Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done.

by Storyteller, Bad-Boy

  He carelessly examines his fingernails. “I am concerned more with how I die, rather than when. Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” she replies, now with a wish of her own—that she could answer no.

  “Well, hypothetically speaking, what if your situation is that you have to die, but you can choose the manner in which you do. What would you choose?”

  Janice considers his query for a second, then replies, “I would like to go peacefully in my sleep.”

  He stares into her, his eyes once again evolving. They both know what is next; he will convey to her all his ill desires. He will enjoy the telling, and she will be sickened. Cools, Michelle, Captain Jackson, and the others stand behind the glass, powerless. Then it arrives. “I wish to slowly burn alive…somewhat painlessly though. I would love to watch the flames lick around my body, an orange blaze dancing and consuming me as I return as smoke to Ra, relieving my soul from the thing inside that hates me—being baptized in fire!”

  “That’s real nice, Joshua,” she replies curtly, becoming increasingly impatient with his foolish madness. “Now what did you mean when you said, ‘I think I did it’?” He doesn’t answer, just gives her a long tainted smile, perversely searching her up and down. “Okay, if you cannot answer the question, maybe we can try another one. What was behind your motivation for calling the radio station last week?”

  “Ha-ha. I was bored. And it was quite amusing, don’t you think?”

  “No, no, it wasn’t, Joshua,” she says, trying to let him know just how unamusing she believed it to be. Her apparent disapproval doesn’t seem to affect him in the slightest.

  Then teasingly he begins to school her on her interrogation tactics. “You are not supposed to oppose me Janice; remember what they taught you in cop class? The first part of any interrogation is to establish trust and form a bond between you and your interrogatee.” Again his mood begins to swing into hostility as if every word he utters enrages him more. “You are to be in control of the situation while giving a false sense to the subject that they are in command.”

  “Maybe that is what I am doing.”

  But he disagrees; he evenly and abruptly rises to his feet, leaning over the table, over her and cries out, “No, I do not think so! I am in control!”

  Everything freezes; Janice is imprisoned in her chair while Joshua stands, hovering, showing what is within him, drifting closer. Cools, behind the glass, has his gun drawn, envisioning a 9 mm round piercing the mirror, shattering the glass, penetrating Joshua’s forehead, bringing an end to him. Touch her; I dare you! But no one moves. Cools’s trigger finger tenses rigidly. And a long frightening calm before an apparent storm holds steadfastly as Joshua fearlessly clenches in his stance, everything hinging on what he does next.

  Control is his.

  Janice fights the tight grip paralyzing her and springs into an attack. “Okay, that’s about it! Let’s quit playing games; I want to know where Kimberly is.”

  Cools lowers his gun, saying, “It’s about fucking time.”

  Joshua lets out a muffled laugh and sits back down, savoring his actions.

  “Tell me where she is! What have you done with her?”

  “Okay, Janice, we can play, but I can only enlighten you as to where she told me she was off to, which doesn’t mean much; she was a lying whore, you know. She told me she was going to take the trip we’ve been planning for months now, but that she was going it alone.”

  “Trip to where?”

  “To the mountains of Peru; the local priests there practice a ritual using an ancient brew, ayahuasca, that…well, when ingested, you can see and talk with Ra.”

  “A hallucinogen?” she asks, finally steadying her nerves.

  “Yes.”

  “And who is Ra?”

  “Ra is God!” he answers, without elaboration.

  “So tell me, when was the last time you saw her then?”

  “She left the day after I called the radio station.”

  “Are you certain it was the day after?” she asks, taking notes.

  “Yes, Janice, and now I am all alone.” He blatantly looks at her breasts.

  Janice moves forward to hide herself behind the table. “Have you had any contact with her since she left?”

  “No, I have not. And now I would like to ask you some questions. I only think it is fair, don’t you?”

  Janice doesn’t want to begin playing his games again but hasn’t any real choice. Her face shows hesitant agreement, and Joshua wastes no time.

  “Do you have something inside that hates you? Kimberly did.”

