by Luis Samways
“Why the hell aren’t you answering my calls, Doc?” I said. I could see the utter look of surprise on his face but something was telling me that he had expected this. Something deep inside me was telling me that he’d expected nothing less from me.
“Let go of me, Frank,” he said, squirming.
“No! Now tell me why you are not answering my damn calls!” I said.
“I have been — I mean, I am,” he said.
“Bullshit. You haven’t been answering your damn phone. You told me that you were here for me. That you would be just a phone call away if I needed any of your help,” I said.
Martins nodded his head emphatically as if he agreed with my statements. “I am here for you. I only just got in, Frank. Surely you can understand that?” he said.
I put both of my hands on his collar this time and started to rip at his shirt. “You listen here, you prick. You tell me what is going on! Tell me now, or I’m gonna beat the living shit out of you,” I shouted. I could hear some movement on the other side of the door. It sounded as if the secretary had picked up the phone as if she was calling somebody. Probably the police. “Why did you make me dredge up my past like this? Why did you turn me into the monster I am?” I asked.
Martins’ face went red. He didn’t know what was happening. Neither did I, if I was being honest. All I knew was I was angry. Angry enough to rough up my state-appointed therapist. Angry enough to go down to Musty Joe’s and finish off the joint with my damn gun.
“You gonna tell me what is going on?” I asked.
Dr. Martins just shook his head. I could see he didn’t know what I was going on about. I could tell the man had no idea what was really going on. I decided to fill him in.
“You know why the department is paying you all this money, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, to make you better, Frank. To make you whole,” he replied.
I still had a tight grip around his collar. “No, you idiot. The reason they are funding my therapy is because they want me to spill the beans on what happened to Ricardo, am I right?”
Dr. Martins looked blankly at me as if all his motor abilities had gone out of the window. He looked half scared, half angry. I still thought he was holding back on me, so I thumped him in the stomach. I could hear all the wind suck out of his lungs, and then I put my hand over his mouth, safeguarding his scream. “Don’t you say a word, you prick. I’m onto you. I’m onto all of you! You wanted me to go for a drink last night, didn’t you? You wanted me to get my ass kicked. I bet you were the one who warned them I was coming. How else would they arrive so fast?”
Dr. Martins had nothing left but complete shock on his face. I decided to let him go. It was no use. I knew he wasn’t going to tell me anything, so I decided to leave. I didn’t bother apologizing. I knew what I had to do. I knew I had to pay Ricardo a visit.
Ten
I pulled up to the precinct in my Ford Capri. The squealing tires plumed smoke upward as I screeched to a stop. I didn’t even put the handbrake on. I just got out of the car and went for the precinct door. Looking back, I saw my car mounted up on the curb. It looked worn and dirty. I could hear the engine ticking down as I went up the steps and burst through the precinct doors. I was greeted by a sea of faces looking at me in dismay.
“What the hell are you doing here, Frank?” I heard somebody say. I barged past the person and continued straight.
I jogged down the hallway, barging past more unwanted attention. Some people didn’t bat an eyelid, while others were visibly upset at me. “Watch where the fuck you’re going,” I heard a guy say.
I didn’t pay them any attention. I knew where I was going and what I had to do. Word was that they were holding Ricardo in lockup at the precinct. They feared that if they let him go to county jail, then he’d be murdered within a minute of setting foot there. Police officers turned inmates don’t tend to fare too well in their new homes. I heard the commissioner wanted to keep the case low-key so the press wouldn’t run on it like they usually did. That meant keeping everything a secret. That’s why I was booted out for the time being. And I figured that was why they set me up with a shrink, to preoccupy my mind, to keep me from seeing what they were truly doing. I knew they were setting me up. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. I was ready for the bastards. They wouldn’t have to look too far for me. I was in their backyard now. And I was pissed. But if I was going down, so would Ricardo. I’d take him down faster than he would ever believe. He shouldn’t have screwed me over like this. I didn’t know about the gun until he told me. I figured that he told me because he was feeling guilty about using mine. Something told me that he was trying to set me up, but the bastard had fallen through and set me up anyway.
