I remember my death quite well. It haunts me night after night. Dying isn’t something easily forgotten. I close my eyes and relive it, every detail perfect.

My partner, Schofield and I were after a psycho who’d killed a young woman and tossed her in a dumpster. Someone had seen him toss a heavy bag into that dumpster and known who he was.

So we got an address and were on our way to check it out, driving through dark streets where the street lamps don’t work. The pale bloated moon, full in all its glory white hung naked in the dark sky. We were close, only a few blocks away when we ran right into the guy.

He came running out from a side alley into the street. Schofield jammed on the brakes, stopping inches from the man who looked at us in the glow of the headlights like a stunned deer. Then he noticed the lights on top of the car, noticed we were cops and pulled a gun.

“That’s” Schofield began.

“Him,” I said breathlessly.

“Fuck!” We both yelled, scrambling out of the car as he started firing.