  Michelle looks at Cools and says, “Here we freaking go again. Sick bastard!”

  Janice feels her stomach acids begin to rise in her throat and suddenly decides she’s done fooling around. “Actually, now that I think it over, I believe that I will be the only one asking questions from here on out!”

  “Yeah, that’s my girl,” Michelle says.

  “Now, Joshua, will you provide some proof to corroborate your story, like showing us the purchase order of your plane tickets to Peru?” Defiant of her newfound authority, he simply glares at her, mouthing the words fuck you. Janice loses her sensibilities and attacks, “Okay, maybe you are a coward. And how long has your wife Kimberly been having sex with Trace Friesen?”

  “I’m fucking done here!” He then stands, smiling at her, and offers a final deal. “Janice, if you look into the mirror behind you and say exactly what I asked you to say on the phone, I will give it to you.”

  She hesitates for a moment then, out of desperation, fulfills her part of the deal. She turns, faces straight into the mirror, and says, “Detective Cools missed his chance.” Joshua, standing behind her, also starring into the mirror, erupts into nasty laughter. Cools loses it and punches the glass, leaving no doubt he is there.

  “Now it’s your turn,” she says.

  He grins like a dirty boy, moves in close, and sits on the table in front of her. Then he holds out his phone and says, “Read this text message I sent to a friend as we were talking earlier.” The screen displays the time and date showing that the message was sent at 2:37 p.m. today, the exact same time they were talking on the phone. It reads:

  Red—her panties are red.

  Joshua leaves the police station without any further comments. He strolls out into the cold dusk of winter, where he’s bombarded by camera flashes and a slew of questions coming from the packed lower stairs.

  “Do you know the whereabouts of Kimberly?”

  “What did you tell the authorities?”

  “Have you done something with Kimberly?”

  Without answering, he merely turns, points accusingly back at the station, and yells, “Lies, lies, and more lies! They are all lost in a wilderness of lies and twisted truths!” The journalists ignore his allegations and continue their barrage.

  “Where is Kimberly?”

  “Do you know where Kimberly is?”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  Repeated shouts and queries from the crowd agitate his mind. He attempts to escape, but there’s nowhere to go.

  “Where is Kimberly?”

  “Where is your wife?”

  “Did you kill her?”

  He shouts, “I have nothing more to say!” He turns his back on them, considering retreating back inside the station.

  “Where’s Kimberly?”

  “What have you done?”

  “Is she alive?”

  The senseless repetition enrages him. He abandons all plans of maintaining silence. He faces them, holding his hands high, then seethes into a maniacal rant, transforming into a depraved preacher. “Do you not see the world machine? It controls all! It controls you! You believe you are calculating its measures, but you are not. Everyone presumes someone else is steering, but you are all only along for the ride. You only imagine to be pulling the strings through your politics, the courts, corporations, sciences, religions, even your military, but you are no longer i
n command. The world machine is running the whole lot, and every judge’s gavel is hollow, empty, and worthless. Its heavy shadow is cast upon you; the machine is the great beast!” With that he swiftly descends the stairs and fights his way through the mob, disappearing into the night.

  Inside the station Janice gets a bottle of water and convenes with everyone back in the war room. She looks exhausted but appears to be wearing an odd smirk on her face.

  “We got nothing from that skinny prick!” Cools yells, tossing his phone onto the table.

  “No, no, we did get something,” Janice replies. “It was something he said.” Everyone looks to her. “He said Kimberly did when he spoke of having something inside that hates. Also he said she was a whore, referring to her in the past tense, as if she were dead! Meaning psychologically, he believes her to be deceased.”

  Everyone’s eyes move to Milkowski. “That’s perceptive, and it’ll play well in a courtroom—the entire interrogation will—but it will not get us a search or arrest warrant. He’s smart; he knows full well what he’s doing. He is playing with you, and I get the sense he’s far from done.”

  His words deflate what little was left of the room’s energy. The war room is emotionally drained. Captain Jackson sees as much and ends the day. “All right, I have a press conference to do, and it has been a long one. So go home or to your favorite watering hole—I don’t care which. Just get some R & R, and we meet back here tomorrow morning.”

