Jack Murphy (Prequel): Day One

by Costello, Matthew

  “It’s that place just ahead. Usually sold out by noon. But the owner keeps a few for the boys in blue. No graft there, just a little courtesy. We pay and—“

  “Attention Squad Car 8839.”

  Schiller nodded at Jack, who picked up the radio mic.

  “8839 here. Officer Murphy.

  “Reports of noises and screams coming from 2231 Henry Street. Proceed to investigate.”

  “Roger that,” Jack said, mimicking the many times they rehearsed taking calls in the academy…now simply concerned with not sounding like a rookie.

  Schiller threw the lights and siren on, and hit the gas.

  “Guess those goddamned hot dogs will have to wait, Jack.”

  They stopped outside the address.

  Jack glanced at Schiller, who just sat there, looking at the house.

  The neighborhood…not bad. Some row houses with little plots of green ivy. Garbage neatly in bags. A few brownstones, next to a row of apartment buildings. Trees on the street.

  Didn’t look like a crack house, or a place squatters had invaded.

  What’s he doin? Jack wondered.

  “We going in?”

  Schiller nodded. Then: “Yeah. Just want, you know, to look around the place. See – house has bars on the windows. Strange…”

  The guy’s edgy, Jack thought. Too many years out here?

  “Looks quiet now,” Jack said.

  Schiller turned and looked at him, eyeballs on eyeballs. “Looks, Jacko—can be deceiving.”

  Then back to scanning the house.

  The radio crackled back to life.

  “8839 – are you at the residence yet?”

  Now Schiller grabbed the microphone. “Roger. We’re on our way in.”

  He put the mic back and got out of the car.

  Schiller knocked on the door.

  “Fuckin’ hot,” he said. “Getting to be that working nights is better than this shit. Almost a 100 degrees every goddamn day? Gimme a break.”

  Jack nodded.

  Another knock.

  And then a sound from inside. Something moving.

  “The screamer?” Jack said.

  “Someone screamed. Right? Probable cause for our going in.”

  Schiller stepped back and kicked at the door. But the door was no thin slab of wood or pressed fiber board; it was solid…maybe – given the bars – even reinforced.

  Jack started to kick with him.

  Then the training came back to him, reminding him that this was no exercise.

  “Should I go to the back?”

  “Yeah—go.”

  Back there, maybe another way in, and out.

  A chance to see who was still inside.

  Jack raced down the narrow driveway that led to a neatly painted garage.

  All the windows in the back also lined with bars. Like a prison.

  But the back door – didn’t look as heavy.

  I win, Jack thought.

  He ran up the four steps of the back porch and rammed the door open, his shoulder feeling the blow – but the door popped open.

  He walked into a kitchen.

  His hand on his gun.

  No reason to have it out.

  Felt good enough – just with his hand resting on it.

  The kitchen. White tile on the floor, white counters, white appliances. Pristine.

  But a few steps into the room, a smell. At first, like fish. Yeah, the stale smell of fried fish the next morning. But no – something stronger to this smell, a different odor.

  No noises.

  His partner at the front door.

  Jack moved more cautiously forward, down a small hallway. Rushing – so they said during training – could be the quickest way to get killed.

  Take your time.

  A gunshot, a kick. The front door, lock blown off, opening.

  Jack only feet from the living room.

  A word, a yell from the room ahead…

  “Christ!”

  By the time Jack got to it he could see what had prompted Schiller to yell.

  A body on the floor, the midsection open as if it had exploded.

  The open cavity – empty.

  “Shit,” Jack said. Then he took in the rest of the room, behind those barred windows and dark drapes.

  Boxes stacked high to the ceiling. Cans of food. And shelves filled with more cans…. bottles…jars. Enough stored food to feed an army.

  Yet – and Jack had to admit this – it looked like someone had ripped this man open.

  Ripped him open…

  And feasted on his body.

  The smell, the ooze…fresh.

  Then he heard a sound.

  Schiller was on his radio.

  “We have a homicide. Send backup asap.”

  Jack turned to Schiller, who he saw had his gun in his hand.

  “The guy…he was in here, Jack. Minutes ago. Had to be.”

  God—was the killer still here somewhere? Dripping blood?

  He couldn’t get out from the front or the back.

  Was there another way out?

  Jack remembered passing the basement door, slightly open.

  “Downstairs,” he said, and without waiting for an okay from Schiller, he turned back to the basement and started racing down the stairs.

  Jack had his gun was out by the time he was halfway down.

  So dark down here except for a few rectangular squares of light from smaller barred windows.

  Except—one of those windows didn’t have bars. Someone had chipped or dug around them, and the bars had fallen out.

  Jack raced to the dank basement’s window, at the same time spinning around, trying to see in the darkness if someone could still be down here, hiding, ready to jump on him.

  Steps—as Schiller finally came down.

  Jack got to the window and looked out.

  He saw someone racing away, running through the back yards of the row of brownstones, climbing fences, leaping.

