Nessus

by Herb Scribner

  Massachusetts

  The Killer

  Hughes has to reopen his eyes three times to make sure it’s really him. It is. It’s Reggie Samson.

  Of all people, from all towns, of all backgrounds, of all places, it’s Reggie Samson. A police officer who has been nothing but kind to Hughes since he started with the force. A police officer who wants nothing more than to learn and reach a higher bar with each passing day. Overeager and ambitious, Samson works harder than anyone in the precinct.

  And yet.

  Hughes knows this can’t be right. The facts speak for themselves. Hughes’ son Shawn has a history of domestic abuse, violence and crime. And it was his girlfriend who turned up a bloody mess less than two days ago. Subsequently, Shawn disappeared on the night of the attack. It’s logical and it makes sense to put the blame on Hughes’ son. Shawn did this. He had to have. No one else makes as much sense.

  Samson’s a cop, an officer of the law. Swore an oath to protect and serve. Abides by those rules everyday when he rolls down the street in his cruiser and walks with a badge on his chest. It’s the law of do no harm. Do no harm, unless to protect the innocent and those in trouble.

  And Bucky, who seconds ago made this claim that the officer of the law had set up the criminal with Mary’s death, had a history of mental abuse and domestic disturbances. He too was half a card short of a full deck. He snagged Hughes’ attention by smashing in his window and pointing a gun at him. Not exactly the smartest way to chat with a cop.

  Wait. Bucky. Did Bucky really have domestic violence issues? His mind warps back to the incident report — the one Samson handed to him. What did it say? Was Bucky’s name on it at all? Now he can’t remember.

  No. The facts say it all: this is just horseplay. And it’s being done for several possible reasons. Hughes’ immediate theory: Samson and Bucky have a history. Maybe Samson, in a previous life, was the officer on scene for Bucky and Mary’s arguments and spats. Maybe he’s the one who caused Bucky pain and misery.

  This is a revenge plot.

  “That’s Samson,” Hughes says.

  “Yeah, and he framed your son. I swear man, I know he did,” Bucky says, shoving the gun’s nozzle forward, pointing it at the door, accusing a cop of committing a crime.

  “Committing a cop of a crime is no small deal,” he says to Bucky as he thinks it, “this isn’t a time to joke around or throw out conspiracy theories.”

  “I swear to you, man, I’m not. Trust me I’m not. I was there that night and I saw it all go down.”

  Hughes catches his breath and turns his attention to Bucky, raising his eyebrow and his mouth agape.

  “How did we not realize you were there?”

  “I stood outside the entire night, because, like I said, she called me and asked me to come over. She wanted me to stop by because she was really, really upset that night from the fight. Shawn just took off and she was just a mess.”

  If what Bucky said just now is true, then Shawn isn’t the killer they’re searching for and he ran away out of anger toward Mary and not for any other nefarious reason. He is not trying to escape the wrath of police officers or avoid his father’s harsh punishment chats, a late night in a cell or time in prison. He ran away for love, escaping the life he lives for a fresh start so maybe one day he can return to Mary and make it all better.

  But Mary may not be here. She’s hanging on the precipice of death, teetering on the edge of what is real and what is the eternal bliss.

  “I just don’t see how Samson could do it. And even if he did, this is the wrong way to confront him about it,” Hughes reasons with Bucky, one sweaty hand on the wheel, the other on the dashboard. “We have to go through the station and the proper channels. This isn’t how this works.”

  “What? And just let him fix the investigation to fit his needs. He’ll mess with the paperwork or destroy evidence. He probably already has, Mike. This is the only way to do this.”

  Hughes goes to protest, but his mouth hangs open as the sudden realization comes to him. A camera in his mind focuses on the paperwork upon his desk, stacked like a leaning tower from a foreign nation. The camera rolls up and there stands Samson, with a nervous smile, mumbling words in a fit of anxiety. Flash. A second camera shows the apartment contract of Mary and her roommate Cassie. Yet again, Samson, short and muscularly stout, waits nearby. The bearer of bad news, and yet always nervous.

