D.O.A.

by Charlie Thomas King

  He made the next left, eyes on the rearview mirror, drove into the project’s parking lot, fuming. The event replayed in his mind. He could see the blood sprinkle the sky, hear the cascading clangor, smell the smoke. Their eyes, the way they rolled back when the bullets entered their skulls. Like the suicide. The one he had to help bag and tag when he was still fresh meat. His mind was hopping all over the place. He could still hear the blood dripping from that body he’d seen, heard, a year before. Didn’t matter how much time would pass; he’d forever be able to hear that blood’s slow descent to the cold basement ground. Didn’t matter how many years went by, all the blood he’d ever watched spill to the ground would always remain incandescently clear in the theater of his mind. He could still see his mother’s eyes staring at him, too. As he knocked on the VIPER room door, he could feel his sister’s demolished skull in his hands, her blood seeping through his fingers.

  Thirteen minutes later, as Officer Drake made his departure from the VIPER room, Kent finally heard something, as if the world had been muted before that moment.

  “Hey man, it’s none of my business, but you’ve been up in your head ever since you walked in here. Did you even hear me when I explained everything?”

  Kent’s eyes flickered, looking as though he’d just woken up without knowing how he’d even gotten to work. He nodded yes, slowly.

  “Wow. Okay. Don’t lose your mind now, okay? I’ll see ya later.” The day tour cop waved and disappeared behind the monitors, then on out the door.

  Three hours later, there was a knock at the entrance. Kent jerked awake from more of his nightmarish day dreams. Mute button had re-engaged without him realizing. He looked down at the table. Shit. He still hadn’t even signed in yet. He looked up at the camera aimed at the door. Just another cop, no boss. He breathed a sigh of relief, jumped up, went to the door to unlock it and let the guy in. He was short, mangy brown hairs pasted across an otherwise bald head. Kent didn’t get to read the name tag. Baldy just burst right in.

  “Sup, gotta take a shit, bro,” he said, baby wipes in hand.

  As the cop went to the toilet, let the bathroom door slam shut behind him, something in the corner of Kent’s eye caught his attention. Baldy’s partner was leaving the RMP. Kent knew him from high school. It seemed the only guys from his graduating class who didn’t become cops were the ones who had become barbers. Or drug dealers.

  “What’s up, James?” the cop called from the car.

  He choked out a return greeting, his voice hoarse from lack of use all day. He realized that those were the first words he’d spoken aloud. Hadn’t given more than grunts and head movements to Drake.

  “Um, I gotta catch up the book, Greg.” James motioned inside as the cop got closer.

  “Got it. Go. No prob,” the cop said, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his cargo pocket, tapped it against the rusted metal railing nearby.

  “You’re not usually here.”

  “No. Just today. Usually at Ten,” Kent said as he caught up the activity log. Greg smoked his cigarette, then took out another. Baldy bombed the bathroom and reemerged. He gave a two finger salute and a wink before he exited the room. Kent sat at a desk with multiple workbooks. In front of him, video screens faded in and out between the numerous surveillance recorders across the Stapleton Projects. On the other side of the monitor wall was the entry way, where Greg worked his second cigarette, this time Baldy joining in with one of his own. Kent scribbled in the books as the uniformed cops chatted in clouds of smoke. Baldy started complaining about a ruined arrest, just loud enough for Kent to overhear him.

  “ADA’s a real fuckin’ dick. System’s a goddamn waste. Even let ’im keep his fuckin’ Jaguar. First time this prick Bukowski gets off ’cause they don’t have a witness.

  “But you told me the husband saw it,” Greg said in between pulls.

  “Yeah, but he’s ona them fuckin’ illegals, right, too afraid to come forward.”

  “So how you so sure it was him?”

  “Plates on the ground. On the goddamn scene! ADA tells me? ‘Hylan’s a busy road, bro, coulda fallen off at any time.’ What the fuck? I mean, seriously?”

  “Whoa.”

  Kent put down the pen, listened for more. It was hitting close to home.

