Bad Apple Read Online Free

two guys were loading themselves down with some kind of equipment. At first, Gibbons thought they might be forensic people from the state, but on second glance, they didn’t look right. Leather jackets, jeans, running shoes. One of them had funny-looking gold-rim glasses, too trendy for any bone-picker he’d ever met. Then he saw one of them hoist a video camera onto his shoulder, and he realized who these guys were. A freelance film team, ambulance-chasers who prowl the streets all night looking for juicy disaster footage that they can peddle to the local TV news shows. Fucking bloodsuckers.
    Gibbons charged around the white Mercury and startedshouting, “Hey! Hey! Pack up your gear and get the hell out of here.”
    The sound man, the one with the trendy glasses, gave him a dirty look and raised his boom mike on a stick as if he were going to defend himself with it. The cameraman, a tall, lanky guy in his early thirties with floppy blond hair, flashed a too-friendly smile and sauntered over toward the yellow tape that the state police had used to cordon off the crime scene.
    â€œWhat’s the problem, man?” the cameraman said. “We’re just here to cover the story.”
    Gibbons watched the guy’s eyes darting to the interior of the car. He was looking for something gory. The worst part about it was that the sneaky bastard was making like the camera wasn’t rolling. Who the hell did he think he was kidding?
    Gibbons moved in and cut him off, blocking his view of the car. He couldn’t take pictures now, for chrissake. The forensics guys hadn’t even gotten here yet. “Take a hike, the two of you. Now get going.”
    â€œC’mon, man. We’re just doing our job.”
    â€œDo it somewhere else.”
    The cameraman ignored Gibbons and pointed the camera around him, going for the interior of Petersen’s car.
    â€œHey, I’m warning you two little shitasses—”
    â€œBert!” Ivers called from the other side of the car.
    Gibbons stepped in front of the video cam and put his hand over the lens. The camera guy reared back, moved to the side, and kept shooting. “Hey, I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, man, but we’ve got a right to be here. Freedom of the press—you ever hear of it?” The guy kept shooting.
    Suddenly the B-52 made another run on Gibbons’s tooth. It came fast and without warning this time. The pain was beyondbelief. Gibbons clenched his fist, his face twisted, and hammered the car door with a King Kong backswing.
    â€œGet out of the way, will you, man? This is news.”
    â€œHe’s ruining my reading,” the soundman complained.
    Ivers called over the roof of the car. “Let the state police deal with them, Bert.”
    The cameraman craned his body over the yellow police tape, shooting into the open window on the driver’s side. Gibbons saw red. He went for Excalibur, his prized .38 Colt Cobra, the gun he’d used his entire career as an FBI agent in violation of the standard-issue weaponry rules, and he stuck the muzzle into the lens of the video cam. Gibbons growled, low and mean. “Move on. Now. Or I’ll blow your fucking eyes out.”
    â€œJesus Christ!” The soundman clutched his headset and hightailed it back to the van.
    The cameraman dropped the unit to his waist and glared at Gibbons. “What the fuck is your problem, man? We’re only trying to get a story.”
    â€œMove on.”
    The cameraman started to backstep toward the van. “You’re gonna hear from our lawyer, man. This is a clear violation of our freedom of the press rights. A clear violation.”
    â€œYou can write to Ann Landers for all I care. Just get the hell outta here.” Gibbons kept Excalibur leveled on the two bloodsuckers until they packed up and drove off.
    Ivers came up behind him. “Put your weapon away, Bert. That was uncalled