Adrenaline high surging like he was on cocaine, heart going so fast he worried it might stop. Comprehension hadn’t set in, he wouldn’t let it. Not yet. This wasn’t like Bukowski. This was murder. He was glad he hadn’t pissed himself this time, at least. Like the last time he’d dropped those other two perps. But that time wasn’t so deliberate. He hadn’t had to run then.
Now, he couldn’t stop.
But this is the will of the Lord.
Finally, the car was in view. His chariot, he wanted it to take him away, fly him to the moon, save him from his thundering heart and his airless lungs.
He rummaged for the keys in his front pocket, chirped the Maxima. The door shut behind him milli-seconds later, the doors locked. He felt like Krueger was chasing him now. He fumbled with the key, tried to breathe normally. Like that could happen. The mask, knife, and snub nose went into the plastic bag in the glove box, his swampy gloves, too.
He pulled out of the dark space down a quiet road, navigated some back streets. He reached for the Yankees jacket next to him, threw it on as he tried to keep the car in one lane. He threw on a matching fitted hat. He smiled at how prepared he was this time. But how could he be prepared for hands that moved like shaking Jell-O? He could barely keep the car straight as he pulled onto a main road. Few more blocks and he’d get to Richmond Avenue, a straight run down to the Korean War Vets Parkway, his highway to being home free. It was perfect. His hands were steadying, too. Finally. Everything was perfect.
And then, three lights into Richmond Avenue, he saw the headlights turn on in his rear-view mirror - appearing from nowhere. He looked down at the speedometer; he was doing nearly double the limit.
“No, no, no, no, no!”
The headlights sailed up to his rear bumper. Red, white, and blue erupted into brilliant exhibition, lights blazing through the night from the top of a white car labeled NYPD in blue letters. Kent would have sworn it said FUCKED instead.
Pulling over for the first time, eighteen years old and newly licensed, wasn’t nearly as scary as this moment right here. He had his ID in the middle console. He scrambled for it like a kid just called goose, killed the engine and fingered the windows down as he did. He barely got them down and the ID up to the steering wheel when the RMP operator’s flashlight hit Kent’s side mirror. The beam blinded him, thought he was going to piss his pants after all.
“Oh. Have a good night, bro,” came the voice, still at the back window. Kent looked in the side mirror, no more flashlight beam, just the back of a cop walking to his car. On the right, the partner gave a small shrug and made his way back as well. They’d never even seen Kent’s face.
He started his car back up with a huge smile, the cool breeze washing over his pale, sweaty face, and went home.
His bathroom was heaven.
“That was amazing,” he said as he tried to pee, convinced the nerves had definitely fried his urinary tract. He was about to zip up when he felt it, his dinner and who knows how much else surging up into his throat. It sprayed the toilet like a hose at full pressure. Nerves must've fried his stomach, too.
He vomited again and again. Kept coming up until there was nothing left, just the endless clutch of dry heaving in painful waves. When it was over, he showered. The warm water calmed him. He closed his eyes and prayed. He thanked God for protection and success.
Sleep came easier than he'd thought it would. And the real revelation arrived in the morning. Staring at the white ceiling, so pure, so clean, he recalled the blood, the gurgling. He’d gotten away with murder, and he would do it again.
Friday
January 4, 2013
Vigilante
Duane Bukowski’s eyes felt like they were fashioned of cement. Three and a half weeks in a traction suited coma can do that to a person. His jaw wouldn’t respond to his mental commands. It was still wired shut, broken just like the four ribs that had been reset. Broken like the three bones in his left arm and two in his right. His legs were hoisted above him, wrapped like a mummy, each of them a mass of torn ligaments. Both knees were fractured, one shin shattered. The doctors told him that if he was ever able to walk again, he’d need assistance and would likely have a torturous, unmistakable limp. But that was a big if. He needed help eating, using the bathroom, and life wasn’t ever going to get that much better.
