Killing Amy (standard:drama, 6829 words)
Author: K. Derby	Added: Apr 18 2004	Views/Reads: 3385/2290	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A cop is convinced he's going insane. Cleaned up in response to some comments...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

them starting to shake. 

"Same guy?" I asked.  Please God, make him say no. 

"It looks like it," said Morales. 

Shit. 

"Tentative cause of death is strangulation," he continued in his dry
voice, all the while shooting me these little looks.  "The same pattern 
of burn marks on the chest." 

Little looks that said he knew. 

He pushed the report across the table closer to me.  "We'll know more
after the autopsy." 

I made another face again and pulled the report over and began to read. 
I already knew what it was going to say, but I had to go through the  
motions.  Out of habit, I fumbled my pack of smokes out of my  
sport-jacket pocket. 

"I s'pose it's my turn for that, too," I mumbled, referring to the
investigating officers presence at the post-mortem.  I shook out a  
cigarette from the pack while I scanned the report with a practiced  
eye. 

It didn't say much that I didn't already know.  Same hair colour, same
eyes.  Didn't know her name though. 

"I got the last one," replied Morales affably.  He gave me another one
of his looks.  "You'd better smoke that outside, John." 

*** 

I stubbed out my cigarette in the butt tray outside of the city morgue. 
 I really hated this part.  I became a cop twenty years ago, right  
after a stint in the army, to help people.  To be a hero, not watch  
them slice and dice stiffs. 

Of course, my five year hitch pretending to be a G.I. taught me to do
the job and not ask too many questions. 

But I still really hated this part.  Even more now that I'm on this task
force. 

I yanked open the heavy crypt-like doors and strode manfully across the
Unseemingly bright atrium to the security desk.  Carefully, I signed my 
name,  Detective John Bismark.   You got to be careful here they like 
their  paperwork neat, and I flashed my badge at the security geek, 
Robbie, an  older guy whom I've seen too many times. 

Twenty years on the job, over half with Homicide, and I hated the smell
of the morgue.  It was probably my imagination, but even the lobby  
stank of disinfectant.  They like things clean here too, you see. 

"Who's the Doc in D, Robbie?" I  ask the elderly receptionist. 

"Wolfram," muttered the man, flipping the page on his morning paper. 

Great.  Wolfram, the pathologists' answer to Dick Tracy. 

I grunted my thanks and turned down the hallway towards theater D. 

If this one was anything like the others, I'd give serious consideration
to loosing my carefully cultivated cool.  Wolfram or not. 

I took a deep breath and pushed open the swinging doors to the autopsy
theater. 

Two gowned figures looked up from their clipboards as I walked in.  They
stood over a sheet draped form that rested on a metal gurney in the  
center of the room. 

Stay cool, I'm thinking.  I really don't want to see what's under that
sheet. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not squeamish or a wimp or something.  I mean
I've seen enough corpses at crime scenes.  Hell, for that matter I've  
seen enough autopsies, too. 

This was different. 

"Hey Doc, Adam," I call out, sauntering into the green tiled room.  Not
a care in the world as I shrugged out of my sport jacket.  Everything's 
by the book and I'm just doing my job. 

Adam handed me a blue gown and face shield and helps me put them on. 
He's a nice guy, always willing to help out.  I think he knows how much 
I hate this place. 

The disinfectant smell, almost hospital like, is more pungent in this
room.  It's getting to me and I'm fogging my face shield with my heavy  
breathing.  I need to stay cool. 

"Detective Bismark," stated Wolfram, the gravelly voiced pathologist,
"you're late."  An accusation.  They can't start without me. 

I shrugged.  "Sorry."  Being cool meant that I didn't sound sorry at
all.  I really was hoping somebody would pull a fire alarm or  
something. 

The pathologist glared at me for a moment longer and snapped down his
face shield, motioning for his assistant to do the same. 

