by J. L. Drake
Jason sighed. He couldn’t think about that right now. He needed to focus on Abel and the remaining six on his Biblical hit list. Ted could wait.
As his dad moved toward the door, Ted yelled out, “Hold up. Seven across…” He read a clue from the puzzle: “‘Imagine, if you will, Twilight Zone creator Rod blank.’”
“Serling!” Jason answered as he closed the door.
The commute through L.A.’s streets to the police department’s head fortress took longer than even Jason expected. Traffic covered the hot asphalt lanes in an endless stream, growing hazier and more disorientating as it stretched on and on into the city.
Jason stared at it all. People lined the streets. Hundreds, all averting their eyes from one another as if each was a different species they found odd and intimidating.
People had been killed. Just gone, turned off like a reading light. Brutalized, maimed, slaughtered, plucked from existence just as an annoying mosquito would be. Yet nothing had changed. All these people still came out, bustling for their coffee, snarling at red lights, not even aware of all the dearly departed.
And he was a part of it. Jason sighed. He turned down the radio, tired of the aimless chatter the early-morning hosts were offering. As he sat in his car, trapped in the line of traffic, his mind drifted back to one of his early days with the P.D.
A few years back, he and Captain Jones had been closing in on a runaway thug who had crashed his pickup truck into a nursing home and fled without the decency to leave a note. A buff, sunflower seed-munching guy named Brick.
He and a few other officers had burst into Brick’s apartment building. The thug, of course, wasn’t too pleased with the visitors and dashed out the back. A couple of Brick’s compadres stepped in to hold the police off his tail. A cop named Porter took a fist to the face, but he was the lucky one. The attackers were armed with shovels and crude switchblades.
“After him, Flynn!” Captain Jones screamed. The other officers took care of the attackers as Jason lifted his gun and hopped after Brick.
Jason dashed out of the apartment and into a patch of yellow grass the heat had burnt to a crisp. Garbage and other broken, discarded items dotted the lawn as if the apartment’s tenants were too lazy to set their trash on the curb. Sweat dripped from his forehead like a faucet, the sun full and strong that afternoon.
Just then, Brick leapt out from behind an abandoned baby carriage, a pair of garden shears in his hands. He screamed like a maniac, although he probably thought he was screaming like a brave warrior. He held the shears over his head, prepared to bring them down on the cop, but Jason was quicker.
He thrust his elbow into Brick’s gut, bringing the man to his knees. The thug’s jaw was clenched tight, so one strike to the side of his face shattered most of his teeth. Brick collapsed, unconscious, never again to chew his sunflower seeds.
Stillness settled over the lawn. It sounded like the skirmish inside had been settled as well. Jason holstered his gun, smirking at the fugitive’s fallen body, and then, he heard a crying.
Jason turned. The sound was dim and ghostly in the middle of the open field, but it was definitely real. He fingered the butt of his gun once more, ready to pump the phantom full of bullets. With slow steps, he followed the sound, heart tensely squeezed inside his chest.
He passed the baby carriage Brick had used as cover. The crying emitted from within. Jason peeked over the edge and found a small child stretched out on a tattered blanket. At a glance, he couldn’t tell its gender, but it was naked except for a filthy diaper.
Jason gaped, hardly believing his eyes. The baby’s skin was a deep, deep red, scorched from the sun, looking hot to touch. Big round welts dotted its arms and torso, blisters and bites from all sorts of bugs and even small animals, it looked like.
And the baby just cried and cried. It looked like it had been crying there for days, deserted in this back lot. Somebody had heard it, surely, but they hadn’t cared. Nobody paid any attention to the sound of an abandoned, heart-broken, battered, innocent child. This was an entire world of I-don’t-care.
The baby had cried, and Jason had nearly joined it.
On the crowded road, traffic began to stagger forward again. Jason tried to forget about Brick, the old apartment, and the sunburned child. He switched the radio back on.
“—as we all pass on our condolences to Selena Magnum. Her husband, the incomparable congressman Jack Magnum, was found dead of cardiac arrest yesterday morning…”
Yeah, he died of cardiac arrest. And stomach arrest, liver arrest, and everything-else arrest.