Right then, he needed help keeping his eyes open. Sharp jets of fire raced through the tendons of Duane’s wrist as he swept the pen across the small notepad held out before him by Detective Jenkins.
The dark skinned gentleman in his mid-forties wearing a well fitted navy, two-piece suit kept his thin face serious as he read Duane’s further explanations. He turned to Muto. The Humpty Dumpty looking detective dressed in worn out grey dress slacks, a wrinkled white oxford and a lemon yellow tie peered over Jenkins’ shoulder to read the notes. Deep-set light brown eyes scanned over the sloppy words. He scratched at his bald, white head like a monkey. Beads of sweat dripped down his chalky skin, across the bridge of his wide nose. Jenkins patted his partner’s back with aggravation, prodded him away from the victim. They stepped back a few feet and Jenkins talked softly.
“So this guy who kidnapped him was dressed head to toe in black. Just like the shooting on Woodruff.”
“Woodruff?” Muto asked, his eyes blinking away droplets of sweat.
“C’mon, Muto. Wake up, man.” In his head, Jenkins cursed his supervisor for pairing him with Detective Brain-dead again. “The two perps involved in the barber shop shooting. Remember?”
A light bulb seemed to flash inside that pasty head of his, “Oh!”
Muto’s face sunk back into confusion. Lights out. “So, what?”
Jenkins grumbled, shot over a quick phony smile towards Bukowski before explaining more of the obvious to the other cop.
“The old lady said the trash cans woke her up, but the gun shots brought her to the window. Senile old fool should have been hitting the floor. But instead, she watches him shoot the second perp point blank. All dressed in black. That was, what, just one week after this guy?” Jenkins jerked his eyes back towards the mummified erector set behind them without turning his head.
“Yeah…”
“Yeah, well? Don’t you pay any attention to anything at all? It’s the same description as Chester Place.”
Jenkins had been with a more resourceful detective at the time of that canvass. They’d found someone who’d seen a man dressed all in black. He was running down the street like he was in a marathon, the witness said.
The witness hadn’t known at the time that a child molester, with multiple convictions, recently released from prison and living in his neighborhood, had just been tortured two blocks away. He’d found out the next morning when he read the morning paper. The Post, however, had left out the details of the victim’s mutilated manhood. All the paper said was that he was in the ICU, went into shock and coma before being brought in. Apparently, that’ll happen when someone slices your dick into several pieces until he feeds you a few of those very same pieces and then tapes your mouth shut, forcing you to swallow.
Even the Detectives didn’t know all the details yet. Details like the smelling salts Kent used every time his prey passed out from the pain. The detectives didn’t know every detail, but they knew about the marathon-running psychopath dressed in black.
In Jenkins’ head, it all clicked when Bukowski wrote down what he had seen. The detective worth his grade knew it’d be a few minutes before Muto caught up. He huffed, turned back to Bukowski and pulled out a business card from his inside breast pocket.
“Mr. Bukowski, if you think of anything else, please get one of the nurses to call me. Anything you think of could help,” he said, placing the card on the hospital nightstand and reaching to take back his pen. Duane’s eyes pulsed. Jenkins held the notepad out for him and watched more laborious writing for the sake of one word. He fought back a smile, bit his inside lip. He took back the pen, stuffed it with the notepad where he’d t
aken out the business card.
“If we catch him, you can sue him, Mr. Bukowski, but until then? There really isn’t much we can do for you. Take care, sir.”
With that, he turned and beckoned his partner to follow. As they entered the hallway, Jenkins looked at Muto and said, “This is all connected. You get that yet?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. So what do we do?”
Jenkins wondered how in the world Muto had made detective.
“These are only the three that we know are connected. This is huge, Muto. We have a vigilante in Staten Island. We have to get word to the CO with this, ASAP.”
Wednesday
January 24, 2013
Old Friends
“They rolled us over to you. We’re in the one-two-oh now. New purpose and everything.”