"We'll begin then," he said, glaring at me a final time before snapping
on the boom microphone hanging over the table.  "Post-mortem  
examination, file number 1005, Brenda Watchowski, deceased," the  
pathologist intoned. 

They always say that, the deceased part, I mean.  As if you'd need an
autopsy on a live body.  I think they call those things something else. 


He glances at me from over the still shrouded body.  I'm well distant,
trying not to let my nerves show, I guess. 

"We will begin then," he repeats, dragging it out so that I scream. 

Carefully he pulled back the sheet and began his dry, clinical,
description of the body. 

Sweet Jesus. 

I exhale sharply, the 'huff' loud in my ears, and my breath fogs the
plexiglass face shield as the finely featured face was exposed. 

Even with her face slack in death, I recognized her.  The hooker.  From
last night.  Christ, I hated this part. 

The evening had been a blurred memory, only snippets of images floating
back to me, I had been that drunk.  Brief images, jolts of entwined  
legs, her breasts, the intense sensation of her tongue as I came  
calling out her name: Amy. 

Only that wasn't her name, it was Brenda something, or so the doctor had
said. 

Amy was my wife. 

Jesus, the hooker was alive when I left her.  I think.  I really
couldn't remember. 

"Roll the body Adam," said the doctor.  "A tattoo, posterior lateral
gluteus," continued the pathologist in his dry, dead monotone as his 
assistant complied.  He  stopped, peering at the brightly coloured 
graphic.  "A butterfly, I  think," he said. 

I nodded without thinking, remembering the tattoo and the excitement
that it caused in me when I first saw it.  Hidden well under her skirt, 
 I had hardened almost immediately as she had peeled out of her 
panties. 

Not that I was into any weird kinky stuff.  It's just that I saw a
stripper once with a tattoo on her butt and it really got me going, if  
you know what I mean.  Ever since then, I've had a thing for tattoos on 
women.  Nice, tasteful ones, that is. 

I had been begging Amy to get one for months.  So far she had resisted. 

The pathologist was saying something to me, snapping me away from my
thoughts. 

"Wazzat, Doc?" I asked. 

"The burn is in the same place on this victim as on the other ones," the
pathologist repeated patiently.  He regarded me for a moment.  "Is  
everything all right, Detective?" he asked as Adam repositioned the  
corpse on its back again. 

I shook my head to clear it. I needed to act professional, this guy's
sharp, doesn't miss much.  Stay cool, you've seen this before. 

At least four other times, a small voice said from the back corner of my
mind. 

Four other dead hookers that, I swear to god, had been alive when I last
saw them. 

Christ, what in hell was going on? 

I stepped forward towards the body, bluish appearing under the halogen
light. 

It, the dead hooker, even looked like Amy.  I repress a shudder, trying
to act normal.  She could have been Amy's twin. 

Just like all the others. 

"There," the pathologist said pointing to a dark mark between the
corpse's breasts.  "A single burn mark."  He bent down and rummaged  
underneath the gurney for a moment, reappearing with a clear plastic  
tray. 

I watched, with a sinking feeling as the pathologist selected a plastic
bag containing a single cigarette butt. 

"The burn appears to have been caused by this cigarette butt which was
found stubbed out on the body."  He examined the butt for a moment  
before handing it to his assistant.  "We'll need a DNA analysis of  
this, see if the secretions match the others." He turned his attention  
back to me again. 

"It appears to be your brand, Detective," he said, jerking his chin at
the cigarette pack jutting out of the pocket of my sport jacket I had 
casually tossed  on the chair by the door. 

"Jesus, Doc!" I barked, the palms of my hands suddenly sweaty.  I
thought I was going to pass out, my heart was racing so fast.  "What  
the hell are you sayin'?" 

The pathologist cocked an eyebrow at me.  "I was merely making an
observation, Detective," he replied.  "Are you ill?" he asked, a note  
of concern entering his voice. 

So much for keeping my cool, I was practically pissing myself. 

"Perhaps you should sit down," Wolfram continues, peering at me closely.