He had given me that money as an apology for getting me involved. I had accepted it for that reason only. I was going to give the money to Larry’s wife. His widow. But no, the inconsiderate prick had decided to rat me out, all because he wanted somebody else to go down with him. I guess that was his plan all along. Kill Larry and take me down with him. I should have seen it coming. Ricardo never liked Larry. But I didn’t think he disliked him enough to kill him. I guess I didn’t know people as well as I thought I did. I guess everybody was guilty of something. I was guilty of two things: letting Ricardo get away with murder because of a nonexistent code between cops, and not killing the fucking prick when I had the chance. I was set to right both of those wrongs at that very second.
I jogged around the corner and saw the precinct lockup door. They were keeping him in the cellar lockup, away from the pimps and drunk tank guys. I keyed in my PIN, and the door unlocked. I was amazed at the fact that the door opened at all. I thought the Chief would have changed the codes by now. That was his thing, you see, but he hadn’t. It seemed too good to be true, like undressing your favorite movie star in your dreams and then waking up. Come to think of it, the whole situation had resembled a nightmare. But who was I to question it? Who was I to question the reality I lived in?
I went through the lockup door and passed a few empty cells. Nobody was there. No prisoners, no guards. Just me and my pounding heart. I saw the heavy metal-framed door at the end of the hall. It was the gateway to the secure underground cellar. The underground cellar had a few cells. We mainly used it for storage. They were commissioned a long time ago, back in the 1900s. When we rebuilt the precinct in 1973, they just kept the cells in the cellar and built above them. In my tenure at the PD, they only used the cells in the cellar twice. Once for some mass-murderer who murdered a busload of children. And another for Ricardo.
I walked up to the cellar door and keyed in the PIN. It worked, and the door swooshed open. I saw the light bellowing from the pit and creaked down the stairs. I didn’t waste time — I jogged down the stairs and reached for the gun in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out and aimed it at the first cell. In the cell, a man was sleeping on a bench that lay to the far right, adjacent to the brick wall. He didn’t notice me until I took the safety off. He shot up off his bed and was about to scream when I put my fingers to my lips and shushed him.
“Don’t utter one fucking word, Ricardo. I’ll blow your damn head off,” I said, aiming the gun at his head.
“What the hell are you doing here, Frank?” he asked.
“I’m here to kill you,” I said, and shot my gun.
Ricardo’s head exploded in a mist of red. I noticed how the expression on his face hadn’t changed as he slumped onto the bench, sliding down the wall. I saw half his brain sticking out and smiled. I tucked the gun back into my jacket and made my way out of the cellar. By the time I got back up the stairs, I had a roomful of cops pointing their guns at me.
That was when I woke up.
Eleven
I stood there, dumbfounded by the look of complete insanity on my face. It wasn’t often that I would take the time out of my day to look at myself in the mirror – but when I did, I usually disliked what I saw. I had deep black circles around my cold dark eyes. I kne
w I looked like shit, but that wasn’t going to stop me from performing my duties as a detective. Nothing ever did, you see. I was always game for doing my job. It’s funny, really – this job made me crazy, but I still do it to remain sane.
I knew what was going on. This was a replay. It’s like an old movie you’ve seen countless times. You tune in and see your favorite characters. You hear them say your favorite lines. And then it clicks.
I’ve seen this before….I’ve heard this before….
I was expecting a guy behind me to ask for something. Like the old movie being shown on its regular spot on TV, I wasn’t disappointed.
“Hand me that case file over there,” a guy said to me as I continued to stare into the mirror.
This time I smiled.
