* * * *
The next day, a newspaper screamed “Fish Bites Cop!”
After the autopsy, the blood and tangles of animal hairs on Jack’s shoes were used to connect him to every unsolved murder in the city. Apparently, the last serial killer on the East Coast (and the first black one) still operated unchecked among those green fish tanks. Jack’s body was buried, but they kept his feet in a box. And in secret, the worst cops called those rotten feet their “Rosetta Bones” (sometimes “The Fastest White Boy We Ever Saw”) and used them to make sure no crime went unsolved in their state for at least a decade. Just like those same cops used to keep some poor bastard’s hand in a locker to fingerprint every Saturday Night Special they needed for an unlawful shooting, whenever a case got “cold feet” as they now said instead of “cold case,” they would walk Jack’s feet across a corpse when no one was looking. Bam. Case closed.
But some cops would creep in to cradle those feet like puppies, remembering in awe how quick they moved that night.
And that last fish Jack stashed at his other woman’s apartment was taken home by one strangely compassionate cop balancing on crutches and slings when she was finally detained and questioned. This cop wanted the fish as a birthday present for his son once enough publicity pictures were taken with it.
His son overfed it to death within a week. Then finding it too big to flush, he buried the goldfish under an exhaust-stained apple tree too close to the road, refusing to tell his dad where it was no matter how hard he shook him by the shoulders or how many nasty black apples he rattled loose over his head.
So, a year later, the boy snuck out of bed to dig up the grave and see the bones, only to end up slowly unfolding a thousand dollar bill in the glare of a street light instead, a particularly incompetent counterfeit, one of hundreds collected and framed for laughs by a local parole officer who also happened to be a recently downsized Secret Service agent.
His daddy tried to take it away.
And the cop ended up on the ground, curling like a bug, protecting his head from a flash of fists and hate where his son used to be.
Board The House Up
Zach Sherwood
* * *
The door was wide open. Garrett had one earbud dangling, the other still had Mick whispering to him something about wild horses. He thought he had heard a scream. He tried to sing along about the wild horses to try and get that wild idea out of his head. His blast furnace of a brain smelted all solid rational thought into his own cast of soupy logic, which in turn, allowed him to do these wild things with a clear mind. That’s what his brain was working hard to do right now, so “wild horses couldn’t drag me away” came out as “wild horses couldn’t snag any hay.” He never could get it right. Garrett was a wild horse. He couldn’t snag any hay either. Hay was reserved for domesticated horses, who were tamed and cared for, and Garrett was neither of these things. He still felt he had an obligation to protect this block as it used to be on his patrol route, which was now his jogging route. Deputy Sheriff Garrett Gittes was on call (or at least in his mind) as he proceeded to march up to the house—this was just the thing to shorten that suspension of his (or at least in his mind).
459, he thought, which was ten-code for burglary. It was a conventional 2-story home, much like all the others on the block, sky blue in color with white accents around everything else. He suspected it housed a father, a mother, and 2.47 kids (or whatever was the national average at the time). The neighborhood was one of those that had that same uniform shade of green grass lying in front of each picture perfect suburban home. At 6:33 AM this door shouldn’t be wide open, and Garrett shouldn’t be thinking about what he thought of doing. He crept up to the door and inspected the frame for signs of forced entry before he poked his head through it without bringing his feet across the plane. He reached at his shoulder for a radio that wasn’t there. Embarrassed at this reflexive response he bobbled inside and closed the door behind him.