Adam appeared at my side and gently began leading me to the chair by the
door. 

"I'm all right," I said, shaking off the morgue assistants' hands. 
"Just a little unnerved."  I smiled shakily at Adam.  "I'm okay,  
thanks." 

Adam nodded, not to sure if I was okay, I must have been looking kind of
gray, and returned to the gurney. 

The pathologist frowned slightly, as if disbelieving my assertion. 

"Well, let us continue..." 

*** 

It had been exactly like the others, I'm thinking.  I downed the last
gulp of beer in the bottle and set it down precisely on the ring of wet 
 it had left on the dark coloured bar top. The same burn mark, the  
sodomy.  Even the cause of death, strangulation, done by a  powerful  
man using his hands.  From behind.  The bruising on the neck showed  
that. 

I flexed my large hands on the edge of the bar, feeling the molding give
slightly.  I'm a big guy.  Strong too.  Amy says that I make her feel  
safe, I'm so big. 

Obviously I wasn't safe, five dead hookers was proving that. 

The thing that tied this dead hooker to all the others was the one fact
that never appeared in any of police reports:  I paid to have sex with  
her.  Just like the other four. 

I had been careful not to mention that to anybody.  You can figure out
why, I'm sure. 

I mean, it's not like I was embarrassed or anything, I know a lot of
guys who cheat on their wives with ho's. 

It's just that I would have a difficult time explaining why the last
five hookers' I'd slept with were now dead. 

Of course, Amy wouldn't take lightly to the sex part, I'm sure.  Not to
mention the dead. 

Add to that the fact that they all looked like Amy and the conclusion
was inescapable. 

I was killing them. 

But for the life of me, I just couldn't remember that.  I'm sure I would
have turned myself in if I had. 

Pretty sure, anyway. 

I mean, I had been drunk, sure, but not blackout drunk.  Thing was, I
just couldn't remember killing anyone.  I mean, I remembered some of  
the sex parts, you'd think I'd remember the killing too. 

Things have been rocky with Amy.  She's fifteen years younger than me,
I'm forty-five, and I'm slowing down.  She's at the age where women  
speed up, if you know what I mean. 

We argue almost constantly now: my drinking, how it affects my
performance in bed.  Her moodiness and reluctance to be close to me.  
It's almost like I disgust her. 

Maybe I do. 

We've been married only three months, this is my second time around, her
first.  I had fallen for her, hard.  She's so gorgeous and easy going.  
 I had her pegged for a cop groupie at first, she was always hanging 
out  in the same bars that I did.   We had a brief, intense affair and 
then  quickly gotten married.  Everyone had said that it wouldn't last. 


They were probably right.  Things had gone to hell pretty much from day
one.  They say women change once they get married.  I know my first 
wife had. 

The clattering of the pool table jolted me out of my dark thoughts. 

"Gimme another," I growled to the bartender who quickly uncapped another
Bud and set it down in front of me.  He moved down the bar, fast,  
obviously picking up a hint about my mood. 

I grabbed the cold bottle, it was just beginning to sweat in the stale
air, and reached into my pocket for my smokes.  I lit a  cigarette and 
blew out a stream of smoke with the practiced moves of a  lifelong 
smoker.  I do about a pack a day, something that Amy's  starting to bug 
me about. 

I drank about a quarter of the beer in one big swallow, just letting it
slide down my throat, it's coldness raising an icy feeling in my gut. 

I'd bet anything that those cigarette butts on the dead hookers were
mine. 

The thing was, the thing I didn't get, was the sodomy.  I don't go for
that weird stuff, the kink, but the doctor had insisted that it had  
taken place shortly before death.  The pathologist had been certain  
about that.  He showed me the tearing.  It sure looked brutal as hell. 

Just as sure as I am that those cigarette butts have my DNA all over
them. 

