I looked at myself in the Women's locker room mirror, surprised to see I didn't look any different. Yes, my hair was windblown, and yes, my eyes were somewhat bloodshot and fatigue lines radiated from each corner, but that was all. Totally normal. I didn't know what I expected. A gray streak, maybe, suddenly appearing in my hair? A scarlet "K" on my forehead? The mirror's reflection didn't show anything unusual, but I whispered, "I am a killer."

I'd never killed anyone before and I hope I never will again.

A young man was my victim - in death, he looked no more than eighteen, but I now knew he was twenty-five. I remember how his black hair swept back from his thin face and how his black eyes stared in that glassy way of the dead. The tragedy enacted left one strong reality - the pool of blood staining the concrete is forever etched in my mind.

It was self-defense pure and simple. And in a way, you could say I have a license to kill. I'm a police officer for the Austin Police Department. The shoot was perfectly legal by anyone's standards. 

I didn't know who he was when I shot him. How could I? He was only a shadowy figure in the darkness. I saw him force a female officer he'd already wounded to walk ahead of him, her hand dripping her life force. He used her for a shield. The guy had asked for it, hadn't he?

In the last few minutes of his life before I arrived on the scene, and before taking this officer hostage, he had shot another policeman, a man named Lopez - one of the new young ones.

When I'd confronted the suspect I had identified myself as a police officer. I'd asked him to give it up, but he shoved the policewoman to the floor and fired at me. That was when I shot him.

Only afterwards, when it was over, did I find out he was Jesse Garcia - a felony suspect - wanted for an earlier shooting. Wanted for eight months for shooting yet another APD officer.

For the past eight months, that other officer lay in a coma in a nursing home with little hope of recovery while his shooter, Jesse Garcia was hiding in Mexico. I could picture Garcia drinking tequila and chasing girls. 

That other officer? Formerly a Special Missions officer. Formerly handsome, witty, intelligent, funny, gentle. Formerly a loving husband. Byron Barrow, my husband.

Physical evidence proved without a doubt that Garcia - a known gang-banger - had fired the gun which wounded Byron but Garcia ran out on the morning the arrest warrant had been issued. Ran to Mexico. 

"Zoe?" Lynda Haynes, a civilian working desk duty at headquarters, stuck her head inside the restroom door. "Are you okay, Zoey?" 

I hated being called Zoey but Lynda's tone was gentle and I knew she only meant it in a endearing way. She wore a heavy perfume that wafted ahead, filling my nostrils and causing my stomach to churn in rebellion. I barely managed to keep it in control. She came inside, stood next to the sink, and stared at my reflection briefly before looking at me.

Was she searching for a scarlet "K" also? I wondered.

"You been throwing up?" she asked.

She wasn't accusing in any way, her only concern was how I felt; how I was dealing with the aftermath - nothing more. "I don't think there's anything left down there." 

"Yeah. I figured." She reached out and patted my forearm. "Rob Morton wanted me to check on you."

"Tell him I'll be out in a few minutes." 

"If it makes you feel any better, Zoe, that scuz got what he deserved." Her lips stretched into a brief smile before she turned and walked out.

Turning on the cold water faucet, I pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and wet them. I held the cool wadded towels against my eyes then rewet them and wiped my mouth. I found a comb in my shoulder bag, ran it through my hair, put a dab of color on my lips and looked in the mirror once more. "That's a little better, Zoe." 

Do I have regrets? Yes - and no. I'll never forget that horror and revulsion, knowing that I took the life of another human being but I'll also never forget that I got the scum-bag who nearly destroyed my life eight long months ago.