A Madman's Last Stand

I, Detective Inspector Oliver Dinges, do solemnly swear this to be true.  I did not shoot the suspect out of malice or rage - not even in haste.  I did so to protect the innocent and save lives.
         He had killed eleven people before reaching New York.  It was a rampage no one had foreseen, impelled by a lover's quarrel.  He had commandeered three steam wagons along his violent path, starting in Tennessee.  Anyone who got in his way was gunned down.
         It was his wife's mother's house he was headed for, in an attempt to shatter the world of the woman he claimed had shattered his.  It did not work.  He made it only half-way to the town where his mother-in-law bode when he met me.
         My partner, Chief Inspector Igor Wade, and I awaited James Ernestine's arrival.  He blitzed his way toward us in a steam wagon, stolen from a long haul carrier, so it was a rather large, powerful model.  We had evacuated  Times Square, which was not an easy task at the heat of trading time.  The Exchange building rattled off numbers and poured smog as if nothing was happening, but New York's finest had made a veritable ghost town of the Square.
         Rampaging down Wall Street, the steam wagon belched soot and steam, the combustion engine over heating and catching fire.  It tumbled the wagon to the ground, engulfing the oak body in flames and hurling Ernestine from it's belly.
         Ernestine was unscathed.  He stormed in our direction, a rather large pistol in each hand.  The tails of his oil cloth duster smoldered as he aimed those pistols at me and Wade.
         "Hold!" ordered Wade, just loud enough for me to hear.  My hand was readying the coach gun set on my hip.  Wade knew I was ready, but Ernestine had not fired.  Protocol was such a beast.
         It was the split second when I saw Ernestine raise his pistols and cock the hammer back when I pulled the three barrel coach gun from my hip.  I set the first trigger on the first barrel.
         Thankfully, Ernestine was a bad shot, bullet flying through the broad space between Wade and myself.  He continued to storm toward us, pistols raised and glare quite demented.  I heard Wade command and I pulled my second trigger.
         Ernestine ducked off to his right, as if he were some aberrent being, missing my shot, save for a pellet through his left sleeve.  He lurched back upright and raised his pistols at me once more.  I switched to my second barrel and set the first trigger, quickly taking a second shot, impelling his left arm this time.  His shot had come just fast enough to tear through my left arm.  Through the smoke, I saw his left hand pistol drop, his knees buckling.  Rats... he held his remaining firearm up, taking another shot.
         It was apparent that, in his state of indignation, my shots had only slowed Ernestine down... and pissed him off, quite frankly.  I gathered myself to duck his next shot, which merely tore a chunk of wood from the steam wagon I was perched on top of.
         "James Ernestine!  Drop your weapon and surrender!" ordered Wade.  Ernestine turned his mad, gray eyes at my partner and aimed.  I set the first trigger of the third barrel and managed to bring my coach gun up for the aim.  Ernestine shifted quickly and tore toward me, grabbing an enormous blade from a scabbard on his thigh, screaming like a banshee.  From the corner of my eye, I could see Wade scrambling for the Gatling gun mounted on  the Paddy wagon he was perched on.  Ernestine was climbing the side of my wagon, knife (or sword... who could me sure?) raised over his head.  I turned to face the monster head long, readied the coach gun, and fired.
         As the smoke from my shot cleared, I saw James Ernestine, lying on the ground before my wagon, peppered with shot from the three barrel coach gun.  For a moment, Igor Wade remained readied behind the Gatling gun, a disappointed look on his face.  It reminded me of my nephew when Granny shooed him away from a fresh baked pie.  Wade had savored the idea of firing the Brass Behemouth, but I got to the villain first.
         The wind blew by, swirling the two threads of a mustache my partner wore, kicking up the dirt around Ernestine's body.  The heavy armor unit trotted up to the mad man's corpse with their brass shields readied.  They loaded him onto the coroner's steam carriage and carted him away, quickly as the wind had blown.
         A short time later, a blast came from the mighty whistle atop the Exchange.  The day was done for Wall Street, and life went on like Ernestine had never existed.
         I'd forgotten a moment that I had been shot, and winced as I made my way off the top of the wagon.  I tucked the three barrel coach gun back onto my hip, and hobbled to a medic, ignoring the press that had begun to gather.  I'm not a man for grandstanding, I am simple.  My name is Oliver Dinges.  I am the man with the three barrel coach gun.  I am here to do my job, and, as far as this case was concerned, my job was done.