Who Takes The Name

Roger Gray got one chance to say some appropriate last words, and this is what they were: “It hurts… hurts to be… shot. Maybe if I’d known that, I’da shot… shot less people.”

After he died, Morse kicked the body.

“Hey, enough, man,” said Cohen. “Show a little restraint.”

“Restraint,” said Morse. “Restraint. Shot thirty-seven times and he tells me restraint.”

Cohen coughed deep in his chest and pulled a lozenge out of his pocket. “Ain’t gotta make it some big thing, man. I’m just sayin’, he’s not gonna get any deader. Bleedin’ like a fountain as it is. All you’re doin’ now, gettin’ blood on your loafers. Someone’s gonna have to clean that off. Ain’t professional.”

Gray was standing over his body staring at them. “This is what I get?” he asked no one in particular. “This is my eulogy?”

“What did you want?” said no one in particular. “You’re dead, you don’t get to make the rules. Come on, let’s take a walk. You want to chase the pigeons in Pioneer Square?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Suit yourself. We’ve got nothing but time.”

Cohen and Morse left with the body and Roger Gray stood in the dark. “Now what?” he said. “Is that all there is?”