Garrett processed his surroundings. It was just as lovely inside as it was outside, but one minor hindrance called attention to itself. Lying straight ahead of him in the kitchen was an overturned chair—that shouldn’t be like that, thought Garrett. Garrett decided he could: A) walk straight past the foyer into the kitchen, B) walk right into the living room and circle around, C) walk left into the dining room and circle around, D) walk up the stairs, or E) leave. Garrett chose C; he was surprisingly hesitant to go into the kitchen head first. The dining room had an enormous rug which was covered with floral patterns and intertwining geometric choreographies. Upon it was a dark wooden table with 6 chairs, 6 plates, and 6 sets of silverware; it appeared as if dinner was about to be served. All these peculiar little alloy bits were being compiled by Garrett’s blast furnace. He certainly did not belong in this house, especially in his jogging outfit, but Garrett imagined himself cloaked in the black of his police uniform with his badge gleaming, gun unholstered, and helpful hand extended. He thought he was going to find Jimmy Hoffa’s body or the Hope Diamond in the next room. His brain produced an image of tomorrow’s Pittsburgh Post with the headline reading “SUSPENDED DEPUTY HERO REINSTATED!” Garrett smirked. He was absolutely delirious. However, in the kitchen wasn’t Jimmy Hoffa’s body or the Hope Diamond. Instead there was a scattered mess of utensils which extended from the stainless steel fridge around the island to a drawer that had been ripped off its rails, which then met up with some red smears and smudges near the overturned chair leading toward the den. 10-42, he thought. Garrett stalwartly moved across the spattered black and white tile of the kitchen until he reached the dark den.
The only light was muddied through the thick grey curtains over the doors leading outside. It had a leather couch across from the television set, a body near the flipped over table, and a well-beaten recliner next to the fireplace; of these items Garrett seemed most concerned about the body. Garrett fumbled for the light switch with both hands and flicked it on. The body slowly, but jerkily, rose to the introduction of this bothersome bright light. He looked like death, but the red stitching on his light blue work shirt said his name was “Walter.” Garrett lost his focus and took a step back horrified, then took another step forward cautiously to try and help him over onto the couch. Walter’s frail skin was too tight for his face, especially for a man that was seemingly only in his thirties, thought Garrett. Walter had a hollowed look to him, his head looked like it had been pumped full of battery acid that was slowly eating him from the inside out. Garrett noticed Walter’s neck. It was shredded into red licorice ribbons and was slowly leaking out the little of the remaining blood he had left in his body since most of his blood was carpeting the den’s floor.
“Walter? Is there an intruder in the household?” inquired Garrett. Garrett didn’t even think to ask if Walter was alright or not; justice was the first thing on his mind. Walter stood there in the middle of the room as if it were the first time using his legs. He looked vacantly at Garrett with this same type of bewildered wonder. This man was not all there. Garrett went to repeat his question, but Walter’s gaze caught him, which went past his skin to stare at his heart beat and the blood that travelled through it.
“Sir, I’m going to phone for backup,” nervously assured Garrett. He tried his best policeman voice to emanate a sense of comfort through his stern authoritative tone, but it came out sounding like how he had when responding to the chief that told him of his suspension. He slowly backed out of the room, keeping his body square to Walter until the last second possible. Much like everything else in this house, the phone wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It laid on the ground ripped off from the wall. It seemed Garrett wasn’t the first person today to try and make an urgent phone call. He reached at his pockets, but remembered that he had left his cell phone with the empty inbox in the car before jogging. The man who was not all there was now there in the doorway of the kitchen.
“Walter, can you speak?” No response. “My name is Gary, I need to know what happened.�
�� No response. Garrett disliked his name, people close to him called him Gary. Garrett didn’t have anyone close to him. He did not know what to do, his primordial urge to help his fellow man was tugging at his sleeve, but obviously something was not right. 9560, he thought. Garrett always thought in this automated fashion, referring to police codes to himself. Walter began to bobble over towards Garrett, who put his hands in front of him as if to make a force field to keep the man back.
“Sit down, you shouldn’t be walking around.” No response, he made his way past the knocked over stool. “You need medical attention.” No response, he made his way past the broken phone. “Sir, stop where you are.” No response, he made his way past the drawer. “I can help you.” No response, he made his way past the island. With limited options, he could: A) destroy Walter, or B) hide in the bathroom to the left of him. Walter looked human enough for Garrett to reconsider using force, as last time he did it cost him his job. Garrett chose B. He dashed for the door and slammed it behind him.
