D.O.A.
(Dead on Arrival)
a novel by
Charlie Thomas King
2016 © Charlie Thomas King
For every cop who has ever worn the shield
in an attempt to protect the rest of us.
Saturday
March 5, 2011
Accident
It was never an accident to James Kent. His twenty-two-year-old mind couldn’t accept that. His teenage sister’s body, contorted like a pretzel on the grass nearby two vehicles, had been thrown from the wreckage like a piece of trash. He crumpled to the ground next to her, the fetid smell of death surging deep into his nostrils. His stomach roiled as he pulled her ragged body closer. He cradled her lifeless, blood-drenched body. Shards of glass protruded from her arms and torso, cutting her brother James as he tightened his embrace. Her face fell across his lap. His recently eaten dinner splattered onto the sidewalk. James couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t bear looking at her face, the half that remained after meeting murderously with the scalpel-sharp shrapnel of glass and metal.
The passenger door was torn off its hinges, lying alongside a pole now embedded where a side fender used to be. A Ford Super Duty idled a few car lengths away on someone’s front lawn, where it had rebounded after the furious impact. Smoke billowed from the demolished front end of the black truck. Another mangled body lay across the hood, seemingly lifeless as well. Only one set of skid marks on the ground, and they didn't belong to that bloody hood ornament’s Ford, either.
A man in sweatpants and a dirty white wife beater ran down his front steps, eyes fixed on the horror newly planted in his wife’s garden. The man stood in the remaining shaft of light refracted off of the truck, slack-jawed at the sight of gore and destruction. He stood frozen as other front doors now opened and more surveyors from nearby homes emerged to inspect the rampant damage. James didn’t notice a single one. He saw only his mother.
Her eyes stared out, blank and unseeing, from across the other side of her Honda Accord. Her dead body sprawled out on the deployed, yet apparently useless airbag. Splattered blood dripped down the too-white cloud, painting it crimson, just like everything else in sight. Thick, dark liquid poured from her open scalp, and into her open blue eyes. It seeped from her gaping mouth, dripped across her cheeks as if a maniacal Jackson Pollock had returned to claim the wreckage a scarlet canvas.
It wasn't an accident. God created and God sustained. God had a plan. It was his plan, the following of that divine path that had set Stacey Kent where she’d been that night, where she was now. His mother had picked her daughter up from youth group and James’ root-beer-brown eyes had scanned the kitchen while he talked on the phone with his little sister. It was nine-thirty-three when, mid-conversation, he had looked at the digital readout on the white microwave, the lit numbers green against a rectangular black push panel covered with grease. It was one of the odd little things permanently etched into his mind about that night. That gunk on the microwave and the calm of the kitchen. He ran his hands through his well tapered coif as he had a habit of doing when bored, and let his younger sister go on about how much money they'd raised for their senior year mission trip. James said he’d get some ice cream ready to celebrate, leave the front door unlocked. Told her he’d call Hallie and have her come over, too.
But the peppermint chip ice cream melted and James never made that call to Hallie. Stacey never made it back home to celebrate. God had a plan involving a four-ton Ford that changed everything in James’ life that night. The collision broke the airwaves like a thunderclap. It brought him running outside. His eyes searched up the block, settled on the wreckage of his family’s forest green Accord. Thick, dark eyebrows danced in trepidation as his mind tried to process what he was witnessing. A moment of apprehension later and he was screaming his way towards the corner. His tall, lanky body charging and stumbling its way up the block. Shoes left behind, James’ white socks turned red as the concrete tore at his scrabbling feet.
Now he sat in the blood. He was soaked in it. But it was not all his own. Innocent blood had been shed, Stacey’s, his mother’s. James looked across the street at the Ford. For the first time, James took in the small crowd of gawking neighbors, the sweatpants-clad man in particular. He was standing next to the truck, yelling to his wife, waving at her wildly; his lips moved, but James heard nothing. Sound had vanished into a miasma of rage. James could only feel his violently beating heart resonating throughout his shocked body.
He laid his sister down with care, leapt to his feet, and took off running towards the truck. Towards the villain who had ripped his family away from him. Like a quarterback, full steam towards the end zone, James charged. Sweatpants looked shocked, stumbled aside as James lurched at the hood of the truck.
He would drag that bloody body off the hood, strangle away what little life was left. Justice. He needed justice. But justice seemed preoccupied, or at least determined not to allow James to be its purveyor that night. He lunged, grappling across the hood and an arm slammed against his torso. James fell off the truck, air extinguished. Hands, so many hands grabbed at James. They tore him from the killing he wanted, needed, so desperately to commit. James screamed until his voice pitched and cracked into hysterical crying. He was lost in the hate. His vision broke from the fury filled tunnel. A name tag came into view. A name tag and a shield as James’ head hit the ground and sound returned.
Fucking cops.
One of them told the bystanders to back up. The other had a hand on his gun, yelling, telling James to let them handle the scene of the accident.
Accident? It was murder.
James knew that God had chosen him before the foundations of the earth. He had set a plan in motion for great things to manifest in his life. But what of Stacey? Was this God’s great plan for her?