And something else.  I'm not a violent guy.  Yeah, I'm big, can look
mean and everything, but in my entire checkered career as a cop I've  
drawn my gun maybe a handful of times.  Hell, even when rousting bar  
fights, something that most guys take advantage of when they want to  
let out some aggression, I don't even hit anybody. 

Five dead whores tell me that I can do a lot more than hit. 

Some shrink will probably make a lot of hay about the killings. 
Probably say how I'm killing my wife over and over again.  How I'm  
killing her because of my repressed anger or some psychobabble  
bullshit. 

Hell, the damned profilers will probably be all over my ass while I'm
hanging out on death row waiting to get fried. 

You'd think that, what with all my experience as a cop, I'd be able to
hide the bodies so that they couldn't be found.  Go figure. 

I was probably drinking too much again.  I must have blacked out that
last time, with Brenda whatshername.  She looked like Amy, that was  
probably what attracted me to her in the first place. 

Things had actually been pretty clear that night.   Right up until I
started ordering rye instead of beer.  That had always been my drunk of 
 choice.  Amy and I had gotten into a particularly nasty argument that 
morning.   I didn't want to go home.  Not fully sober anyway.  I 
remember Morales  suggesting that I go home, but I shook him off.  
Things had gotten kind  of foggy after that.  I guess I had gotten 
drunk enough because I must have left.  I can't really remember. 

But I did remember the time with the hooker.  Well I can remember most
of it, anyway.  Not the really important part, though. 

How I had gotten home in one piece I didn't know, but I woke up in my
own bed. 

I took another drag of my cigarette as, reflected in the crud specked
mirror behind the bar, I watched Morales approach.  I exhaled slowly,  
the smoke billowing around me.  Maybe I'll get cancer and die before  
they catch me. 

Even at the end of a crappy shift Morales manages to ooze a sense of
competence, a 'shit togetherness' that I only dimly recall from my own  
youth. 

"About ready to go home, John?" Morales asked, slapping a hand on my
shoulder. 

Yeah, home, to my ball-curdling wife.   The one who makes my life hell. 
The wife that it looks like I'm killing. 

"I s'pose," I mumbled.  I set down my half finished beer and stagger off
the barstool.  I sway slightly until Morales catches me. 

"Whoa, John!" exclaimed Morales.  "I think you've got too much on board.
How about I get you home?" 

Even the barkeep nodded his agreement to that suggestion. 

"Sure," I respond, allowing Morales to lead me from the bar.  He can be
a real nice guy.  "You're a good frien'," I say. 

Morales expression darkened slightly; just for a moment, a small frown
crease appeared on his unlined, coffee-with-cream coloured, forehead. 

"Sure, John," replied Morales, "whatever you say." 

*** 

Morales bumped his late model sedan up my driveway. It was dark out, and
the lights were on in the living room.  Amy was home.  Wonderful. 

Morales shifted the car into park, staring into the windows' lighted
rectangle. 

"How's things with Amy," Morales asked, not taking his eyes off the
front of the house. 

"The same," I reply.  I had ridden in the passenger seat with the window
open.  The long ride and the night air seemed to have sobered me  
slightly.  Sobered me enough to not be look forward to getting home.  I 
fumbled with the unfamiliar door handle. 

"Thanks for the ride," I said when I finally figure the thing out. 

The front door of the house abruptly opened, silhouetting Amy, the
sudden motion grabbing both of our attention. 

She was wearing a lacy dressing gown that revealed more than it
concealed.  The light, shining through the door from behind her made  
the gown translucent, almost see-through, revealing the slender,  
shadowy columns of her legs culminating in a vee where her thighs  
ended. 

The rest of her was in shadow, but I knew what was there, in the
darkened curves and the hidden places. 

She was the most beautiful woman that I had ever laid eyes on. 

She stood there, lingering for a moment, peering into the car before
closing the front door with a slam that was probably loud even down the 
street. 

"She's ticked," said Morales, still staring at the front door. 

Yeah, I wonder why. 

