The Cycle
Posted: January 1st, 2010, 8:14 pmOK folks, here is a new story of mine. It is totally unrelated to the forums. It is a mystery thriller.
WARNING: This definitely contains violence, blood, sexuality, and some language.
MoDEdit:
*will be edited with subtitle later*
The Cycle
To catch a killer…you must become one.
Chapter 1
"There. Up ahead."
Three police cars rounded a corner into a narrow alley of New York City, sirens piercing the otherwise silent night. They came to a stop in front of a shadowy mass lying motionless in the road, and several men in blue suits with handguns raised quickly exited their vehicles.
"That's a body right there!" said one of them as they approached. He started to rush forward.
"Stop!"
The police officer turned. Another officer wearing sunglasses approached. "Let me handle this," he said.
The police officer stepped back as the man with the sunglasses knelt beside the body. It was facing away from him. He rolled it over, and as he did so, several of the men gasped. "Got 'em right between the eyes," he muttered, and indeed, the dead man's face was covered in blood coming from a round hole in between the eyes. "Tool kit," said the man in the sunglasses, and one of the police officers quickly handed him a small box with the name "Wexler" scrawled on it in black marker. He pulled out a pair of thin metal tongs and then beckoned two of the other police officers. "Hold the skin apart while I try to extract the bullet," he said. The two police officers did so, looking away from the gore oozing out of the bullet hole in disgust. The man with the tongs inserted them into the hole, causing a grotesque scrunching sound.
"Good God, Sam," said one of the police officers holding the skin apart. "Make it fast or I'm gonna vomit!"
"Jimmy," said Sam, raising his sunglasses, "I got to take you to a slaughterhouse one day." He then smirked, lowered his glasses, and went back to work.
Jimmy scowled, then made faces at Sam while he wasn't looking. Sam, meanwhile, found the bullet and pulled it out, squirting more blood out of the bullet hole in the process. The other officers winced. Sam held up the bullet and then turned it around in the tongs. "Like I thought," he said. ".41 Magnum."
At that moment, something else caught Sam's attention. He leaned over the body and then pointed towards a spot on the pavement.
"Oh my," said a female police officer, drawing her hand towards her mouth. Lying next to the dead man's body was a smiley face roughly five inches in diameter drawn in the victim's blood.
Sam stood up slowly, and not taking his eyes off the dead body, said, "It's him."
"Morning Dave."
"Morning Dad."
Sam Wexler was sitting at his old wooden kitchen table enjoying an egg and bacon sandwich on an English muffin. "Where you going?" he asked his son, who quickly grabbed a bag off the kitchen counter.
"To school."
"But your first class isn't for another two hours! And did you eat any breakfast?"
Dave grimaced. "No, Dad, but I'm fine."
Sam smiled, "Here, I'll make you an egg sandwich. You can take it on the road if you're in such a hurry to go…what the heck are you doing anyway, going to make out with your girlfriend or something?" he teased.
Dave turned at the doorway and smiled. "Yeah, sure Dad," he said, walking back to the kitchen and sitting in an empty wooden chair matching the table. There was a minute of silence as his father cooked. Dave, lacking anything better to do, looked around the room, at the white tile floors, the wooden kitchen counter which was shaped like two sides of a square, the white walls, the fluorescent lights, the windows - it was a sunny day and the neighbors' children were playing in their yard. A pleasant sight.
"So how's school been?" asked Sam. "You leave so early and you come home so late and I hardly ever get to talk to you anymore."
"Well, you know, I'm pretty busy--"
"Yeah yeah yeah, and you have a life and you're all grown up and yadda yadda yadda. I get that. But you didn't answer the question." Sam was in a good mood, and was smiling as he put the English muffin in the toaster oven.
Dave thought for a moment. "Well, it's Columbia. What do you expect? The professors are great, the faculty is great, everything's great."
"I'm not gonna have to get mad with you when I get your report card, will I?"
Dave grinned. "Oh come on, Dad! You know I quit being lazy…well…"
"Never," offered Sam, and they both laughed. "Ah, well, any classes in particular you like?"
"Yeah…I really like my Forensic Science course. The professor's great…I think he knows you, actually. Mark Burgess ring a bell?"
"Mark Burge-ow!" Sam rapidly drew his hand away from the pan in which he was making the eggs. "Oh, goddamn it! Sorry, just burned myself."
"Yeah, you all right?" asked Dave.
"Yeah, just fine. Mark Burgess, huh? Give him my regards. Tell him the department's gone to hell since he left."
"I will," said Dave. "I will."
Sam got off the subway at 103rd Street on the west side of Manhattan. He climbed up the staircase to street level, paused, adjusted his trademark sunglasses, and then turned and walked down Broadway. Sam was in his late forties but looked significantly younger, and occasionally would joke that when you move to the city, you stop aging. He was a good-humored man outside of work, but when he was working he was as serious as a man could ever be. He was white, about six feet tall, had blue eyes and brown hair, and was at a healthy weight, as of his last visit to his physician.
He smiled to himself as he rounded the corner of Broadway and 100th, and soon he reached his destination, 151 100th Street, the 24th Precinct of the New York Police Department. Sam was a detective for the NYPD, a detective who had a very interesting case on his hands. Briefcase in hand, he entered the building. He took off his coat and hung it on a hanger in a short corridor between the entrance and a second door. He then pushed on through the second door and was instantly met by the sound of rapid typing and the smell of coffee. "Ah," he said, "coffee." He turned right and walked towards a block of cubicles, patting several of his coworkers on the back as he passed and occasionally exchanging greetings. Finally, he reached his cubicle, equipped with a desk, chair with wheels, pens, pencils, paper, a Macintosh which he had bought himself since the police department would only pay for PCs, a mouse, and a keyboard. He sat down and turned on his computer.
"Morning Sam."
Sam turned to see Jimmy Sanborn standing over him. Jimmy was another detective in the department and a good friend of Sam's. "Morning," the latter replied. "Got any information on the victim from last night?"
"Yeah, name's Gregory Matton. A 24-year old kid who lived near the scene of the crime. Was doing grad work at Columbia. This is his apartment address and I also got you the address of his family's residence." Jimmy gave Sam a sheet of paper.
"Nice work," Sam said. "All right, go tell the boss that I'm heading out to snoop around."
"Got it," Jimmy said, turning away from the cubicle.
Sam looked at the paper for a moment, then kicked his chair back. "Hey Jimmy!" he called.
"Yep?"
"Get me a cup of joe for the road, will ya?"
"Sure thing."
"Right, thanks!" Sam stood up and grabbed his briefcase. Time to try and make sense of everything.
Chapter 2
Here were the facts. Seven murders had been committed by an unidentified serial killer who was only linked to all seven murders by his two signatures: his preference for .41 Magnum bullets and taste for drawing smiley faces next to the dead bodies using the victim's blood. None of the murders had witnesses, so there was nearly no information to use to identify the killer. It was just the kind of case Sam liked. He had not had a case as interesting as this one since the one that put him on the map several years prior, in which he solved a complex mystery involving two murderers and twelve murdered. But enough of old glory. Sam had a job to do. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. Mmm…nothing like coffee.
He parked his police car on the side of 113th street next to an apartment building about ten stories high. He climbed up a staircase to the eighth floor, then walked down a hallway to a door labeled "8G." Sam noted that the building was fairly old and decrepit. He pulled a key that Jimmy had given him and fit it into the lock. The door opened, and Sam stepped inside. The room was musty and covered in a layer of dust. It was a small apartment, but certainly adequate for one person. Sam was not optimistic about his search; the last six victims turned up nothing. Nevertheless, he did a thorough search of the room, from the kitchen counter to under the bed. Once again, his search turned up nothing. Disappointed but not surprised, he turned to leave when something caught his eye. The ceiling was made of a soft cardboard-like tile, and one of the tiles was loose. He took a chair and stood on it, then pulled the tile down. With it came several dried flowers and leaves. Ah, thought Sam, satisfied. Now we're getting somewhere. He immediately left the room and returned to his police car. He picked up a walkie-talkie like device connected to the radio.