  Jack turned to Schiller, feeling the adrenaline rish hit him hard. “There he is!”

  Then saying something that immediately felt hollow, almost stupid.

  “We can get him.”

  “Backup’s on its way—” Schiller started, “just hold—”

  But Jack took the steps back upstairs two at a time, running full out.

  I’m a runner, Jack thought.

  I’m going to run and catch that sick bastard.

  Jack bolted, holstering his gun so he could grab the top of the fences that separated the houses.

  He was fast, but the guy he chased seemed to be able to get over those fences with a near manic ease.

  Far behind him, he heard Schiller yelling.

  “Can’t get him, Jack.”

  Then: “Wait.”

  But Jack pumped harder, the distance closing, even as the guy he chased reached a wall – the brick wall of the first in a row of small apartment buildings.

  In a minute, Jack would have him.

  Except, the building’s fire escape was right there, and the guy leaped up – an amazing leap – and caught the bottom rung of the escape ladder, and as if in a demented video game, started crab-crawling his way up.

  Jack reached the bottom of the ladder. He looked up. Only seven stories high. Then the roof.

  Something about this made Jack not want to give up, unable to wait for more cops to show up, for backup to cordon off the block, to pen the guy in.

  Something told him that whatever had…

  …eviscerated…

  …the man in the apartment wouldn’t be cordoned off so easily.

  First leap, and Jack missed the bottom rung. Then again, another leap, wishing he was taller, and another miss.

  Then, into a deep crouch, and he reached up with both hands to latch on.

  In the best shape of his life, he caught the lowest rung.

  Then releasing one hand for a wild swing, he hit the release which sent the ladder unfolding and rollin
g down to the ground.

  In case Schiller ever caught up.

  In case Schiller wanted to follow.

  Jack climbed up as fast as he could, wondering: why am I doing this?

  What the hell is driving me?

  A brief moment thinking about his wife, Christie, and their three year old, Kate. And the newborn, Simon.

  Family.

  Immediately pushing that thought away.

  Only one totally and completely mindful thought now: climb.

  Climb fast.

  3 ------------------------ Up on the Roof

  The mad climb triggered oxygen debt, but Jack opened his mouth wide, forcing air in, gasping in order to keep on going.

  Until he was able to grab the curved stone edge of the roof, and scramble onto the roof, thinking that the killer could be standing right there, ready to kick him down again.

  But when Jack rolled over, all he could feel was the sticky tar of the roof melting under the blazing sun. And ahead the killer kept running straight across the roof.

  Jack sprang to his feet, now taking out his gun.

  Could take a shot at him, he thought.

  Could take aim, bring him the fuck down.

  But if there was a chance he could stop the guy without blowing his brains out, he was going to take it.

  Now, running flat, Jack closed the distance again.

  The man reached the edge of the apartment and then, as if he had done it a thousand times, without slowing down, leaped from one building…. to the other.

  Like an animal. Like a gazelle.

  No. Not like that.

  Like a predator, throwing itself into the air.

  The crazed person who ripped open that man back at that house ran the rooftops like it was something he did all the time.

  Jack kept following, racing as fast as he could and then leapt, awkwardly, one leg in front of the other, from one roof…. to the other, amazed that he actually made it.

  A voice in his head…shoot him. Shoot the sick bastard.

  The gun was there. A shot possible.

  But there was only one more building ahead. No more jumps left.

  The man would stop or Jack would indeed take him down.

  Which is when the man…

  What had once been a man…

  Turned.

  Jack stopped cold.

  The person looking at him was covered in blood.

  But it was the man’s eyes that Jack stared right into. Like dark, open holes, like someone on the wildest narcotic concoction possible, and that still didn’t capture the insane look.

  And the hands, so bloody too…. but that wasn’t the thing that Jack noticed about them.

  Dripping red, they were curled into near claws.

  A second to register that this person had slaughtered and – apparently – eaten the man, ignoring the food hoard.

  The bloody thing in front of him shot a quick look at the drop on the other side of the wall, then back to Jack.

  Where’s Schiller? Jack thought.

  Letting me handle this by myself?

  Then: “Down on the ground. Now.”

  The thing had already resisted arrest. Jack could shoot him, no questions asked.

  But is that how he wanted to start his first day? Killing someone?

  Even if the ‘someone’ in question seemed to have left humanity far behind.

  “Get down on the fucking ground now—” He almost added the well-practiced ’sir’, the absurdity stopping him.

  Sir. Thing. Madman.

  Whatever the hell you are.

  Another look from the thing to the wall, and Jack thinking…he’s going to jump, going to leap over the side even though a seven story fall would certainly kill him.

  But then – how much calculating intellect did the guy seem to have?

  The thing turned back.

  This near human.

  And with dizzying speed, it leaped towards Jack, those claw hands stretched out, the fingers turned into talons ready to grab.

  The killer flew into the air, one crazy leap, maybe two away. Jack raised his gun; he knew he had no choice.

  Day One.

  And he had to kill this….