Something that she said jumped into my mind.  She had told me one night,
while we were on our honeymoon in Cancun, 'You got to kiss a lot of  
toads before you find the right frog'. 

I looked down at my wrinkled pants.  I had managed to get some beer on
one of the knees. 

I think that I'm still a toad. 

*** 

I opened the front door and walked through.  It was still my house,
damnit. 

"Is Morales here?" came floating down from upstairs from where the
bedrooms were. 

No 'how was your day honey', or 'I've got dinner in the oven'.  No 'I
missed you dearest'. 

"He was just dropping me off," I said, hanging my sport jacket in the
hall closet and shuffling out of my shoes. 

"Where the fuck were you," Amy said, coming down the stairs.  She had
put on a ratty looking velour bathrobe overtop the lacy robe that she  
had on. 

"Never mind, I can smell it on you," she said when she got down to the
bottom stair.  She eyed my gun, hanging in the shoulder holster under  
my arm.  I had kept promising to teach her how to shoot but it just  
never happened.  Too many other things to do, I guess. 

"It was just a few after work," I said, my voice sounding as tight as my
throat. 

It hadn't been the same, not since a couple of months back when I was
cleaning out a storage closet in the basement. 

We had only been married for a couple or three months, still on the
honeymoon I guess, when I had come across a box of hers.  I was trying 
to move it,  making room for some more of her things, when it ripped 
open.  All kinds of  strange stuff came out: whips, dildoes, cuffs, you 
name it.  Even this  weird looking leather outfit, sort of like that 
Catwoman character from  the comic books except that it was red.  The 
damned thing was  monogrammed even.  A big yellow M.K right over the 
left tit. 

Frankly, I was disgusted.  I mean, I see enough weird shit during the
day that I didn't need to see it in my house. 

I finished the job, but I asked Amy what that box was about later that
night. 

She got all funny looking, like she was going to cry or something, and
asked if it turned me on. 

I said hell no, that I wasn't into that weird stuff, but I asked her
again what the box and leather outfit was for.  I mean, it didn't look 
like it had been  used for a long time, but I was curious.  It was my 
house, after all. 

She laughed and said that it was a Halloween costume from a long while
back. 

So help me I believed her and I joked about what a sexy devil she'd make
and that I was glad that she wasn't into the kink because that was just 
disgusting and unnatural. 

That was the first night that she slept in the guest room, complaining
about some woman problem that I didn't ask too much about. 

The next day, I'm telling Morales about the box, playing up how funny it
was finding it and all, when he gets this weird look on his face.  He  
asks me to describe this outfit again, which I do.  He takes off for a  
while, tells me he's going to sweat a snitch.  He comes back looking  
like the cat who swallowed the whole freaking aviary. 

The late night phone calls began after that.  The ones that, if I
answered, there'd be a hangup.  She'd take the phone out of the bedroom 
 and I could hear her talking in sort of a muffled whisper.  When I ask 
 her what the calls are about, she clams up, gets all stone-faced, and  
says it's nothing I need to concern myself about. 

I checked the other day and the box, the one with her Halloween costume,
is gone. 

Before all this, during the first three months of our life together,
she'd be willing to get it on at the drop of a hat.  Anywhere.  I mean, 
 the shower, the kitchen, and once, during a hot sweaty afternoon when 
I  was changing the tranny fluid in my car, in the garage, 
spread-eagled  on the hood of my car.  Now I had had to beg, plead, 
even get her  drunk. 

She was screwing around. 

Of course, I didn't have any proof, nothing real solid that I could
throw in her face.  Just a gut feel and a lot of circumstantial  
evidence. 

That's about the time when I started drinking again.  Not recreational
drinking either.  I mean real serious I-intend-to-get-shitfaced  
boozing.  Just like in the old days. 

I hadn't done that for years, ever since the first wife left me.  It's
not pretty when it happens. 

Her eyes bored into mine and I looked away, ashamed, because I knew that
look.  Pity, yearning, and a whole pile of other things.  A look that  
meant that I was drinking too much and I had a wife who wouldn't have  
me.  A look that made me feel small and worthless. 

