For One Bullet

Now he was not only broke, but broken, too. That’s the thought Richard Berger came to as he struggled to climb out of the snow bank he’d been tossed into following the brutal attack.

He was on his way home, walking across town, when he happened on two men coming towards him. He tried to look them in the eye as he said ‘hello,’ but their hoodies and the  shadows blocked his view of their faces.

Before he knew it, they’d struck Richard on the top of his head. It was a blow that brought stars to his eyes, but failed to knock him down.

As quickly as he’d turned to face his attackers, he raised his right arm to protect himself from another blow. He felt the lead pipe internally crush the two bones in his forearm.

So immense was the pain, that Richard grabbed his arm in agony, and in doing so, bent over slightly. That’s when the pipe came crashing down on the back of his head.

Not fully unconscious and not fully awake either, he felt the two men rifle through his clothes, taking his wallet, containing a five-dollar bill, from his back pocket and .38 caliber snub nosed revolver, from his right coat pocket. Next thing he knew, as they laughed, they picked him up and tossed his limp body into a high drift of freshly plowed snow.

Richard laid there, aware of the danger that he was in from hypothermia and frostbite. But the cold felt good against the fiery pain of his beaten head and broken arm. Beside he wasn’t sure if the two men had left the area or if they were waiting to do worse to him.

For nearly 20 minutes, he laid half-buried in the snow, violently shivering. Then he began to feel sleepy and noticed he was growing increasingly warm – certain signs of hypothermia and the pathway to frozen death.

Stiff and in pain, Richard forced himself to sit up and dig his way out of the hardening snow pack with his one good hand. He’d had gloves on both hands at one time, but noticed that the right was missing and by the time he’d freed himself from the icy would-be tomb, he’d shredded the left and it was now worthless against the cold.

After staggering about five blocks, he happened upon a 24-hour convenience store. It didn’t take much urging to get the clerk to call the police for him.

At the hospital, they took Richard immediately into surgery. When he awoke, he had a cast on the busted arm that extended from above his bent elbow to the spaces between his fingers.

Opening his eyes left the room spinning and the overhead lights made him sick to his stomach. He could see a man in a shirt and tie, wearing a parka, standing at his bedside, but it was all too much and he felt himself slip back into the darkness of a medicated sleep.

Hours later, he woke again. This time the medication’s effect had worn off and he began to focus on his surroundings.

“Hospital?” Richard asked.

The man in the tie and parka was sitting beside his bed and he stood up, “You’re in County General, Mr. Berger.”

Richard nodded his head in response. Then he looked at the cast on his arm, “I knew it was broke it when they hit it.”

“Yeah, sorry this happened,” the man said. “My names Detective Jones. Can I call you Dick?”

Richard shook his head and said, “No. Richard or Rich. Please.”

He looked at Jones and noted the lack of surprise on his face.

“Dick Berger? Funny. Ha-ha,” Richard said coldly, “So, no — don’t call me Dick.”

“It never dawned on me,” the detective said.

Richard let the claim slide, knowing that anyone smart enough to tie their shoes could figure out such an unforgiving name. He’d grown up being teased endlessly and had long become aware of when a person had worked out that his name came with an innuendo.

“Bullies are all the same,” Richard thought.

It had also been part of the reason he’d been so gullible as a kid. As a preteen, he simply wanted to be accepted by someone and unfortunately that someone had taken physical advantage of him several times as he grew towards adulthood.

Richard shut the thought out of his mind, knowing that chapter in his life was now closed. He gently felt his head with his left hand, finding the two large bumps left by the pipe, but no stitches.

“So, Richard,” the detective asked, “Did you see who did this to you?”

“No,” he answered, “All I know is that there were two of them.”

Richard continued to describe what happened. As he talked, the detective took notes.

Two days later, the hospital discharged Richard. And despite his pain, he’d agreed to go to the station and make a formal statement.

“Well, the good news is,” Detective Jones said, “We caught the two guys who mugged and beat you.”

With that he produced Richard’s empty wallet, holding up the plastic bag that contained it. Also in the bag was his state identification card.

“That’s it,” he said. “If you need the wallet as evidence, keep it, all it’s been good for recently is holding my ID and little else.”

Jones smiled, “No, you can have it back.” He slid the bag toward’s Richard and a clipboard with a release form to sign.

After the pause, Jones said, “Not to diminish what happened to you, but the two perps had a gun on them that we think was used in a murder after they robbed you.”

Richard shifted in the wooden chair at the mention of ‘murder.’ He could feel himself begin to tremble and grow sweaty.

Jones added, “Figured that might shake you up a bit. I think you were the warm-up.”

“Yeah,” Richard said, looking at his arm, “Guess, I could’ve been murdered too.”

“Well, Richard,” Jones said, “If we need anything else from you, I’ll be in touch – but I think we have this thing pretty well wrapped up. Can I have a cruiser drop you at your apartment?”

“No, thank you, Detective,” Richard half-smiled as he offered him his good hand to shake, “I’ll walk.”

It was a battle to fight off the waves of panic Richard felt as he walked towards the station doors. The sweat left a chill to his body once he stepped outside and into the late morning-time air.

A couple of blocks away from the police station, Richard grinned, “Three mother-fuckers with one bullet; a pedophile and two assholes.”