

Another question I didn’t like.

“When I was forced to, yes. Please don’t force me, Paul.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

“No.”

Paul made a face like I was lying. “Why not? Do you believe in God? In heaven? Are you one of those crazy right-to-lifers who believe all life is sacred? Do you protest the death penalty?”

“I believe blood is hard to get off of your hands, even if it’s justified.”

He shifted again, and his jacket came open. There was a spot of something on his shirt. Something red. Both my arms were feeling the strain of holding up my weapon, and a spike of fear-induced adrenalin caused a tremor in my hands.

“What’s that on your shirt, Paul? Is that blood?”

He didn’t bother to look. “Probably.”

I kept my voice steady. “Did you go to work today, Paul?”

“Yes.”

“Did you bring your gun to work?”

No answer. I glanced at the spot of blood again, and noticed that his stomach didn’t look right. I’d first thought Paul was overweight. Now it looked like he had something bulky on under his shirt.

“Did you hurt anyone at work today, Paul?”

“That’s the past, Jack. You can’t protect them. What’s done is done.”

I was liking this situation less and less. That spot of blood drew my eyes like a beacon. I wondered if he was wearing a bullet proof vest under his business suit, or something worse.

“I don’t want to go to jail,” he said.

“What did you do, Paul?”

“They shouldn’t have fired me.”

“Who? Where do you work?”

“Since Doris died, I haven’t been bringing my ‘A Game.’ That’s understandable, isn’t it?”

I raised my voice. “How did you get blood on your shirt, Paul?”

Paul glared at me, but his eyes were out of focus.

“When you shot those people, did they scream?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure what he was after, so I stayed silent.

He grinned. “Doesn’t it make you feel good when they scream?”

Now I got it. This guy wasn’t just suicidal—he was homicidal as well. I took a step backward.

“Don’t leave, Jack. I want you to see this. You should see this. I’m moving very slow, okay?”

He put his hand into his pocket. I cocked the hammer back on my Colt. Paul fished out something small and silver, and I was a hair’s breadth away from shooting him.

“This is a detonator. I’ve got some explosives strapped to my chest. If you take another step away, if you yell, I’ll blow both of us up. And the bomb is strong enough to kill a lot of people in the crowd. It’s also wired to my heartbeat. I die, it goes off.”

I didn’t know if I believed him or not. Explosives weren’t easy to get, or to make. And rigging up a detonator—especially one that was hooked into your pulse—that was really hard, even if you could find the plans on the Internet. But Paul’s eyes had just enough hint of psychosis in them that I stayed put.

“Do you doubt me, Jack? I see some doubt. I work at LarsiTech, out of the Prudential Building. We sell medical equipment. That’s where I got the ECG electrode pads. It’s also where I got the radioactive isotopes.”

My breath caught in my throat, and my gun became impossibly heavy. Paul must have noticed my reaction, because he smiled.

“The isotopes won’t cause a nuclear explosion, Jack. The detonator is too small. But they will spread radioactivity for a pretty good distance. You’ve heard of dirty bombs, right? People won’t die right away. They’ll get sick. Hair will fall out. And teeth. Skin will slough off. Blindness. Leukemia. Nasty business. I figure I’ve got enough strapped to my waist to contaminate the whole block.”

All I could ask was, “Why?”

“Because I’m a bad person, Jack. Remember? Bad people do bad things.”

“Would Doris…approve…of this?”

“Doris didn’t approve of anything. She judged. Judged every little thing I did. I half expected to be haunted by her ghost after I shot her, telling me how I could have done a better job.”

I didn’t have any saliva left in my mouth, so my voice came out raspy.

“What happened today at LarsiTech?”

“A lot of people got what was coming to them. Bad people, Jack. Maybe they weren’t all bad. I didn’t know some of them well enough. But we all have bad in us. I’m sure they deserved it. Just like this crowd of people.”

He looked beyond me.

“Like that woman there, pointing at me. Looks nice enough. Probably has a family. I’m sure she’s done some bad things. Maybe she hits her kids. Or she stuck her mom in a nursing home. Or cheats on her taxes. We all have bad in us.”

His Helter Skelter eyes swung back to me.

“What have you done that’s bad, Jack?”

A cop’s job was to take control of the situation, and somehow I’d lost that control.

“You’re not thinking clearly, Paul. You’re depressed. You need to put down the detonator and the gun.”

“You have five seconds to tell me something bad you’ve done, or I press the button.”

“I’ll shoot you, Paul.”

“And then a lot of people will die, Jack. Five…”

“This isn’t a game, Paul.”

“Four…”

“Don’t make me do this.”

“Three…”

Was he bluffing? Did I have any options? My .38 pointed at his shoulder. If I shot him, it might get him to drop the detonator. Or it might kill him and then his bomb would explode. Or it might just piss him off and get him to turn his gun on me.

“Two…”

It came out in a spurt. “I cheated on my boyfriend with my ex husband.”

The corners of Paul’s eyes crinkled up.

“Does your boyfriend know, Jack?”

“Yes.”

“He found out, or you told him?”

I recalled the pained expression on Latham’s face. “I told him.”

“He forgave you?”

“Yes.”

Paul chewed his lower lip, looking like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Did it feel good to hurt him, Jack?”

“No.”

Paul seemed to drink this in.

“You must have known it would hurt him, but you did it anyway. So some part of you must not have minded hurting him.”

“I didn’t want to hurt him. I just cared more about my needs than his.”

“You were being selfish.”

“Yes.”

“You were being bad.”

The word stuck like a chicken bone in my throat. “Yes.”

His thumb caressed the detonator, and he licked his lips.

“What’s the difference between that and what I’m doing right now?”