Jason switched to some music to avoid any thoughts of the Six-Shooter Magnum and the schemer who did him in.
Eventually, he pulled up in front of police HQ. It was sarcastically nicknamed “the Castle” by many of the officers, mainly because it was so unremarkable that you could walk right by it and not recall it fifteen minutes later. It was a short, rectangular building with several giant, staring windows and a few trees out front, along with a raised American flag that acted as the single decoration.
He exited his car and walked toward the building, tugging at his collar.
“Morning, Detective.” Cheyenne appeared from her gray car and joined him.
“Hey, Cheyenne.”
She sighed. “Big day.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, you forget? The Don Shane Drake is getting transported to County Penitentiary.”
Jason let out a breath. He had forgotten all about Shane Drake and his capture on Venice Beach just a week before.
“That’s right…” Memories of the hot summer morning came back to him. The five foot two oaf Forrest, the walking sack of meat Slax, the shootout right on the boardwalk. Good times.
At 3:00 p.m. on the dot, Sam Washington and six other cops would escort the kingpin to the Penitentiary. Due to the large number of the Don’s enemies, the time and location of the transport were kept top secret, and all officers held combat experience.
“Gosh,” Cheyenne groaned and flexed her knuckles. “I need a vacation.” She stifled a yawn to prove her point.
“C’mon, killer,” Jason said. “You’re hard-wired for this job, and you know it.” A deep rock thudded in his gut. They both knew he was talking about himself. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
Cheyenne rolled her eyes. “Calm down. I love a good mystery as much as the next girl.”
He opened his mouth to say something else, but a loud screech of rubber on concrete cut him off. A giant van that wouldn’t look out of place in a war zone zoomed into the parking lot. The door flew open and a redheaded woman in a short business skirt leapt out, landing gingerly as if she had done it a thousand times.
Jason was pretty sure she had. He moaned as the woman withdrew a large microphone and a gawky nineteen-year-old kid followed her with a bulky video camera balanced on his shoulder.
Cheyenne squinted at the newswoman. “Who’s that?”
“The next girl.” Jason wiped his brow and patted his friend’s shoulder. “Get inside before she starts circling. I’ll take care of it.”
She nodded and escaped into the building’s entrance.
Grating his teeth, Jason peered over his shoulder at the approaching media vultures. The cute redhead spotted him and picked up her pace, waving grandly in order to grab his attention.
“Officer! Officer!”
Jason kept his mouth shut, pretending to study the clouds.
“Yes, madam?” A new voice answered the woman’s call, and Jason nearly had a nervous breakdown. He recognized that voice.
Of course, Sam Washington strutted forward to get some publicity from the local press. He wore slim shades over his eyes, a black blazer over one of his Lakers jerseys, and a mask of charm over his natural air of annoyance.
Sam gave the newswoman a small wave and approached her from his car. Jason lowered his head and careened toward him.
“Sam!” he hissed quietly under his breath. Sam looked his wa
y, the redhead and her camera-minion mere yards away. “No details, loudmouth—”
“Hello, gentlemen,” the newswoman cut off his whisper.
Jason inconspicuously gripped Sam’s arm and began to usher him toward the station. Sam kept his winning smile on the woman, grinding his heels into the concrete in an attempt to stop.
“Hands off, Jason,” he said quietly. “Don’t worry, I’m going inside,” he grudgingly added.
Jason released the other detective’s forearm and the two made a beeline for the station’s front door, but, like a horror movie villain that never ever dies, the reporter leapt in front of them. They both squealed to a sudden halt.
“Gentlemen, hello,” she greeted again, out of breath but still holding a plastic smile. She was very pretty, the kind of face that kept old men watching the daily news. “Jessalyn Hooker, NewsNine.”
Sam snickered quietly at the name. Even Jason found it amusing, but kept his expression stoic.
The woman sighed, letting her smile deflate a bit. “Don’t bother making any jokes. I’ve heard ‘em all.”
“I bet I could think of a couple…” Sam said.
