by Jack Wallen
The house was tiny and looked like an icon to innocence. Parked near the house was an old brown Supra. I recognized it from the Caprini stakeout. It was him. We had him. I slammed the car to a whiplash halt and jumped out.
“Grab the front, Skip. I’ll take the back.” Without waiting for confirmation, I took off around the house.
Sure enough, the door was open. I took a deep breath and entered the house. There were roaring cries coming from inside. I lowered my center of gravity, pulled out my Glock, and headed toward the cries.
When I entered the bedroom, I had trouble digesting what I saw. What appeared to be the body of a young girl was crumpled on the floor. A blood-splattered man was relentlessly stabbing at a bound body on a bed. Although at first glance it seemed safe to assume the man on the bed had expired, I had no way to be absolutely sure if both were dead.
The stabbing man was in a fit of rage and screaming at the top of his lungs, “You made me kill her! You made me kill her!”
All the while, classical music was playing from a small CD player. The scene went beyond surreal.
“Stop! Put the knife down! Now!” I screamed, but the man didn’t stop. He stabbed and roared again.
“You made me kill her!”
In a near fit of panic, I threw my full weight at the man with the knife. The momentum managed to knock the man off the body and onto the floor. He came down on top of the young girl and rolled off howling. When he stood, his intention was clear.
“You’re dead, bitch!”
Lakmé lunged at me, his bloody knife slicing through the air. Without thinking, my finger pulled the trigger, and a bullet crossed through the threshold of flesh in his shoulder. Before I could attempt to restrain him, I screamed louder. “Police! Put the knife down!” My voice still had no effect.
Suddenly, he lunged at me. With titanic force the killer knocked me down and flew into the hall. I yelled for Skip. Before I could reach the next room, I heard a single gunshot and the loud thump of a body hitting the floor.
When I went into the living room, the killer was on the ground holding his gut in one hand and his shoulder in the other. Skip was standing with his back against the front door. Both shooter and victim were breathing hard.
Suddenly, the killer pulled himself up and lunged at Skip. He managed to pull Skip down to the floor. I lifted my weapon and tried to get a bead on the man, but both were moving too erratically.
I saw the hunting knife swing up, then down; I heard Skip cry out. The hulk of a man rolled off Skip just enough for me to fire a shot into his right knee. He was down.
After kicking the knife out of the killer’s hand and across the room, I knelt down to check on Skip. He had been sliced across the chest; the wound was deep and bleeding badly. I held his head in my hands and told him he would be okay, that help would be on the way. I stood and called dispatch. When they heard me say, “Officer down,” they would rush to the scene.
The killer moaned, and I turned around half-expecting a massive hand to reach up and grab me by the leg. I had obviously seen too many horror films. Instead, he was just grabbing his own leg and letting his pain be known to the world.
It was over. We had the killer nailed to the wall with no hope of getting away. A lot of innocent people had had to die before we caught the man, but even more innocent people were spared because we did.
The sad truth was that we were far too late for Hope. He had been viciously mutilated beyond anything I had ever seen. It didn’t make sense, though. Sure Lakmé, or Chris Davies, was rapidly progressing through some violent transformation, but the leap from Evan Caprini to Hope ‘N Faith didn’t make any sense.
And who was the young girl? Why was she there? She could be a granddaughter or neighbor kid. Yet another sad truth, we may not ever find out. Lakmé might live, but what mental state would he be in? Would he be in any state to fill in the gaps? Or would he just melt inward while staring at padded walls?
It wasn’t like on TV where the brilliant detective comes in and saves the day with clean hands and a pure soul. It was dirty. It was ugly. Innocent people got hurt, others got walked on. And worst of all, the guilty often walked away unscathed.
Although innocent blood was spilled, this time the guilty lost a few drops as well.
As the EMTs wheeled out the various bodies, including Skip, I made my way to the car. I had to return to the precinct. Skip was going to be okay, and I’d have a lot to explain to the chief. But no matter how pissed off he was, no matter how far he busted my ass, it was Skip and I who had ultimately caught Lakmé. And if there were heroes to be had, it wasn’t him, it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Skip. The real heroes were all those would-be heroines, those innocent men of the Southern Belles who were just trying to live their lives as honestly as they could.
And if there was an ass to kick, it wasn’t going to be mine.
FIFTY-EIGHT
His mother was crying on the bed after having just been forced upon her own son. The young boy, Chris, had been thrown off the bed so that his father could then have his way with her.
From his corner of the room, Chris saw his mother turn over to face his father. She grabbed his genitals and squeezed. His father quickly flew into an even greater rage and wrapped his hands around her neck. She reached for his face. But the longer she fought, the weaker she seemed. Her fingers began to scramble around her neck hoping to pry away the vise of his father’s fingers, which were cutting off her life.
As the life eased out of his mother, Chris started crying. His father stood from the bed and started pulling on his clothes. Chris jumped to his mother’s side and held her precious head in his arms as his cries intensified.
“Stop crying, ya little girl!” Chris held onto his mother’s motionless body. He couldn’t stop. He had never been so afraid. His only comfort, his only bit of security, was gone. The beast that caused the nightmares was standing over him now, drooling, fuming.
