Cop

He woke and looked around the apartment, the view of the city beyond, tiny lights twinkling, clusters of buildings scattered. He turned away from it and walked into the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea, watched the cat jump on the ledge, purring at him. It would soothe him, the way it stared back at him, its yellow eyes staring into his, eyes that were dead and null and void. He turned on the small monitor and watched the news; the latest public uprising, images of people smashing buildings, looting and setting fire to whole streets. He stared it and would often wonder how it had come to this. But what in the hell could he do about it, anyway? After all, he was nothing more than a lowly detective, some small-time beaten-up cop that had finally managed to get a promotion. He checked his watch, saw that it was time to go in, time to face the music, as they say, put his coat on and locked the apartment, made his way to the elevator.

By the time that he came out onto the street, it was night. He started walking and could feel his body tightening itself, bracing for whatever was going to follow, for the truth was, he hated his job and everything about it, worse, he himself hated cops. How in the hell did you manage to get yourself into a job that you, yourself, hate? Walking the street, his shift had begun before he even got there. It was true what people said: that being a cop, you’re never really off duty, and it was another part of the job that he resented. He walked past a group of homeless people. Like everything else, the real problem underneath it all was the government. He passed a man slumped into the street, living inside clothes that looked as if they had been burnt. The man’s yellow eyes rolled as he lifted a bottle to his lips. Yellow eyes like his cat’s, null and void. It was the same look he had seen on so many other people’s faces, a look beyond despair, vacant, resigned, with no more comprehension. He came to the subway and took the escalator down below the city and got on, watched the buildings lit in the night, and suddenly, for the first time, thought about retiring, maybe doing something else, or nothing at all, got off and walked the usual two miles to the precinct, took the elevator up to the 12^th floor. The doors crunched open and he walked out to a well-lit room through rows of desks where other cops where hunched over desks studying cases, came to the back of the room where there was a row of lockers, opened his and picked up the holster and strapped it on, made his way to his own desk that was a mess, sat down and looked through his files. The latest one, a dead woman on 13^th street. Pictures of the crime scene hanging on the pin-board wall in front of him. Everyday the crime getting worse and more of it and he knew why, they all did, but nobody said anything, what was there to say? It was the government and its policies which was causing all the outrage, and finally the crime.

He looked up at the naked mutilated body of the woman, his latest case, and wondered what was next. Could it get worse? Staring at it, he wondered what sort of a person would do such a thing, but knew the dismal truth, that whoever it was, was not special - these crimes were crimes of passion, and they were happening more and more, and he was started to tire of it. He sighed and picked up the file, stood and started his shift, knew what was necessary, what he had to do, what was required of him, but hating it just the same, took the elevator down to the parking lot.

He walked out onto the lot and put the keys in the ignition and started it up, drove it out of the bay and into the city, passed more homeless. Still, it was the family that he was tending to, doing his dirty work for them, for their honour. And he didn’t enjoy the idea of interviewing them. Somewhere, out there, a woman would be crying for the death of her little girl, a man, for the death of his daughter.

She would have been drinking with her boyfriend, as would have been their routine. They would have been fighting about money, which would also have been their routine, but would he have really actually hacked her up? Something told him that it wasn’t altogether likely. He had seen the other murders, and this one seemed altogether too grisly to have been conducted by a destitute boyfriend, and yet, it was possible… He got out of the car and started his usual routine, but there wasn’t anything usual about this one, for no-one would bother mutilating a body so badly, least of all, he imagined, a jealous lover, and yet stranger things had happened. He started the stairs, tracing them, these, the boyfriend’s steps, but again, it didn’t feel right, something in his gut told him that he was tracing the wrong person, and he knew he’d been at the job long enough to know that his gut was usually right. He came to the landing, stood and looked around. Anyone would have seen somebody walk into the place that night, but no-one seemed to have seen anything, as if a ghost had just walked in and hacked up that poor woman to death and silently left. He unlocked the door with his key and stepped inside. Images of the crime scene hitting him between the eyes like a horror movie, the photographs, and the night they had called him to take a look at it; the woman’s limbs separated from each other like some bazaar wax exhibit. But now the place was back to normal, nothing more than a typical rundown suburban apartment amongst others, the middle to low income belt. The blood stains still not entirely cleaned up. Still, he had his evidence, and it all had been well documented, and yet, he believed that he had missed something, some detail that would have tied the whole thing together, but what?

