allislostfornow
05-02-2010, 01:11 PM
Sorry if this is so long...I didn't feel like separating it into chapters. This is a remake of "The Little Red Riding Hood." Hope you enjoy and thanks for taking the time to read along.
The Red Widow
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It was a damn cold night. One of those nights when your bones shake cold, the wind blows the previous day remnants of the street against the late-night stubble of your scarred face, and quivering calluses are quickly blistered away. I couldn’t help but flip the collar of my trench coat up, shielding what little portion of my visage that it could, and pace against the frozen cement as the red and blue lights threatened what vision I had left. Why did they have to wake me up for this? There were a dozen other cops that were just as qualified for this case as me, yet they felt like placing the ‘special’ in front of my title, apparently putting me at the top of the priority list. I was reminded of this every time my hand braced against the lackluster shine of the badge they gave me 30 years ago at the academy. The commitment it represented, the job I was supposed to do, the people I was supposed to help, and their blood that ran down this back Alley Street. The city was a cake, on the top was the beautiful frosting laid out for show. But underneath, layers upon layers of flesh, sinew, and coagulated blood. The thought of it made me nauseous, the truth of it even more so.
“You better have a damn good reason for waking me up this late!” I had no reason for chastising the lowly forensic coordinator, it’s not like he made the call that shook me from my bed and forced me to see that mug in the mirror again.
“Sir, we think it’s the widow case.”
The widow, the widow. I had to repeat the words in my mind over and over again: the hot coffee in my hand wasn’t washing nearly as much of this hangover away as I would have liked.
“The red widow?” It was a coin name we used for a recently developing case. The case set numerous precedents in our district, the major one being the first sexual crime spree spurred by a female. It was always the same thing. The victim, face twisted in horror, a puncture wound to the neck, and a lock of red hair placed in between the fingers of the victim. This would mark the third case in a month.
“Yes sir, the red widow. We believe the act took place between the hours of 7:30 and 9:30 p.m.”
“You sound pretty sure on that.” These damn kids and their forensic voodoo was enough to harden my jaw and grind away small bits of enamel. What we used to do by blood, sweat, and effort was all done in half the time through a large machine that spewed out digits and decimals. So, why couldn’t they wake that thing up this late at night?
“The level of rigor mortis setting in clearly shows a death that occurred four to six hours ago. Here’s the report.”
I sipped from the Styrofoam cup; the brew wasn’t exceptional to say the least. The assumption was true; the modus operendi was the same as the “Red Widow.” This was the widow.
None of the other divisions could take the widow seriously. How could a woman be a sexual predator? To them, women were a completely different animal. But the truth of it is that, in this cold, we are all wolves. Winter was forever in this place, there was no growth, and there was no liberation from the invisible snow. Even in the drive back to the precinct, the heater afforded me no pleasure.
* * *
The desk was nothing more than an un-marked tombstone. Horizontally erected on wooden pillars and painted maple to give a sense of comfort, I slowly chiseled away at it with every bullet from my body and every knife pulled from my back. It was worn down and accessorized by a perfect little notch on the edge where my feet rested when the nights grew long and sun never rose. My pen made a slow and lonesome echo against the hollow of the desk as I tapped the top, the metal of the drawer rattled in cohesive rhythm a slow eulogy for my analysis of this case. Work, true police work, wasn’t meant to be manufactured from behind the desk. It was built upon the fabric of hard work that could be measured in the miles I pounded the pavement. Yet, I was forced to lie, an old and beaten dog, reading upon official court documents, written in Sanskrit compared to the fancy fonts those ‘computers’ could produce, on the previous victims of the widow.
The yellow lamp hovered over the grave like a flying saucer, a longing reminder of the persistence of night filled with desk work, slightly shadowed in the hope of a burned out bulb. The picture in the corner, a family with a father, a mother, and a couple of pups, served a nostalgic purpose and brought memories of a brighter time no longer fathomable. These memories faded with every day and I longed to grasp them and hold them to me. But life never allowed it, and only in my dreams, could the crimson tides retreat and bring to me the thought of that time: the time when the sun still shined.