  “Yeah. Then this prick asshole is out cruisin’ again, smacks into some dad crossin’ the road on Richmond Terrace. Kid and his motha’ are with ’im. They watch dad go flyin’ through the fuckin’ air. His head bounces like a goddamn basketball off this guy Bukowski’s hood.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. So I get the collar. But the father’s in, whattaya call it? Persistive vegetative state.”

  “Persistent?”

  “Whatever, smart-ass. Yeah. He’s not technically dead though, so somehow, less than a year later, Bukowski fuckin’ gets released.”

  Greg yelled out a few obscenities in surprise. Kent seconded the reaction in his head, but before Baldy and Greg headed back to the RMP, Kent got some more information. Vital information. In between Greg spewing his string of curses, Baldy added where Bukowski lived.

  “Down off Cedar Grove and New Dorp, that’s ova in the Two, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know perps like that. They still drive. They don’t give a good goddamn about their suspension. I think I’m gonna tell my buddy out there about it. Make that guy’s life a livin’ mutha fuckin’ nightmare.”

  “Cop in there is from the Two, tell him,” Greg said pointing inside.

  “Nah, man, a real cop, not some VIPER reject. Come on. Let’s roll.”

  A second later, Greg stuck his head around the monitors, “We’re outta here, bro. Catch ya later, man,” and was gone. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him. And something inside Kent snapped open along with it. Kent wasn’t a washed up reject. Kent was something else, something more, not less. He didn’t see much of the next six hours, didn’t hear much either. A Sergeant came in to sign the books, another cop on a bathroom break, finally Kent’s relief - it all came and went. His body had switched over to auto pilot, his mind occupied with sinister strategies. This was the reason Kent had signed up with the NYPD in the first place. This right here. Bukowski was going to meet with justice, but it wouldn’t be through another useless arrest. If the system couldn’t do it, James Kent would.

  Tuesday

  December 11, 2012

  Crazy

  He wasn’t stupid. Wondered if he was going crazy, but he was definitely not stupid. He wore black, head to toe black with a ski mask rolled up to cover just the top of his head. Thankfully, it was winter, wouldn’t seem out of place while he skulked up and down the blocks.

  The day after Baldy told his story, James went to New Jersey, hit up some hole in the wall sporting goods shops, two of them. Paid cash for everything. He spent the next few nights changing into his new uniform and driving around lower New Dorp Lane, searching for a Jaguar, reckless asshole at the helm. By the third night, he realized how utterly fruitless the whole enterprise might end up being.

  He pulled over to make a U-turn, head back up to Hylan Boulevard, head home. And just like that, a ten-year-old, zircon metallic Jaguar drove past him heading for the stop sign before the water’s edge of New Dorp Lane.

  Kent froze up. It was him, had to be. Kent’s palms started to grease the steering wheel. He waited until the Jag was making the right onto Cedar Grove Avenue, pulled back out onto the road and caught up to the stop sign. He made the right, but the car was gone. So was most of the area. Houses on the right were still in disarray, the park on the left was torn apart. Kent slowed to a crawl as he passed Neptune Street, the first of the one-way blocks lining the street. No lights. He was going to pedal past Waterside Street, a one way in his direction, when he caught a glimpse of brake lights. Something inside him leapt for joy. Not only had he quite possibly found his prey, but the guy was also drunk driving the wrong fucking way on a one-way street.

  Kent drove
down another three blocks and pulled his car over behind a tan Ford Fiesta. He surveyed his surroundings. No cops, no civvies, not a soul to be seen. He grabbed his gloves and ski mask from the passenger seat, put them on before exiting his vehicle. He shut the door quietly and crept down the block in the shadows towards Waterside. He had on his bullet resistant vest and three layers on top, a thermal, a sweatshirt and a hoodie. He was still shivering. He realized it probably wasn’t the weather.

  It was a small block of half gone bungalows. Power would never return for some of the houses, their electric wiring water-logged and ripped apart. A few houses were missing roofs or had roofs only half there. The area looked like a ghost town. No signs of habitation he could discern. If not for the state of affairs and the lack of street lamps, he might have been noticed by someone, but the night was on his side, so far. He ran the long stretch of decrepit bungalows to reach the end of the block. The tiny one-way street seamlessly turned into Dustan Street. James followed left around the bend.