I looked away.  A man can't stand to see his wife look at him like that.


"I'm going to bed," she said in a bored tone.  A tone that I had found
out meant that she had scored a point off of me. Because I looked away. 
 These wordless arguments, the constant sniping.  It was like walking 
on  eggshells every time I came home. 

"You could always leave," I said, disbelieving the words as soon as they
came out of my mouth.  Maybe I was going nuts, maybe I really did want  
her to leave.  Maybe that would be for the best. 

God, I hope not.  I still loved her. 

And I had no idea what the problem was. 

She ignored me as she turned and walked up the stairs. 

Love or not, right then, I could have killed her.  I could have just
pulled the gun out from underneath my arm and shot her dead.  Yeah,  
like I'm not a violent guy. 

I wouldn't do that though, just like she wouldn't leave me.  She
couldn't.  The pre-nup we had signed before the marriage would give her 
 nothing.  The only way that she could get anything out of a divorce 
was  if I was dead or in prison.  Of course, if I was dead, she'd get 
it  all.  She had to stick around because I had the money.  The amount 
she  made at the call center wasn't enough to keep her in the style 
that she  wanted.  Too bad I had to come with the wallet. 

Nice thoughts for a man who just came home. 

The phone rang when she got to the top of the stairs.  She must have
answered it up there, because it stopped ringing while I was looking in 
the  fridge for something to eat. 

It was him again.  I could tell by the sound of her voice.  I couldn't
hear her words, but I was willing to bet money that it was something  
dirty, something to do with them hooking up later.  By the time I got  
to the phone, they had hung up.  All I hear was a dial-tone. 

She'd scored another point off of me. 

I think I liked her better before we got married. 

I sat down at the kitchen table chewing my cold spaghetti.  It was
lifeless and hadn't been covered properly so parts of it were hard and  
crusty.  I chucked it, plate and all, into the garbage.  Let her fish  
the plate out if she wanted it.  She'd probably just buy another set. 

Bitch. 

I went to the hall closet again, took out a jacket and peeled the keys
to Amy's car off of the rack that we keep just inside the door.  I  
probably shouldn't drive but I needed to get out.  I needed some air  
and a drink. 

*** 

I had belted back my first shot of rye when I saw him walk into the bar.


It was a crummy little bar, not far from the station, but it served
cheap booze and was dark.  It stank of stale beer and even staler piss, 
but it suited my mood perfectly. 

He couldn't see me because I was at the bar, sitting behind the cash
register that partially blocked me from the door. 

Morales. 

He was looking for someone.  Scanning the place for somebody sitting in
a booth.  He obviously didn't find them because he sat down at an empty 
booth and checked his watch. 

I had a choice: I could walk over and have a drink with my partner, or I
could hide. 

When his back was turned, I got up and went to the washroom and hid
behind the slotted paneling, louvered I think they call it.  I was  
going to hide. 

Maybe I was nuts after all, playing secret agent on my partner. 

But you see, this kind of dive wasn't Morales' speed.  He's more of a
fern bar kind of guy.  A clean, well lighted place where the music is  
loud and they serve imported beers on tap.  Not some dumpy bucket of  
blood. 

Plus, I wanted to know why he was here. 

And I didn't have to wait long. 

Not even a minute had gone by when Amy walked in. 

I did the classic double take.  Amy.  Morales.  Now It all made sense. 
The bitch.  The prick.  The late night phone calls, her always having  
some excuse not to be around the guy. 

He was screwing my wife.  She was screwing my partner. 

I almost came out of my hiding spot just then.  I was going to confront
them and laugh as I fed them my gun.  One bullet at a time. 

But I didn't. 

I mean, there was something not quite right here.  He gets up, he shakes
her hand and he sits down.  Shakes her hand? 

I mean, I don't expect people who are having an affair to get down and
dirty when they meet, but shaking the hand is so... cold. 

