A Routine Stop In A Seattle Suburb, 2:30 a.m.

Leaving my cruiser behind, I approached the car. Its hood was open and the motor was running. Hearing movement on the other side of the car, I swung my flashlight around and saw the man whose face had been plastered across the state since four policemen had been gunned down in a coffee shop two days before.
He ducked away, I shouted, he ran, I shot. The gun slipped from my hand. He gurgled on the ground. We weren’t even sure he had committed the crime. But when I approached, shaking, I saw he had been holding a policeman’s gun.