“Looks like it’s just me and my little girl now. I guess you’re just gonna have to do for me what your mother always did. Now, don’t that sound fun?” The look in the dreadful man’s face was twisted and sickening. Chris had no idea what to do. But he did know to remain silent. The one thing he had learned from his mother’s mistakes was to just remain quiet and take the punishment until time took the bad man away.
“I’ll be right back, little girl. Put on some of your mother’s clothes. I want you real pretty for me.” He turned and left the room.
Chris stood and slowly turned around and around. He knew he would have to protect himself, but he had no idea how. On the nightstand was the gun the father had used to scare his mother. His father had said he would never use it on Momma, that it would have been too cowardly. But it was there. For the ever-present ‘just in case.’
Quickly, he grabbed the gun before the ugly man could return. He turned and faced the door. His hands were shaking. Sweat was pouring from his face and his wrists. His breathing was ragged and painful. As each second passed, the shaking seemed to grow worse. The weight of the gun was stretching the limits of his strength. The fact that he might not be able to aim it scared him. Without thinking, he slammed his head into the wall to loosen himself up. It worked. The pain caused the shaking to subside enough to allow him to hold the gun steady.
As soon as his father crossed the threshold, Chris aimed and pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a louder noise than he expected.
The look on the man’s face brought Chris more happiness than anything ever had. It was shock. It was fear. It was everything the man had ever made him and his mother ever feel.
Blood began streaking down his father’s forehead and nose. He had shot him right in the head. The man collapsed, dead. Chris had won. He had finally found the strength to remove the only thing that stood in the way of his being truly alive.
And in the bringing of death, he felt more alive than he ever had.
As he stood in the room, the only thing he could think of do
ing was to put on his mother’s clothing. It was the one thing that had brought him comfort over the last few months, and he wasn’t about to say goodbye to the peace it brought.
In his mother’s favorite sundress, he sat on the bed, holding his dear mother’s cold body, and sang the song that had once brought him such peace.
Tears dripped warm moisture onto his mother’s face.
Lakmé came back to reality as the gurney smashed its way through the doors into the hospital. He couldn’t move his arms or legs. The lights were too bright, and the sounds were chaotic. He had no idea where he was.
A man in a blue mask bent down over his face and shined a light into his eyes. It stung. He heard voices but could hardly understand the words. Eventually, the movement stopped, and he was lifted from the rolling bed onto a cold metal table. A man lifted a needle. He finally realized what was happening. It was time for his gift, the answer to his own prayers.
For the first time since he and his mother had played dress-up, he felt peace. He closed his eyes and waited for his own transformation.
FIFTY-NINE
I returned to the station. The chief, of course, was waiting for me in his office. I hated his face. I hated the look on it, like he was always smelling shit. I wished I could just turn around and go home. Right then. Look him in the eye, wink, and just leave.
But this was the real world, and I knew that there were real consequences. He wasn’t going to congratulate me on a job well done. He was there to bust my ass down to hall monitor for the nearest elementary school.
When I walked into the stuffy, ripe office, I closed the door behind me. “Well, hit me with it, Chief. What’s the punishment this time?” I knew that being a smartass wasn’t going to get me anywhere, but I was past worrying.
“I don’t like you, Davenport. I don’t like you because you’re a woman, and I don’t like you because you think you’re better than most of the others here. That makes it worse because I hate self-righteous liars.” His voice made me want to heave.
He paused and stared at me like a priest at an altar boy. I wasn’t sure if he was going to screw me literally or figuratively.
“You were up for promotion to full-blown detective. It wasn’t my idea, and I was against it all the way. But at least I have the pleasure of denying that promotion. You need to learn a lesson here, and that lesson is that being a homicide detective is a man’s job. It’s not for you. And I’m splitting up you and your twinkle-toes friend you call a partner. And before you do, don’t give me that surprised look. Yeah, I took a peek in that man’s closet and saw the truth. I’d kick his faggot ass right out of this department if it wouldn’t get me into so much hot water. It looks like we got the budget back so we can pair up again, and I’m sticking your favorite jizz-gobbler with a real man for a while. Maybe it’ll scare the queer out of him.” He put his big ugly feet on my desk. “As for you, well, I’m taking you off the street and putting you on dispatch. As much as I hate to see you around more than I already do, it’ll keep your arrogant ass off the streets. You fucked up a couple of times too many here, and I can’t have Homicide detectives fucking up. You may get that promotion some day, but I’ll be damned sure it’s a hard-ass road you have to take to get there.”
I really couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was too much. I desperately wanted to say something. I wanted to get the last word in. I wanted to hurt him. No, for the first time in my life I wished someone was dead. But that was about as likely to happen as me talking my way out of this cruel and unusual punishment.
So I kept my mouth shut. There were other roads to retribution, and I would walk down each and every one of them until I was satisfied that son of a bitch would never insult or punish me again.