  When shots blasted out from behind him. One, two shots, and then the killer’s head nearly disappeared.

  But it kept coming, now stumbling toward Jack. He leveled his own gun, still unfired, at the thing’s chest, mere feet away.

  He fired once, twice, kicking the still-twitching man back, right to the edge of the building.

  Finally, as if considering it, the bloody killer without a head collapsed to the gooey tar covered roof, and finally fell forward.

  For a few moments, Jack didn’t move, didn’t lower his gun, didn’t do a damn thing.

  “I should have shot him,” Jack said as they stood outside the building. The forensics team had already removed the black body bag, but a CSI team was still up on the roof, taking pictures.

  Schiller shook his head.

  “You did fucking shoot him, Jack.”

  “Yeah. After you blew his head off.”

  Schiller moved a bit, and positioned his stubby body right in front of Jack.

  “Well, who the hell was it that gave chase to the guy? You. He probably could have figured a way down if you hadn’t gotten cornered it.”

  Schiller laughed.

  “Those running days are over for me. That’s for damn sure. Glad I have a young partner.”

  Jack nodded. “And I’m glad I have a partner who can shoot.”

  “That? Nothing. Close range. Easy.”

  Then quiet. The afternoon sun still hot, both of them standing there, sweating.

  Another hour and Jack’s first day would be over.

  Then: “Thanks anyway,” he said.

  Another few seconds of quiet.

  “But there’s something I don’t get.”

  Schiller looked up at Jack as if expecting the question.

  “The guy who was killed—”

  “Eaten,” Schiller said.

  “Yeah. He was a food hoarder. Place was filled with food.” Jack shook his head. “Then why—”

  Schiller put up a hand.

  “Why kill the owner, leave all that goddamned food, and eat him?”

  Jack nodded. “That is what he did, right?”

  Schiller took a few steps closer. Most of the onlookers, the curious who lived on the block, had vanished. Still there were a few here waiting until the whole show was over.

  “I dunno, Jacko. I. Don’t. Know.”

  Another step. He lowered his voice. “But, man, I’ll tell you something. And you didn’t hear it from me, you got it?”

  Another nod from Jack. The heat not letting up, sweat rolled off his brow – but he was nowhere as wet as Schiller who looked as if he had just come out of the shower with his clothes on.

  Schiller looked around at the lookers-on. Then to Jack. “This, today…isn’t the first damn time I’ve seen this.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve seen it before. People attacked, killed…. and no good god-damn question about it…eaten.”

  For a moment, Jack couldn’t think of a thing to say to that. Then:

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “Welcome to the fucking club, Jack. Probably lots of us out here on the streets seeing it. Here, there. People killed. And someone chowing the fuck down on them.”

  Suddenly the intense heat…felt like cold.

  “But if someone was hungry, and they had all that food there, then why—”

  “Precisely. Why? That’s the question, Jacko. Oh, hold on. CSI’s down.

  Two men in short sleeves and tie and a woman in crisp business skirt and white blouse walked over.

  “Who’s doing the paperwork on this?” the woman said.

  “I am,” Schiller said.

  The woman nodded. She looked at her two partners. Then: “And your suspected motive?”

  Jack looked at Sc
hiller, wondering how he was going to answer this.

  “Robbery. Shot resisting arrest.”

  “Okay, We’ll let psych services know. Get yourself over there asap.”

  The woman looked at Jack, who stood quietly letting Schiller handle the conversation with the CSI team.

  “And, Officer Murphy, you chased him?”

  “Yes.”

  Another look at her two team members.

  Then a smile. “Good work. One less…. killer.” She took a breath. “Good work by the both of you.”

  The three CSI cops turned and walked away.

  Jack waited until they were out of earshot.

  “So—that’s it? Robbery gone wrong? Straight homicide? Everyone says nothing about what really happened?”

  Schiller nodded. No smile now. He looked deflated, drained by what had happened.

  “You got it, Jack.”

  Then:

  “Welcome to the NYPD.”

  4 ------------------------ Nightime

  When Jack got home, to his just-bought house in a nice, quiet part of Staten Island, he had tried pushing away the thoughts, the images…the questions that today had summoned.

  Instead, he anticipated what Christie might say when he walked in the door.

  And more importantly, what he would say back.

  It all went as he planned. The questions from her…how was your first day, how’d things go…?

  The answers…. reassuring, bland. The odd detail here and there just to cover the fact that he wasn’t saying anything. He described the street fight with the couple.

  “Exciting,” she had said. “So now…. you’re a real cop.”

  He smiled at that, nodded.

  And then, since Kate was running around, and Simon was crying for a feeding, the subject of his Day One was dropped.

  Until both kids were down, Jack having read a story to Kate, flipping the pages of Go, Dog, Go and trying not to let his mind drift back to what had happened.

  Then he came out to the kitchen and grabbed a beer.

  Christie sat at the table, reading a paper, but really – he knew – waiting. “So your partner, he’s—”

  Jack pulled out a chair and sat.