Cop

He woke and looked around his apartment, the view of the city beyond; dreams of the old world, taking away his thoughts. 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, talked to it. 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. At least animals were still allowed in the new world. 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. And 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. He 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 the hell was going to follow. 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, and wondered, as always, how they had managed to get themselves into their predicaments, but knew that even that was the wrong question, for the real question was what was there to do about it, and how to get them out. For he knew, like everyone else, that the real problem underneath it all was the government itself, that the decimated society that stood all around him was the result of government policy with the specific design to hurt the people.

He passed a man slumped into the street, his clothes looking s if they had been burnt, could smell him from where he was standing, that acrid burnt body smell. The man’s yellow eyes rolled. He lifted a bottle to his lips, placed it on the pavement, held it to his face and stared back at him, 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 where he would collect his gun. He picked up the holster and strapped it on, made his way to his desk that was a mess, sat down and looked through the 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? The government had strangled the masses with its policies. He looked up at the naked mutilated body of the woman, his latest case, and wondered what was next. Could it get worse? He sat staring at it, wondering 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 hated it just the same, took the elevator down to the parking lot and picked up his car. He put the keys in the ignition and started it up, drove it out of the bay and into the city. He passed more homeless, tents lining the sidewalk for miles. It was where he really belonged, tending to them, getting them food and shelter and a hot shower, setting them up in housing and counselling but instead, he was trying to solve yet another murder.

 

Another crime of passion. 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, a jealous lover. He started the stairs, knowing 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 looked around at the dark night and kept moving forward, always moving forward, but towards what? 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 into the place and hacked up that poor woman to death. 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 woman’s limbs separated from each other like some grizzly 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? Marino always got his man but this time he had to admit that this time his man had alluded him, and anyway, he hadn’t seen a case this grisly in years.

He went to the fridge and looked inside, sat on the couch in the dark, looked out over the deck at the other small California style buildings, imagined 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 hunched over, 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 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, took another swig, ands thought some more. He would be a big guy. They would have met at the gym and 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 nothing more than rage, a rage he had barely seen before; who would have done such a thing?

He got out of the chair and looked out the window at the view. A swimming pool, a sky-line full of the other beaten up courts people lived in. The working class, youth. No, this was something he had never seen before, 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? But he knew that the answer was sadly, lots of people, but not like this. This was something altogether new. Flashes of it went through his mind. What did you use? A machete? Unable to take any more, he walked out, closing the door behind him, walked down the stairs, imagining himself as the killer, looked around to see if anyone would notice him leaving, and saw, to his dismay, that it was easily