  Nervous. Why was the cop so nervous?

  Hughes and Samson interact very little in the station. The only thing they do together is paperwork. They spent a few lunches together in the past, but mostly out of necessity. Samson had nowhere else to sit so he joined Hughes in the bullpen of the cafeteria, chowing down on a PB&J while Hughes polished off his plate of leftovers. This happened now and again, but not enough for them to accept each other as good friends who could withstand the test of time.

  Hughes always believed that Samson wanted him as a mentor, a guide of light in the darkness of the world. Hughes could see the wanting look in his eyes, to know more about the police force and to understand the realities and finer points about how to be a police officer in Lowell in the modern age. He hung around Hughes like a dog begging for dinner scraps, drooling for kibble bits of knowledge.

  And now this. A set up on his son.

  None of this makes sense.

  “Bucky, I’m not sure what you saw, and maybe you’re confusing memories, okay? There’s no way that Samson did this to my son. Why would he do it? What’s his motivation?”

  It doesn’t help Bucky’s case that he lies. Just hours ago, he spins a tale of having an affair with Mary, when in reality the situation is much darker and problematic.

  “All I know is what I saw that night, okay? From the street, through the window, and I am positively sure that it’s that cop in there. That dirty ass cop set up your son, Mike. I swear.”

  “What did you see that night?”

  Bucky eyes fixate on the door ahead of them at Samson’s house. He can’t let it go, or maybe he doesn’t want to. He lowers his head and rubs his temple, running thoughts through his mind, a marathon of mixed memories. He sighs heavy and then he tells Hughes everything.

  Massachusetts

  Bucky

  Mary calls him to come over, and so he does. He slides his beat up Ford Taurus into a lonely spot on the edge of the road, just ahead of a fire hydrant (enough to avoid a fine) and rests his car there. Parks it and shuts down the lights. Tangerine streetlights act as shadows against the dark nights.

  Mary passes by the window ahead. The phone presses against her ear as her arms cross against her bosom. She wears a tight white t-shirt and shorts, that much is clear from the window. He watches her talk on the phone. She’s frowning and sobbing, her eyes a light pink. A cold stare and raised eyebrows. That’s Mary. Always upset when the world gets the best of her. Unwilling to change her own ways, even though that would solve most of her issues.

  A Chevy Impala parked just a few cars ahead lights up amid the shadows. It rumbles and growls as it curls out of its spot and speeds off down the street. Mary tossers her phone away once the car is gone. She peers off down the street to make sure the Impala isn’t coming back.

  Mary’s glance holds for an extra second, leaning against the window out into the world. She’s looking for him now, wondering where he is and why he’s late. Bucky hangs back against the wheel and takes a moment to breath and think. Stale coffee lingers in the air from the D&D cup in the center console. What he’d do for a fresh iced coffee right now. It would change the game.

  But he thinks about the scenario he is in. He answered Mary’s call about twenty minutes ago — that’s how long it takes to get from his place to hers with modest traffic and a gas stop, which Bucky had in fact made— and yet Shawn, assuming that the driver of the Impala was in fact Shawn — had only just left. What if he had been early? What if he hadn’t stopped for gas?

  Why invite a male friend over during an argument with your
current boyfriend? Just Mary. Crazy Mary.

  Some just can’t let go. Like a lie. Stick to it long enough and people will believe. Stick to it even longer and you’ll believe it.

  She had held on to him long enough to consider him her savior. And now he saw it too. The voice of reason, the one she could speak to in the troubled times, the one she ran to when the world went against her.

  Bucky rubs his temple and can’t detach his mind from the thought of being her savior, without being anything more. He did all the work that Shawn was supposed to do, and yet received no benefits. He had to hide in the shadows, covered by mysterious and lies and hidden rendezvous. Shawn remains the boyfriend, complete with the chance to kiss his girlfriend to sleep every night, tuck her in and make her feel loved.