"Jimmy," he said. "This is Sam. Do you read me? Over."
A pause, then, "Yep, Sam, loud and clear."
"All right, classify the case as drug-related. I found a stash of pot in the victim's apartment. This might be some major drug deal gone bad or something. I'm going to question the family now."
"All right, Sam, will do. I'm out."
Thirty minutes later, Sam was in the company of Mrs. Matton. The two were sitting in her first-floor apartment in a living room on two couches facing each other.
"I understand what you're going through," said Sam, "but I need you to answer a few questions for me so I can help track down your son's murderer. Will you cooperate?"
Mrs. Matton, a woman of perhaps fifty years of age, was sobbing quite uncontrollably, and it was hard to make out the "yes" through the tears.
"Good. Tell me about your son."
Mrs. Matton grabbed a tissue and wiped away her tears. "Well, he was a good…boy…always…very nice…smart…very smart…lots of friends…"
"Could I ask you to write down the names of his closest friends?" Sam asked politely.
"Yes…of course, officer…." Mrs. Matton took the notepad and pen that Sam offered her and wrote down five names and then decorated the paper with more tears.
"Mrs. Matton…his father…"
"Died in Iraq," replied Mrs. Matton, sobbing even more uncontrollably. Sam felt bad for making her so distraught, but he had to do what he had to do.
"I'm sorry," said Sam sincerely. "Only a few more questions and I'll be out of your way. As far as you're aware, Greg was not involved in any illegal activities, correct?"
But at that moment, a bullet shattered a window of the apartment and hit Mrs. Matton in her right arm. Sam jumped out of his seat and ran to the window only to see a vague figure disappear around a corner. He pressed a button on a gadget in his pocket, pulled out a gun, and then jumped through the broken window and started running. He went around the corner, but the shooter was nowhere in sight.
"Dangit," Sam said. "Missed him."
"He must have been just under six feet tall and he was male, I think. That's all I could make out."
Sam was back at the police station explaining what had happened to his boss, Dan Briggs. Sam was not happy. He had a great opportunity and he blew it. Sigh.
"Well, Mrs. Matton has had the bullet extracted," said Dan. "She's traumatized, I think. Very frightened. She wants to go home."
"Go home?" Sam nearly jumped out of his seat. "But I need to question her some more! The killer wouldn't have come back for her if she didn't know something important!"
"You can't question her now, Sam. After what she's been through? You'd be lucky if she let you within twenty yards of her."
Sam sighed. Dan was right and he knew it.
"All right. But she can't go home. What if the killer tries again?"
"We told her that. She doesn't care. She just wants to go home. Johnson's going to be on a 12-hour watch of the place, and I'm gonna keep rotating guys into that slot for a few days."
Sam shook his head. He didn't like it. "All right. She can go home, but you'd better be sure nothing happens to her. I want to be able to question her if I need to." He stood up and walked out of Deputy Brigg's office. As he walked to his cubicle, Jimmy came up to him.
"Hey Sam!" he said. "What happened man?"
"Our culprit tried to snuff the witness while I was questioning her." He took out his notepad and ripped off the front page. "Here. Look up these guys. They're friends of Matton's. I'm guessing that you'll find at least one of them linked to an illegal pot scheme of some kind. Look into it and get back to me. I'm going home."
"Got it," said Jimmy, taking the paper and running off. Sam then grabbed his briefcase from his cubicle and went home.
Chapter 3
Alarm clock. Hit button. Get up. Shower. Get dressed. Put on sunglasses. Walk to kitchen. Make egg and bacon sandwich. Sam's morning routine was pretty straightforward. The small kitchen television was on. SportsCenter. They were talking about the next big NFL prospect. Good, thought Sam. His Giants were not doing too well, and they needed a fresh young guy to give the team a boost. He wolfed down his sandwich, turned off the TV, grabbed his briefcase and started walking towards the front door.
"Morning, Dad."
Sam turned around and saw Dave standing in the opening to the kitchen. "Oh hey Dave!" said Sam. "I've got to run…got a lot to do today…"
"Whoa," said Dave. "You don't have to be in till nine. It's only eight. So it's all right for you to just rush out, but I have to sit down and suffer through a conversation in which you constantly tease me?"
Sam smiled. "Well, at least I ate my breakfast."
Dave chuckled. "Sit down, talk for a bit, make me an egg sandwich, whatever. You got a date on the subway or something?"
Sam burst out laughing. If his kid was anything, it was witty. And a good memory. Combine those two and you get your own jokes thrown right back at you. "All right, you win. So what do you want to talk about?" he said as he started making .
"I don't know. Life. Your work. Whatever. Just…we haven't talked much since Mom died."
Sam sighed. Mom. What a wonderful woman she was. But stubborn. She kept very healthy, exercising a lot and eating her vegetables. But she was arrogant in that she thought that, regardless of her family history, serious harm could never befall her. Despite his pleas, she never saw doctors. She didn't go for exams when she should've. By the time she finally saw somebody, the cancer had already metastasized to several places, and she died a month later. It was true, he had kept to himself more since then.
"Well, I'm working on an interesting case. Serial killer who's killed seven people in five weeks. Smart. Covered up his, well, we don't even know the gender for Christ's sake, his or her tracks really well. We've got practically no leads. Two tendencies: .41 Magnum is his preference and he - or she - has a morbid taste in art. Like's to draw smiley faces out of the blood of the dead victim next to his or her body. And his most recent victim was involved in drug dealing, I think; I found marijuana in his apartment. Speaking of which, he went to Columbia…Gregory Matton was his name…you know him?"
Dave paused for a moment. "Matton…Matton…don't think I know him. Is he undergrad or grad? Cause I don't know too many of the undergrad…"
"Grad, I think," said Sam, serving Dave his egg sandwich.
"Huh…don't know him."
"Tsk tsk. How can you be a good detective if you don't know everybody? Can't get your inside information without it."
Dave laughed, nearly choking on his sandwich in the process. "Stop it Dad! You're making me look like a slob!"
"Cause who's looking?" said Sam. "Anyway, I really should get going. I'll see you later today maybe."
"Maybe," said Dave. "Maybe."
"Dan. Johnson's wrapping up, right?"
"Yep."
"Good," said Sam, grabbing a cup of coffee from a machine that sat on a little table along the wall next to Dan Briggs' office. "I want the next slot."
"Sam, she's been through a lot. This isn't the time."
"I don't give a damn if this is the time!" said Sam angrily. "Is it worth risking another life because it isn't the time to interrogate a witness? I'm not holding her at gunpoint or anything."
Dan sighed. "All right, take the slot. But don't be too hard on her."
"Yeah yeah, I got it," Sam said. He practically ran to his cubicle, grabbed a few papers, then hustled over to Jimmy Sanborn's cubicle. "Got any info on Matton's friends?"
"Yep," Jimmy replied. "None of them have records. I could get some warrants."
"Hmm…wait on that for now. I'm gonna go try Mrs. Matton one more time."
"All right. See you later."
Sam quickly walked out the back door of the department and got into his police car. He started driving, and immediately came to a red light. He sat. Ten seconds. Sam was getting a bad feeling about something…twenty seconds. Damn, the lights are slow today! Sam desperately wanted to get moving, and he began to consider turning on his sirens, allowing him to pass through red lights. It's not an emergency though…he didn't want to get in trouble with his boss. Thirty seconds. Damn Dan Briggs. Sam turned on his sirens and plowed through the intersection, nearly sending another driver into the sidewalk. Left, right, red light, merge, accelerate, decelerate, brake. After about five minutes, he arrived. But something was wrong. Officer Johnson's car was there, but he was nowhere in sight. Sam quickly adjusted his sunglasses, grabbed his gun, and flew out of the car. Oh ♥♥♥♥. Johnson was in the driver's seat. Sam dashed to the driver's door, slammed his hands up against the window, and looked in. Lying in the driver's seat, car keys in his hand and a bullet in his head, was Johnson, and a blood-red smiley face was drawn on the center of the steering wheel.