The gun weighed a hundred pounds, and my arms were really starting to shake.

“I broke a man’s heart. You’re planning on killing a bunch of people. That’s worse.”

Paul raised an eyebrow. “So I’m a worse person than you?”

I hesitated, then said, “Yes.”

“Do you want to shoot me?”

“No.”

“But I’m bad. I deserve it.”

“Bad things can be forgiven, Paul.”

“Do you think your boyfriend would forgive me if I killed you?”

I pictured Latham. His forgiveness was the best gift I’d ever gotten. It proved that love had no conditions. That mistakes weren’t deal breakers.

I wanted to live to see Latham again.

Regain control, Jack. Demand proof.

“Show me the bomb,” I said to Paul. My tone was hard, professional. I wasn’t going to neutralize the situation by talking. Paul was too far gone. When dealing with bullies, you have to push back or you won’t gain their respect.

“No,” he said.

Louder, “Show me the bomb!”

At the word bomb a collective wail coursed through the crowd, and they began to stampede backward.

He began to shake, and his eyes became mean little slits. “What did I say about yelling, Jack?”

Paul’s finger danced over the detonator button.

“You’re bluffing.” I chanced a look around. The perimeter was widening.

“I’ll prove I’m not bluffing by blowing up the whole—”

I got even closer, thrusting my chin at him, steadying my gun.

“I’m done with this, Paul. Drop the gun and the detonator, or I’m going to shoot you.”

“If you shoot me, you’ll die.”

“I’m not going to believe that unless you show me the goddamn bomb.”

Time stretched out, slowed. After an impossibly long second he lowered his eyes, reaching down for his buttons.

I was hoping he was bluffing, praying he was bluffing, and then his shirt opened and I saw the red sticks of dynamite.

Son of a bitch. He wasn’t bluffing.

I couldn’t let him press that detonator. So I fired.

Thousands of hours on the shooting range meant the move was automatic, mechanical. His wrist exploded in blood and bone, and before the scream escaped his lips I put one more in the opposite shoulder. He dropped both his gun and the detonator. I kicked them away, hoping I hadn’t killed him, hoping he’d be alive until help came.

I stared at his chest, saw two electrode pads hooked up to his heart. His waist was surrounded by explosives, and in the center was a black box with a radiation symbol on it.

Paul coughed, then slumped onto his back. His wrist spurted, and his shoulder poured blood onto the pavement like a faucet. Each bullet had severed an artery. He was doomed.

I shrugged off my jacket, pressed it to the shoulder wound, and yelled, “Bomb! Get out of here!” to the few dozen idiots still gawking. Then I grabbed Paul’s chin and made him look at me.

“How do I disarm this, Paul?”

His voice was soft, hoarse. “…you…you killed me…”

“Paul! Answer me! How can I shut off the bomb!”

His eyelids fluttered. My blazer had already soaked through with blood.

“…how…”

“Yes, Paul. Tell me how.”

“…how does…”

“Please, Paul. Stay with me.”

His eyes locked on mine.

“…how does it feel to finally kill someone?”

Then his head tilted to the side and his mouth hung open.

I felt for the pulse in his neck. Barely there. He didn’t have long.

I checked the crowd again. The traffic cop had fled, and the drivers of the surrounding cars had abandoned them. No paramedics rushed over, lugging life-saving equistaent. No bomb squad technicians rushed over, to cut the wires and save the day. It was only me, and Paul. Soon it would be only me, and a few seconds later I’d be gone too.

Should I run, give myself a chance to live? How much contamination would this dirty bomb spread? Would I die anyway, along with hundreds or thousands of others? I didn’t know anything about radiation. How far could it travel? Could it go through windows and buildings? How much death could it cause?

Running became moot. Paul’s chest quivered, and then was still.

I knew even less about the inner working of the human body than I did about radiation. If I started CPR, would that trick the bomb into thinking Paul’s heart was still beating?

I didn’t have time to ponder it. Without thinking I tore off the electrodes and stuck them up under my shirt, under my bra, fixing them to my chest, hoping to find my heartbeat and stop the detonation.

I held my breath.

Nothing exploded.

I looked around again, saw no help. And none could get to me, with the traffic jam. I needed to move, to get to the next intersection, to find a place where the bomb squad could get to me.

But first I called Dispatch.

“This is Lieutenant Jack Daniels, from the 26th District. I’m on the corner of Michigan and Pearson. I need the bomb squad. A dirty bomb is hooked up to my heartbeat. I also need someone to check out a company downtown called LarsiTech, a medical supply company in the Prudential Building. There may have been some homicides there.”

I gave the Dispatch officer my cell number, then grabbed Paul’s wrist and began to drag him to the curb. It wasn’t easy. My grip was slippery with blood, and the asphalt was rough and pulled at his clothes. I would tug, make sure the electrodes were still attached, take a step, and repeat.

Halfway there my cell rang.

“This is Dispatch. The bomb squad is on the way, ETA eight minutes. Are you sure on the company name, Lieutenant?”

“He said it several times.”

“There’s no listing for LarsiTech in the Prudential Building. I spelled it several different ways.”

“Then where is LarsiTech?”

“No place I could find. Chicago had three medical supply companies, and I called them all. They didn’t report any problems. The phone book has no LarsiTech. Information has no listing in Illinois, or the whole nation.”

I looked down at Paul, saw the wires had ripped out of the black box. And that the black box had a local cable company’s name written on the side. And that the radiation symbol was actually a sticker that was peeling off. And that the dynamite was actually road flares with their tops cut off.

Suicide by cop.

I sat down in the southbound lane on Michigan Avenue, sat down and stared at my hands, at the blood caked under the fingernails, and wondered if I’d ever be able to get them clean.