Detective D. Case

by Neal Goldy

  “But I need to know what happens next,” Abel told him. He looked at him right in the eyes, unmoving. “What is it I need to do now? Soon he’ll report to Chief Advert about the case and about McDermott, too –”

  Before he could finish, Lake guffawed, his voice detonating in tones that rattled the earth. It was so loud coming from the deepest part of the stone walls, that even for him, Lake leaned on the walls trying to support what weight he had left. He banged the stone, making Abel wonder if pain ever went through the man’s hands whenever they struck. “That Avert!” he exclaimed. “Oh how I talked to him before he went off.”

  “Pardon?” said Abel. “I’m not following.”

  Lake glared. “What are you, boy, drunk? I killed Advert long ago.”

  This was something when it came from the same man who sunk into his laughter, practically drowning in it. One day he’ll surely die from it, if not sooner. “You did? I don’t recall you telling me this.”

  “Well, I did, dammit!” Lake pinned Abel against the stone wall. “You think you can play dumb?”

  “This is a misunderstanding, Lake. I’m not playing dumb. Rather, I’m questioning.”

  Lake wasn’t buying it. “So what are you saying?”

  “What I’m trying to say is this: there is no Advert to go to. When D. finds out, he won’t go to the police department like a kiddie goes to mommy. I don’t believe it for a minute. You know what will happen? The old detective will find out what happened to the McDermotts – the true version and not the one I put up – and he will go to the McDermott family to corner them. More importantly, he’ll make his way to not only me, but to Paul, too.”

  “But Paul’s dead, Lake.”

  “You’re really gullible, are you? Paul never died. No one died during this goose chase, Abel, understand? The only people who died would be the officers in McDermott penthouse, and some of them were our people. Even the search going on right now in the police department isn’t real.”

  “Then why are the police so frightened of you? They seem to get their fingers everywhere nowadays.”

  “I made them do that. For all they know, I’m still the criminal, the outlaw.”

  “Not to also mention a rapist, too.”

  Purple bubbled from Lake’s face. “I WAS ACCUSED!” his voice roared. “NEVER DID I TOUCH THEM, NOT EVEN ONCE! IT WAS JUST . . . A . . . DRESS!” He landed on the cold floor, crying to himself. Lake had truly lost his mind, but what made things worse was that he couldn’t find it.

  “I understand,” Abel said. “Please, stop crying and tell me what we are to do next?”

  Lake trembled as he regained his ground. “Don’t worry about it, Abel. I got everything in motion and under control so people like you won’t fret. D. will look for me – well, why shouldn’t he? I’ve been toying with him all this time, like I’ve done with all the P.I.s; nobody spoke a word so nobody knew of the game I played with them. Harm was done, yes, but no deaths to count for any of my sins, thank you.”

  “So what do I do now?” Abel wondered. “Or have I done my part?”

  Lake took a step closer. “You aren’t done yet, Abel. There is one more thing left for you.”

  “And what is it, exactly?”

  He pulled out a revolver, pressed it to Abel’s cheek. The bullet popped and he was dead. “It’s not like I needed to tell you what I need to do. Sometimes surprises are worthy of presence.”

  Suddenly the lights had become the paparazzi, flashing their bulbs everywhere no matter where the subject went. West Lake crouched so he could see the face of Paul McDermott shine through the lights. He pressed a hand onto the man’s skin; it was smoother than a child’s. Rich people had it made, but not in the same terms when someone like Lake was involved. He hid the revolver in case McDermott shot a glimpse at it. The young man needed to feel safe with no foul weapons or language – that way he could make his entrance when he returned to the public view.

  *****

  Chief Advert came back like a ghost when he clicked on the flashlight.

  How the hell did this happen? One minute in darkness and then, just when Officer Colton flicked his flashlight open, this came up. Not something pleasant to see, if you saw what he saw.