Jason groaned softly, then set his jaw, becoming an iron-hearted, make-my-day detective of the L.A.P.D.
“Your names?” Jessalyn Hooker asked, less enthusiastic after Sam’s juvenile laughter.
“Detectives Jason Flynn,” he jumped in before slack-tongue Sam could, “and Sam Washington.” He nodded once. “Well, it’s been fun.” He and Sam tried to walk past her, but she blocked them better than any linebacker he had ever seen.
“Many citizens are shaken by the death of Congressman Jack Magnum, as well as Max Black and Adam Fischer, not to mention the heinous explosion on Highland Avenue.”
Jason was struck by her rapid words. How had the names of Max and Adam been leaked?
The NewsNine reporter continued, cameraman capturing every second. “How is the police department currently responding to this attack? And can any pedestrian feel safe walking the streets of one of the most iconic cities in the world?”
“Ma’am…” Sam began, wearing his best sentimental mask.
Jason quickly cut him off. “Miss Hooker, all I am at liberty to say is that we are closing in on the parties responsible for these horrific crimes. Also, we encourage citizens to simply exercise caution and common sense. Look both ways several times before crossing the street, you could say.”
She took a small step forward. “Which aforementioned parties are you holding responsible for these bursts of brutality?” Judging by her firm expression and smooth words, she had practiced this many times in front of the mirror this morning. “Local criminals? Serial killers?” Her eyes widened. “International terrorists?”
He gave Jessalyn a stiff smile and lowered his voice so that the microphone wouldn’t pick him up. “Sorry, hun. This isn’t your big break.”
Finally, he slipped past the reporter. Sam adjusted his shades for the camera one more time and followed Jason toward the station’s door.
Jessalyn huffed, lowered her microphone, and snapped at the detectives as they walked away. “Y’know, I’ll get my answers one way or another! I know people inside the police department!”
Jason turned his head slightly. “Wow. Now that’s a Hooker with connections.” He pushed open the door and walked inside, leaving the stunned reporter behind. He really hoped the camera had been rolling.
The small reception area of the police station smelled of lemons, as always. Soft, mellow music designed to soothe crazed criminals filled the silence, as always. Wearing gigantic glasses and a blouse from the early twentieth century, Lois the receptionist gave Jason a small wave and Sam a small glare. As always.
The two entered the bulk of the station: the L.A.P.D.’s bullpen. The area was wide and open, wall-sized windows allowing the city’s constant movement to be seen. Only a handful of people were in the room, which was a huge relief—on a busy day, the amount of talking and beeping and buzzing and shouting and dinging and ringing in the bullpen was nearly unbearable. The officers were most likely prepping for the Don’s transportation. Dozens of blocky desks were crammed into the space, computers, files, rolls of tape, and empty McDonald’s bags covering each one.
Jason spotted Garth and Cheyenne on the far side of the room. He headed their way, Sam right behind him.
Captain Jones entered the pen, carrying the whiteboard Jason had written the Ten Commandments on the other day. Now, “No adultery” was crossed off.
Jack Magnum, Adam Fischer, and Max Black: Three punished sinners thus far.
Seven more, in line to be chopped without even realizing it.
Tugging at his dumb necktie one more time, Jason sat next to Cheyenne and Garth. Sam propped himself on the corner of an adjacent desk, slipping his shades into his blazer’s pocket, as Officer Josh Locke joined them. Captain Jones studied the commandments on the whiteboard for a few long seconds, his face’s wrinkles looking deeper and filled with dust, and let out an exhausted sigh.
“This bozo owes me a month of sleep,” he muttered.
Sam leered, “I bet he’d find it amusing that you automatically labeled him a lunatic. Maybe we’re the lunatics, and he’s the one thinking straight.”
“Shut up, Washington.” The captain whipped from the board and shot daggers from his eyes.
The detective threw up his hands. “Easy, tiger. I’m just sayin’, not all murderers are crazy. Cruel, mean, yeah, sure. Not always crazy, though.”
Jason looked around for flying pigs, because he actually agreed with Sam.