I finally got up the stones to turn around and leave. But before I did, I stood up and grinned at him. I wanted the overblown pus bag to know that he hadn’t gotten to me. I wanted him scared of me because I would find a way to bring his sorry ass down sooner or later. And I wanted him to know it.
He looked back at me with concerned eyes. He knew I was trouble, and he knew that he was coming close to pushing me too far.
But before the fat slob could speak a word, I turned and walked out of his office. Without saying a word to anyone, I walked straight to my car. I needed to make sure Skip was okay. I pulled out my phone and called the hospital. I was told they would be releasing Skip in an hour or so. I told them I would be there to drive him home.
That was exactly what I did. I debated whether or not to tell Skip about the big decree handed down by his fat-assness and eventually decided to hold off. He had had enough pain for one day. All I wanted was to be in Skip’s company so the two of us could heal.
On the way to the hospital, I stopped to pick up some of Skip’s favorite snacks, Reese’s Cups, and GQ magazine. A happy Skip was, after all, a healthy Skip.
When I reached the hospital, it was nearly release time. I went up to the room, and as I entered, I saw that Skip was being dressed by a rather hot male nurse. Normally I would have had a hot flash of jealousy. Instead, I was just glad Skip was getting the attention.
And boy, what attention!
“Girl, where did you get that waistline? Which gym do you live at?” The nurse’s voice was higher than mine. I was suddenly feeling rather masculine.
I let them have their fun, and when Skip was dressed, I waltzed into the room.
“Surprise!” I nearly scared the two ‘girls’ out of their pants.
“Oh my God! My baby! How is she doing? Better than me, I hope.” Skip’s voice was perkier than I expected. We hugged, and Skip pulled away to introduce me to his new friend. During the introduction, Skip gave me the look that said He’s all mine, so back off.
I backed off.
All the way home, Skip gabbed about Darien, his nurse. Part of me wanted to talk about the case, but I figured that Darien would be better for Skip than news from HQ. All that really mattered was that Skip was okay. I’d deliver the bad news later.
SIXTY
The next day, I had one last task to take care of before I put my own closure on the case. I went to the hospital to visit Jean Ann Kelly. He had been there for the last few days and had been asking to see me.
“Hi, love.” He smiled when he saw me walk in the door.
“How have you been? Are they treating you okay?” I was genuinely concerned. I hated hospitals, and this one in particular had a nasty reputation for being less than kind to its inhabitants.
“They are treating me like a queen.” We both laughed a little.
“Oh, I brought you something.” I had stopped by Victoria’s Secret on the way and bought a little negligee for him. I figured he might be miserable only having the less-than-feminine gowns they gave you for your stay.
I had never seen someone so appreciative in my life. He held the little red-laced teddy to his heart and started crying. “That is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you so much.”
There was an awkward silence. I could tell he had something to say. I lifted my eyebrows in an invitation.
“The doctors have told me that they could return my male genitalia. I would have nearly full function, but I would have no sexual sensation. It would be like sex by rote.” We laughed at the joke. Been there, done that, was what I was really thinking.
There was another pause.
“Or they could do a full transformation, and I would function, with the exception of menstruation and childbirth, fully as a female.” He looked deep into my eyes as if he were looking for some sign of approval. It was there.
“I’ve decided to go ahead with the transformation,” he said shyly. “As much as I’ve been through as a man, I would like to leave that behind now and live my life, full-time, as a woman, as Jean Ann Kelly.” Another silence. “I wanted the person who saved my life to be the first one to know.” He smiled, and I smiled back.
There was goodness in the world, and I was staring it in the eye.
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“I’m honored, Jean,” was all I could muster.
We hugged and I stayed to chit-chat most of the afternoon. He talked about the sexual reassignment surgery process. He told me about the hormone therapy, and how he would normally have had to live his life full time for a year as a woman before they would go through with actual surgery. But since these were extenuating circumstances, they had to complete the process without the requisite year-long sentence. Then we switched to girl talk, and I was so happy for it. Sure, my professional life was currently going through hell, but damn it, I had saved a life. And out of that, a newer life would be born, and I was partially responsible.
I felt like I was making a new friend. I only hoped the friendship would continue after the transformation.
SIXTY-ONE
After my talk with Jean Ann, I felt like I had been injected with a little bit more life. As I was walking to my car, my cell phone rang.
“Hey, dollface!” Skip’s wonderful voice on the other end brought even more life to my weary self. “Meet me at The Usual Coffee for a little perk-me-up.”
I gladly agreed and hung up. What better way to finish off an uplifting meeting with Jean Ann than a hot cup of Fog of War, a stale bagel, and a fresh fag?
When I arrived at TUC, I was shocked to see a number of the Southern Belle members gathered around a table with Skip sitting right smack in the middle. When I walked in, each and every one of them raised their glasses and collectively said, “To Officer Davenport.”
Skip winked at me, and I felt like my face was going to split in half from the smile that was beaming from my lips. The ‘girls’ were here not just to congratulate me and Skip, but to celebrate their freedom to once again present themselves in public in the way they felt most comfortable.
It was such an uplifting moment. I felt as if the evil that had consumed me had melted away, and nothing could take away what these people had given to replace it.