“Special Detective!” The voice rattled through my mind, a metallic pang against the softness and serenity of sleep, allowed through the cushion of multiple folders. Startled, I lurched back from the desk and my hands braced the beams beneath me. Who now stood before me could only be described as the biggest little lady in the business, our one and only Police Commissioner. Yet, underneath the rainbow of ribbons across her breast, underneath the sparkling metal ranking and smell of burned shoe polish, laid a wretched being. Her eyes traced me suspiciously, the slop of a man before her; the Grim Reaper was ready to judge the fallen.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m awake.” Awake wouldn’t be exactly how I would describe it. Then again, in a world like this, perhaps it’s best to just imagine it all a dream.
“Where are we on the widow case?” I stared down at the plastic covering on the desk, a scratched and buffed reflection of a man stared back. I longed to be in his position, not having to deal with the commissioner and not having to smell the stench of rags and clothes, drenched with the cold sweat of shock in the morning. I scrambled for the report and my hands shook as I experienced the sensation run up my spine and through my neck.
“Here, I found it. We, apparently, have a partial match in the DNA. It appears that it will be a link to some form of family member.” What the hell does this all mean? What is a partial DNA match? Next time I see that forensic coordinator, I’ll have to thank him for getting me the cliff notes version.
“Oh? Well, good. Please, do keep me up to date Special Detective.”
“Yes ma’am.”
I felt compelled to at least watch as she retreated back out of the precinct, a slow snake slithering through a maze of mice. It was astonishing her capacity to diminish any form of respect an individual could have for themselves; she had it down to an art form. I looked back over the form again, attempting to decipher the code of the text and what leads I could ascertain from it. Upon further inspection, the relative that was partially matched had no identity, just an address: “202 Needle Way.” I gathered my tools a made my way out the door.
* * *
Needle Way, an abandoned vestigial sect of society, set out on the outskirts of town and deferred by political indifference and construction detours. The crusty runoff of corrupt scandals and under-the-table maliciousness was all the same as the rest of the city. But here, it was no longer federally endorsed by the growth of the cement forest with their industrial branching and tasteless propaganda. Here, the trees had been harvested and what was once a tunneled concrete vision of the sky had been turned into a dilapidated clearing: the steaming ash and over-turn had left little to grow in this place. A shine of the badge or the flick of my cannon was enough to earn a high speed ride towards the emergency room. The fairies danced merrily at every corner, selling their fruit for whoever was willing to dish out the cash. The trolls stood constant guard, hiding behind their tinted rolling metal shelters, the fairies never free from their own toll. Their red eyes, as sparkling as they were vigilant, were high from the white ash and fruited cocktails that drove them to such extent. This was an ugly place, a horribly fierce place, and only the shells of abandoned police cruisers brought some form of reminder as to the purpose I set out to serve.
My hand gently thudded against the door with the scratched in number “202.” It gave, almost like a big black sponge, yet there was no return. The creaking and bowing of the door almost foretold of its instantaneous collapse, but my farfetched imagination was never brought to fruition. Instead, the door merely slid open, as if blown through by a strong gust of wind as fallen leaves and scattered debris traced across the rotten wooden floor. I quickly stepped in with the protection of ‘probable cause,’ my holster un-clicked and the barrel aimed elegantly in front of me. I had to admit it: I was excited. This was a chance for me to make something right, to turn around a crime spree and bring down the perpetrator. And I would do it without the corruption, without the endorsement or bribes soaked in the blood of victims.
“Police, come out with your hands up!” My voice danced gingerly about the wooden home, the black staircase a strong barrier to the resonance of sound. It was like smog that I could somehow comprehend, invisible, yet defiant against my presence. And it was so damn hot; I traced white lines against the pink of my flushed skin. There was no answer to my call. I now stood in an obviously abandoned home, left to whither and decay. There was no one here and I knew it, but curiosity became me. It drove each heavy foot, one after another, to overcome the creaking black staircase until I emerged on the second floor, a wolf escaping the den.
Each step was a treachery to my intelligence, what I knew was wrong. I had no backup; no one even knew I was here, in this land of the damned. That didn’t stop me and soon, the uncertainty in my bodily actions became confidence in my presence, a purpose to be here. There was a reason for all of this, I was sure of it. Every action I had made in my life, every mistake and every loss, was leading me down this road to the red widow. Whether I could recognize it or not, I knew it and everything was now on the line as my hand opened the first door on the right of the hallway. There was clearly a difference in pressure, the door almost fought against me; it was as heavy as an ox. As it begrudgingly swung open, my eyes grew wide; the strain of the muscles brought an acute headache to the front of my head. I aimed down the barrel of my gun, at the red-head who stood facing a vanity mirror and looking back at me through the reflection.