“Plus,” Sam continued, undeterred by the captain’s glare, “I did a little research, looked at some Bible stuff our guy might be basing more kills on.”
“That could also help us in understanding his frame of mind,” Garth added.
Sam nodded, not really listening. “Right. Like the Lord’s Prayer?” He began reciting, “Our father in heaven, Harold is his name—”
Jason cut him off, “Hallowed be thy name, Sam.”
Still not paying attention, Sam laughed coarsely to himself. “And then I skimmed through the Genesis book. Riveting stuff,” he drolled. He then grinned widely. “Y’know, I wonder what it would’ve been like to be able to walk around stark naked, full on in the breeze.”
Cheyenne groaned. And Jason nearly gouged his eyes out.
Great. Now I’ve got to have that dream.
Sam laughed one more time, enjoying his fantasy. “When I get to heaven, I’m gonna ask big Adam myself.”
Captain Jones said, “What if Adam didn’t go to heaven? You read the story. Disobedience. What if Adam went to hell?”
“Well, then,” Sam said, “I’ll let you ask him.” He cackled wildly, clasping his hands together and rocking back and forth.
Josh joined him, giggling like a little kid trying to get a high school senior to like him.
The captain didn’t flinch. “I may be getting old and crusty, Sam…”
Jason grinned. Judging by the cap’s tone, he was getting ready to zing Sam royally, and he had a front row seat.
Jones continued, “…but you sound a tad different today.” He looked at the detective innocently. “A bit lispy, am I right?”
Sam immediately shut up, stiff and erect, as if sudden respect would save him. The captain smirked.
Jason looked closely at Sam Washington. He didn’t look any different: same hair, same face, same nose. But, come to think of it, he had sounded a bit off when talking to the NewsNine reporter.
“Got it yesterday,” Jones pressed, “am I right?”
Then Jason saw it. A small, clear wire running across Sam’s top line of teeth. It was a dental retainer, the plastic, removable kind given by an orthodontist.
The great, invincible Sam Washington had crooked teeth.
A noticeable amount of wind had been taken out of Sam’s sails. He clamped his lips shut and readjusted his seat on the desk’s corner.
From that point
on, the meeting was pretty mediocre. Jones basically recapped everything Jason already knew, blew his nose twice, and dismissed the team.
Jason settled behind his desk. Not many items covered its surface, save for a computer, tons and tons of files and papers, and one old box of Chinese take-out from sometime around the Qin Dynasty.
He let out a deep sigh, his thoughts drifting back to Ted at home. Craig and his son had most likely arrived by now, and were probably in the middle of some slightly awkward conversation. Craig was probably suggesting a movie he had brought, maybe 12 Angry Men or Vertigo.
Ted would smile meekly, feeling alone despite having two perfectly friendly people around him, and Craig would understand the feeling exactly. His wife sat wasting away, and all he could do was watch, a spectator on the front row of his love’s demise.
Jason rubbed his eyes and leaned forward, beginning to regret leaving his son. He trusted the Westons to be friends to the boy, but he was starting to miss the little guy and his random trivia.
And it pained him to picture his son staring at the bedroom door, scared stiff. The bedroom door that his mother had once slept behind.
That raised another set of emotions in Jason’s gut. He had almost forgotten about Rick Neves being released in a few days. If he had been convicted of killing Keri, he wouldn’t even dream of seeing the sun for a few more decades, but his slimy little lawyer Rupert Snare had gotten him off for manslaughter instead.
Accidental murder was manslaughter’s definition. The unintentional killing of another human being. Because Rick had been ignorant and had missed a bullet in his gun, Keri was dead, and it had been labeled an accident.
It made Jason nauseous.
Ted, Cheyenne, Craig…
Rick, Rupert, Abel…
It was strange how people he’d known and loved for years affected his life just as much as people he’d despised and only known for a few minutes.
A buzzing from his pocket pulled him from his thoughts. He withdrew his vibrating cell phone, answered it, tucked it between his ear and shoulder, and began to flip slowly through one of the few files about Abel.
“It’s Jason,” he said into the phone.