I didn’t even look at him; I reached for the case file propped up on the shelf to my left. As I did so, I didn’t take my glare off the mirror in front of me. I could see his face in the reflection, waiting behind me. He looked a little disturbed at what he was seeing. I didn’t have time to entertain his curiosity in my fragile state of mind; I just grabbed the file on the shelf and flung it in his direction. He didn’t appreciate it, but kept his mouth shut. He walked away, leaving me with my reflection for company. I saw the rest of the precinct hard at work in the mirror. Some were answering phones, while others were questioning the usual scum at their desks. I didn’t exactly know whose idea it was to put a mirror up on the wall in the middle of our offices, but I didn’t really care. I assumed it was there to remind us that we were human, and the reflections the mirror swallowed into them each day grew ever weaker with each passing case.
I suppose I knew why I was feeling this way. I knew exactly why I was looking at myself in the mirror. I was questioning my resolve. I wanted to know if I still had it. But what looked back at me that day was far from what I wanted to see. You see, people say the truth hurts. So does looking into your reflection and seeing nothing but empty promises, and lost causes. That was me all over. Detective Frank McKenzie. Ten years with the Boston PD. Ten years I’ll never get back.
It was time to do what I needed to do. It was time to end the torment. I needed to tell the Chief what happened.
“Frank, in my office,” I heard the Chief say.
I stopped looking into the mirror on the wall and took a deep breath. I knew why the Chief wanted to see me. I knew what I had to do this time. I turned around and saw what seemed like a sea of people giving me the look. I didn’t know if what I was seeing was real, but I wasn’t going to stand there for much longer to find out. My mind had been playing tricks on me for a while now, ever since I found that letter from my ex-wife. My now dead ex-wife. I told myself that everything would be fine. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t to blame. But I guess my mind had finally given in, and it was now controlling me with its depressive grip.
I cleared my throat and made my way to the Chief’s office. The door was ajar, so I just walked in unannounced. Shaw ushered me to the seat facing his desk. He shut the door behind me and walked around my chair. I could see him fiddling with something in his hand. I wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he looked a little nervous. From all my time working with the PD, I knew when my boss was about to lay down some heavy news. It was like clockwork, you see. Every time we lose a case or fold in court, it was time to get the rubber hoses out and bend over for our lashings. That was police work for you. Someone had to take the blame…even if it was us, someone had to take responsibility.
“The Commissioner just rang. He wants blood, Frank,” Shaw said under his breath. He was still pacing the width of the room like a caged animal with a lot on his mind.
I just nodded my head. I knew what he meant. The last case we worked, a drug bust, went sour. One of our officers got killed. It was a stray bullet from one of our weapons. Ballistics matched it to my gun. The thing was, I hadn’t used that gun…I wasn’t even there. I loaned it to a fellow detective who had misplaced his. Fearing reprehension, I decided to lend him my heater. Didn’t expect him to put one in an officer’s neck. Didn’t know I wasn’t the only crazy one on the force. It turns out this guy I loaned the gun to had some beef with the now very dead cow he shot. The guy swears it was an accident, and I believe him, but Shaw knows I’m covering for someone because I was with him when it happened. We were working a sex-trafficking gig. We were putting the finishing touches on the case when the call came in that one of our men had suffered a fatal gunshot wound to the neck. We first assumed that it was the bad guys, but when none of their guns matched the caliber of bullet in the dead cop’s neck, alarm bells rang. The attending officers were all subpoenaed to have their guns checked, and a match came back on mine. But I wasn’t there, remember.
You know the story so far…but what you don’t know is what happened next.
“Your boy Larry made it,” he said in a blunt voice.
My eyes widened in surprise. “Really? Just in time, then,” I said.
Shaw didn’t look as happy. “Yeah, just in time,” he repeated. “That’s what I’m a bit perplexed about, Frank. How did you manage to warn Larry off about Ricardo going for him? How did you know Ricardo was going to kill Larry?” he said, looking as confused as I’d expect.
“I don’t know, sir. I just did. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway,” I said.