"Damnit!" cried Sam. No time to linger, though, not even to check for the .41 caliber bullet. The blood looked fresh…the killer might still be here. And if Mrs. Matton is alive, she'll be in serious danger. Sam ran up the steps to the apartment building, open the door, and charged down the hallway to the door to Mrs. Matton's apartment. He grabbed the handle. Locked. Damn it all. Sam took a few steps back to the wall opposite the door, then charged forward and kicked the door down with an unusually loud sound. Sam stood still for a moment, thinking, then realized that there was more than one sound. He pulled his gun out of its holster and held it out, then proceeded into the room slowly, looking for the killer. His eyes darted from left to right; if he was not attentive, he could be dead at any moment. He stepped as quietly as he could and rounded a corner, revealing the living room where he had sat with Mrs. Matton on the two couches, and there, lying on the same couch she had sat on the day previous, was Mrs. Matton, clothes torn and bullet holes where her eyes had once been and the blood smiley on the couch fabric. Sam nearly swore, but did not want to alert the killer to his presence. Not that it likely mattered; a killer as smart at this would've probably realized somebody came in when he kicked the door down, but nevertheless, he wanted to take all precautions. Suddenly, Sam felt a cool breeze against his face. Breeze. Indoors. Open window. Sam, who's eyes had not focused on one spot for more than a second, immediately started looking at the windows. The one that had been broken the day before was not there. Sam initially concluded that the window was never replaced until he saw shattered glass on the floor. At that moment, Sam heard a car turn on out the window.
"Oh you ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥!" he cried, leaping out the window just in time to see his police car, which could be identified by the Deadhead bumper sticker on the back, be driven away by somebody else. "Hmm…good at hotwiring a car, too…" said Sam, and then immediately took off around the side of the building. He ran back to the front door of Johnson's car tried to open it. Locked too. "Christ!" exclaimed Sam, at which point he elbowed the door window and shattered it. He reached in and unlocked the car, then opened the door, threw Johnson out, took his keys, got in the car, and turned it on. "Sorry, Sean," he said as he slammed the gas pedal. The wheels screeched due to the sudden acceleration and the car took off.
Sam quickly turned on the sirens and picked up the intercom. "This is Sam Wexler. Johnson and Mrs. Matton are dead, Briggs, by the hand of the killer. He has taken my car and…" Sam looked up and saw the Deadhead sticker, which was colored with a neon red that couldn't be missed, "…and is heading west on 96th Street towards the Henry Hudson Parkway. I am in pursuit in Johnson's car. I need backup immediately." He clicked off the intercom and accelerated the vehicle in an attempt to catch up to the killer, who was driving over 100 mph, not braking for other vehicles or red lights, which yielded in some very impressive wrecks. However, the killer's car received only a few scratches. It shifted lanes. Sam went to follow, but nearly hit a truck passing through the intersection with 10th Avenue. He slammed his hand on the car horn, covering it in Johnson's blood. Sam briefly looked at his hand in disgust, then quickly returned his focus to his pursuit.
After only a minute, the killer merged onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. Northbound. Sam followed. He was now breaking 100 mph himself, and nearly hit several other cars as they quickly tried to maneuver out of the way. "Come on, faster!" cried Sam, as he at last began to gain on the killer. 125th Street exit. 158th Street exit. 110 miles per hour. Constant lane shifting. The killer continued to smash cars out of his way, having the advantage of Sam's police car being an SUV. Sam was constantly swearing and throwing in remarks including, "I'm not gonna let you get away this time, you son of a ♥♥♥♥♥!" George Washington Bridge exit. The killer moved into the exit lane. Crap, this has got a major curve, thought Sam. I've gotta slow down. He followed the killer onto the exit for the bridge, then onto a second exit for the bridge's upper level. Please, let there be standstill traffic, thought Sam. But alas, his pleas were to no avail, for traffic was moving smoothly. He accelerated again, pushing the limits of the vehicle. Now he was definitely closing in. "I've got you now, ♥♥♥♥♥!" cried Sam as he shifted into the lane to the right of that of the killer and began to pull along side him. He looked through the killer's driver door mirror and tried to make out the face of the person inside. He squinted. Wait a second, thought Sam. That looks like -
But before he could complete his thought, the killer abruptly and rapidly turned to the right, skidding to a complete stop directly in front of Sam. "Oh ♥♥♥♥!" cried Sam as he desperately turned the wheel as far to the right as he could in an attempt to avoid colliding with the car. He successfully got out of the lane in the nick of time, but suddenly realized he was in the path of a truck…
An incredible force hit the back right side of Sam's car and it was flung into the air, spinning, directly into the suspension wires on the side of the bridge…
Chapter 4
Sam slowly opened his eyes. Everything was white. After a few seconds, his eyes focused, and he realized that he was staring at a white ceiling. He slowly tried to turn his head, but then winced in pain. What happened? he thought as he stared at the white ceiling again. So bare, so plain.
Suddenly, he heard a door open, then footsteps rushing towards him. "Oh, thank goodness, he's come out of it!" Sam tried to turn his head, only this time he was able to do so to some extent before having to stop. "Where am I?" he asked the person who was presumably just outside his range of vision.
"Mount Sinai," said a man.
"Oh," said Sam detachedly. "What happened?"
"You were pursuing somebody on the G.W. Bridge and got into a nasty accident. It's a miracle you're alive. Got away with a three day coma and a mild concussion, and that's it."
Suddenly, Sam remembered everything. "Oh, right," he said. "Can visitors see me?"
"Sure," said the man, who Sam concluded must be a doctor. "Your son's waiting outside now, and a man named Dan Briggs said to call for him when you come around."
"Great," said Sam. "So how long am I in this joint?"
"Until you feel ready to leave. Medically, you're cleared to leave, but I imagine that you're in a fair deal of pain, so you're welcome to stay for a few days."
Sam sighed. "Thanks. Can you send my son in?"
"Of course," said the doctor. "If you need anything, just hit the button on the left side of your bed."
"All right," said Sam as he heard the doctor exiting the room. He went back to staring at the ceiling. Great. This definitely was how I wanted to spend the week.
At that moment, another person hurried in. "Dad?" the person said.
"Hey Dave!" replied Sam, smiling for the first time since he came out of the coma. "What's up?"
"Oh, besides keeping me worried sick since the accident, nothing much," responded Dave, pulling a chair up to the bedside. "How are you feeling?"
"Weak. I can't move very well without pain, but I'm sure I'll be feeling better in a little while," Sam smiled. "Don't worry about me, kid. I'll be fine. What time is it anyway?"
Dave looked around the room and found the clock. "10:30," he said.
"Goodness…shouldn't you be at school?"
"Well, you were in a coma, Dad," Dave replied dryly.
"Well, I'm not now. Go on and get yourself to school, I'll be all right. You can come by after classes."
Dave grabbed Sam's hand and squeezed it. "All right, Dad."
Dan Briggs was getting ripped by Sam Wexler. Truth was, he deserved it. What had happened was due to his unwillingness to take extra precautions, and he knew it. That didn't make it any more pleasant.
"From now on, Dan, I'm running things my way. You don't like it, find something to complain about to your superiors to get me fired. I don't care. This damn business is gonna kill me one day."
"Yeah, yeah, I get your point, Sam," said Dan, sighing heavily. "So, anything nice to say?"
Sam calmed down. "The killer got away, I presume."
"Naturally," said Dan.
"That figures. And I totaled the car, I presume?"
"Yep. What happened?"
"He skidded to a stop right in front of me. I was going quite fast…so was he…and I swerved out of way but got slammed by a truck…that's the last thing I remember."
"You didn't see who it was, did you?"
Sam paused, thinking. He had seen the killer's face…and he remembered he thought it looked like somebody he knew…but he just couldn't remember. "I think I caught a glimpse of the killer before it happened…but…I can't remember what he looked like at all…"
Dan smiled slightly. "Well, I guess I can't really expect you to, can I?"
"No, I don't suppose so," said Sam, also giving a small smile.
Dan stood up and reached out to Sam, who weakly grabbed his hand and shook it. "Well," said Dan, "I'd better be heading back to the station. See you later, all right, Sam?"