“My my, officer, what big eyes you have.” My god, she was more beautiful then I could have imagined. And it wasn’t just the beauty, but here sensuality that could have driven me to my knees if it weren’t for them locking. The gun shook in my hand; it grew heavy and resisted my hands embrace. She had long red and flowing hair, a tight fitting bodice and a hip-hugging, sparkling red dress. I had her now, even if I had to force my body to follow.
“You…are under arrest.” Damn, even my words fought against me. Every syllable strained, every word a tooth and tongue battle. I was pitiful, not worth the title of man, let alone special detective. Before I could approach with the iron shackles, she turned to face me, giving full view of her body. I was sure she was the 8th wonder of the world. I was so distracted; I could hardly see the gun in her hand and hammer pulled back. This was it, my chance to make a difference and to show the rest of the world that a man can only be kicked for so long. My thumb pulled back the hammer: my hand a group of men prepared to do what they were told and the only truly loyal member of my body. I squeezed the handle but nothing happened, a dud entered the chamber and betrayed me once more. It was the story of my life: the world could be on fire and I would have the only expired extinguisher. But this wasn’t my end, I wouldn’t believe it. So after the brief millisecond of hate in fate, I jumped back, her bullet already out of the barrel and screaming towards me a silent death.
She was a lousy shot: God had put all his energy into her beauty and left no ability afterwards. But the damage was done; the graze of the shot tore open my trench coat arm and expedited my jump to the side of the door. Unfortunately, my foot caught the floor board and sent me flying down the stair case. As I rolled, I thanked the humidity of the first floor and the perpetual moistness of the steps to soften each blow afterwards. The final step must have been the one to knock me out because I fully experienced every step before. When I came to, lying broken at the bottom of the black staircase, ribs cracked, there was only one clue left for me: a set of metals that someone could pin to their officer suit. A rainbow on the floor and a collection of dust that had been smeared with the handling of young women were all that was left for me. Aching, this was my final clue, everything seemed to make sense. The pain brought me mental serenity and a chance to put all the pieces together. I had known them both, the grand-daughter only indirectly. It was time to go visit Granny.
* * *
My hand gripped the steering wheel with all the force it could, my foot a lead weight to the engines speed and anticipation. It was time for me to close the books on the red widow and what better way to do this than go straight to the top. This was my chance to bring a sense of pride back to my family name, to go to that grave and give my wife and kids a reason to be proud of me again. I could turn everything around, wash away the years of drunkenness and immorality, and have a reason to wake up in the morning. I could look in the mirror and be happy with the old man that looked back; no longer ashamed of the blind eye I paid towards the woes of this city. I will not sit back and watch as this city goes astray anymore, I will be its shepherd.
The Commissioner seemed to live in the most rural location of the city, a real forest inside a metal and cement container. Her office, part of her house, sat on a hill that overlooked the industrial growth of the city: synthetic vomit washing over what was once pure and natural like a flood of corrosive acid. Her house seemed a bit elaborate for her pay scale, but Internal Police investigations into the notion of bribery landed unsuccessful. Her throne was forged from the bones of the innocent and the foundation was made from the lies and betrayals that gave her the ability to climb as she did. My finger rang the buzzer to this plaster home, the white tower upon which I ascended.
“Oh, come in!” The scream across the oval office, still shielded from my sight, was reminiscent of that metal pang, like knives slicing against one another. Nevertheless, it was time to put all feeling and emotions aside; this was the reckoning for all the wrongs committed and the oversight by those who were supposed to give a damn. There was no longer the worry of a yellow tape prison for these criminals to place me in. They would answer to only two people, me and their creator.
I twisted the metal bulb, the polished shine of the handle slipped under the torque of my wrist, and the door unlatched, swinging slowly open for the last time. My other hand swung, discretely threatening, the safety unlatched and the hammer pushed forward on my cannon. This wasn’t some comic book story; this wasn’t the chance to allow the criminals to talk their way out of judgment. Countless people have been killed, who knows how many the Commissioner sanctioned. My feet tapped lightly on the polished wood in the circular room, the sound of plastic heel meeting hard flooring resonated through and pounded against the silence of the two women staring back at me. The youthful red widow and her granny, standing side by side, were nonchalant and callous to the reflection of pain on my face. They whispered to one another behind the great red-hued wooden desk that uniquely stood out compared to the white-washed walls. It was their entire façade, a year of chasing, that boiled my rage and raised my gun to their direction. I swore that I didn’t care why they did it: why should I give a damn for the reasons for a crime that could not be justified. But their lack of sincerity, their inability to feel the pain of the world around me, drew my words from my chapped lips.