  He reached the first block, but there was no Jaguar on the block. He feared Bukowski made his way back out of the maze while Kent was coming in. He walked further hoping for the best, but it got worse.

  “No,” Kent whispered. The street forked, no way to know which way the Jaguar had gone.

  He looked to his right, a street out of the tiny one ways of southern Cedar Grove, to his left, the remainder of his current roadway, was the end of Wavecrest Street. If the drunk had gone right, Kent was screwed; fucker could’ve gone anywhere from there.

  Better to finish the hunt on Wavecrest and hope for a miracle.

  He steadied his heart rate, controlled his breathing. The sweat on the back of his neck was cold as the chill breeze blew, despite his ski mask. He realized how spent he already was; he’d need to start working out again if he were to keep up such late night hobbies. He walked around the ugly green fence that cornered the block. On his left was a battered hydrant, the top half painted purple, the bottom black. A rusted pole wrapped in seaweed of the same height as the hydrant projected from the earth a few inches away, indistinguishable refuse stuffed inside. The cement was chipped and rocky on the edges of the badly paved road, which simply dissolved into dirt on the opposite side of the street. Muddy grime oozed onto the concrete at various intervals. Above giant chipped chunks of black gravel, half of an orange and white, a Plasticade A-frame traffic divider rested against a decrepit and hideous beige plastic fence.

  Kent finished the bend, stepped onto Wavecrest, surging with a burst of inner excitement. Less than thirty feet away sat the old forest green Jag. The exhaust bellowed out a steady stream of pale grey haze. The car was a complete oddity parked in this trashed out enclave. It sat half on the ersatz sidewalk and half on the street, between a horrendous brown house and a slightly less odious pale blue one. They each looked to be gutted and on the verge of collapse; another strong wind would serve.

  This guy sleeping in his car at night?

  The cop walked as close to the beige fence as he could, careful not to trip on any of the scattered garbage. He strained to see if Bukowski was still inside, if it even was Bukowski. He still didn’t know that yet, not for sure. Kent moved past a bent over No Standing sign, up to a traffic cone layered in black grime. He could see the driver asleep at the wheel. There was a shoe on the roof of the car.

  What’s this guy’s deal?

  Kent looked up and down the block, no one in view, no movement in any of the houses. He stepped into the moonlight, crossed the street and slid around the Jag to the driver’s side. No longer able to keep it in check, his heart beat like he was running a triathlon. He touched the handle with one finger as if testing to see if it was hot. He cringed. The drunk didn’t move. Four more fingers met the first, Kent’s hand tightened and pulled, his heart beating its way through Kevlar and multiple shirts. The drunk still didn’t move. He was out cold.

  Kent stepped back from the open door, tightened his chest and tried to bring his BP back down. He knew he needed to be calmer than he was if he really meant to do this. He closed his eyes, forced himself to accept the adrenaline, swallowed it down.

  Let it dissipate.

  He opened his eyes to take a newly becalmed view of the situation.

  A terrified set of baby blues were looking right back at him.

  Tuesday

  December 11, 2012

  Next

  The man blinked his beady, bloodshot eyes rapidly. His disoriented, bald head made smallish circles in the air as his fat body wriggled in the seat. His gut pressed against the steering wheel; he looked pregnant. Revolting. He made a shape with his tiny lips as if he were sucking on a lollipop. He was trying to speak, trying to ascertain who the black aberration could possibly be, staring so boldly back at him from behind a ski mask at one-thirty in the morning.

  Kent’s mind went crazy with every possible way the scenario could end. Only one easy way to go forward.

  Stop thinking and go with instinct.

  “Who -” the boozed up driver finally said, immediately before a gloved fist connected with his face.

  The man’s head shot backwards. Blood sprayed across the beige, interior roof of the Jag. Kent slammed his clenched hand into the fat man’s face twice more, dead in the nose, all three times. The man, caught between the steering wheel and tan leather seat, kept bringing his head back like a bouncing ball. He just wouldn’t lose consciousness. On the fourth punch, the flab finally gave, freeing his stuck body from the wedge. His spine hit the middle console armrest, his eyelids shut. Kent quickly grabbed the man’s feet, swung them up. One black loafer scuffed the inside roof a bit as Kent tossed both of Bukowski’s legs into the back seat. He was already out of breath. Damn it. He exerted further effort getting the fat man positioned horizontally in the back seat, laid out on his side, facing the trunk.