As he watched the driver’s body wheeled into the back of an ambulance and rushed off to the hospital, while his mother’s and sister’s bodies were covered and pronounced dead on arrival, his resolve galvanized. This was no accident. Not when the damage was so bad that Stacey’s casket would have to be closed for the wake and when Mom wouldn’t even look like Mom, makeup spackled over canyon-deep gashes.
It wasn’t an accident for a man to get behind the wheel of a truck all tanked up like that. It was a choice, a cruel and homicidal decision. Kent just couldn't decide who was more to blame for that decision, the drunk or God.
Wednesday
March 9, 2011
Funeral
She stood on the toes of her ankle-high black boots, barely meeting his five foot ten inches of height, even as he both leaned in and reached down. Her big blue eyes pierced his. Their cheeks pressed against one another’s, ever so slightly. She smelled like candy and fresh fruit, utterly intoxicating. She wore a black cardigan over a black silk shirt with an extra deep neckline. No bra for her small breasts. A short, black rayon skirt atop matching leggings completed the somber ensemble.
“Don’t forget. I’m here if you need me, James.”
Having just turned twenty, Hallie Winters still had a youthful appearance and could easily pass for being in her mid-teens. She was petite with lithe dancer’s legs, not quite two inches over five feet and just under a hundred pounds. Not a freckle to be seen on the redhead’s smooth, oval face, only a small beauty mark, which lay near her right temple, precisely even with her brow-line. A silver piercing sat atop the left side of her mouth, mirroring Monroe’s own beauty mark. Winters’ adornment seemed just a bit more seductive, however. Her scarlet bangs swept across her pale forehead; her small hand brushed them aside as she moved away from James’ face.
He righted himself, maintaining his normal good posture, choked out thanks before Hallie stepped forward on the line to pay her r
egards to Mr. Kent. James cursed himself inwardly for having to concentrate on keeping his dick from getting hard standing where he was.
Person after person greeted James with clichés and tear-studded eyes; teenagers, house moms, and of course, a few pastors. Wearing a navy blue, three-piece suit with a brown belt and matching brogues, James rocked on the sides of his feet. He wore a checkered blue and white button up with a patterned brown tie cinched tightly around the collar, no socks. He didn’t say much. Didn’t look anyone in the eye. They all thought it was grief. Maybe it was, in part. That and the fact that James had his eyes on Hallie nearly the entire time she was in the room. She stayed for both viewings. During the second, Stacey’s youth pastor got up in front of the room to speak.
Cameron Phillips was a small man with eyes as black as the devil’s and wiry, dishwater blonde hair. He was already in his thirties, but dressed in a desperate attempt to belie his age, hoping to better relate to his younger audience and affect an aura of cool. Given the present setting, the two-hundred-dollar white V-neck and ridiculous red leather jacket looked more disrespectful than hip. James had never liked the man.
T-shirt and skinny jeans to a wake?
James liked him even less now.
The pastor told the mourning crowd how Stacey and her mom wouldn’t want their friends and family to be sad.
“They are in a better place with a God they loved. A God who loves them very much.”
James felt his teeth clench down so tightly his temples ached. He couldn’t quite figure out how two mutilated bodies equaled out to a loving God.
Cameron threw out some typical, wake-suitable Bible verses about eternal life and finished up with an attempt at an inspiring prayer.
“Hey, Dad. It’s me again. Just wanted to bring some of our hurt to you.”
Mr. Kent rolled his eyes over at his son as soon as Cameron started the prayer. James shook his head back. Both knew the only reason the pastor was getting to spew his bullshit was out of respect for Stacey.
The next day, as he watched the two caskets get lowered into the ground, James looked to the clear sky overhead. In the movies, it always rained at funerals. He would’ve welcomed it. Felt more like God was rubbing it in, accompanying the burial of James’ family with a bright sunny day and little fluffy clouds dotting a serene blue sky. Where was the empathy? Where was the Justice? Even if it took everything he had, James swore he'd find justice. No one would break his resolve.
No one could console him. Definitely not his dad, who stood statuesque at the funeral, saying little more than thank you to the droves of people doling out their trite condolences. None of those people, whose words were so much empty drivel, could possibly console him. Not his cousin, not a single friend. Not his best friend, Nick. Not even Hallie, even with all she’d been to Stacey, all Hallie had been to him. No, even Hallie couldn’t fix things. No one could make it go away. Not even God.
Definitely not God. He caused it, James thought.
The damage was permanent. But James would find justice. No matter what that path required of him.
…
On the other side of Staten Island, a set of weary green eyes surveyed the instruments before them. In front of the large vanity mirror in the corner of their room, sat the hair clipper his wife had bought him the first summer of their married life together. Madison said that his old buzzer was worn out and abused. The new one was top of the line. She wanted him to look good for his first day at his new career, no stray hairs.
“So many years ago,” he said quietly.
A year after she presented him with the gift, the thing had become a dust magnet, wrapped up and tucked away under the bathroom sink. She’d loved his hair grown out, it seemed, and never wanted him to shave it again. He'd smile when she’d run her hands through it. Scratching his head put him at ease, no matter what was stressing him.