“WHY?!? Why did you do it? You were supposed to protect the innocent, not feed on them!” I was screaming and the city was silent, listening to every word. My hand shook not with fear, but with anticipation of the screaming whisper that would soon be let loose. And yet, the grandmother said nothing. The child was the only one to utter a semblance of reasoning and it rang true.
“We are all wolves.” I pulled back the hammer and bared my teeth against the reason, despite how true it was. It was our ability to control our natural tendencies that made us human and it was only recently that I had discovered this.
“No! There has to be a better reason. You are worse than the criminals we fight against! We bled for you at your word and you betrayed us.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to the daughter, the granny, or myself at this point for not seeing it sooner. And the only noticeable response from either of the two was the daughter’s eyes staring straight down the barrel of my gun.
“My my, officer, what a big cannon you have there.” I wasn’t big on shooting women, but this once, I think it was the right thing to do.
The hammer lunged forward twice, in episodic and sporadic resentment for the bullets it plunged against, as two wailing pieces of metal flew through explosive howls in the hushed forest. Everything was so quiet, so dark, the world had shut off the switch and only the three of us existed for that split second. Not even God could see me now, could know my suffering for so long, and could understand my reasons or my actions.
The two fell limply to the floor, both consumed by my hatred for their indifference, their inability to understand the wrongs they had committed. For a moment, I was the judge, jury, and executioner. I preceded the case, saw it to the end, determined guilt, and placed the heads on the chopping blocks. For the first time in ages, I felt light, as if the world was no longer on my shoulders and I was no longer doubled over. I turned slowly on my heel, a squeak and labored breathing were the only noises I could hear in a world that was forever muted. Perhaps, my decision today might make people think twice about the crimes they see through and the thoughts that lead them to it.
The door swung open, the wind howled through the room and conquered me for a moment. I felt a tear draw and trace a dirt line down my right cheek. The sun, I could see the sun and it could see me as it smiled upon my warmed body. My breath drew no visual observation, the wind died down completely and I could actually hear the animals in the forest. How long they had been inaudible, I would not venture to guess. A smile crawled across my face and I breathed a sigh of relief for a time that I would be fortunate to live in. A new age is coming to this city, I’m sure of it.
My knees met the wooden floor, the wind was knocked out of me, as if being flung from a swing set and hitting the saw dust flat. My mind raced: the pain more overwhelming than the broken ribs that caused me to limp a somber pace. I reached to my back and pulled out a sharp object and felt the gaping wound that slid six inches from my lower back. I looked at the weapon, a golden letter opener that was four inches long and covered in the blood of an animal. I lost the ability to grip and the letter opener dropped to the floor, blood splattering in a ‘v’ shape away from it. How could this be? I killed them. My body went limp and fell to the floor, soon becoming drenched in my own blood that circled around in a pulsating glob.
Before my eyes closed and I breathed my last dying breaths, I looked over and my sunken eyes saw the last mistake I would ever make. The Commissioner’s male clerk assistant had been listening the entire time. He was my undoing, my blind spot. I was moving too fast to even notice. And then everything grew dark, just as dark as the world I attempted to survive. There was no family to meet me at the pearly gates. There was no tunnel with a light at the end. There were no more victims, no more criminals: just silence.
* * *
The business man walked solemnly into the hospital, the only sterile place left in the entire city. After emerging from the elevator, he strolled into a double room and nodded to the older women and young red-head laying side by side, attached to machinery and ventilators. He quickly sat down and turned on the television.
“So, whatever happened to that detective?” The commissioner spoke slowly, working in between ventilations.
“Somewhere at the bottom of the sea, in a chest filled with rocks. By the time he’s found, people will be happy to know he is dead.”
“How do you mean?”
Rather than tell her, he turned to the most up to date news station and let the prompter do all the talking.
Television: “In recent updates, the mastermind behind the “Red Widow” mass murder spree was found to be an inside job in the police precinct. The criminal behind this spree goes by the name of Special Detective John Rafferty Wolfe. If you have any knowledge of his location, please send an anonymous call to your local precinct. He was last seen two weeks ago in an attempt to murder our esteemed Police Commissioner and her grand-daughter, Scarlet. They are currently in stable condition but are still hospitalized. We send our best wishes to them and hope they meet a healthy return.”
