Frank applied the safety, ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber and put his pistol on the table. The Glock 26 looked like a toy gun, its compressed form stumpy and ugly, but he was glad he’d had it on him. Hearing someone enter the house he stepped away from the table, turned to face the door and raised his hands.
“Police! Stop there. Hands up, keep them where I can see them. Don’t move!”
The police officer was young, frightened, his service weapon pointing at Frank, the shouted commands all unnecessary. Frank stood patiently, his heart rate only slightly elevated, his breathing steady and a calm expression on his face. When the officer stopped for breath he spoke, a clear neutral tone.
“My weapon is on the table, unloaded. I have a concealed carry permit which I can show to you. The body is in the kitchen.”
A second police officer entering the room heard the words, took control from her younger partner. “Thank you sir, but we’re going to have to detain you while we validate this. Turn around slowly, place your hands against the wall.”
Frank sighed but did as he was asked. Tensions were high, cooperation merely inconvenient. He anticipated his wrists being brought down behind his back, didn’t resist, allowed the cuffs to go on. He knew he could remove them if he wanted to, but why upset these two. They were just doing their job.
Paperwork checked, an apology from the female police officer, an apology from her lieutenant, an apology even from the DA who had inexplicably arrived on the scene, Frank sat in the back on an ambulance he hadn’t called, reassuring a paramedic that he was fine, the contusions were just grazes, no they weren’t from the police.
Moments later a police detective climbed into the ambulance, the DA following him, pointed stares encouraging the paramedic to find it important to be elsewhere.
“You’re claiming it’s self defence?” asked the detective.
Frank didn’t want to repeat his story, knew it would be necessary. The attack from behind, a needle skittering across the kitchen floor, some sort of blunt club swinging for his head, realising the door was locked and he couldn’t run. He’d drawn his weapon and shot immediately, no warning; if he’d had time for that he wouldn’t have needed to shoot at all.
The DA nodded. She’d worked enough concealed carry cases, knew how rarely those weapons were misused, how reluctant the bearers were to even draw them. She’d also been shown the syringe, retrieved from beneath a counter, in an evidence bag, its contents already heading to the lab. She’d been shown something else too, and waved to someone outside the ambulance to bring it over.
“Is this your bag?” she asked, pointing at the black canvas hold-all.
Frank shook his head. “Not one of mine,” he said, “I don’t have any that look like that.”
“Well,” said the DA, “it contains leather restraints, some sort of harness, mittens that lock to the wrist. If I didn’t know better I’d say it’s bondage gear - or a kidnap kit. Any reason you can think someone might want to kidnap you?”
Frank’s eyes widened as he looked up at the DA, looked across at the bag, stared in confusion at the detective. “No,” he replied, “who… why… what?”
The detective smiled at his confusion, cruelly added to it. “So you can confirm that the clothing in the bag isn’t yours?”
“What clothing?” asked Frank, “What was in the bag?”
“Hard to describe,” said the detective, “but if I had to I’d call it a baby’s romper suit. In your size.”
Frank went white, his expression changing, then closed his eyes as in deep thought. The detective and DA looked at each other, raised eyebrows, realising this wasn’t a random attack.
“So Frank,” asked the DA, “tell us about the other thing in the bag. The adult sized disposable diaper.”