"Don't worry…this is gonna be a short vacation," said Sam, now grinning.
Three days later, Sam was making his usual egg sandwich for breakfast. He was still feeling a little weak; he wasn't about to go leaping across the tops of skyscrapers, but he was feeling much better and was ready to go back to work. He flipped the egg in the pan while watching the television. Dave was sleeping in that morning since he had school off. Twenty minutes later, Sam was on the subway train going to the police station. He had picked up a copy of the New York Times at the subway station and was reading it, sunglasses darkening the already black print. There was an article on his killer and a picture of Johnson's police car, totally demolished. Man, I really did a good job on that, he thought sarcastically. How did the media get these photos anyway?
He continued reading the paper for about another five minutes when it suddenly dawned on him that he couldn't remember what station to get off at. Crap, he thought. He tried to remember the address of the police station, but for the life of him couldn't think of it. How could I forget that? he thought. I suppose just an effect of the crash. It will wear off. But meanwhile, he had a bigger problem. He looked nervously around the train car. Nobody seemed to notice him. Quickly, he quickly unpinned his badge from his search and pocketed it. Nobody was looking at him. He sat for two more minutes, planning out what he was going to do in his head, before turning to a middle-aged woman sitting next to him.
"Excuse me," he said, as the woman looked up from her knitting. "I'm sorry to bother you, but do you know where the police station is?"
"The 24th Precinct?" she replied.
"Yes."
"It was at the last stop. On 100th street."
"Oh," he said. Great. He squirmed a bit uncomfortably as the subway approached the next station. "Um…thank you," he said as he quickly got out of his seat.
"Hey!" she said just as he was about to walk away. "You look familiar. Aren't you a police officer?"
Sam's face turned red. "No…for some reason I get that a lot though…I must look like one." And with that, he quickly turned and walked out of the subway car.
Chapter 5
"You're late, Wexler."
"Sue me Briggs."
Ah, home. This was where Sam needed to be. This was his life. He had just walked back into the 24th Precinct for the first time after the accident, and though he tried not to show it, Dan Briggs was happy to have him back, even if he was late.
"Quit fooling around and get to work!" said Dan, giving a small smile. Sam acknowledged, then went to his cubicle.
Or at least, that was what he was planning. Problem was, he didn't remember where it was. He supposed he was still recovering from the accident and looked about nervously. Nobody seemed to have noticed his discomfort. He then quickly went up on his tippy toes and looked over the tops of the cubicles to find the empty one. Bingo! He then quickly dropped back down and started walking to his cubicle before being intercepted by Jimmy Sanborn.
"Sam!" he exclaimed, slapping Sam on the back. "Great to have you back!"
"Thanks Jimmy," Sam replied. "How've you been?"
"Oh, the usual. In need of more coffee."
Sam laughed. "So, where were we in the case? I could use a refresher."
"Well, Matton's dead, his mother's dead, six other people are dead, the list of friends his mother gave us didn't turn up anything and you said to hold up on warrants."
"All right, I guess that's where we should pick up then."
"Sounds good," said Jimmy. "I'll get right on it."
"All right," replied Sam, finally reaching his cubicle. As he sat down in his chair, his cell phone rang. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out.
"Sam Wexler, NYPD."
"Hey Dad."
"Oh, hi Dave. What's up?"
"Just checking in. One of my professors got sick and he cancelled class, so I'm going home. You got to work all right and stuff?"
"Yeah," Sam paused nervously, "Getting here was…er…it was a blast."
"You sure you're all right? You sound a bit different."
"I'm fine," Sam said. "Don't worry about me. Worry about yourself, all right? I'll be fine."
Dave chuckled, then said, "All right, cause I'm gonna get into so much trouble in the subway."
"Oh, quit being a smart-ass," Sam replied humorously. "I'll see you in a few hours, all right?"
"Sure thing," ended Dave, hanging up.
Instantly, Jimmy approached Sam and began, "I've got the warrants." Never a moment of quiet in the 24th Precinct. Even if you put headphones and crank up some heavy metal to the loudest volume, an explosion will undoubtedly happen to ruin the peace. Not that there's a lot of peace in listening to heavy metal, but Sam didn't overly concern himself with that.
"All right," he replied. "I'm gonna go take care of a few of them. I'll keep in touch."
"Gotcha boss," replied Jimmy, handing Sam the papers and then taking off for the coffee machine. Sam chuckled as he watched Jimmy go, then grabbed a few things and then left.
First address: 18 86th Street. Sam read the warrant as he walked out of the subway station. Only in the city can people walk and not kill themselves without even looking where they are going. Life is funny, Sam thought, as he crossed 9th Avenue. He then walked along a sidewalk for a little while longer before rounding a corner onto 86th Street. It was entirely deserted minus cars parked along the side, but then again it was not a major street. He began walking down it just as the sun went down over the tops of the buildings, casting a dark shadow over the entire street. Suddenly, Sam began to feel a little dizzy, before crumpling to the ground as the world about him spun out of control. He lay there for nearly half a minute, passerbys on 9th Avenue giving him only a passing thought, merely assuming him to be another bum, his police clothes being undistinguished due to the shadow.
Finally, he stood up, the dizziness passing, and looked around. Where am I? he thought. What am I doing here? He recognized himself as being in New York City, but he couldn't remember how he got to where he was. He simply stood there, perplexed, before coming to the conclusion that he still wasn't recovered from the accident on the bridge. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Jimmy Sanborn.
"Hello?"
"Jimmy, it's Sam. I'm not feeling too good. I might need a little more time off. I'm going home, tell Briggs."
"All right man. Take it easy."
"Thanks," replied Sam, hanging up. He then started walking home.
A quiet house. Put down the keys on the kitchen counter, take off jacket, start walking down hallway. Stop to inform Dave that he's going to sleep. Open door.
Empty room. Open window. Bullet casing and blood on bed. "Dave?" Scurry to bed; worry on face. .41 caliber bullet. Smiley face drawn in blood on bedsheets. "Dave! DAVE!!!"
Sam Wexler sat on his son's bed fingering the bullet casing the killer had left behind. Three hours had gone by since he had reported his son's disappearance. No success. It was gonna be okay, Jimmy had said. He didn't believe it. The killer never left his victims alive. Just because Dave was missing didn't mean that he was alive. He tried mustering some hope, but he couldn't. Detectives can't create illusions. Furthermore, he realized that the killer must know his identity, or else he almost certainly wouldn't have targeted his son.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps outside of the still open window. Maybe he's come back. Maybe the son of a ♥♥♥♥♥ has come back. He grabbed his gun out of his holster and leaped out the window. It was too dark to see, but he heard somebody running. Soon, he saw the outline of a figure, and without thinking twice shot it. It fell to the ground. He ran forward to the fallen body and, to his satisfaction, saw the killer, dead.
And then, it wasn't the killer. Before Sam's eyes, it transformed into a stray cat with a bullet through its head. Sam stepped back in shock. There was no mistake; he had seen the killer, but it was only a stray cat. Had he really been hallucinating? Trauma from the accident? Nothing made sense anymore.
Chapter 6
Sam found himself the next morning lying on his son's bed, his gun across his chest, his clothes from the previous day unchanged. He sat up and looked around. The window was still open and the smiley face drawn in blood had dried into the bedding. Sam rubbed his bloodshot eyes, then turned and looked at the clock. It was noon. He groaned, upset at himself for sleeping so late, and reached for the phone. He practically punched the buttons, then held the phone to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Briggs?"
"Yep. Sam?"
"Yep."
"How are you holding up?"
"Good enough. No progress, I imagine?"
"Nope."
Sam bowed his head in despair, but kept it to himself. "Well, listen. It doesn't make sense for me to just sit here waiting for something to happen. I might as well press on with the case."
"Sounds good. We'll see you in a bit."
Sam paused. "That's the thing Briggs. You won't. You can't."
"What are you on about Sam?"
"I gotta do this undercover now."
"Why?"
