Four rooms away from the kid he had to visit. Had to, he reminded himself; had to keep his promise to Burns. “Damn,” he said quietly. 412. Tim Burns’ ICU room, four years ago. The bullet hole in his chest, fighting for his life while Hicks was in the streets pocketing a ten grand bribe. He turned and looked up the corridor toward 418. Hoping again that the kid’s parents weren’t in there with him. If they were, he would take Burns’ advice. Yeah, Hicks nodded. Worked on the inspector general, an’ it was the truth. Loss of his own boy an’ how it broke up his marriage. Tell the parents how sorry he is about what he’d done to their son; wanted to teach him a lesson. Go for their sympathy. Maybe they’d drop the lawsuit. No way…second charge of excessive force. First one, another shithead who deserved it, Hicks recalled. White drunken-ass wife beater. Still can’t make a fist with his right hand, Hicks had heard recently. Fuck him. Fuck ‘em all. Room 418. Get in there and get it over with, he told himself.
