by Luis Samways
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 knew 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.
Martins shrugged. “Is what possible?”
I took a moment to think about what I was going to say, and then I knew exactly how to put it across.
“Is it possible to live something out twice? To see a premonition of one’s mistakes and have a second chance at rectifying them?”
Dr. Martins started to jot down some notes. “You a religious man, Frank?” he asked suddenly.
“Nope,” I replied.
He jotted something else down.
“Good. It’s harder to explain miracles to a non-religious man. It’s hard to tell a man that he has been touched by God with a second chance. But sometimes it isn’t hard to tell somebody when the time to change has come. You see, people are set in their ways. I feel like before you came here, you, too, were set in your ways. I see a difference in you, Frank. Could it be God? Maybe. Will you ever find out what exactly gave you this second chance? No, probably not. But you need to embrace it. Grab it with both hands and run with it,” Martins said.
I sat there in the comfy chair that he had propped in the middle of the room. I was confused by what he said. I could see he knew I was starting to make sense of it all.
“This is the first time I’ve come here, though. My first ever appointment. How could you even know how I was before?” I asked.
Martins smiled at me and gave me a look. It was the same look he’d given me in the dream. “When is it truly our first time, Frank? How do we not know we haven’t lived this before?”
I stood up and was ready to leave. Either he was fucking with me, or I had gone truly crazy.
“This doesn’t make sense. I had a dream that played out an entire three days of my life, and then I lived that same dream in the real world. How am I supposed to know which one was real?”
Martins stood up, too, this time stepping closer to me. He got right up to my face and then whispered into my ear.
“It doesn’t matter which one is real, Frank. You lived to see another day. Some people aren’t so lucky. You did the right thing.”
***
I left the shrink’s office and made my way into the car. I sat there in the driver’s seat for a moment or two, trying to figure out what was real or what wasn’t. I realized two things from that moment on. One, it doesn’t matter what’s real or what isn’t, as long as you survive. And two, baseball bats hurt when they hit you.
I looked to my left and saw the figure step up to my driver’s window. He swung the bat and broke the glass. He dragged me through the broken window and shoved me to the ground. Just as he raised the bat high in the air, I saw his face. And then I opened my eyes.
I looked around the room and realized I was in bed. It was 2 p.m. I didn’t usually sleep half the day away, but when I did, it usually meant I’d had a rough night.
I sat up fast and tried to gasp for some air. My lungs weren’t functioning properly. After a few seconds of wheezing, my airways cleared and I could breathe.
Was I still dreaming? No. I knew I wasn’t. I knew that everything I had witnessed these past couple of days was just one big dream. A nightmare that wouldn’t hold off until it consumed me. I didn’t know when it would stop, but I knew that I would beat it. I knew that I had to seek help.
That was the day I rang Dr. Martins’ Shrink House. It reminded me so much of shrimp when I first saw the ad. Thinking back on it, I knew I wasn’t well. I knew that throughout my career I had witnessed things that had rattled me down to the core. I would imagine things, different outcomes to the scenarios I had seen play themselves out in my job. I would trick myself into thinking the little girl made it, the one who died on the lawn next to her older sister. I had tricked myself into thinking that the boy who was nailed to his bedroom wall all those years ago also made it.
I told myself my wife was still alive. I would keep that letter for years even though I knew she wasn’t. It told me to do the right thing. Even in my messed-up mind I had to. I knew that everything I dreamt about, all the horrors, the cop shooting, t
he shrink, and the carjacking in which I got a face full of bat was just that, a damn nightmare that never ended. I decided that my nightmare needed to end, and the only way to end it was to see what it was trying to tell me.
It was trying to show me that I could be the hero if I wanted to be. A cop didn’t need to lose his life in the reality I lived in, but maybe I could pull through for Shaw once in a while. Maybe I could fill out the right paperwork when he tells me to. Maybe I could stop bitching and moaning. I suppose I could be a hero in that sense of the word. Trudging on whatever life throws at me.
The two girls on the lawn are dead. So is the boy. But I’m far from dead. My life is still relevant. Maybe it’s time I realize that and stop letting my nightmares consume me. Maybe a visit to the shrink will help me be a little less fucked up, because God knows I feel ALL FUCKED UP.
Luis Samways
Ice Cold Case
A Frank McKenzie Single
One
When Bobby Sanders got out of his delivery truck that fateful evening, he was more than ready to call it quits. He longed for the sound of midnight to chime in the distance as he clocked off and cracked a Bud open for himself. The thing that bugged him about his job was that he got to see a lot of people having a good time while he remained as happy as anyone could be working late shifts and missing out on the weekend.
Bobby Sanders was a delivery man. He delivered crates of beer to nightclubs all around the city. No matter what night it was, Boston always had a thirst on. It was Bobby’s job to quench the people’s thirst, and he did so, six nights a week, all year round - holidays included.
He got paid about four bucks an hour. Below minimum wage. It was all he could manage, really, considering the job he had wasn’t exactly sanctioned. He wasn’t any ordinary delivery man. He didn’t deliver any old ordinary beer. No, Bobby Sanders was a moonshine-man. A big-city moonshine company had him by the balls and was paying him very little to do his job with his mouth shut. The thing was, they paid him two sorts of wages: an hourly wage that would make most people sniff, and a pro-rota bonus of a hundred bucks per delivery, no matter what was in the back of the van. That was the catch, you see. Ask no questions, see no wrongs – do the dang job smiling!