It was a cold February morning when Detective Sergeant Toby Malzoni reluctantly crawled out of his warm bed to go to work. Ellen hardly moved. He had gone through this same ritual every workday for the past twenty-four years. The routine was set. He dressed between sipping a cup of fresh brewed coffee and eating a breakfast roll. Just before leaving the house, he unlocked the special cabinet in the kitchen and took out his .45 caliber semiautomatic. With the heel of his hand, he bumped in a seven-round clip of hollow-point bullets. He jerked the slide back and let it go forward, ramming a round into the chamber, leaving the weapon cocked. After clicking on the safety, he slipped it into his right overcoat pocket instead of the shoulder holster. He checked the left pocket to make sure his shield wallet was there. After slipping the set of cuffs over his belt at the small of his back, he had all of the tools of his trade in place and he was ready to go to work.

He stepped outside and gently closed the front door, trying the lock to be sure it was secure. A blast of cold air hit him in the face. It felt crisp and sharp, making the hair in his nose stiffen as he carefully made his way down the ice covered steps to the sidewalk.

It was a block and a half walk to the subway. He watched for ice spots on the way and deftly walked around them. To slip and fall with a loaded weapon in his pocket could be very dangerous.

While walking along the deserted street, his thoughts turned to his office and a desk piled high with homicide cases waiting for attention. There was at least six months work in that stack. A touchy one was the case of the grandson of a ward boss, killed in a drug shootout. He knew it would have to be checked carefully because it had political implications. It would get special treatment.

Gang slaughter would only get a few minutes, just long enough to type up a closing report saying that the guy was a bad egg and the shooter did the city a favor. Of course, it wouldn't be in those words, but the meaning was there anyway. He was glad that he didn't have to go to the funeral and watch a struggling preacher try to find something good to say about a spent loser who had turned into human garbage. Grimacing as he walked a little faster in the cold air, he occupied more time by developing his own eulogy about the recently departed named in most of the files. He would say that the world was better off because this piece of trash would never sell another child a brick of crack cocaine or other narcotics. He wouldn't hijack another car or shoot another innocent victim in a robbery. He wouldn't loot stores at the drop of a hat or rape a woman who wouldn’t report it out of fear for her life.

Walking steadily, he shoved the overcoat closer to his ears with his shoulders as he reached the entrance to the subway tunnel. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the grip of his weapon.

As he made his way down the icy stairs, he looked around carefully. There were nooks and corners in a subway station where a mugger could hide. He knew that he could fire the weapon instantly through the pocket of the coat if necessary. Besides, he felt secure to have it in his hand.

He was walking away from the bottom of the stairs, along the corridor to the platform tunnel, when he heard a noise and saw movement ahead in the dim light of the platform. He stopped instantly. A big, rough-looking guy stepped out of the shadows and staggered toward him. Toby tried to make eye contact to get a reading on the guy, but couldn’t. The guy’s eyes seemed to be looking but not seeing. He had something in his right hand. In a second, Toby recognized it as a switchblade knife, open and ready for use. The guy was mumbling that today was the day when he was going to "cut the head off a mullifuckin' honky." Toby recognized the symptoms of a drug high immediately and he was not about to play social worker. The guy was coming at him with but one thing on his drug-crazed mind. He was going to kill.

Toby quickly raised his weapon to eye level, simultaneously clicking off the safety. In his other hand he showed his shield to the guy.

He yelled, "Hold it right there, bastard, or you're dead meat." He made his demand as calmly as he could under the circumstances. His adrenaline was pumping hard and he was struggling to control himself. He knew that he was about to die. The end of his life was only seconds away if this mugger was allowed to continue.

The big man paused momentarily at the sight of the badge, then muttered something unintelligible and continued his charge. Toby let him take two more steps before he fired. The sound in the tile corridor reverberated the noise, making it sound like a cannon. A surprised look appeared on the face of the big man as his next step came to a stop in mid-air. The hollow-point had done its job. The mugger seemed to pause for a moment before his knees buckled and the switchblade dropped to the tile floor, sliding toward Toby. The guy flopped on his side then rolled over on his back and didn't move. A chill raced up Toby’s spine as he looked at the body sprawled on the floor.

Toby kicked the switchblade up against the body and walked over, looking at the spreading blood stain on the guy's shirt. There was no question that the mugger was dead. The shot had hit him dead center in the chest and a hollow-point tears a massive hole. Nothing was moving. He quickly looked around for witnesses. There were none. He clicked the safety on and put the weapon back in his pocket.

He saw the ejected shell casing on the floor and picked it up, dropping it in another pocket. With no witnesses, he decided it was best to leave it as a street killing, so he walked swiftly toward the entrance to the platform. He was well aware that by doing so it could be classified as murder, or at least manslaughter. He also knew that in time he would probably be cleared with a justifiable homicide verdict, but the paperwork would go on for months, possibly years. There would be lawsuits by relatives who didn't give a damn about this poor slob until he became a potential source of money, then he would suddenly become a beloved family member whom they missed terribly.

The entire incident lasted less than one minute. Just before entering the tunnel, he glanced around again to check the scene. His heart leaped for a moment when he spotted an elderly gentleman, holding what appeared to be a dog leash, standing at street level looking down at the tunnel entrance. He had obviously seen a part of the drama below, probably heard the shot and got there as Toby was walking away. Toby cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "Mugger."

The old man made a circle with his thumb and forefinger as he waved to Toby and turned away. It was a sign of approval.

Toby was sure that the old man couldn’t identify him from that distance and, in fact, the odds were good that he wouldn't report it. That was the typical big city attitude this day and time, not to get involved. Minutes later, he caught the express downtown. Usually there were very few people in the car this early. This morning, there was only one older couple with matched luggage sitting in the far end of the car. Judging by the luggage, they were going on a trip. They ignored him and seemed to be arguing with each other over airline tickets.

Toby’s hands were shaking and he felt sweaty. He reminded himself that he had just taken a human life and this was not an unusual reaction. He tried to think of something else for the rest of the trip, but the look on the big guy’s face wouldn't go away.

His heart had slowed to nearly normal by the time he reached the station, twenty minutes later.----