He went to the fridge and looked inside, sat on the couch, in the dark, then stood and looked out the window, over the deck, at the small California style buildings, the pool, a little way down. Was it a jealous lover? Were they swimming together and having a good time, before she said something that set him off? It was possible. He sat, hunched over, concentrated, could usually nut these things out. He was a strong man, there could be no doubt about that, only a strong man could have succeeded in committing the act, every step of the way. And by all accounts, the woman, Adelle, was strong herself. He had seen the photos, plastered around the apartment, she was an athlete. He kept thinking. A jealous boyfriend? How many times had he come across the jealous boyfriend? But this one was different. Who in the hell would have chopped up the body and just left it there? The act, itself, was so brutal that he had a hard time even believing it, and yet, there it was, right in front of him. He cast his mind over all the others he had handed over to the attorneys, most, successfully prosecuted. ‘You really are a psycho.’ He said the words out loud, and got a sudden fright at hearing the sound of his own voice. They might have met at the gym. Things would have gotten hot and heavy pretty quickly; they would have moved in with each other not long after, and then they would have had there first fight and he would have unleashed. On paper, it made sense, and yet it didn’t add up. To have gone to those lengths suggested something more than rage, and if it was rage, then this was something he had barely seen before; who would do such a thing?

He got out of the chair and stood at the window, looked out at the view. A swimming pool, a sky-line full of the other beaten up courts people lived in, the working-class youth, the low-income earners, dispersed with pensioners and retirees. No, this was something different, something about it suggested that it might even be beyond him, and that made him shudder. He turned and looked down at the blood stains like paint dye splashed across the carpet. ‘Are you trying to make a point?’ But there was nothing. No secret message anywhere. Who would do such thing? His imagination picked up pace. What did you use? A machete? Unable to take any more, he walked out, closing the door behind him, he walked down the stairs, looked around to see if anyone would notice him leaving, and saw, to his dismay, that it was easily enough done.

He took the handrail and started making his way down the steps, the afternoon light fading on a short overweight man, came out onto the street and looked around; the whole place was open and in view, not much room for anyone to sneak around and hide. But if it wasn’t a crime of passion, and if it wasn’t a jealous boyfriend, then what?

It was time to stop pussyfooting around. He was going to meet the boyfriend.  And yet, something told him that it wasn’t necessary, that he’d be charging the wrong man, maybe even wrecking a life. God knew, it was already half wrecked anyway; the girl was absolutely stunning. Something told him that, whoever had done this, was methodical and exacting, yes, that’s what the secret here was, and he suddenly understood. He stood at the bottom of the step and got a whiff of it, his heart beginning to race at the realisation, and it was only pure experience and instinct that told him what it was, and he collapsed on the stairs, his mind tracking the photographs, over and over, obsessively, and it was in that moment that he realised that he should have gotten out of this racket years ago, that the job was officially beyond him, and yet there was an irony here, he knew. Only an older guy like himself had any chance, the younger guys missed things too easily with their inexperience. No, this was not open and shut, was anything but. Sure, he would interview the boyfriend, would fill out all the paper work, but no way would he charge the guy with murder, no way, and then his mind wrenched back to what it was that he was dealing with, and saw, all of a sudden, that whoever it was that had done this was looking at him now, from some remote place, somewhere, was seeing a broken down old man collapsed on a step, one heart beat away from a stroke. A crime of passion was the last thing that this was, that what he was looking at might actually be a carefully structured and highly concealed work of art, but designed to do what? He slumped forward as he realised the truth of it. Whoever had done this was actually only showing off. How horrible. Everything here was delicately orchestrated, and made to look accidental, and had perhaps been months in the planning, but worse, if he was right, then it would not stop, it would only be the beginning. A crazed artist with an appetite, what could be worse? But why frame the boyfriend, he wondered. But who knew, maybe the boyfriend was just collateral, who knew?

He checked his watch and suddenly felt like throwing up, realised the truth of it �" that he could no longer do this work, that it was time to call it quits, do something else. But being a cop was all he had ever known; he hadn’t trained in anything else. And then he remembered that that was just the world talking, the s****y, horrible world, the world that would kill you as just as look at you. He didn’t have to be a part of it anymore. Fifteen years of police work was enough, he had done his time, given his service. He would hand in his badge first thing in the morning. Buoyed, he got off the step and started towards the car, opened the door and got in, and for the first time since he could remember, felt grateful for something �" the end of police work, it was definitely something to celebrate, and as for work, well, something would turn up, he knew enough to know that much, and anyway, he was cashed up, wasn’t he? Yes, he would hand in his badge in the morning, take a holiday, maybe travel around for a while.

He got in the car and started and started making his way home. Whoever the hell had done this, he wouldn’t have to be a part of, not ever, and the thought made him happy. Hell, he could get concentrate on finding himself a wife, God knew that that was overdue, and now, he could take a look at it.  He drove the streets, looking at all the vagrants, hell, he could put his name down at one of the soup kitchens if he was that bored. And yet, there was a killer was out there, on the rampage, and he was about the only one with expertise to deal with it. He got in the car and started it, started making his way back to the office.