  The chief’s mouth was wide open, screeching wide and terrible like its jaws were breaking. His teeth had been dipped in blood or something else the color of red. Colton inched the flashlight a little closer and realized the chief had no tongue anymore. Somebody cut it off, he supposed, but when and why? He was assigned to searching the chief’s office, the place that nobody wanted to go for some reason, but he thought them sissies. Come on, it was just an office, it wasn’t like something like this would be happening! Apparently, though, it did for the sake of comforting him with this thought. How lovely.

  Chief Advert also wasn’t wearing his usual police uniform, and he always wore it. Replacing the usual was a shirt that had hundreds of letters printed on it in jumbled heaps. Numbers, too, clogged up the canvas of the shirt. Phrases and puns filled up the rest that wasn’t gibberish or nonsense. Even looking closely at it you wouldn’t be able to decipher the spiral enigma, which shouldn’t be missed for sure. It surprised Colton even more that, unlike most films he saw, he hadn’t dropped his flashlight. Whereas most would scream, he stood there paralyzed, holding it like a lifeline. He pulled the chief’s skin to make sure the man was still alive, but unconscious. Just a tight little squeeze, nothing that will do no harm . . .

  Colton pinched.

  He held for a second, fingers pressed tight. Lumps garbled in his throat like lottery balls. But the chief didn’t move no matter how hard he pressed.

  “Uh, chief?” he asked to the howling face that burned a hundred scars. “Can you speak?”

  It was a frozen performance, almost a painting; the chief didn’t budge.

  He’s dead, Colton thought without surprise. He should’ve known for obvious reasons.

  And then, moving back now, Colton bolted for the nearest person in the department.

  He was running in the dark, blinded by the nonsensical bewilderments in the other half of life. Both legs pumped with pain, blood pulsing in places. In case he hit a door, Colton kept his arms stretched out, palms facing outward. Sure enough, the door slammed onto him, gratefully onto his palms and not his face. Imagine the bruises, blue and pulsing. Colton squawked, some kind of feverish bird, always looking back in case something lurked past his field of vision. Nobody liked surprises when they weren’t in on the act with no one to notice.

  A little farther and he could see the light – bleak and little, but it was better than running again in the same place like looped music. It got brighter and Colton wore a smile on his face. An outline of a door formed – he had no idea where he was going.

  Colton leaped through the door like at the finishing line of a marathon. There, illuminated in the light, he crashed into Officer Woolf, a lean man with a grey walrus mustache. He always recognized Woolf from his repetitive habit of twisting his mustache around like a brush to toy with. Of course, there was that and the slouched, lousy posture he attained. Now, meeting him on the floor, Colton tried to speak as fast as he could; it was hard to do it when you’re still gasping for breath.

  “Officer Woolf!” he cried, still heaving. “Did you see – the chief . . . ?”

  “Chief Advert?” Woolf stood up. “He’s still here?”

  “No!” Colton sounded mad, but he went on. “No, it’s not like that. He’s here, yes, but . . . it’s different, very different. I don’t think he’s breathing.”

  “You’re saying he’s dead?”

  Colton nodded, although he was not really unsure if Woolf saw him or not. But he understood, so . . . he did?

  “Look,” Woolf said, “I’ve believed some wild things a while back, but this has got to be the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard. Y’know he went on vacation, right? The case was pulling his mind apart. And now you’re telling me he’s dead, here, in the police departmen
t?”

  “I’m not lying –”

  “Then you’re toying with me. Is this some kind of prank, huh?”

  “No, it’s not!” Ugh, sounding like this made Colton sound like a little kid. Well past twenty and being treated like this? “What the hell’s wrong with you, Woolf? When I saw Advert, by God I nearly pissed myself.”

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “The most honest people are truthful in their lies,” said Woolf, glaring.

  Colton smirked. “Where’d you get that from, some new book you’re reading?” But as soon as he said it, he really wished he could take it back.

  “If you want me to take you seriously, you better stop poking fun at everything!”

  Colton rose, and faced Woolf. He might have been smaller, but he could appear sinister when needed. “How about I show you in case you’re that skeptical about the whole damn thing?”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  They walked off, Colton feeling like a tattletale in some way. It felt weird. No one was getting in trouble, right? He kept moving. Without turning back – he needed to face the dark for what it was and not run into it like some kind of adventurer – he spoke to Woolf:

  “You think Advert’s on vacation, huh? So wait until you see this . . .”