“Yeah, we got the bulletins,” Kent said into his cell phone. He swiveled in half circles, back and forth in his worn-out office chair.
“Maybe we can catch him. Maybe you can do some real good over there, after all,” Locke said from the other end of the line.
“You have no idea how much I’d love that, Locke,” Kent said with feigned enthusiasm.
“Heh. Still the super cop at heart, huh, James?”
“You know it.” If only you knew.
Kent had moved well past super cop a long time ago. The second week of January brought another kill and still no capture. Three deaths, two comas. Kent kept count as he miraculously evaded arrest. He slept fine for the first time since Hallie’s death. Before he’d drift off to sleep at night, he’d let his mind wander to thoughts of the child molester waking up from the coma. Not so he’d survive, just so he’d survive long enough to feel some more pain and the sheer, untrammeled shame of it all. He’d think of the cocaine dealer he’d overdosed. That was tricky, but highly amusing. Kent thought about the murderers he’d murdered, of the drunk who now no doubt wanted morphine more than he did alcohol. Kent kept count and slept just fine.
Locke kept count too, although he wasn’t nearly as thrilled. Sitting in the recorder’s seat of unmarked RMP 2541 for the fifth night in a row, Max took stock of the snowfall. Gracia took a long drag of her Marlboro and flicked it expertly out the half open window as her partner talked on the phone.
“So listen, I was thinking we grab some food, bring it by you?”
“Oh man. That’d be awesome, bro, but the only thing is ...” Kent quieted his voice and cupped the phone, “The uh, lieutenant is here, bro, right in the other room. And you know how he is.”
“Again, huh?”
“I know. I know. It sucks.”
“Nah, sure thing, bro. But, one of these days. We’ve been in your hood for almost two weeks now, James. And I feel like I haven’t seen you in a lifetime.”
“Same here, Locke. Same here. I miss you, bro. Keep that seat hot for me. I’ll be back next to you before you know it.”
“Yeah. Sure. Sure. Let’s get this scum bag and get back to normal life. I’m tired of these crazy tours.”
“Soon.”
They said their goodbyes, ended the call. Kent leaned back in his chair, pushed off from the desk and walked into the empty adjoining room. He rummaged through the fridge for his meal and headed to the microwave.
Two neighborhoods over, Locke stuffed his phone into his front right pocket and traded it for a bag of wild berry flavored candy. He poured some into his hand and surveyed the colors of the rainbow.
“No good?”
“No,” he said, obviously dejected. He switched the subject fast. “Never understood people who give a shit about flavors.”
“You’re strange. You do know that, right?” Gracia said as she turned on the car stereo.
He was fully engrossed in the candy. Popped them into his mouth and gave a closed mouth, chipmunk smile.
Jen gripped the steering wheel, locked her arms as she pushed back in the seat. The Chevy was parked on a dead end facing outbound.
“What’s wrong? You always do that when you’re stressed,” Max said, looking up from his colorful bag of goodies.
Jen fidgeted in her seat. “This is just fucked up, ya know? How are we supposed to catch this guy? He has the wildest MO we’ve ever seen. Like, ever. DWI, drugs, child fucking molestation?”
“And then more drugs. Yeah, and that’s just what we know of,’” Max said, candy-bag-less fingers making a quotation sign in the air. He stared up at the inside roof for a moment, eyes scanned the graffiti written in black ink. Random sayings slandering The Job.
“We probably won’t even connect all the dots.”
“Right?” She groaned, twisted the radio dial trying to find a good station. She groaned again. “I swear to God, why is music such shit nowadays?”
“I swear to the pink unicorn, my Skittles are fantastic.”
“Uh, I'm sorry, but better still, why are you bringing up things not even related to this shit, Locke?”
Max smiled wide, put his pointer in the air, circled it around with a pompous look. “But they are, my dear girl. If you're going to bring a god into things, I'll bring something just as real.”
