Although America had yet to come up with the "Black Lives Matter" movement in those days, and the man killed was white-at least judging by the body as it looked now-the fact remained that Nick had emerged unscathed while the other man had lost his life.
There was no guarantee that some parent, child, or other relative would not come forward claiming the man he had shot was a "good son, good neighbor, and good father who, despite drinking heavily, taking drugs, and carrying an illegal firearm, had a heart of gold," then threaten to sue the department and Nick himself.
Nick had been in this world for twenty years since transmigrating, and he was certain that werewolves or dog-headed people were not part of this world's makeup, including among America's ethnic minorities.
Rather than the female news anchor, who was getting on in years but still looked sweet, he paid more attention to the cameraman carrying the camera.
Nick was not yet sure whether the man had recorded the entire incident, but common sense suggested that if he had captured the monster's transformation, the cameraman should not have been this calm.
Soon, seven or eight police vehicles, along with an ambulance, arrived one after another. First came Nick's immediate superior, a patrol commander, who took charge of the scene. His longtime partner Hancock and Captain Sean Renard, the head of the homicide detective unit, arrived shortly afterward.
After examining the body, the paramedics pronounced the suspect dead at the scene. Officers from the crime scene investigation team also found a .22-caliber revolver beside the body that had fired two shots.
Captain Sean Renard was a tall, handsome, middle-aged white man. After reviewing the footage the news cameraman had recorded at the scene, his persistently stern expression finally eased a little.
"You did well, Nick. You were pretty lucky, too." He stepped forward and patted Nick on the shoulder, unexpectedly addressing him by his first name rather than using the formal "Officer Burkhardt."
While that was hardly enough to leave him overwhelmed by the attention, Nick still returned a smile at the right moment, because it at least meant that, in this senior police official's view, he had committed no procedural errors.
Still, he had some doubts. Was the captain's reaction not a little too normal? Had the camera failed to capture the man's transformation?
Whatever the case, what happened next was out of his hands. He was promptly placed on critical incident leave, and Inspector Raynard even thoughtfully arranged for Hancock to drive him home.
"How the hell did you do that?" On the drive, the Black detective seemed even more excited than Nick, who had actually been involved.
"I stood behind Inspector Raynard and watched the whole recording. Do you know what you did? Six seconds—5.5 seconds, to be exact. From that bastard opening fire to you shooting back and emptying your magazine, it only took 5.5 seconds. That was absolutely insane."
With a conspiratorial air, Hancock punched Nick's shoulder. "Captain Renard even played it back in slow motion several times. In 5.5 seconds, you performed at least ten tactical actions.
"You fired your Taser gun, threw it away while leaning back to dodge his two bullets, drew your gun with your right hand, and fired four shots back. After you hit the ground, your pistol jammed, but you cleared the malfunction in an instant..."
"My gun jammed?"
Nick shook his head hard. Everything had happened so fast that he had not even realized his deliberate drop to the ground had caused him to limp-wrist the gun, making the Glock 22 jam on the fourth shot.
Racking the slide to eject the casing and chamber another round had been pure muscle memory. At the time, he had only one thought: if he did not kill that thing in front of him, he would die.
But Nick was concerned about something else now, and he hurriedly asked a probing question. "Was the camera footage clear?"
"Crystal clear. I could even see the muzzle flash when that guy fired." Thinking he was worried about procedural justice, Hancock continued reassuring him.
"Don't worry. I know people at the district attorney's office. I can ask around privately about the investigation's progress. There won't be any problems. Besides, I know some of the union lawyers, too."
That was not what Nick was worried about, of course. "I know one of your ex-wives is a union lawyer. So, you didn't notice anything strange? Like that guy's face..."
"You shot him in the face twice."
Hancock thought his partner had suffered some psychological trauma from killing someone for the first time, and hurried to reassure him. "Stop dwelling on it. That guy brought it on himself. We found a pile of contraband in his trunk. He was pure scum."
Could I be the only one who could see that thing transform? Nick wondered to himself. Certain as he was that it had not been a hallucination, he could not help feeling a little uncertain now.
Naturally, that evening's celebration was canceled. After all, throwing a party at a cop bar right after shooting a suspect dead would have been far too inappropriate.
If a reporter happened to photograph them, everyone would be in serious trouble.
As mentioned before, Portland was still a fairly safe city at the time. A rare spectacle like a shootout between a cop and a criminal made the local television station's evening news that very night.
Even viewed from a third-person perspective, the scene remained thrilling. The brief burst of intense gunfire left viewers both frightened and exhilarated, and the video soon found its way online.
What Nick found strange was that no one but him seemed able to see anything wrong with the man, even though the camera had captured him very clearly.
After his confusion, however, he soon felt fortunate. Although he had been wearing a bulletproof vest, which should have had little trouble stopping a .22-caliber bullet even at close range, Nick still believed the skill "Lightning Reflexes" had saved his life.
After all, a bulletproof vest could only protect his torso. Bullets would fly wherever they were going to fly.
If he had not fired his Taser gun first, throwing off the other man's aim, and deliberately leaned back to dodge those two bullets, there was really no telling who would have won that American-style quick-draw showdown.
With a little bad luck, he might have been the one with his head blown apart.
That left Nick eagerly anticipating his next trip into a movie, but over the years, he had tried many methods, and neither electricity nor heat could recharge the Magic Movie Ticket.
The thing seemed to be nothing more than a symbolic medium. Even if Nick threw it away somewhere, he could recreate its physical form in his palm whenever he wanted.
He had even tried searching online for information related to "magic," but found nothing except a great many spirit-channeling rituals associated with "voodoo."
Nick had always wanted to obtain a healing-related skill, even a single-use one, because Aunt Mary, who had always taken care of him, had been diagnosed with a form of chronic leukemia before he graduated from college. Medication could only alleviate her condition.
The year he joined the PPB as a patrol officer, Aunt Mary ignored Nick's vehement objections and set off alone in her car on a trip around the country.
The easygoing woman, who had spent her entire working life at a public library in Portland, declared that she had fulfilled her responsibilities and it was time to live for herself.
On a purely personal level, if Aunt Mary had not repeatedly assured him that she would report her itinerary every month, and promised to return to Portland and let Nick take care of her when her health could no longer support long-distance travel-
He would never have agreed to let the stubborn old lady travel alone.
Over the past three years, Aunt Mary had traveled all across the country, and every month Nick received postcards and photographs she sent from other states.
Watching his only relative in this world grow increasingly haggard, her hair gradually falling out from the medication, yet smiling from the heart amid those breathtaking landscapes, Nick could not help feeling a jumble of emotions.
Before you continue