His back slid against the door as he lowered himself to the floor while turning the light on then reaching up again to lock the door. The bathroom was very colorful. Pastel stripes ran laps around the tiny bathroom while a nautical net with seashells and starfish served as a finish line on the adjacent wall. This cheerful setting was a welcome change compared to everything outside of the room. A rumble behind him disrupted this string of thought. Walter was banging against the door. Garrett glued his feet to the ground and tried to combat the attempt to bring the door down. Someone screamed upstairs, a girl, followed by a storm of heavy footsteps swooping in from above him. He wasn’t the only one to take notice, as the banging stopped on the door.
Garrett, relieved and huddled on the floor, could see the top of his short blonde hair peeking from above the sink in the mirror as he slowly began to rise to look at his reflection. Garrett’s square and narrow head, which also mirrored his overall body type, appeared to have been crushed by a trash compactor at some point of his life. The soft glaze of his beard was there to tell the few that knew of his situation that he wasn’t taking care of himself as much as he used to. The tiny slits of his eyes could hardly show his emotions, they were simply there to feed Garrett’s brain information to make more ill-advised decisions about. He splashed his face with some water and took a good hard stare at himself. Someone needed help upstairs, but there wasn’t much to arm himself with: a curling iron, a plunger, a hairdryer, or a picture frame. “Cancun 2002” was written underneath the rainbow frame. There was a man (which wasn’t Walter), there was a woman, and there were 2 kids, a boy and a girl; they looked happy. Garrett studied the picture; he wanted more out of his life besides just his job. He only was on the force for three years before this lofty suspension and he wondered if he had really forgotten how to live his life outside of this. Garrett then took notice of the thick wrought iron towel bar, which at each end had a spiraling metallic pine cone shape. Garrett gripped it with both hands as he gave it a few wiggles to loosen the screws out of the drywall before he gave it a hard tug tearing the bar out along with a good amount of the wall; the house winced. He picked the pieces of drywall off it and gave it a little practice swing.
The door slowly creaked open as Garrett poked his head out and looked both ways before crossing through the kitchen and into the hallway towards the stairs. Walter was nowhere to be found, perhaps he returned back to his dark den since dawn was just beginning to tear through the windows of the house. Along the wall against the stairs were pictures of the family: family portraits, school photographs of the kids, birthday pictures, etc. He was jealous of the life this family had, even with Walter roaming around being a nuisance. An unrecognizable form at the top step was contoured by a flashing white light somewhere behind it. A crimson puddle slinkyed down the stairs in an array of canals and ravines. Garrett’s eyes sailed up the bloody tributary to the mouth of the ruddy river, which was also accompanied by a full set of teeth, a nose, and two eyes looking toward the heavens. Garrett lurched up the stairs and got down on his knees to the fallen woman. He held his fingers against her throat desperately scanning for a pulse. No response.
Flustered, he stood himself up and peered down the hall. A ceiling fan produced a dreary drone, which was quite unsettling to Garrett. The door at the end was wide open with a flickering glow strobing outward. The walls were covered with more family pictures. Garrett tried to focus on the sickening pulsing of the white light and tried to ignore the smiles teasing him from his peripherals. He gripped the pipe tighter. Garrett’s heart was skipping at irregular beats and felt as if it would break through his chest at any second only to run down the stairs and out the door to find someone who would put it to better use. He was at the door, he extended his weapon into it to open it. Inside it looked as if Jackson Pollock had been here painting with a bucket of human entrails. Something, a boy, perhaps the son from the photograph, thought Garrett, was all over the place. A knocked over television set had wild black ants attacking the white screen sending a dizzying static spectrum of flashes across the already morbid scene. At the foot of the bed, the father was knelt over the central hub of his son’s extremities as his head bobbed up and down with each snarling bite.