Gracia made one last attempt for good music, grunted, crooked her head. Long mocha bangs swept into her eyes. Locke had noticed that she seemed to dye her hair various shades of brown quite often. She shook the hair back, revealing her eyes again. She squinted at her partner, lips puckered. “You really don't believe in God at all, huh?”
“No. I don't know how anyone can, save for conditioning and all that shit. But not if you're looking at the facts.”
“Well, do tell, sensei.”
Max’s pupils expanded, his smile vanished; he looked over at her. He breathed in, exhaled with a sigh. “I don't want to insult you.”
“Well then, why'd you bring up pink unicorns?”
“Because I'd love to free you.”
Jen blinked a few times, put her back partially to the window.
“Look, what god do you believe in?”
“The Catholic one. How many are there?”
Max chuckled. “Last time I checked? I think us humans have had about four thousand. But the Christian one really does seem to get the most street cred, right up to today, huh?”
Jen cracked her neck and looked out at the empty street in front of them.
“Okay,” she said, twisting her body to fully face her partner. “I have a feeling I might regret this shit, but…” She put her right hand out, palm up and waved it a bit towards him and lowered her head. As much of a bow as she could manage while confined in a car. “Do go on.”
“Okay, get ready to get schooled, rookie.” She narrowed her eyes at the comment. She had exactly six months less time on than him and plenty enough on to not be considered a rookie by any means.
“In the Bible, Yahweh is powerful and always there, center stage. He literally fuckin’ talks to people, writes shit down on tablets, sends his angels all over the place. Shit, he even firebombs a town and turns a woman to salt.”
Jen sat silently, taking in all he had to say. The engine kicked in a little bit louder, a burst of heat from the vents filled the cabin. The RMP smelled like week-old Chinese food.
“And let's not forget he stops the sun. Um, forgetting that we know how scientifically that wouldn't work. I mean, I could keep going. But eventually, it all catches up to his son getting killed. And right around this new era, something strange happens.”
Jen laughed. “All that shit isn't strange?”
Max smiled enthusiastically, “Well, you did say you believed. But yes, thank you, I know, it’s all a little cockeyed. But no, the strange thing I'm referring to? God’s silence.”
Gracia squinted her eyes, nodded slightly. “But…”
“Yeah?”
“Wasn’t that Old Testament stuff?”
“Doesn’t matter, Jen, same god. And no, anyway. The Apostles are said to be healing people, raising the frickin’ dead, and surviving some seriously crazy shit.”
“So far, yeah,
I’m hearing you,” she said, pressing back against her door and resting her left arm atop the steering wheel.
“Good. Then hear me out on this. Science can practically look back to see how we were made. And evolution does not speak to a creator. It's chaos that came to be randomly. Did you know that only like point one of all the species that have ever existed are still around today? On a daily basis, species are going extinct. This world is anything but a place designed by a loving god invested in humanity, let alone life. It looks more like a place radically designed for death. And humanity? Just a one in a billion chance, a chance that only came about because the universe had those billions of years’ worth of tries.”
“But what about everything the Bible says?” Her lips tightened, cheeks flushed.
“Jen, just read it. Like, really read it. All of it, not just the verses your priest cherry-picks. See what it says. They’re not the words of an all-knowing creator. It's the voice of tribal cultures painting a god to fit what they think a god ought to be. Based on what little they knew. It's their primitive go at explaining life. Even prayer, which has, for all intents and purposes, been scientifically proven not work, did serve a purpose. Prayer constitutes our species’ first form of health care,” he said with a slight hint of laughter in his voice.
“Shitty healthcare, though.”
Max chuckled, “Right? And we complain about The Job’s health benefits?”
Jen smiled before something caught her eye and she whipped her head to investigate. A purple Dodge Challenger drove down the street, skidded a little as it pulled into a driveway a few houses away from the cops. Tail lights blinked out and a short bundle of winter clothes emerged from the driver’s door. They rushed up their front steps, wasted little time getting the door open before vanishing inside. Both sets of cop-eyes followed every movement before returning to each other.
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