  At the deep end, there came whistling, although Colton didn’t know where it was coming from. “Hey, Woolf, did you hear –?”

  Something – although he assumed it was someone – toppled over, it came crashing to the floor in a loud tumbling. Colton moved back, whiplashing the flashlight to the other side. It was useless, obviously, since the light was coming from the other end, but he saw the fallen body of Officer Woolf. The tall man had dropped, just like that. It was like in those stories, where the men who appeared so little tackled down the fierce giants (usually tripping them with rope and/or wires). Colton slapped Woolf, waking him up, saying needless words that did not add up. Things like wake up, wake up mixed in with nonsense. Somehow Chief Advert’s howling corpse had a lasting influence on Colton, whether he realized it or not.

  “Woolf, get up!” Colton was pleading now. He turned Woolf over, finding a tiny dart thin as a needle puncturing his back, almost close to the back of his shoulder blade. It was that close, huh? When the idea dawned on Colton--the idea that they weren’t the only ones left in the police department and someone was going after him--another whistle whizzed by. This one hit Colton right in the neck. Dizzy, images of motion multiplying through the seemingly insect-like vision of sight, Colton toppled. His hands didn’t save him this time, however.

  *****

  They pictured the bright, white light which everyone deemed uncommon in fire. That didn’t mean it never existed, but nobody used flames of burning white for their arson plan.

  The police department was juicy food, the type to dwell on its juiciness. Bishop licked his lips, rubbing his hands together villain-style. But they weren’t villains, of course, despite them planning to burn down a police department and the chances of killing multiple people. Already officers and investigators were clogging up the entrances like moths to an electric streetlight no matter how lousy it looked because the crime was always there. Well, who’d blame them? It’s their goddamn jobs!

  “Thinking again?” said Queen.

  Bishop nodded. Yeah, he was trailing off like drool.

  “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get it down, like we always do.”

  Choppers swung overhead. Queen and Bishop witnessed the procedure; they knew the steps from memory, memorized it all like ink on paper. In the beginning, the helicopters will form a circle common to them as the Circle Formation Scene. When ready, the copters will separate into vertical lines, erect as a provoked phallus, and dive in. Rapid fire and destruction would follow, the police department casting its soon-to-be wild white fire net of Death. Thing was, the two – Queen and Bishop, that was – were supposed to have a helicopter (no, two helicopters!) for themselves, twin ladders coming down for them to climb. They watched the skies, saw the formation, but no helicopter was to be found. It even was supposed to be in a different color to distinguish it in the dark. And now there was nothing but the two of them wearing heavy dark armor and blending clothes looking like idiots.

  “Where the hell is Johnny?” Queen wanted to know. “He’s late.”

  But Bishop shook his head. “Not only that, but he ditched us.”

  Queen, shocked, covered her mouth. “That slimy . . .”

  “. . . Helluva bitch!” finished Bishop. Like siblings, they finished each other’s sentences. Some people thought that odd, but natural to Queen and Bishop.

  Fumed, that’s what they were now, like churned rocks from the steam of a boiling pot. “Change of plans, I guess,” Bishop said. “Maybe that’s what happened. They must’ve forgotten to notify us.”

  “Of course,” Queen said, “they would forget to notify every single one of us taking watch on the department building. Foolish! Little brother, you take things too innocently. We’re going in – now.”

  Content, Bishop nodded. He clicked his gun ready, a rough and strong rifle with power like an arm of muscle. He called it Artery. Queen didn’t like guns – “Too noisy,” she had said – preferring smaller, more dangerous items of usage. At first Bishop couldn’t tell whether Queen was right with her decisions, but she never got herself into any real harm, so he guessed she was right in some ways. Yet the feel of Artery never made him change, like a bride-to-be. You’d swear to never run off with anyone else, and that was the promise Bishop kept to Artery. Filled with so much promise, he noted, but never did he give that much in return in the form of affection; of the many times he saw affectionate people with inanimate objects, not one acted mature. Most, if not all, of them looked like idiots, and in public! Disgrace, Bishop thought, such disgraces. He never catered to it, giving Artery the cold, distant feeling it was destined for. Any warmer than what Bishop gave the gun and he was certain things would end badly. So, in one way, Queen was wrong for once. He liked that.

