The Best American Mystery Stories 2006

In these country places in the mountains where Pitman was known. Weekends he’d take me dancing, for a while after we were married as we’d done before we were married, and Pitman would dance like some stoned MTV kid, long legs, arms, feet as fast as my own, grabbing me and leaning me back in my high-heeled shoes, little T-shirt, and jeans tight so that the crease pinched me between the legs and Pitman could run his fingers along that crease quick and sly not minding who might be watching. Pitman the law enforcement officer out of uniform, wild to have a good time. Desperate to have a good time. He had a few cop friends, younger guys like himself. I was too young to realize that Pitman and his friends were not likely to be promoted very far up police ranks; I was too adoring of Pitman to guess that his superiors — even that Pitman had “superiors” — might not admire his brashness the way I did. His scorn was for desk work, computers, “investigating teams” that depended upon forensics lab reports and not action. He liked being in uniform, in the cruiser, and in perpetual motion. He liked the .45-caliber police service revolver visibly gleaming on his hip.

Pitman was an Adirondack boy, he’d grown up with guns. In our honeymoon bungalow he kept his “arsenal”: two rifles, a Springfield double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun, several handguns. He’d wanted to teach me to shoot so that we could go hunting (white-tailed deer, pheasant) together, but I refused — “Why’d I want to kill some beautiful blameless creature?” Pitman winked, “Well hell, baby, somebody’s got to.” I had to love how Pitman took boyish pride in his Smith & Wesson .45-caliber revolver with “zebra wood” gun grip he’d acquired in a poker game. He took pride in his Winchester.30-caliber deer rifle with its long sleek blue-black barrel and maplewood handle he was obsessive about keeping polished the way, at our house, my Mom kept the good silverware polished; this was the firearm Pitman kept loaded and ready at all times, in case of intruders, break-ins. He’d showed me where the rifle was positioned on the closet shelf, how I was to take it up and hold it, how I was to shift the safety off in any time of danger but I was nervous backing off, laughing and fluttering my hands. No, no! Anybody was going to protect me, it had to be my husband.

At our kitchen table while I prepared a sizzling frying-pan meal Pitman would drink Coors and listen to Neil Young, sometimes Dee Dee Ramone turned up high as he dismantled, cleaned, and oiled his long-barreled police service revolver with the tenderness you’d hope to see in a man bathing an infant. Pitman interpreted my fear of firearms as respect for him, and he liked that. Of all things Pitman required respect. The Pitmans and their numerous kin were not generally respected. They were feared and scorned in about equal measure. Pitman wished to be feared and respected in equal measure. Sure, he liked to laugh and have a good time but respect was more important. He knew of my father’s disdain for fishing, hunting, guns of any kind and had a way of alluding to “your esteemed father Mr. Everett who pays other guys to do his shooting for him” that was startling to me, like for an instant Pitman’s brain was sliced open and you could see the shrewdness inside, the class-hatred, anger. The next instant it was gone, Pitman liked to tease-taunt me in a way that was like sex, the prelude to sex. Telling me of the times he’d had to use his weapon. Drew his gun and aimed it as he’d been trained — and called out a warning — “Put your hands where I can see them! Put your hands where I can see them! Come forward slowly! Come forward slowly!” — but he’d had no choice except to fire. Since being sworn in as a deputy sheriff he’d had to shoot and kill two men, and he’d wounded others. Not always alone but with his partner, or others. It was rare for a law enforcement officer to use his weapon alone. Did he have any regrets, hell no. He’d never been reprimanded for excessive force. The shootings had been investigated and cleared. On one occasion, Pitman was credited for saving the life of another deputy. He’d received citations. He never dreamt about these actual shootings but he dreamt about shooting. A lot.

Pitman smiled his slow easy smile, telling me this. I felt my breath come short.

It was a requirement of the St. Lawrence County sheriff that deputies were required to fire no less than two bullets at their target if they fired one.

“Why is that? What if you change your mind?”

“You don’t.”

“But, if you’ve made a mistake...”

“You don’t make a mistake.”

“A deputy never makes a mistake?”

Pitman laughed at me. Those days, I never knew if I was pretending to be shocked by him or truly shocked. I saw that steely light come into his eyes. He leaned over and drew the revolver barrel along the side of my thigh, slowly. In a way that made me know he was quoting somebody he revered he said “A forty-five is not an equal opportunity employer. “