  Everyone leaves.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The day may have changed much but not everything: Cools, practicing habits of old, lounges at his table near the back of The Shelter in the company of a bottle of Jameson. There he sits, meditating on the alcohol swimming through the bottle and keeping a keen ear attuned to the nine o’clock news. He’s just witnessed his captain for the first time giving a high-priority press conference. According to Cools’s assessment, he did pretty well—dodging most questions, answering only the safe ones, using the typical routine rhetoric that leaves all the backdoors wide open. The waitress pops by for a split second to change his ashtray. She says nothing to him, just the way he likes it. Once she is gone, he lights another cigarette and watches the smoke climb from the tip, wondering again about the press conference, wondering if all the news is bullshit.

  The next story expands upon Joshua’s diatribe from the top of the police station’s stairs, sounding like a prophetic lunatic. Cools pours another shot and settles deeper into his environment. Everything around him is in motion, yet comforting: cigarette smoke flirting with the air, the ceiling fan casting musical shadows, the brown liquid rippling in the bottle. All are set to drown away the day’s events still playing in his mind. If Joshua killed his wife, why is he being so arrogant? Most guys in that position don’t try to attract attention, even assholes like him. And why would Kimberly lie and tell her lover she has AIDS? How does their religion tie into it all? Maybe…maybe Joshua and Kimberly were blackmailing Trace Friesen? But for what? Maybe Joshua is attempting to set up an insanity plea in case he’s trapped? Maybe he killed her as some sacrifice to his cultic religion? No! Fuck! The only thing that makes sense is that he’s a jealous husband who was screwed to tightly together to begin with. He discovers his wife’s affair with Trace, falls over the edge of sanity, where he’s been teetering most his life anyway, and kills his wife. But like a bad acid trip, he’s permaspun, never to return to reality. Then in my stupidity, I afford him almost an entire week to cover his tracks, as if the sneaky bastard left any to begin with. And now I have to deal with this crazy fuck and somehow put him away, or even make him pay myself; and I will do it if I have to; I might do it because I want to. Because maybe the pathway for evil to rise is left open solely by good men who stand by and do nothing!

  His phone rings disrupting his mental tirade. It’s Michelle. “Hey, Brad, how’re you?”

  “I’m okay, and you?”

  “I just can’t get this guy out of my head,” she says in a slurred voice.

  “Yeah, I know; me, too,” Cools replies, picturing her wet eyes.

  There’s a long silence. “Where are you, Brad?”

  “The Shelter.”

  “Just wastin’ away in that dirty old bar…Why?”

  Somewhat offended, he doesn’t reply. Then, in a more concerned voice, she says, “And I’m worried lately about you too, Brad; you’ve been a little off.” There’s a pause. “How’s your love life going, Brad?”

  “Ah…wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Ha-ha…your knowing I do.”

  Cools laughs a little, thinking how she always cheers him up. They’ve been partners now for some years and have been attracted to each other from the very beginning. But they also share a kind of brother-sister bond, and so far the sibling side of their relationship has ruled king.

  “Chelsea—is that her name—yer flavor of the…month?”

  “No, it’s not like that; I really truly care for her. She’s my one and only babygirl,” he replies, defending her insinuation that he’s some sort of philanderer.

  “So…is she treating you good, Brad?” she asks, with a hint of envy.

  “Well, not as good as you would,” he replies, teasing. “But we’re doing all right. Actually—you know what—I think I’ll give her a call right now. She always gets me out of my head.”

  There’s another awkward pause. “Okay, partner, but don’t stay up too late. We have a freak to get off…offa the streets tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. I’ll see you in the morning. Get some sleep, okay.”

  “Okay…okay, I mean, take care of yourself, and your little self,” she says, and giggles before hanging up.