  Wait a minute – where was Queen? He was the only one left standing.

  She must have jumped. They were standing on a building a block away from the police department on their watch, so Queen must have gone for the ground. Did she ever think of such consequences? He would have liked to say she didn’t, but then something like Queen shouting for him to come down and stop daydreaming would happen, killing the idea. A majority of her actions ended up killing dreams Bishop had – sweet dreams, dirty ones, hot dreams, all of the,, destroyed. Who wanted a bully for a partner?

  Still, he was worried. Not for her, of course, but for him. The People of the Ground, what would they say if they found out one of their watchers were dead? His heart beat faster. “Queen?” he called, peeking down to the city ground. “Queen, where are you? Did you take the jump?”

  “You think I’m that stupid?” her voice came, but from where? “Get down here, Bishop!”

  “But where – where are you?” Her voice seemed to come from thin air, materializing into the void of his life.

  “Fire escape,” she groaned. Bishop didn’t see her, but he knew she was rolling her eyes when she said it.

  So he went down. He kept his legs firm on the rungs of the ladder. It was like groping around in the dark with your hands, but using your feet instead. Bishop, when he grabbed onto the rungs of the ladder with its rungs full of rust and old age, shivered. Spiders didn’t live in fire escapes, did they? The one thing that made him confident about coming down through the infected escape was Queen’s voice forcing him to come down with her words. She didn’t holler – no, doing that would ruin the whole procedure, and according to the people above them (in higher positions), this was essential. By the time he got down, Bishop’s hands glistened with sweat. Mixed with the cold night air, his breath made them cold and frigid. Queen, to his relief, was at the bottom.

  She was doing that “non-smiling” thing – s
he didn’t smile, but you knew she was deep inside. “Scared?”

  “No,” Bishop blurted. “Were you?”

  “Are you thinking I am scared of that – a fire escape? Get out of here.”

  She was right. Why did Bishop have to be such an idiot?

  Queen stared at the police department not too far away. “What’s that, over there?”

  Bishop went closer, squinting. “What do you mean?”

  “Right over there,” she said, pointing.

  But Bishop didn’t see anything. “What are you fussing about?”

  “Some kind of white light . . .”

  And then he saw it. He wished he hadn’t seen the white fire erupting giant licks of grandeur, the police department building ablaze in its own uniformed glory of madness.

  *****

  Woolf was dead, maybe.

  Colton shook him hard. Footsteps everywhere, especially from above, were heard. He thought everybody had gone, but this was not the case. Around him the light had dimmed, in turn shading everything into darkness. Never did he like the dark, never. But Woolf would not wake; the sleeping dart had been in him for too long. To him that seemed, in its entirety, his fault.

  “CHIEF!” he screamed. “ADVERT, LINCOLN – ANYONE . . . WE’RE STUCK HERE!”

  Chief Advert was howling, dead on the ice. It cut thick into Colton’s brain like an insert shot.

  He pounded on the floor. The tears were coming, oh no, he did not want the tears –

  And then this: white blazing light coming up ahead. Where did that come from?

  It was coming closer . . . too close to outrun maybe . . . why was he thinking when the fire was coming closer and the white was getting brighter, absorbing everything in its path like a ferocious monster, possibly setting both Colton and Woolf ablaze, even if Woolf after all this time was dead . . . why was he lying there when he was about to be caught on fire?

  But he wasn’t, fortunately. No, he was running. A part of his memory skipped over the cut when he got up, grabbed Officer Woolf, and ran off in the other direction, away from the fire. And the fire itself . . . it was so bright, so white . . . he never saw such fire before, even when his father had been a firefighter.