FROM SPARTA

Now he had this case. This was another puzzling, yet somehow frightening case. This was something, had he the choice, he would have preferred not to get involved in, but he was so well thought of from his superiors that orders came down for him to work the file. When Spironi had first been transferred to homicide, the men had treated him with kid gloves. This was mainly due to his small stature and boyish features. It wasn’t long though before he was to become much bigger than his five foot seven inch frame suggested. The change in attitude came about when Spironi saved the Gerritsen kids. The wailing sounds of the fire truck in the distance were of no comfort to the gathering crowd, as the sounds of the screaming children inside echoed out from the burning wooden building. One man had tried to help them, but he had been badly burned in the failed attempt. The children’s mother was running up and down, helpless, as she pleaded for someone to save them. Spironi had been driving passed in the brand new Chevy saloon, and when he witnessed the commotion, he skidded to a stop and leapt from the car. “Where are your children?” he yelled to the almost hysterical woman. “They’re in a room downstairs, behind the front room,” she screamed. “How many?” “Two!” ‘Oh so now you are going to be a goddamn hero and get us burnt alive,’ the little voice inside his head raged. ‘Don’t even think about it you asshole,’ it added. Spironi as usual, ignored the voice in his head and quickly jumped back into the Chevy. “Get out!” he ordered his bewildered passenger, who quickly exited the car. “What the hell are you doing?” You can’t do this; the man protested loudly as Spironi slammed the door shut and ignored him. Then, wheels spinning, he drove across the street, spun the car around and pushed hard on the gas. The heavy car ploughed through the front garden, digging up large tufts of grass. “What’s that crazy mother doing?” someone yelled. “Go for it,” another shouted, as Spironi smashed the big car through the front of the wooden house. Debris and glass flew into the air, and the ground shook beneath the people’s feet. Only the tail lights were visible now, as the flames and smoke licked around them. It seemed like an eternity, but in reality it was no more than fifteen seconds, when the car, tyres ablaze and spinning, came roaring out, tearing up clumps of earth and sending them into the air, as it roared back away from the house. Onlookers scattered in all directions as the fire vehicles, crews at the ready, screeched to a halt. The top of the car was covered in blazing wood and sparks, and ash flew around it, blocking the scene like a smokescreen as it sat on the front lawn. Little flames shot up from the front tyres and licked out from under the bonnet. Then the car door, its window blackened by the flames, burst open. Spironi leapt from the car, pulling the two struggling bundles behind him. The crying children’s clothes were singed and they had some burns, but they would live. As the fire crews rushed passed, hoses in hand, Spironi took one last look at the burning car, which was now a blazing inferno. The bursting of the tyres sounded like small bombs going off. The children’s mother was on her knees now, her hands clasped in prayer. “You’re a goddamn hero son,” an old man exclaimed as he shook Spironi by the hand. “L, look what you just fucking d-done,” the man from the car showroom stuttered. “I didn’t really like the paintwork,” Spironi answered, as he walked away, leaving the shocked salesman to stare at the burning wreck, which only ten minutes before was a top of the range Chevy that sat pride of place on the foyer of Monty’s showroom. “Yo-you’ll pay for this, y-you f-fucking maniac,” he spat. “So sue me,” Spironi whispered under his breath. But Spironi wasn’t sued, and the car showroom used the publicity to their advantage. They even had Spironi photographed with the two children, behind the wheel of another Chevy. But under no circumstances would they let him test drive one of their vehicles again.