"Think about it. He targeted my son Briggs! He knows I'm after him! And guess what? I'll be next! So I can't get anyone else involved. I've got to do this on my own."
On the other side of the line, Dan Briggs knew that Sam was making perfect sense. He wasn't so fond of the idea, especially after what Sam had been through. But there was no other way. "All right. But I want regular reports. Minimum once a day. I'm not gonna lose you Sam. You're the best man I've got."
"Reassuring. I'll contact you through Jimmy. Let him know to be expecting updates from me and that I'm gonna check out the situation at 86th Street first, okay? I'm gonna go there later in the evening; I'll be more likely to stumble across something."
"Got it. I'll have him let you know if we get any word about your son."
"Thanks Dan."
"Anything I can do Sam." Click.
Take two. Sam walked across 9th Street, then rounded the corner onto 86th Street. He was feeling much better now than the last time he had visited this street. He was also dressed in street clothes for his undercover work. He put on his trademark sunglasses as he counted down the building numbers until he reached number 18. It was a grimy apartment building by the looks of it, and it would appear that there was a sleazy bar of some kind down a set of stairs leading down from the street. He grimaced. This was going to be far from pleasant. He looked one more time at the inviting traffic light at the end of the street, the last sign of civilization he expected to see for at least a few hours. Then, he descended the staircase. As he reached the bottom, a very intimidating bouncer approached him.
"ID?"
Sam smiled cooly. "What, you think I'm under 21?" He then moved to the entrance but was blocked by the bouncer.
"I ain't never seen you before," said the bouncer. "The Boss won't be happy."
Sam scowled, taking another step forward so that he was right up against the bouncer. "I'll tell you why your boss won't be happy. He won't be happy because you denied entrance to an innocent man who's just looking for a good time."
The bouncer slowly stepped to the side and let Sam pass. Sam smiled, then entered, glimpsing out of the corner of his eye the bouncer fingering the twenty dollar bill he'd slipped him. He then scanned the room. It was a grimy, poorly lit bar with what appeared to be all of the scum of the city all crammed into the one room. Trying his best to maintain his tough composure, he approached the bar.
"Bartender, gimme a beer."
The bartender nodded, grabbed a beer out of a cooler, and handed it to Sam. "Here you go," he said gruffly.
"Thanks," Sam replied, throwing a few bucks on the counter. The bartender gave a small smile, then pocketed the cash. Sam slowly sipped his beer and looked around. How was he gonna find anything when he didn't even know who to start with? He knew that he had to be subtle, because this place was just waiting for a gun to go off. As he pondered this, a pair of arms suddenly wrapped around his chest from behind.
"Hi honey," said a woman.
Sam turned around to see a scantily clad woman standing over him with her arms around him. Christ, a prostitute.
"How are you doing baby?" she continued.
"I'm all right," Sam replied as cooly as possible. This was so not his environment, and he knew it would probably show soon enough.
"Yeah? In the mood to have a little fun?"
She was not wholly unattractive but nothing special. Nevertheless, he knew he would have to take her up on the offer if he didn't want to draw any attention to himself. And it was not inconceivable that she might know something.
"All right," he said, standing up. She took his hand and led him up a rickety wooden staircase on the far wall. She then led him down a hallway and stopped at a door with the number 4 on it. She opened it, then motioned Sam in. He graciously nodded and then entered.
"What's your name baby?" Sam asked.
"Rose. Yours?"
"Sam," he replied as he surveyed the room. It was relatively small and made of rotted wood. It had a bed and a large mirror across from the bed, and that was pretty much it. One window and the door and that was all. He looked on as Rose began to undress. He began to feel uncomfortable. I can't go through with this. I can't compromise everything I stand for. He quickly decided to stall for time. "So, uh, Rose, when I came in this bouncer fellow said something about 'The Boss.' Who is this fellow?"
She turned around, now topless, and faced Sam. "Johnny said that, huh?"
"Yeah," said Sam, assuming the bouncer was Johnny. He took a seat on the edge of the bed.
Rose turned back around to face the mirror and continued to undress. "He's the guy who runs the joint. He's got a lotta other stuff going on too. He's got a lotta good connections. He gets stuff real cheap and then sells it. Really good business."
"Yeah?" Sam said, feigning interest. "I'd like to meet him. Sounds like he's got some pretty good stuff going."
"Oh no," said Rose, laughing. "He doesn't just sell to anybody. You've gotta have a reputation."
"Oh, I see," Sam replied. Rose then turned around, completely undressed, and began to approach him. Sam's heart began to race. "Well, who does he sell this stuff to? Maybe I could get stuff from them."
"All of the cats in this part of town," Rose said as she pushed him down onto the bed and then reached over and kissed him. Crud, thought Sam. There's no going back now. Rose then reached down for Sam's pants, then reached back up around his neck and kissed him again. Only this time, when she drew back again, there was something in her hands.
It was his gun.
"What the hell is that for?" exclaimed Sam in horror.
"You ask too many questions," Rose replied coldly, holding the gun to his forehand,"not to mention you had a gun in your back pocket. You're a cop."
Sam desperately looked for an escape opportunity. He had been disarmed without even putting up a fight and now he had no weapon. Mustering up all the strength he could, he said, "Well, what are you gonna do now? Shoot me? Or bring me to The Boss?"
"Oh no," Rose said cackling. "I'm not gonna shoot you. I can't get myself dirty when I've got customers waiting downstairs. And The Boss doesn't need to see you. He knows you're here, and he wants you dead. That's all that matters. So I'm gonna go downstairs and get a few of the guys to come up and blow your brains out," she said, retracting the gun and getting off of the bed. She then quickly dressed and moved to the exit.
"Don't try to escape," she said at the door. "The window is a two story drop, and there are three armed guys down there just waiting for something to shoot at. And I'm locking you in through the door. So if I were you, I'd just say your prayers and then wait for the guillotine to fall." And with that, she exited.
Sam looked after as the door shut. As soon as he was sure she was gone, he went to the window and looked down. Sure enough, there were three men with guns in their hands pacing a courtyard of some kind. He knew he had no chance there. He then went to the door and tried to open it, but the lock was firm. He then quickly pulled off his shoe, reached his hand in and pulled out a walkie talkie. "Jimmy," he said as quietly as he could. No response. "Jimmy!"
"Sam? Good to hear from you man! What's up?"
"Listen, I'm in deep trouble man. Just listen. Get the entire force to 18 86th Street and bust the place up, you hear?"
"What? What have you found?"
But at that moment Sam heard the lock on the door being undone. He quickly muted the walkie talkie and slid it under the bed just as the bouncer and one other man burst into the room, guns in their hands.
"Any last words?" said the bouncer.
Sam desperately tried to think of a way to get out of dying. "Um, yes. Would your boss be interested in knowing about a police raid planned on this fine establishment?"
The two men looked at Sam in shock, then at each other. "I think he's bluffing," said the bouncer, though he spoke with uncertainty in his voice.
"Tell us more," growled the other.
"Nope. I'm only going to talk to your boss." Sam knew this was risky, but he had to kill time.
The two men looked at each other again. Then, the bouncer beckoned. "Come on you scumbag. We'll take you to the boss. But don't expect to get anything out of it."
"Oh, I'm not. Just want to get this load off of my shoulders before I die."
"So, you say you have some information for us?"
Sam stood in front of a desk belonging to an older man smoking a cigarette. Behind him were five men wielding guns pointed directly at him.
"Yes, sir, but first, I want to get some things straight."
"Ha!" The man stood up and walked menacingly around the desk to where Sam stood. "You're a fool," he whispered cruelly into Sam's ear before walking back to his chair. "You're not exactly in a position to bargain, are you?"
"On the contrary," said Sam cooly, "The only time I bargain is with my life."
The man smiled. Sam concluded that this must be The Boss, who then proceeded to say, "You know what, you ain't that bad for a cop. I almost like you." He leaned forward and put his arms on the desk. "All right. What do you want?"
"First, I want my life. I leave here after I disclose this information without any harm befalling me."
"Go on," said The Boss.
"Second, I want to know some information too."
"Such as?"