When she sits down, I get a good look at her. 

Not Amy. 

Pretty damn close though, sure had me fooled for a bit, but it wasn't
her.  The same hair, same general figure, even the same mouth.  
Different eyes  though.  Amy's are green, this woman had blue eyes. 

So now, I'm really busting a gut trying not to run over there and ask
what the hell is going on.  Only I'm holding back because I want to see 
what they're going to do. 

Then it hits me.  I mean, like a ton of bricks, it hits me. 

Morales is killing the hookers. 

I don't have much imagination, I think that I've mentioned this before,
but right then, I could really imagine him doing it to those poor  
girls. 

It fit.  He was always with me when I went out and got drunk.  It
wouldn't be too hard to follow me when I'm like that.  He could have  
done it.  He had the means, he's always working out, and he had the  
opportunity.   Motive was something we could get into when I was  
grilling him. 

It's always the quiet ones you have to watch out for. 

It figures, though.  I always end up solving the cases through dumb
luck.  I interview the wrong guy, I'm looking the other way, I spend  
hours going over useless reports then recognize the perp sitting in a  
bar. 

Morales calls it dogged determination and good police work.  I know
better though. 

I watched them for a few moments, they were talking quite intently for a
bit, when they got up and left. 

I figure it's going down now.  He's going to take her somewhere, stick
it up her butt and strangle her. 

I'm also figuring that it's a good thing that I brought my gun.  I
figured I was going to need it.  Hell, I was going to use it and enjoy 
it. 

I give them a second to clear the door and I follow them out onto the
street.  After a panicky moment, I spot them turning a corner.   I walk 
 real fast to the corner, figuring I'll hang back until Morales makes  
his move. 

I'm just rounding the corner when my head explodes. 

*** 

I think it was the gunshot that woke me up.  I knew one had been fired,
I could smell the bitter stink of cordite. 

And the coppery smell of blood. 

Morales was the one that I saw first.  The front of his shirt was
covered with blood, a neat dime-sized hole in his shirt low on his  
chest.  He was still alive; his mouth was moving, trying to talk.  No  
sound came out, only bubbles of blood.  His blood was welling through  
his shirt in a slow, pulsing spread. 

Morales was dying. 

It was then that I became aware of my service gun in my hand.  The slide
was back and open, the gun was empty. 

I looked at Morales again, a new horror springing to my mind. 

I must have blacked out and shot my partner. 

Jesus, it used to be that I needed a lot of rye before that happened.  I
only had one at the bar.  I guess I was in trouble and my head was  
killing me. 

Only it was okay, because Morales was killing those hookers. 

I wasn't going crazy after all. 

Morales kept jerking his eyes down towards the end of the alley.  Like
he was trying to get my attention or something.  So I looked. 

There were two figures down at the end, only dimly visible in the crappy
light coming from the street.  They looked like they were wrestling...  
or screwing. 

I could hear them.  Muffled shrieks, almost squeaks really, coming from
the woman and deeper, guttural grunts coming from the man.  Whatever  
they were doing, it sure as hell didn't look consensual.  I could see  
his arm wrapped around her neck in a kind of choke-hold. 

I looked back at Morales and saw that he was straining, blinking like
crazy, staring at my useless gun.  Trying to tell me something. 

Something like this was the guy doing all the killing. 

Not too many people know about my throw-down piece, just Amy.  She's
seen me take it off enough times.    It's a crummy little .32, nowhere  
near the stopping power of my service Glock.  But it's small, fits  
neatly on my ankle, and I can get at it if I need it.  Frankly, I  
didn't even know if it worked anymore. 

I guess I needed it, and it worked just fine.  It worked well enough to
put a bullet right into the temple of the murdering, raping,  
son-of-a-bitch who was making my life a living hell. 

Dimly, from behind me and through my splitting head, I hear some citizen
yammering on a cell-phone about gunshots.  He sounded excited. 