Moral of the story: History is written by the victor.
The Red Widow
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It was a damn cold night. One of those nights when your bones shake cold, the wind blows the previous day remnants of the street against the late-night stubble of your scarred face, and quivering calluses are quickly blistered away. I couldn’t help but flip the collar of my trench coat up, shielding what little portion of my visage that it could, and pace against the frozen cement as the red and blue lights threatened what vision I had left. Why did they have to wake me up for this? There were a dozen other cops that were just as qualified for this case as me, yet they felt like placing the ‘special’ in front of my title, apparently putting me at the top of the priority list. I was reminded of this every time my hand braced against the lackluster shine of the badge they gave me 30 years ago at the academy. The commitment it represented, the job I was supposed to do, the people I was supposed to help, and their blood that ran down this back Alley Street. The city was a cake, on the top was the beautiful frosting laid out for show. But underneath, layers upon layers of flesh, sinew, and coagulated blood. The thought of it made me nauseous, the truth of it even more so.
“You better have a damn good reason for waking me up this late!” I had no reason for chastising the lowly forensic coordinator, it’s not like he made the call that shook me from my bed and forced me to see that mug in the mirror again.
“Sir, we think it’s the widow case.”
The widow, the widow. I had to repeat the words in my mind over and over again: the hot coffee in my hand wasn’t washing nearly as much of this hangover away as I would have liked.
“The red widow?” It was a coin name we used for a recently developing case. The case set numerous precedents in our district, the major one being the first sexual crime spree spurred by a female. It was always the same thing. The victim, face twisted in horror, a puncture wound to the neck, and a lock of red hair placed in between the fingers of the victim. This would mark the third case in a month.
“Yes sir, the red widow. We believe the act took place between the hours of 7:30 and 9:30 p.m.”
“You sound pretty sure on that.” These damn kids and their forensic voodoo was enough to harden my jaw and grind away small bits of enamel. What we used to do by blood, sweat, and effort was all done in half the time through a large machine that spewed out digits and decimals. So, why couldn’t they wake that thing up this late at night?
“The level of rigor mortis setting in clearly shows a death that occurred four to six hours ago. Here’s the report.”
I sipped from the Styrofoam cup; the brew wasn’t exceptional to say the least. The assumption was true; the modus operendi was the same as the “Red Widow.” This was the widow.
None of the other divisions could take the widow seriously. How could a woman be a sexual predator? To them, women were a completely different animal. But the truth of it is that, in this cold, we are all wolves. Winter was forever in this place, there was no growth, and there was no liberation from the invisible snow. Even in the drive back to the precinct, the heater afforded me no pleasure.
* * *
The desk was nothing more than an un-marked tombstone. Horizontally erected on wooden pillars and painted maple to give a sense of comfort, I slowly chiseled away at it with every bullet from my body and every knife pulled from my back. It was worn down and accessorized by a perfect little notch on the edge where my feet rested when the nights grew long and sun never rose. My pen made a slow and lonesome echo against the hollow of the desk as I tapped the top, the metal of the drawer rattled in cohesive rhythm a slow eulogy for my analysis of this case. Work, true police work, wasn’t meant to be manufactured from behind the desk. It was built upon the fabric of hard work that could be measured in the miles I pounded the pavement. Yet, I was forced to lie, an old and beaten dog, reading upon official court documents, written in Sanskrit compared to the fancy fonts those ‘computers’ could produce, on the previous victims of the widow.
The yellow lamp hovered over the grave like a flying saucer, a longing reminder of the persistence of night filled with desk work, slightly shadowed in the hope of a burned out bulb. The picture in the corner, a family with a father, a mother, and a couple of pups, served a nostalgic purpose and brought memories of a brighter time no longer fathomable. These memories faded with every day and I longed to grasp them and hold them to me. But life never allowed it, and only in my dreams, could the crimson tides retreat and bring to me the thought of that time: the time when the sun still shined.
“Special Detective!” The voice rattled through my mind, a metallic pang against the softness and serenity of sleep, allowed through the cushion of multiple folders. Startled, I lurched back from the desk and my hands braced the beams beneath me. Who now stood before me could only be described as the biggest little lady in the business, our one and only Police Commissioner. Yet, underneath the rainbow of ribbons across her breast, underneath the sparkling metal ranking and smell of burned shoe polish, laid a wretched being. Her eyes traced me suspiciously, the slop of a man before her; the Grim Reaper was ready to judge the fallen.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m awake.” Awake wouldn’t be exactly how I would describe it. Then again, in a world like this, perhaps it’s best to just imagine it all a dream.