  Bucky picks his head back up, and that’s when he sees it. Mary stands in the window, but she faces the other way, her back to the road. She’s watching something from within her apartment.

  “What are you looking at?” he asks himself.

  She stands still, her back taut and her hands clasped on the other side of her body. Bucky reaches into his pocket for his phone. One quick call will grab her attention. And yet his pocket is flat and empty.

  “Mary, what are you doing?”

  His eyes still on Mary, he reaches for his car door handle, but he stops just short of it when a hand comes back into frame and slaps Mary across the face. She bends down, but has little time to react as the hand comes back and punishes her in the cheek. A fist knocks her against the temple. A figure emerges from behind the wall. Dressed in uniform. Navy blue and a gold shining star upon his chest. An officer of the law, sworn to protect and serve. Short and bulky. Thick arms about the size of thighs. Hard eyes and a crooked nose.

  Bucky can’t make it all out, he can only see through the window. But he sees the cops leg left up and bang against something, which can only be Mary.

  “Oh no,” he says.

  And then he’s off, breaking open his car door with his shoulder. He darts across the street on the cold night and reaches the apartment door. The door won’t budge. He tugs relentlessly, straining his arm to make it budge. But it won’t. Stationary and tough. Still and unwatered. He paces, waiting for someone to come through and let him in. But it’s too late for that.

  A scream catches his attention. A shriek of horror, of madness and murder. It echoes. A car alarm sound off in the distance and a dog barks. Police sirens spin way off in the distance. And then for a second all is silent.

  Massachusetts

  Change

  Hughes can’t believe his ears.

  “I called the police,” Bucky finishes, hand resting in his palm, his body bent over into his lap. “I called them and said I heard a woman scream from the apartment complex. Didn’t leave a name or number, nothing. Just took off.”

  Hughes doesn’t believe what he just heard, but he almost has to. It sounds crazy and too circumstantial to be accurate. Bucky made the call. He had alerted the station of the crime at hand. He was the reason for the early wakeup call that night.

  No wonder he lied about having an affair. To know he ran away from a crime with what he had seen. To know that you could have saved her had the door open.

  The guilt weighs on him now. Hughes can see it. It’s why he’s bent over into his lap with his chin resting on his palm. The burden has become too great to carry, too strong to withhold any longer. Stout boulders of worry and concern hang on his shoulders, pushing down on him, rusting every bit of hope he has away with each passing tick of the clock.

  “I loved her,” Bucky says, tears hiding behind rheumy eyes. “I loved her so much and to know I could have saved her. To know that I could have helped her if I had just gotten through that door.”

  “I’m sorry you saw that,” Hughes says. “I’m sorry you’re in this mess.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Bucky says, his voice almost at a whisper, the despair and concern hanging off the edge of his words like a loose thread. “It’s his.”

  And then he’s up, his eyes locking on the house before them. He raises his pistol, checks the safety and the bullets, and then locks it back into place. His eyes send daggers toward the home.

  “Time to get payback,” Bucky says.

  He’s out the door before Hughes can suggest for him to stay. Bucky slams the car door shut and jogs across the street at the house.

  “No, no, no,” Hughes utters to himself.

  By the time Hughes leaves the car, Bucky is already at the front door banging his fist bloody against the wood. Three hard knocks open it, and Bucky waists little time. He shoves his way inside and reaches forward, grabbing at the man.

  Hughes jogs across the street. He pauses in the middle of the road to catch his breath. He really needs to lose weight and get back into fit shape. Good thing he doesn’t work the beat as much he used to. He’d be in a horrible spot right now if that was the case. Of course, he still feels he’s caught in a horrible scenario. Going into a cop’s home to fend off a mad man, who may be telling the truth about his ex-girlfriend’s murder?

  Yeah, pretty insane.

  Protect and serve, though. That’s the name of the game.