  Swallowing another drink Cools dials Chelsea, visualizing her inside the clear part of his cloud as the phone rings—a gorgeous Italian with auburn hair, dark olive skin, and brown jewels for eyes. The sexiest eyes he’s ever gazed into. When they are close, her smell is that of wildflowers, although Cools considers her greatest feature to be her naturally full lips. Sometimes it pains him to admit it, but her lips are also full of wisdom and good, common sensibilities. She is a rare true spirit and a constant optimist, who loves life and always bestows her refreshing purity upon those around her. Chelsea Simmons is not just the best thing to ever happen to him, she is the best thing that could ever happen to any man.

  She answers in a deep husky voice, “Hello.” He immediately gets the joke and asks for Chelsea anyway. Again, using the same voice, she replies, “Not now, she’s resting. I guess she has some jerk for a boyfriend, some cop who doesn’t pay enough attention to her, so she needed me to come over to keep her company. I’m her very good-looking, twenty-year-old coworker.”

  “Okay, baby, I’m sorry, and I miss you much. And you’re right, so how about you let me make it up to you. I can pick up some Chinese, and we can have a late dinner at your place,” he pleads.

  “Ah, does that work with the other girls?”

  “No other girls, baby, only you.”

  “Okay, but I’m locking my door at ten,” she says and hangs up.

  At 9:56 Cools catches his breath at the top of the stairs and knocks on her door. Chelsea answers, wearing only sassy panties and an expensive dress shirt— the one he left there on their first real date. The way it cuddles her breasts, he’s never asked for it back. She steps back, giving him room to enter, with fire in her eyes. It is clear she has been dying for their rendezvous.

  Ms. Simmons has only been with a handful of guys in her life, a few in high school, and then she married. Her husband was a gentle lover, which was good, though she’d longed to be taken passionately the way she’d seen in movies and read of in books. But she was always too insecure to divulge those secrets. It wasn’t until she’d divorced and met Cools that true pleasure and sexual ecstasy entered her life. Never did anything have to be said, since he was somewhat of a ravisher from the very beginning—all that built-up aggression, she assumes. And tonight Cools displays the
aggression of a bull.

  He pulls her hard into his barreled chest, squeezing, touching. She wiggles playfully, attempting to break his grasp. He loosens, allowing her to break free, only to chase galloping naked legs down the hall. Soon he is recapturing and spinning her around in the hallway, diving lips-first into her sweet skin. She tears at his slacks, whimpering, “You can do anything you want.” Wasting no time, and with little gentleness, he turns her away, forcing her quivering body up against the wall. “Oh, Detective,” she groans, rubbing her round ass against him. His hand slips inside the back of black panties. She arches. The sounds of stitches ripping excite her more. Daringly his bulky fingers enter the awaiting wetness. She circles her hips riding his fingers, gingerly at first. Oh, I am going to fuck you! he says. With his free hand, he grabs a fistful of thick hair, reeling her head back to him, thrusting his fingers deeper. She turns, murmuring naughtiness, kissing feverishly, licking his tongue the way she now wants to lick him elsewhere. She spins, rips her shirt open, flashing bare breasts, now throwing her slave against the wall, taking control. Writhing all over, kissing, panting, and groping, she begs, “I want you to make me do it!” It doesn’t take long to get what she wants. With both hands he pushes her down. “God, I love you,” she moans, massaging him with her full lips, accepting him fully, purring. She is pleased to do it. She begins touching herself. He presses harder, and the more unrestrainedly he shoves, the faster she excites herself, inserting her fingers. Again he grabs a handful of thick hair, drawing her up, controlling her; they meet tongue to tongue.

  “You’re going to get it so hard!”

  “Oh yeah! I don’t think you can,” she replies, with a silly laugh, somewhat embarrassed by her own words.

  With that, he again pushes her into the wall and slides deep into her from behind, thrusting vigorously and further with each stroke, smashing her hardened nipples against the wall, holding out laboriously as long as possible until her body begins to shudder; her sounds become deafening, more salacious, oozing her love all over him. “I’m going to come,” he announces, then wildly loses himself inside her. Together they hold tight, remaining locked, throbbing intensely, catching their breath.