“Where are we on the widow case?” I stared down at the plastic covering on the desk, a scratched and buffed reflection of a man stared back. I longed to be in his position, not having to deal with the commissioner and not having to smell the stench of rags and clothes, drenched with the cold sweat of shock in the morning. I scrambled for the report and my hands shook as I experienced the sensation run up my spine and through my neck.
“Here, I found it. We, apparently, have a partial match in the DNA. It appears that it will be a link to some form of family member.” What the hell does this all mean? What is a partial DNA match? Next time I see that forensic coordinator, I’ll have to thank him for getting me the cliff notes version.
“Oh? Well, good. Please, do keep me up to date Special Detective.”
“Yes ma’am.”
I felt compelled to at least watch as she retreated back out of the precinct, a slow snake slithering through a maze of mice. It was astonishing her capacity to diminish any form of respect an individual could have for themselves; she had it down to an art form. I looked back over the form again, attempting to decipher the code of the text and what leads I could ascertain from it. Upon further inspection, the relative that was partially matched had no identity, just an address: “202 Needle Way.” I gathered my tools a made my way out the door.
* * *
Needle Way, an abandoned vestigial sect of society, set out on the outskirts of town and deferred by political indifference and construction detours. The crusty runoff of corrupt scandals and under-the-table maliciousness was all the same as the rest of the city. But here, it was no longer federally endorsed by the growth of the cement forest with their industrial branching and tasteless propaganda. Here, the trees had been harvested and what was once a tunneled concrete vision of the sky had been turned into a dilapidated clearing: the steaming ash and over-turn had left little to grow in this place. A shine of the badge or the flick of my cannon was enough to earn a high speed ride towards the emergency room. The fairies danced merrily at every corner, selling their fruit for whoever was willing to dish out the cash. The trolls stood constant guard, hiding behind their tinted rolling metal shelters, the fairies never free from their own toll. Their red eyes, as sparkling as they were vigilant, were high from the white ash and fruited cocktails that drove them to such extent. This was an ugly place, a horribly fierce place, and only the shells of abandoned police cruisers brought some form of reminder as to the purpose I set out to serve.
My hand gently thudded against the door with the scratched in number “202.” It gave, almost like a big black sponge, yet there was no return. The creaking and bowing of the door almost foretold of its instantaneous collapse, but my farfetched imagination was never brought to fruition. Instead, the door merely slid open, as if blown through by a strong gust of wind as fallen leaves and scattered debris traced across the rotten wooden floor. I quickly stepped in with the protection of ‘probable cause,’ my holster un-clicked and the barrel aimed elegantly in front of me. I had to admit it: I was excited. This was a chance for me to make something right, to turn around a crime spree and bring down the perpetrator. And I would do it without the corruption, without the endorsement or bribes soaked in the blood of victims.
“Police, come out with your hands up!” My voice danced gingerly about the wooden home, the black staircase a strong barrier to the resonance of sound. It was like smog that I could somehow comprehend, invisible, yet defiant against my presence. And it was so damn hot; I traced white lines against the pink of my flushed skin. There was no answer to my call. I now stood in an obviously abandoned home, left to whither and decay. There was no one here and I knew it, but curiosity became me. It drove each heavy foot, one after another, to overcome the creaking black staircase until I emerged on the second floor, a wolf escaping the den.
Each step was a treachery to my intelligence, what I knew was wrong. I had no backup; no one even knew I was here, in this land of the damned. That didn’t stop me and soon, the uncertainty in my bodily actions became confidence in my presence, a purpose to be here. There was a reason for all of this, I was sure of it. Every action I had made in my life, every mistake and every loss, was leading me down this road to the red widow. Whether I could recognize it or not, I knew it and everything was now on the line as my hand opened the first door on the right of the hallway. There was clearly a difference in pressure, the door almost fought against me; it was as heavy as an ox. As it begrudgingly swung open, my eyes grew wide; the strain of the muscles brought an acute headache to the front of my head. I aimed down the barrel of my gun, at the red-head who stood facing a vanity mirror and looking back at me through the reflection.