  Hughes reaches the door. Commotion and chaos sound off from the inside. Smashed CD covers and DVDs lay scattered on the floor. A coffee table has been shoved askew, the little trinkets and knickknacks, coasters and news magazines, are ruffled and out of order. A boom echoes from the back kitchen. Someone grunts with frustration and another one yelps, shrieking like it’s the last thing they’ll ever scream.

  Hughes dashes around the corner and that’s when he sees it. Bucky stands hunched over, a kitchen blade running through his chest, from one side to the other. The gun lays on the floor. Bucky backs up against the kitchen counter as Samson slides the knife out of the intruder’s chest. Bucky collapses to his knees and then down onto his face. A few more breaths and then he is gone, his face soaking in a purple-red puddle.

  Hughes can’t take his eyes off of Bucky’s dead corpse. Just a minute ago he was alive and well, spewing off theories about what had happened the night of Mary’s attack. The burden on his shoulders hung around, too, like a great cloud before a storm. The burden is gone now. But Bucky has left with it. Any semblance of information about that night dies with him.

  So too do so many memories of Mary’s horrific night.

  “Hughes,” Samson says at last, placing the knife on the counter, his face of worry and concern, a crocodile tears dripping from his eye. “Hughes, thank God you’re here man. Thank God! This guy he just rushed into my house. Were you just in the neighborhood? Oh my gosh, I can’t believe any of this. It’s just crazy.”

  All crimes, and all events in life that matter, have a purpose. Most times we want to convey emotions about our world. We stoke fires to see the lights burn bright. We act so that others will benefit or follow. We cry to make ourselves feel better. We confess our sins to improve ourselves. Nothing is done for the sake of doing. Everything is done for the sake of beginning something or sharing a message.

  At a crime scene, everything you see and hear and report is done for a purpose. The hanging wall photo is lightly askew because the couple fought against it. Glass peppers the floor because the husband threw a wine glass at his wife. The TV buzzes in the background because their fight started with a conversation about commercials.

  Everything matters.

  But Samson’s cry of anguish doesn’t make sense here. An intruder just shattered his front door and turned his apartment into a landfill. Blood soaks the kitchen floor and the kitchen knife is sticky with crimson syrup. That’s cause for frustration, not sympathy.

  Samson doesn’t care, though. His only concern appears to be that a man intruded his home. He’s worried about the guy rushing in, worried that there was an intruder. But he doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t ask what’s going to happen next. His crocodile tears only sing about the fact that someone broke into his home.

 
; You just murdered someone. Worry about that.

  If you stick around the force long enough, you understand what it means to lie. People topple lie upon lie upon lie, dressing the center fib with more lies until it’s become a cake of schemes and sordid, manipulative thoughts.

  All the tears were lies. Each one. A fib.

  Hughes unholsters his gun and points it at Samson.

  “Put the knife down.”

  “Whoa! Whoa! Hughes. What are you doing man?!”

  “Put the knife down Samson and we’ll talk, alright?”

  “Alright, alright, alright, let’s talk, okay?”

  He sets the knife down on the counter. Still within grabbing distance. So Hughes walks over to the kitchen counter and nudges the knife into the sink with his elbow.

  “Why did this man break into your apartment?” Hughes asks.

  Samson doesn’t say anything. He stands there, hands on his hips, a face of concern and worry and shock. He turns his head back and forth, around and around. His eyes wander from Hughes to the other side of the room, like he’s expecting something. Or maybe he’s looking for a way out.

  “Tell me,” Hughes says.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me right now, Samson.”

  “Or what? You’re gonna shoot me? Kill me right here in cold blood.”

  “I won’t kill you, but I’ll go with my next best guess.”

  “Which is?”

  Hughes can’t believe he’s about to say it, but it’s the only theory that makes sense now.

  “You attacked Mary Highwater,” he says.

  Samson’s mouth falls agape. He looks away and shuts it closed. Pacing around the room, the gears turn within his mind. He’s unhinged and running on adrenaline. No longer the subdued rookie, no longer the green cop who’s looking for a mentor. But a brash, brazen, boor officer who sought out murder.