They suddenly had a problem—a badly wounded comrade, maybe even a dead one. He needed help but where could they go? Wasn’t my problem, really. But they backed off, retreated, vanished in the woods. I waited and waited and noticed blood on my left arm. After a few minutes, could’ve been five, could’ve been thirty, I crawled around the car and found Kenny. What a mess. Bullet entered from the rear, exit wound took half of his face. Killed instantly. He was also hit in the torso several times. I got his gun, crawled along the ditch for twenty or so feet, made a little nest, and dug in. I listened for a long time and heard nothing but the sounds of the night. No moon, nothing but blackness. According to the dispatcher’s log, I called in at 4:02, said we’d been ambushed. Kenny was dead. Pfitzner was the first one there, which seemed really odd. Just like he was the first one at Russo’s office.”
“He was probably in the woods directing things,” I say.
“Probably so. They took me to the hospital and treated my wound, nothing bad. Just got grazed. But I asked for some meds and they knocked me out. I told the doctors I didn’t want to talk to anyone for a day or two and they protected me. When Pfitzner finally came in, along with the State boys, I didn’t tell the part about nailing one of the thugs, a dude whose mother tongue was definitely not Spanish.”
“Why not?”
“Pfitzner wanted both of us dead, Post. He wanted to eliminate Kenny because Kenny knew something, and since I was along for the ride it was necessary to rub me out too. Couldn’t run the risk of leaving behind a witness. Think about that, Post. A sheriff elected by the people and trusted by the entire community sends two of his men into an ambush with the plan to get both of them killed. That’s Bradley Pfitzner.”
“He’s still alive, you know?”
“I don’t care. My dealings with him were over twenty years ago.”
“What did you tell him in the hospital?”
“Everything but the part about me nailing one of his thugs. I’ve never told anyone that, and I’ll deny it tomorrow if you repeat it.”
“So you’re still afraid?”
“No, Post. I’m not afraid. I’m just not risking any trouble here.”
“No word from the guy you hit?”
“Nothing. It was before the Internet and searching was more difficult. I dug enough to learn that there were two shooting victims admitted to Tampa’s public hospital on that date. One was shot by an intruder who was caught. The other guy was found dead in an alley. I couldn’t prove anything so I lost interest. About that time, my wife and I decided to leave town.”
“How did Pfitzner treat you afterwards?”
“The same. He was always very professional, the perfect cop, a good leader who believed in discipline. He gave me a month of paid leave after Kenny’s funeral and did everything he could to show concern. That’s why he was so treacherous. The community admired him and no one believed he was corrupt.”
“Was it known among his men?”
“We had our suspicions. Pfitzner had two pit bulls who ran things, Chip and Dip. They were brothers, a couple of real leg-breakers who did the dirty work. Arnie had a mouth full of oversized teeth and one of his front ones was chipped; thus, he was called Chip behind his back. Amos had smaller teeth but a fat lower lip that was always packed with a thick wad of smokeless tobacco; thus Dip. Below them were a few members of their team who were in on the action, the drug payoffs, but they kept all that separate from the routine business of protecting the county. Again, Pfitzner did a good job as sheriff. At some point, long before I arrived, he succumbed to the temptation of drug money. He protected the port, allowed the stuff to come in, provided safe zones to store it, and so on. I’m sure he made a mint, and I’m sure Chip and Dip and the others got their share. The rest of us had good salaries and benefits.”
He waves at a golf cart and two attractive ladies wave back. He follows them around a fairway, then veers over a small bridge to a secluded hideaway under some trees. When we are settled in, I ask, “So what did Kenny know?”