“My my, officer, what big eyes you have.” My god, she was more beautiful then I could have imagined. And it wasn’t just the beauty, but here sensuality that could have driven me to my knees if it weren’t for them locking. The gun shook in my hand; it grew heavy and resisted my hands embrace. She had long red and flowing hair, a tight fitting bodice and a hip-hugging, sparkling red dress. I had her now, even if I had to force my body to follow.
“You…are under arrest.” Damn, even my words fought against me. Every syllable strained, every word a tooth and tongue battle. I was pitiful, not worth the title of man, let alone special detective. Before I could approach with the iron shackles, she turned to face me, giving full view of her body. I was sure she was the 8th wonder of the world. I was so distracted; I could hardly see the gun in her hand and hammer pulled back. This was it, my chance to make a difference and to show the rest of the world that a man can only be kicked for so long. My thumb pulled back the hammer: my hand a group of men prepared to do what they were told and the only truly loyal member of my body. I squeezed the handle but nothing happened, a dud entered the chamber and betrayed me once more. It was the story of my life: the world could be on fire and I would have the only expired extinguisher. But this wasn’t my end, I wouldn’t believe it. So after the brief millisecond of hate in fate, I jumped back, her bullet already out of the barrel and screaming towards me a silent death.
She was a lousy shot: God had put all his energy into her beauty and left no ability afterwards. But the damage was done; the graze of the shot tore open my trench coat arm and expedited my jump to the side of the door. Unfortunately, my foot caught the floor board and sent me flying down the stair case. As I rolled, I thanked the humidity of the first floor and the perpetual moistness of the steps to soften each blow afterwards. The final step must have been the one to knock me out because I fully experienced every step before. When I came to, lying broken at the bottom of the black staircase, ribs cracked, there was only one clue left for me: a set of metals that someone could pin to their officer suit. A rainbow on the floor and a collection of dust that had been smeared with the handling of young women were all that was left for me. Aching, this was my final clue, everything seemed to make sense. The pain brought me mental serenity and a chance to put all the pieces together. I had known them both, the grand-daughter only indirectly. It was time to go visit Granny.
* * *
My hand gripped the steering wheel with all the force it could, my foot a lead weight to the engines speed and anticipation. It was time for me to close the books on the red widow and what better way to do this than go straight to the top. This was my chance to bring a sense of pride back to my family name, to go to that grave and give my wife and kids a reason to be proud of me again. I could turn everything around, wash away the years of drunkenness and immorality, and have a reason to wake up in the morning. I could look in the mirror and be happy with the old man that looked back; no longer ashamed of the blind eye I paid towards the woes of this city. I will not sit back and watch as this city goes astray anymore, I will be its shepherd.
The Commissioner seemed to live in the most rural location of the city, a real forest inside a metal and cement container. Her office, part of her house, sat on a hill that overlooked the industrial growth of the city: synthetic vomit washing over what was once pure and natural like a flood of corrosive acid. Her house seemed a bit elaborate for her pay scale, but Internal Police investigations into the notion of bribery landed unsuccessful. Her throne was forged from the bones of the innocent and the foundation was made from the lies and betrayals that gave her the ability to climb as she did. My finger rang the buzzer to this plaster home, the white tower upon which I ascended.
“Oh, come in!” The scream across the oval office, still shielded from my sight, was reminiscent of that metal pang, like knives slicing against one another. Nevertheless, it was time to put all feeling and emotions aside; this was the reckoning for all the wrongs committed and the oversight by those who were supposed to give a damn. There was no longer the worry of a yellow tape prison for these criminals to place me in. They would answer to only two people, me and their creator.
I twisted the metal bulb, the polished shine of the handle slipped under the torque of my wrist, and the door unlatched, swinging slowly open for the last time. My other hand swung, discretely threatening, the safety unlatched and the hammer pushed forward on my cannon. This wasn’t some comic book story; this wasn’t the chance to allow the criminals to talk their way out of judgment. Countless people have been killed, who knows how many the Commissioner sanctioned. My feet tapped lightly on the polished wood in the circular room, the sound of plastic heel meeting hard flooring resonated through and pounded against the silence of the two women staring back at me. The youthful red widow and her granny, standing side by side, were nonchalant and callous to the reflection of pain on my face. They whispered to one another behind the great red-hued wooden desk that uniquely stood out compared to the white-washed walls. It was their entire façade, a year of chasing, that boiled my rage and raised my gun to their direction. I swore that I didn’t care why they did it: why should I give a damn for the reasons for a crime that could not be justified. But their lack of sincerity, their inability to feel the pain of the world around me, drew my words from my chapped lips.