Sam paused. Where was the squadron? I'm running out of time! He quickly thought up, "Well, Rose said that you wanted me dead and implied that you wanted me dead even before I came here tonight. Why?"
"Cause my boss wants you dead."
"Your boss?"
"That's what I said."
"So you're not at the top of the chain of command?"
"No," said the man smiling. "I'm on the second tier. Which is good, cause if you're at the top, you're more liable to get hit."
"Who is your boss?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"Because I'm going to die anyway, knowing how these things work. So I might as well know."
"Ah, but supposing that for some reason you were to escape - "
At that precise moment, the door flew open and three of Sam's fellow policemen entered. The five bodyguards turned around, stunned, as the cops prepared to open fire. Taking advantage of the distraction, Sam quickly snatched a gun away from one of the bodyguards and then ran to the other side of the room. The remaining four bodyguards opened fire, followed by the cops. Within a second all of them fell to the ground dead from multiple gunshot wounds. Sam began to exit when he suddenly realized that he hadn't seen The Boss since his comrades had entered. Realizing what was about to happen, Sam dived out of the way of a bullet fired from behind the desk, then quickly returned one. There was a cry of pain before The Boss slumped over to the ground, his arm extending beyond the desk and a pool of blood forming around him. Sam cautiously approached, looking for any sign of movement, until finally he rounded the corner of the desk and saw that The Boss was unquestionably dead. He clicked his tongue. He didn't want this…this was too much bloodshed, not to mention he had lost a key source of information. But what had to be done had to be done.
He turned around just in time to be knocked out cold by a lamp to the head.
Chapter 7 and beyond…
WARNING: This definitely contains violence, blood, sexuality, and some language.
MoDEdit:
*will be edited with subtitle later*The Cycle
To catch a killer…you must become one.
Chapter 1
"There. Up ahead."
Three police cars rounded a corner into a narrow alley of New York City, sirens piercing the otherwise silent night. They came to a stop in front of a shadowy mass lying motionless in the road, and several men in blue suits with handguns raised quickly exited their vehicles.
"That's a body right there!" said one of them as they approached. He started to rush forward.
"Stop!"
The police officer turned. Another officer wearing sunglasses approached. "Let me handle this," he said.
The police officer stepped back as the man with the sunglasses knelt beside the body. It was facing away from him. He rolled it over, and as he did so, several of the men gasped. "Got 'em right between the eyes," he muttered, and indeed, the dead man's face was covered in blood coming from a round hole in between the eyes. "Tool kit," said the man in the sunglasses, and one of the police officers quickly handed him a small box with the name "Wexler" scrawled on it in black marker. He pulled out a pair of thin metal tongs and then beckoned two of the other police officers. "Hold the skin apart while I try to extract the bullet," he said. The two police officers did so, looking away from the gore oozing out of the bullet hole in disgust. The man with the tongs inserted them into the hole, causing a grotesque scrunching sound.
"Good God, Sam," said one of the police officers holding the skin apart. "Make it fast or I'm gonna vomit!"
"Jimmy," said Sam, raising his sunglasses, "I got to take you to a slaughterhouse one day." He then smirked, lowered his glasses, and went back to work.
Jimmy scowled, then made faces at Sam while he wasn't looking. Sam, meanwhile, found the bullet and pulled it out, squirting more blood out of the bullet hole in the process. The other officers winced. Sam held up the bullet and then turned it around in the tongs. "Like I thought," he said. ".41 Magnum."
At that moment, something else caught Sam's attention. He leaned over the body and then pointed towards a spot on the pavement.
"Oh my," said a female police officer, drawing her hand towards her mouth. Lying next to the dead man's body was a smiley face roughly five inches in diameter drawn in the victim's blood.
Sam stood up slowly, and not taking his eyes off the dead body, said, "It's him."
"Morning Dave."
"Morning Dad."
Sam Wexler was sitting at his old wooden kitchen table enjoying an egg and bacon sandwich on an English muffin. "Where you going?" he asked his son, who quickly grabbed a bag off the kitchen counter.
"To school."
"But your first class isn't for another two hours! And did you eat any breakfast?"
Dave grimaced. "No, Dad, but I'm fine."
Sam smiled, "Here, I'll make you an egg sandwich. You can take it on the road if you're in such a hurry to go…what the heck are you doing anyway, going to make out with your girlfriend or something?" he teased.
Dave turned at the doorway and smiled. "Yeah, sure Dad," he said, walking back to the kitchen and sitting in an empty wooden chair matching the table. There was a minute of silence as his father cooked. Dave, lacking anything better to do, looked around the room, at the white tile floors, the wooden kitchen counter which was shaped like two sides of a square, the white walls, the fluorescent lights, the windows - it was a sunny day and the neighbors' children were playing in their yard. A pleasant sight.
"So how's school been?" asked Sam. "You leave so early and you come home so late and I hardly ever get to talk to you anymore."
"Well, you know, I'm pretty busy--"
"Yeah yeah yeah, and you have a life and you're all grown up and yadda yadda yadda. I get that. But you didn't answer the question." Sam was in a good mood, and was smiling as he put the English muffin in the toaster oven.
Dave thought for a moment. "Well, it's Columbia. What do you expect? The professors are great, the faculty is great, everything's great."
"I'm not gonna have to get mad with you when I get your report card, will I?"
Dave grinned. "Oh come on, Dad! You know I quit being lazy…well…"
"Never," offered Sam, and they both laughed. "Ah, well, any classes in particular you like?"
"Yeah…I really like my Forensic Science course. The professor's great…I think he knows you, actually. Mark Burgess ring a bell?"
"Mark Burge-ow!" Sam rapidly drew his hand away from the pan in which he was making the eggs. "Oh, goddamn it! Sorry, just burned myself."
"Yeah, you all right?" asked Dave.
"Yeah, just fine. Mark Burgess, huh? Give him my regards. Tell him the department's gone to hell since he left."
"I will," said Dave. "I will."
Sam got off the subway at 103rd Street on the west side of Manhattan. He climbed up the staircase to street level, paused, adjusted his trademark sunglasses, and then turned and walked down Broadway. Sam was in his late forties but looked significantly younger, and occasionally would joke that when you move to the city, you stop aging. He was a good-humored man outside of work, but when he was working he was as serious as a man could ever be. He was white, about six feet tall, had blue eyes and brown hair, and was at a healthy weight, as of his last visit to his physician.
He smiled to himself as he rounded the corner of Broadway and 100th, and soon he reached his destination, 151 100th Street, the 24th Precinct of the New York Police Department. Sam was a detective for the NYPD, a detective who had a very interesting case on his hands. Briefcase in hand, he entered the building. He took off his coat and hung it on a hanger in a short corridor between the entrance and a second door. He then pushed on through the second door and was instantly met by the sound of rapid typing and the smell of coffee. "Ah," he said, "coffee." He turned right and walked towards a block of cubicles, patting several of his coworkers on the back as he passed and occasionally exchanging greetings. Finally, he reached his cubicle, equipped with a desk, chair with wheels, pens, pencils, paper, a Macintosh which he had bought himself since the police department would only pay for PCs, a mouse, and a keyboard. He sat down and turned on his computer.
"Morning Sam."
Sam turned to see Jimmy Sanborn standing over him. Jimmy was another detective in the department and a good friend of Sam's. "Morning," the latter replied. "Got any information on the victim from last night?"
"Yeah, name's Gregory Matton. A 24-year old kid who lived near the scene of the crime. Was doing grad work at Columbia. This is his apartment address and I also got you the address of his family's residence." Jimmy gave Sam a sheet of paper.
"Nice work," Sam said. "All right, go tell the boss that I'm heading out to snoop around."
"Got it," Jimmy said, turning away from the cubicle.
Sam looked at the paper for a moment, then kicked his chair back. "Hey Jimmy!" he called.
"Yep?"
"Get me a cup of joe for the road, will ya?"
"Sure thing."
"Right, thanks!" Sam stood up and grabbed his briefcase. Time to try and make sense of everything.