Good.  Someone was going to show up and take of Morales.  He looked too
far gone for my G.I. issue first aid to help much.  Besides, Morales 
was a big boy.  I wanted to see who this fucker that was playing with 
my head was. 

I hauled myself off the garbage strewn floor of the alley one stinking
inch at a time and stagger over to the pair of lumpy shapes sprawled by 
the dumpster. 

Jesus, there was so much blood that I thought I got her too, but as I
got closer I could see that she was twitching and gagging; puking 
another layer of reek onto the alley floor.   The fresh corpse flopped 
obligingly when I heaved it off of the woman.  Even though the face was 
all bloated and distorted looking, head shots do that sometimes, I was 
struck by a single clear thought that managed to hammer through my 
aching head. 

I'd seen this guy before. 

*** 

It turns out that the dirtbag doing the killings was some dickhead I put
away a few years back for armed robbery.  I don't really remember him,  
I've put away so many guys, but he sure remembered me.  He spent five  
years nursing a grudge and got out of jail a genuine psychotic whacko  
who followed me around trying to ruin my life. 

So much for rehabilitative justice. 

It was Morales who had it figured out.  He's always been the smart one. 
Morales had gone to the VA  hospital where I routinely give  blood and 
managed to wheedle a bag of the stuff off of one of the  nurses.  He 
won't say how he did it, but I think an exchange of favours  took 
place, if you know what I mean. 

He had connected those cigarette butts to me, they were my brand, and he
said that he had never seen anybody stub out a smoke like me.  
Apparently I put  some kind of accordion-like fold into it.  I never 
really noticed, but  I guess it's true.  I checked and he's right. 

At any rate, he had the lab compare the DNA on the cigarette butts to
the blood he had finagled.  They matched of course. 

Only thing was, and this makes him different from me, he knew that I
didn't do it. 

He trusted me. 

If the situation was reversed, I'm pretty sure I'd have been on the
stand testifying against him, not setting up a sting to catch the real  
murderer. 

Morales is fine by the way.  The doctors fixed his collapsed lung and he
should be back on the job in a couple of weeks for light duty.  So help 
me, I miss the bastard. 

Me, I'm on the rubber gun squad.  The I.A. people were a little bent out
of shape when they found out about the throw-down I was carrying.  It  
turns out that it wasn't registered, imagine that.  The Lieutenant  
tells me that it'll blow over soon and I'll probably just get a fine  
and it'll be done with. 

I'm off the sauce now, too.  Strictly beer from now on in.  I can't
drink like I used to, let me tell you. 

Officer Stiles, Laura - she was the one who looked like Amy, the one
that Morales met that night, she's doing okay too.  She's still seeing  
that shrink, but she's tough.  I sent her flowers the other day.  A  
nice girl, she works down in Vice on the John Squad.  She told me that  
it was a sort of occupational hazard. 

Thank god the freak used a rubber. 

And Amy? 

It turns out that Morales recognized the description of that leather cat
suit that I found.  He used to work Vice a while back and checked his  
connections. 

It turns out that Amy used to be known as Mistress Kitty while she was
putting herself through college.  A B&D queen or something like that. 

We're seeing a couple's therapist about it.  As it turns out, Amy wanted
to get out of the life (as she calls it) and hooked up with me, a  
regular meat and potatoes kind of guy.  She really loves me and was  
terrified that someone would find out.  She was especially afraid of  
Morales.  She recognized him from her days as Mistress Kitty. 

It's hard work, the therapy, but we're getting through it. 

The phone calls, the ones with the hang-ups, were from Morales too. 
Talking to her, giving information on support groups and stuff.  Being 
a stand-up guy,  trying to help my wife. 

Imagine that though - me being married to a dominatrix.  Ex dominatrix,
that is.  She doesn't want to do the kink anymore and I never did. 

But, let me tell you, I've got a helluva rep down at the precinct now, a
badass crack shot with an ex-ho wife. 

God, I love this job. 


Tweet