This man is a monster, thought Garrett. “Hey,” yelled Garrett, not knowing what else to say, as he stood tall with his makeshift club at his side. No response. Garrett was fed up with getting no responses today. The figure levitated up to turn around. He wore a crown of blood, a bib of human tissue, and the gaze of the devil. His face looked like it had been gnarled by the tip of a jackhammer only to be illicitly repaired with clay to make him appear somewhat human again. Garrett thought he deserved a response. He made a lunge forward and frantically slammed the bar against the side of the father’s head. The bar flew back from the impact and the vibrations resonated through Garrett’s arm, but he pulled back again and sent another crushing blow that sent half of the father’s face to join part of his son on the dresser. The father tumbled backwards as his calves caught the bottom of the bed frame. Garrett moved to the edge of the bed and delivered another whack that sent his nose into his head. The father’s arms began to reach upward for his throat as Garrett held him down with his free hand. That gaze was still there, but one of his eyes wasn’t. Garrett pulled back and dropped another blow that bent the bar at nearly a right angle. He flung it aside and grabbed the father’s shirt and began to wallop away with his fists; not even wild horses could drag him away. Garrett’s shoes struggled for grip in the swamp of the son’s intestines and accompanying bodily fluids; he was putting his whole body into every passionate strike. His body was pumping loads of adrenaline through his body while he did his own Jackson Pollack impression, using the ivory satin sheets as a canvas. Soon enough the father’s arms and legs had stopped struggling as Garrett’s fists were getting closer and closer to the bed itself. Garrett would have kept punching until his fist met the bed and he wasn’t punching the father’s head anymore, but just the space where the molecules that once made up the father’s head were; matter cannot be created nor destroyed—Garrett was about to try and detest the second part. Garrett’s mind was yelling at him to keep hitting, but his knuckles were screaming not to. He wildly took a step back from the bed. Off balance, swaying on one foot with his chest held out, he nearly fell down as he slipped on what could have been a pancreas and stared at his masterpiece. Who was the monster now.
Garrett fell to the floor in pain and stared at his mauled hands that looked like the terrain of a ballooning desert due to the abhorrent amount of swelling and cuts. Something was obviously broken inside him. He didn’t want to look up. The television kept spewing its seizure of monochromatic madness into the room. He had to get out. Garrett clumsily swung himself off the floor and drunkenly stumbled into the hallway, when the soft sound of sobbing swiftly sobered him up. It was coming from a door down the hall.
“Hello?” asked Garrett, shaken.
There was a whimper, a girl’s
whimper. “Who’s there? I’m not opening this door, get away,” yelled the voice, also shaken.
“I’m a police officer, I’m here to help you,” replied Garrett erratically. He heard the lock click and the door swung opened to a frightened girl. Startled, she took a step backward awkwardly yielding a butcher knife with both hands. She looked like she was made of porcelain. Garrett was afraid if he touched her she’d break into a million pieces as she already had a crude bandage around a crack in the ankle hinting red.
“Why are you covered in blood? You’re not a cop! Where’s your uniform? Get away from me,” screeched the daughter.
Garrett was choking for words. “I heard a scream,” leveled Garrett.
“Get out,” fired back the daughter before he could finish explaining himself.
“Calm down, what’s your name? Are you okay? I see your ankle is hurt. I am a cop,” pleaded Garrett.
“What did you do to my family?”
“Nothing! I heard a scream, I’m a cop.” He was beginning to sound like a broken record, and this teenage girl did not know how to deal with broken records as she grew up on CDs and .MP3s. He was leisurely getting closer, hoping she’d recognize him as human. She got frightened when he got within arm’s reach and she stuck the knife into his stomach. He stumbled backwards, crashing into the hallway, sending a shockwave through the wall that knocked down most of the pictures. The door slammed shut with a click. The only human that was seemingly all human hurt him more than the other beasts lurking around the house. He slid down the wall clutching the open wound while staring at the empty puddle of blood that was still waterfalling down the steps.
This house was not what it seemed, it had all the makings of a typical house: doors, windows, walls, floors; but this house was not like any other house he’d ever been to. Garrett was a horrible house guest here and there was no way he’d get all that father out of the sheets no matter how hard he scrubbed. He struggled getting up, clutching at his wound. Garrett was on his feet and began to head over to the stairs where the lone blood pool was serving as a welcome mat to this scene of horror. The glow of the flashing television seemed to subside. He stopped to turn around.
The Death Panel Page 23