Chapter 2
Here were the facts. Seven murders had been committed by an unidentified serial killer who was only linked to all seven murders by his two signatures: his preference for .41 Magnum bullets and taste for drawing smiley faces next to the dead bodies using the victim's blood. None of the murders had witnesses, so there was nearly no information to use to identify the killer. It was just the kind of case Sam liked. He had not had a case as interesting as this one since the one that put him on the map several years prior, in which he solved a complex mystery involving two murderers and twelve murdered. But enough of old glory. Sam had a job to do. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. Mmm…nothing like coffee.
He parked his police car on the side of 113th street next to an apartment building about ten stories high. He climbed up a staircase to the eighth floor, then walked down a hallway to a door labeled "8G." Sam noted that the building was fairly old and decrepit. He pulled a key that Jimmy had given him and fit it into the lock. The door opened, and Sam stepped inside. The room was musty and covered in a layer of dust. It was a small apartment, but certainly adequate for one person. Sam was not optimistic about his search; the last six victims turned up nothing. Nevertheless, he did a thorough search of the room, from the kitchen counter to under the bed. Once again, his search turned up nothing. Disappointed but not surprised, he turned to leave when something caught his eye. The ceiling was made of a soft cardboard-like tile, and one of the tiles was loose. He took a chair and stood on it, then pulled the tile down. With it came several dried flowers and leaves. Ah, thought Sam, satisfied. Now we're getting somewhere. He immediately left the room and returned to his police car. He picked up a walkie-talkie like device connected to the radio.
"Jimmy," he said. "This is Sam. Do you read me? Over."
A pause, then, "Yep, Sam, loud and clear."
"All right, classify the case as drug-related. I found a stash of pot in the victim's apartment. This might be some major drug deal gone bad or something. I'm going to question the family now."
"All right, Sam, will do. I'm out."
Thirty minutes later, Sam was in the company of Mrs. Matton. The two were sitting in her first-floor apartment in a living room on two couches facing each other.
"I understand what you're going through," said Sam, "but I need you to answer a few questions for me so I can help track down your son's murderer. Will you cooperate?"
Mrs. Matton, a woman of perhaps fifty years of age, was sobbing quite uncontrollably, and it was hard to make out the "yes" through the tears.
"Good. Tell me about your son."
Mrs. Matton grabbed a tissue and wiped away her tears. "Well, he was a good…boy…always…very nice…smart…very smart…lots of friends…"
"Could I ask you to write down the names of his closest friends?" Sam asked politely.
"Yes…of course, officer…." Mrs. Matton took the notepad and pen that Sam offered her and wrote down five names and then decorated the paper with more tears.
"Mrs. Matton…his father…"
"Died in Iraq," replied Mrs. Matton, sobbing even more uncontrollably. Sam felt bad for making her so distraught, but he had to do what he had to do.
"I'm sorry," said Sam sincerely. "Only a few more questions and I'll be out of your way. As far as you're aware, Greg was not involved in any illegal activities, correct?"
But at that moment, a bullet shattered a window of the apartment and hit Mrs. Matton in her right arm. Sam jumped out of his seat and ran to the window only to see a vague figure disappear around a corner. He pressed a button on a gadget in his pocket, pulled out a gun, and then jumped through the broken window and started running. He went around the corner, but the shooter was nowhere in sight.
"Dangit," Sam said. "Missed him."
"He must have been just under six feet tall and he was male, I think. That's all I could make out."
Sam was back at the police station explaining what had happened to his boss, Dan Briggs. Sam was not happy. He had a great opportunity and he blew it. Sigh.
"Well, Mrs. Matton has had the bullet extracted," said Dan. "She's traumatized, I think. Very frightened. She wants to go home."
"Go home?" Sam nearly jumped out of his seat. "But I need to question her some more! The killer wouldn't have come back for her if she didn't know something important!"
"You can't question her now, Sam. After what she's been through? You'd be lucky if she let you within twenty yards of her."
Sam sighed. Dan was right and he knew it.
"All right. But she can't go home. What if the killer tries again?"
"We told her that. She doesn't care. She just wants to go home. Johnson's going to be on a 12-hour watch of the place, and I'm gonna keep rotating guys into that slot for a few days."
Sam shook his head. He didn't like it. "All right. She can go home, but you'd better be sure nothing happens to her. I want to be able to question her if I need to." He stood up and walked out of Deputy Brigg's office. As he walked to his cubicle, Jimmy came up to him.
"Hey Sam!" he said. "What happened man?"
"Our culprit tried to snuff the witness while I was questioning her." He took out his notepad and ripped off the front page. "Here. Look up these guys. They're friends of Matton's. I'm guessing that you'll find at least one of them linked to an illegal pot scheme of some kind. Look into it and get back to me. I'm going home."
"Got it," said Jimmy, taking the paper and running off. Sam then grabbed his briefcase from his cubicle and went home.
Chapter 3
Alarm clock. Hit button. Get up. Shower. Get dressed. Put on sunglasses. Walk to kitchen. Make egg and bacon sandwich. Sam's morning routine was pretty straightforward. The small kitchen television was on. SportsCenter. They were talking about the next big NFL prospect. Good, thought Sam. His Giants were not doing too well, and they needed a fresh young guy to give the team a boost. He wolfed down his sandwich, turned off the TV, grabbed his briefcase and started walking towards the front door.
"Morning, Dad."
Sam turned around and saw Dave standing in the opening to the kitchen. "Oh hey Dave!" said Sam. "I've got to run…got a lot to do today…"
"Whoa," said Dave. "You don't have to be in till nine. It's only eight. So it's all right for you to just rush out, but I have to sit down and suffer through a conversation in which you constantly tease me?"
Sam smiled. "Well, at least I ate my breakfast."
Dave chuckled. "Sit down, talk for a bit, make me an egg sandwich, whatever. You got a date on the subway or something?"
Sam burst out laughing. If his kid was anything, it was witty. And a good memory. Combine those two and you get your own jokes thrown right back at you. "All right, you win. So what do you want to talk about?" he said as he started making .
"I don't know. Life. Your work. Whatever. Just…we haven't talked much since Mom died."
Sam sighed. Mom. What a wonderful woman she was. But stubborn. She kept very healthy, exercising a lot and eating her vegetables. But she was arrogant in that she thought that, regardless of her family history, serious harm could never befall her. Despite his pleas, she never saw doctors. She didn't go for exams when she should've. By the time she finally saw somebody, the cancer had already metastasized to several places, and she died a month later. It was true, he had kept to himself more since then.
"Well, I'm working on an interesting case. Serial killer who's killed seven people in five weeks. Smart. Covered up his, well, we don't even know the gender for Christ's sake, his or her tracks really well. We've got practically no leads. Two tendencies: .41 Magnum is his preference and he - or she - has a morbid taste in art. Like's to draw smiley faces out of the blood of the dead victim next to his or her body. And his most recent victim was involved in drug dealing, I think; I found marijuana in his apartment. Speaking of which, he went to Columbia…Gregory Matton was his name…you know him?"
Dave paused for a moment. "Matton…Matton…don't think I know him. Is he undergrad or grad? Cause I don't know too many of the undergrad…"
"Grad, I think," said Sam, serving Dave his egg sandwich.
"Huh…don't know him."
"Tsk tsk. How can you be a good detective if you don't know everybody? Can't get your inside information without it."
Dave laughed, nearly choking on his sandwich in the process. "Stop it Dad! You're making me look like a slob!"
"Cause who's looking?" said Sam. "Anyway, I really should get going. I'll see you later today maybe."
"Maybe," said Dave. "Maybe."
"Dan. Johnson's wrapping up, right?"
"Yep."
"Good," said Sam, grabbing a cup of coffee from a machine that sat on a little table along the wall next to Dan Briggs' office. "I want the next slot."
"Sam, she's been through a lot. This isn't the time."
"I don't give a damn if this is the time!" said Sam angrily. "Is it worth risking another life because it isn't the time to interrogate a witness? I'm not holding her at gunpoint or anything."
Dan sighed. "All right, take the slot. But don't be too hard on her."