He surveyed the buzzer before him and remembered all the times they’d shared before bed. Those were his favorite times. They’d sit and read together, usually she with a comic book, he with some intense crime novel, recently translated from French or something of the like. Then she’d tire quickly and run her hand through his hair as he kissed her goodnight and tucked her in. They’d both grown up religious, always said their prayers before bed. But then they grew up. Let go of the old myths. Let the old gods die.
When she became sick, he held on to hope in spite of it all. When the cancer first showed signs of winning, he wished there really was a god of some sort, someone he could call out to for a cure or at least some consolation. But he wouldn't stoop so low as to plead to an imaginary being. She wouldn't have let him, even if he'd wanted to.
Her face was sunken, frail, but her eyes, crystal blue and bold, had somehow managed to carry a life all their own. Her lips, cracked and dry, quivered. He put his hand lightly upon her shoulder as she spoke.
“After all of this… death is a friend, Max.” She watched tears come to his eyes. She said his name again, in a way only she could, and continued. “Death is a comfort. We’ve been looking at it all wrong. I see that now. It… it isn't a robbery. It's our great destination. And like so many of the best stories, ours aren’t ones about the end, no matter how grandly it might come for us. Our stories are about the journeys we take to get there, baby.” Tears slid down both of their faces. He cried her name, and she whispered to him that he alone is what had made her journey great. She was beautiful in everything she did, even her use of words.
Now he looked at his hands, with all their nicks and tiny scars, his strong hands, useless, and that buzzer on the beige, carpeted floor. He didn’t want to look into the mirror in front of him. He didn’t want to see his long, dirty-blonde hair. He didn’t want to remember those nights he’d clung on to hope. He didn’t want to remember her. Not that way. No. It hurt too much.
The heat was blowing from the vent across the room but Max felt a shiver run down his bare back. He could never forget those nights, yet it seemed he could barely remember what she had felt like in his arms, not anymore, not before the cancer had so ravaged her body, made it so weak and so small. He was six foot, and she always looked up to him from her tiny five-four frame; her hundred and ten pounds had always felt tiny to him, but she’d never before felt so frail, so brittle as she had in those last days. Those final days he had with her, they would haunt him forever. He wanted to burn down the house they'd bought and never look back, never think of it again. He wanted to destroy it all. Walk away from everything that reminded him of her and forget her forever so he wouldn’t feel the pain he felt right then, the pain he felt endlessly. But he knew he'd never be able to do it.
“Fuck,” he whispered as he grabbed hold of the buzzer with one hand, plugged it in with the other. “Just, fuck.”
He bent his head, steadied himself on his knees and flicked on the switch. He brought the buzzer to the nape of his neck and ran it up and over. On his second run, he finally looked into the mirror. He lowered the setting and buzzed the sides again, leaving a clean, eighth of an inch Mohawk along the full length of his head.
“I miss you, Madi.”
He placed the instrument on the floor, ran his fingers over his head, stood up. He left the room for the shower, walking past his gun and shield neatly propped up on the dresser next to the bed.
…
A few weeks after the funeral for his family, while walking through the Staten Island Mall, James saw three teenage girls flirting with a Guido in a perfectly pressed, dark blue uniform. James recognized the girls from Stacey’s youth group. Posters behind the recruitment officer beckoned young, impressionable New Yorkers to sign up. James walked over, pushed between the girls, and grabbed a pen. He wasn’t impressionable, he was infuriated. And he thought maybe, just maybe, he’d finally found the road he’d been searching for.
Nine months later, ugly, grey polyester would drape his body. A small blue paper ID would make a home in his pocket. Nick would say how someone could have had a ba
by in that much time, but James had chosen, instead, to simply throw a life away, his own.
“Ya know, Jimmy? It belongs to the city of New York now.”
But James knew better than that. James knew it wasn't even about the City. It was about showing God how to do his job.
Monday
March 5, 2012
Police Academy
High above the streets of New York City, probationary police officers lined a rooftop. At only five-foot-five, and well over two hundred pounds, a chunky brunette toppled, her eyes clamped shut as her head split against the rooftop like a burst water balloon. Blood shot upwards, droplets trickled down as scarlet raindrops upon her fellow shiny-shoed recruits. She never made a sound. Her body rocked a few times on the spare tire tucked in around her bellybutton, then stilled, displaying the heat induced unconsciousness that had set in before she had even hit the ground. Recruits regarded her in a collective stupor, too afraid to make a move, unsure if the event constituted breaking rank. The instructor closest yelled to the others, calling for an ambulance before getting down on his knees to render aid.
As Officer Chang rolled the grey clad husky over onto her back, he called out to his company of cops in training.
“This is why you never lock your knees, halfwits!”
Instruction didn’t stop, especially not in the wake of failure. Two other cops in blue came over, their faces telegraphing their disapproval. Kent observed the situation from five companies back. Ten groups stood on deck, four rows of six probationary officers in each. Kent could barely see the action from where he was, but the whisper that rippled through the crowd gave him a good enough play by play.
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