Shaw nodded his head. He agreed with me. He knew that some things were best left unsaid. That being said, I knew that an explanation was needed.
“It was a dream, sir. I saw it happen in a dream. And then the dream played out in front of me the next day. Every night when I’d go to sleep, a new piece of the puzzle would make itself clear to me until I had all the pieces I needed.”
Shaw shot me a look. I knew what that look meant. It meant I wasn’t walking out of the precinct without being in a straitjacket.
“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that, can you?” he said.
“It’s the truth,” I replied.
A long pause followed, and then he smiled.
“Okay, whatever, Frank. I know what really happened. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. There is no shame in doing the right thing. You suspected Ricardo of wanting to kill Larry. You saved his life. You did the right thing!”
And there it was, the words I was looking for. I did the right thing.
“Yes sir, you’re right. I did do the right thing,” I said.
“Good. Ricardo is blowing smoke and saying you were working with him. He said he offered you five grand to keep quiet. I can assume that’s not the case, right?”
“You would assume correctly, sir. I didn’t receive any money this time,” I replied.
Shaw gave me a look. “This time?” he said.
“I didn’t receive any money from Ricardo,” I reiterated.
“Fine, good,” Shaw said.
I yawned and got up. I was feeling tired after all the day’s events.
“You mind if I head home? I’m feeling shattered, boss. Been a long one,” I said.
Shaw stood up and smiled.
“No need to lie to me, Frank. I know about the shrink. Santiago told me you signed up to a therapist. I think it’s a great idea. Could do wonders for your brain. There’s no shame in seeking help when it’s needed,” Shaw said.
“You reckon I need help?”
Shaw laughed. “We all need help, Frank. Tell you what, forward to bill to the PD, and we will take care of it. State benefits and all!”
I walked out of the office feeling two things.
Confusion about what was real and what wasn’t. And guilt for not telling Shaw why I did what I did. I strolled down the corridor and went into the locker room. I was about done. Ready to call it a day. I unlocked my locker and pulled out my stuff. I noticed a note in my jacket pocket. I pulled it open and read it:
Dear Frank.
You can’t keep doing this to us, Frank. You can’t keep going out in the middle of the night and not returning until sunset the
next day. It isn’t how marriages work. We won’t survive like this. We won’t last like this.
Do the right thing, Frank.
I’ll be at my sister’s until you do.
Love
Your wife.
Twelve
I sat down in Dr. Martins’ office for what seemed like the first time. But after the dreams I’d been having, everything felt familiar, but at the same time, brand new. I hadn’t dreamt about this yet. This was all new to me. So I had to know. Even though in my head I had met Dr. Martins before, and even roughed him up, he was none the wiser. He played that trick on me again. You remember the one, right? The percussion cymbal to the ear as I drifted off into self-awareness.
“Got you!” he said.
“Wow, I didn’t see that coming,” I replied.
The reaction caught him off guard. He put the cymbal down and got straight to business.
“What’s on your mind?”
“A lot, quite frankly, doctor,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Don’t you ever feel like you’re living the same nightmare every day? Like a dream that is stuck on replay with no end in sight? It’s like everywhere I look, I’ve lived the same thing out every day. The same coffee. The same friends. The same conversations. Is it normal to feel like that?”
Dr. Martins smiled. I could tell he was enjoying me being so open. Before he had complained, but now, he was happy. It’s amazing what one can accomplish when they know their future or their past. I knew I wasn’t a psychic. I wasn’t stupid. Seeing the future isn’t possible. But for some reason, somehow, I was able to foresee what was going to happen to Larry when Ricardo asked me to borrow my gun. Somehow I was able to prevent a good man from being killed.
“Every day is a gift, Frank. We either live it like spectators, or we embellish it like players. You’re either in the game or you’re not,” Martins replied.
I was surprised by his response. It felt fresh, yet didn’t answer my question. “So is it possible?” I asked.