  Kent moved with accuracy and speed. He shut the driver’s side door from the inside, sat down, shifted into reverse. Driving backwards around the bend, he exited the area by the other road in the fork, through the stop sign onto Roma Avenue, a one-way street. He righted the car, kicked it into drive and bulleted towards New Dorp Lane. When he got there, he abruptly slowed down, heard a thud in the backseat, adhered the stop sign - didn’t need to risk a car-stop with the cops right then. He made a right, drove slowly all the way down New Dorp Lane, consistently glancing behind him to make sure fat boy was still out. He’d rolled to the floor, face up, eyes still closed. No one else driving nearby, only parked and unoccupied cars along the way. Almost at the end of New Drop, he stopped at another stop sign. Back where it’d all started. To his left lay the entrance to a halfway gone park. Might be someone somewhere within, too risky. To his right, more houses, a smaller mess of a park, his own car. Too many possible witnesses. Again, too risky. Ahead, the remainder of the lane, a pitch black runaway onto the beach. He looked into the back seat, the drunk was still out.

  Kent reached into the glove box, rummaged through it for insurance paperwork. It wasn’t there. Middle console next, through the various receipts, a pack of pocket tissues, sunglasses missing a lens, loose change, a, stale battered Swisher Sweet. Underneath it all, a folded orange and white paper square, Duane Bukowski’s name printed in bold black ink. Identity confirmed. The pieces had fallen so perfectly into place. Kent couldn’t have planned it better if he’d tried.

  “So what now?” he said aloud, unintentionally. He jerked to look into the back seat, make sure Bukowski hadn’t heard. If he was going to speak, Kent would have to put on a voice. As corny as that was, he had to protect his identity at all costs. Detectives could use anything to find a perp.

  That thought shook him, the word perp. Was he the perp now?

  Groaning sounded from the rear floor of the Jaguar. The plastered prisoner was coming to. Kent flicked off the headlights and tapped on his heated seat, tried to remain deliberate. The cold was still running through his bones, didn’t matter if he blasted the heat; the cold wasn’t going a
nywhere, neither the cold nor his ever-exploding heart. He pressed the gas again, and the car lurched forward, sped down the dead end, tumbling through some debris on its way. He hit sand, fishtailed as he hit the brakes. Back tires squealed louder than Kent would have liked, but it was a long dark street with absolutely no one else there.

  He parked. Kent looked back to the horror struck eyes peering at him from the floor. The cop tried to calm his own nerves. Then he growled. A deep, angst driven growl from his very core; it was a growl of acceptance. Acceptance first of just how stupid he was to be where he’d put himself. He was a cop. A cop dressed up like a fool with a beat up drunk in the back of that same dumbass drunk’s own vehicle. Kent growled deep and long and punched the dash. He looked again at the victim in the back seat. Kent had to be honest with himself - that man was a victim now.

  But then, how many victims has he left in his wake? So what? The perp’s the victim now. So what?

  Kent pushed himself out of the car, slammed the door behind him and turned to look through the driver’s side rear window. He stared deeply into the terrified, besotted halfwit staring back at him from the floor on the other side of the glass. Kent couldn’t second guess himself; he couldn’t walk away. Not now. Not yet.

  This man deserves worse.

  Bukowski was reaching for the door on the opposite side of the car, swinging his arm wildly above him searching for the handle, his eyes never losing sight of the apparition outside the window.

  Kent grabbed the door and swung it open, crouched into the car as Bukowski found the handle behind him. The fat man kicked out a wild leg, caught the edge of Kent’s jaw with the bottom of the still sneakered foot. Kent stumbled back for a second; the fucking drunk had his door open. Adrenaline shook off the hit. Kent came back down hard into the car, clenched fist first. Knuckles crashed down against Bukowski’s right knee cap, the man emitting a squeal like a pig’s. Kent stumbled into the car and rained down another blow, crashed into Bukowski’s right eye; blood burst against the black leather.