When Cops Collide

His name is Charles Thomas McKinley. Everyone calls him Mac. He's been my partner and best friend on the St. Paul police force for twenty years. Charisma oozes out of Big Mac like goo from a jelly doughnut. He could have doubled for John Wayne, only he's bigger and tougher. Yeah, Mac is made from gunmetal, but the big jerk also has a soft side when you get to know him.

Here's my dilemma: we've got this dead girl whose body shows up on a cold snowy night. Mac's in charge of solving the case. He does a fine job, finds the killer in a few weeks: a guy named Willie Claymore, the girl's live–in boyfriend, who confesses to the crime.

The only problem is Claymore didn't kill the girl, Mac did. Yes, my friend, the big cop that I've loved for twenty years, killed her, and the evidence against Mac mounts every day.

I'm trapped in the middle, between my partner, a guy I love, who is more like a brother to me, and Willie Claymore who is piss foam––a skinny, unemployed, Black Rastafarian, with a bad attitude and maybe twelve teeth, tops. What did it matter if he rotted in prison for a crime he didn't commit?

But I am a cop, a good cop. I would never let an innocent man spend his life locked up if I could help. Yeah, I love Mac, but he killed that girl and pinned it on Willie Claymore. Now I had to confront him. What would Mac do?

-- Marty RicKard