“WHY?!? Why did you do it? You were supposed to protect the innocent, not feed on them!” I was screaming and the city was silent, listening to every word. My hand shook not with fear, but with anticipation of the screaming whisper that would soon be let loose. And yet, the grandmother said nothing. The child was the only one to utter a semblance of reasoning and it rang true.
“We are all wolves.” I pulled back the hammer and bared my teeth against the reason, despite how true it was. It was our ability to control our natural tendencies that made us human and it was only recently that I had discovered this.
“No! There has to be a better reason. You are worse than the criminals we fight against! We bled for you at your word and you betrayed us.” I wasn’t sure if I was talking to the daughter, the granny, or myself at this point for not seeing it sooner. And the only noticeable response from either of the two was the daughter’s eyes staring straight down the barrel of my gun.
“My my, officer, what a big cannon you have there.” I wasn’t big on shooting women, but this once, I think it was the right thing to do.
The hammer lunged forward twice, in episodic and sporadic resentment for the bullets it plunged against, as two wailing pieces of metal flew through explosive howls in the hushed forest. Everything was so quiet, so dark, the world had shut off the switch and only the three of us existed for that split second. Not even God could see me now, could know my suffering for so long, and could understand my reasons or my actions.
The two fell limply to the floor, both consumed by my hatred for their indifference, their inability to understand the wrongs they had committed. For a moment, I was the judge, jury, and executioner. I preceded the case, saw it to the end, determined guilt, and placed the heads on the chopping blocks. For the first time in ages, I felt light, as if the world was no longer on my shoulders and I was no longer doubled over. I turned slowly on my heel, a squeak and labored breathing were the only noises I could hear in a world that was forever muted. Perhaps, my decision today might make people think twice about the crimes they see through and the thoughts that lead them to it.
The door swung open, the wind howled through the room and conquered me for a moment. I felt a tear draw and trace a dirt line down my right cheek. The sun, I could see the sun and it could see me as it smiled upon my warmed body. My breath drew no visual observation, the wind died down completely and I could actually hear the animals in the forest. How long they had been inaudible, I would not venture to guess. A smile crawled across my face and I breathed a sigh of relief for a time that I would be fortunate to live in. A new age is coming to this city, I’m sure of it.
My knees met the wooden floor, the wind was knocked out of me, as if being flung from a swing set and hitting the saw dust flat. My mind raced: the pain more overwhelming than the broken ribs that caused me to limp a somber pace. I reached to my back and pulled out a sharp object and felt the gaping wound that slid six inches from my lower back. I looked at the weapon, a golden letter opener that was four inches long and covered in the blood of an animal. I lost the ability to grip and the letter opener dropped to the floor, blood splattering in a ‘v’ shape away from it. How could this be? I killed them. My body went limp and fell to the floor, soon becoming drenched in my own blood that circled around in a pulsating glob.
Before my eyes closed and I breathed my last dying breaths, I looked over and my sunken eyes saw the last mistake I would ever make. The Commissioner’s male clerk assistant had been listening the entire time. He was my undoing, my blind spot. I was moving too fast to even notice. And then everything grew dark, just as dark as the world I attempted to survive. There was no family to meet me at the pearly gates. There was no tunnel with a light at the end. There were no more victims, no more criminals: just silence.
* * *
The business man walked solemnly into the hospital, the only sterile place left in the entire city. After emerging from the elevator, he strolled into a double room and nodded to the older women and young red-head laying side by side, attached to machinery and ventilators. He quickly sat down and turned on the television.
“So, whatever happened to that detective?” The commissioner spoke slowly, working in between ventilations.
“Somewhere at the bottom of the sea, in a chest filled with rocks. By the time he’s found, people will be happy to know he is dead.”
“How do you mean?”
Rather than tell her, he turned to the most up to date news station and let the prompter do all the talking.
Television: “In recent updates, the mastermind behind the “Red Widow” mass murder spree was found to be an inside job in the police precinct. The criminal behind this spree goes by the name of Special Detective John Rafferty Wolfe. If you have any knowledge of his location, please send an anonymous call to your local precinct. He was last seen two weeks ago in an attempt to murder our esteemed Police Commissioner and her grand-daughter, Scarlet. They are currently in stable condition but are still hospitalized. We send our best wishes to them and hope they meet a healthy return.”
Moral of the story: History is written by the victor.