"Yeah yeah, I got it," Sam said. He practically ran to his cubicle, grabbed a few papers, then hustled over to Jimmy Sanborn's cubicle. "Got any info on Matton's friends?"
"Yep," Jimmy replied. "None of them have records. I could get some warrants."
"Hmm…wait on that for now. I'm gonna go try Mrs. Matton one more time."
"All right. See you later."
Sam quickly walked out the back door of the department and got into his police car. He started driving, and immediately came to a red light. He sat. Ten seconds. Sam was getting a bad feeling about something…twenty seconds. Damn, the lights are slow today! Sam desperately wanted to get moving, and he began to consider turning on his sirens, allowing him to pass through red lights. It's not an emergency though…he didn't want to get in trouble with his boss. Thirty seconds. Damn Dan Briggs. Sam turned on his sirens and plowed through the intersection, nearly sending another driver into the sidewalk. Left, right, red light, merge, accelerate, decelerate, brake. After about five minutes, he arrived. But something was wrong. Officer Johnson's car was there, but he was nowhere in sight. Sam quickly adjusted his sunglasses, grabbed his gun, and flew out of the car. Oh ♥♥♥♥. Johnson was in the driver's seat. Sam dashed to the driver's door, slammed his hands up against the window, and looked in. Lying in the driver's seat, car keys in his hand and a bullet in his head, was Johnson, and a blood-red smiley face was drawn on the center of the steering wheel.
"Damnit!" cried Sam. No time to linger, though, not even to check for the .41 caliber bullet. The blood looked fresh…the killer might still be here. And if Mrs. Matton is alive, she'll be in serious danger. Sam ran up the steps to the apartment building, open the door, and charged down the hallway to the door to Mrs. Matton's apartment. He grabbed the handle. Locked. Damn it all. Sam took a few steps back to the wall opposite the door, then charged forward and kicked the door down with an unusually loud sound. Sam stood still for a moment, thinking, then realized that there was more than one sound. He pulled his gun out of its holster and held it out, then proceeded into the room slowly, looking for the killer. His eyes darted from left to right; if he was not attentive, he could be dead at any moment. He stepped as quietly as he could and rounded a corner, revealing the living room where he had sat with Mrs. Matton on the two couches, and there, lying on the same couch she had sat on the day previous, was Mrs. Matton, clothes torn and bullet holes where her eyes had once been and the blood smiley on the couch fabric. Sam nearly swore, but did not want to alert the killer to his presence. Not that it likely mattered; a killer as smart at this would've probably realized somebody came in when he kicked the door down, but nevertheless, he wanted to take all precautions. Suddenly, Sam felt a cool breeze against his face. Breeze. Indoors. Open window. Sam, who's eyes had not focused on one spot for more than a second, immediately started looking at the windows. The one that had been broken the day before was not there. Sam initially concluded that the window was never replaced until he saw shattered glass on the floor. At that moment, Sam heard a car turn on out the window.
"Oh you ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥!" he cried, leaping out the window just in time to see his police car, which could be identified by the Deadhead bumper sticker on the back, be driven away by somebody else. "Hmm…good at hotwiring a car, too…" said Sam, and then immediately took off around the side of the building. He ran back to the front door of Johnson's car tried to open it. Locked too. "Christ!" exclaimed Sam, at which point he elbowed the door window and shattered it. He reached in and unlocked the car, then opened the door, threw Johnson out, took his keys, got in the car, and turned it on. "Sorry, Sean," he said as he slammed the gas pedal. The wheels screeched due to the sudden acceleration and the car took off.
Sam quickly turned on the sirens and picked up the intercom. "This is Sam Wexler. Johnson and Mrs. Matton are dead, Briggs, by the hand of the killer. He has taken my car and…" Sam looked up and saw the Deadhead sticker, which was colored with a neon red that couldn't be missed, "…and is heading west on 96th Street towards the Henry Hudson Parkway. I am in pursuit in Johnson's car. I need backup immediately." He clicked off the intercom and accelerated the vehicle in an attempt to catch up to the killer, who was driving over 100 mph, not braking for other vehicles or red lights, which yielded in some very impressive wrecks. However, the killer's car received only a few scratches. It shifted lanes. Sam went to follow, but nearly hit a truck passing through the intersection with 10th Avenue. He slammed his hand on the car horn, covering it in Johnson's blood. Sam briefly looked at his hand in disgust, then quickly returned his focus to his pursuit.
After only a minute, the killer merged onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. Northbound. Sam followed. He was now breaking 100 mph himself, and nearly hit several other cars as they quickly tried to maneuver out of the way. "Come on, faster!" cried Sam, as he at last began to gain on the killer. 125th Street exit. 158th Street exit. 110 miles per hour. Constant lane shifting. The killer continued to smash cars out of his way, having the advantage of Sam's police car being an SUV. Sam was constantly swearing and throwing in remarks including, "I'm not gonna let you get away this time, you son of a ♥♥♥♥♥!" George Washington Bridge exit. The killer moved into the exit lane. Crap, this has got a major curve, thought Sam. I've gotta slow down. He followed the killer onto the exit for the bridge, then onto a second exit for the bridge's upper level. Please, let there be standstill traffic, thought Sam. But alas, his pleas were to no avail, for traffic was moving smoothly. He accelerated again, pushing the limits of the vehicle. Now he was definitely closing in. "I've got you now, ♥♥♥♥♥!" cried Sam as he shifted into the lane to the right of that of the killer and began to pull along side him. He looked through the killer's driver door mirror and tried to make out the face of the person inside. He squinted. Wait a second, thought Sam. That looks like -
But before he could complete his thought, the killer abruptly and rapidly turned to the right, skidding to a complete stop directly in front of Sam. "Oh ♥♥♥♥!" cried Sam as he desperately turned the wheel as far to the right as he could in an attempt to avoid colliding with the car. He successfully got out of the lane in the nick of time, but suddenly realized he was in the path of a truck…
An incredible force hit the back right side of Sam's car and it was flung into the air, spinning, directly into the suspension wires on the side of the bridge…
Chapter 4
Sam slowly opened his eyes. Everything was white. After a few seconds, his eyes focused, and he realized that he was staring at a white ceiling. He slowly tried to turn his head, but then winced in pain. What happened? he thought as he stared at the white ceiling again. So bare, so plain.
Suddenly, he heard a door open, then footsteps rushing towards him. "Oh, thank goodness, he's come out of it!" Sam tried to turn his head, only this time he was able to do so to some extent before having to stop. "Where am I?" he asked the person who was presumably just outside his range of vision.
"Mount Sinai," said a man.
"Oh," said Sam detachedly. "What happened?"
"You were pursuing somebody on the G.W. Bridge and got into a nasty accident. It's a miracle you're alive. Got away with a three day coma and a mild concussion, and that's it."
Suddenly, Sam remembered everything. "Oh, right," he said. "Can visitors see me?"
"Sure," said the man, who Sam concluded must be a doctor. "Your son's waiting outside now, and a man named Dan Briggs said to call for him when you come around."
"Great," said Sam. "So how long am I in this joint?"
"Until you feel ready to leave. Medically, you're cleared to leave, but I imagine that you're in a fair deal of pain, so you're welcome to stay for a few days."
Sam sighed. "Thanks. Can you send my son in?"
"Of course," said the doctor. "If you need anything, just hit the button on the left side of your bed."
"All right," said Sam as he heard the doctor exiting the room. He went back to staring at the ceiling. Great. This definitely was how I wanted to spend the week.
At that moment, another person hurried in. "Dad?" the person said.
"Hey Dave!" replied Sam, smiling for the first time since he came out of the coma. "What's up?"
"Oh, besides keeping me worried sick since the accident, nothing much," responded Dave, pulling a chair up to the bedside. "How are you feeling?"
"Weak. I can't move very well without pain, but I'm sure I'll be feeling better in a little while," Sam smiled. "Don't worry about me, kid. I'll be fine. What time is it anyway?"
Dave looked around the room and found the clock. "10:30," he said.
"Goodness…shouldn't you be at school?"
"Well, you were in a coma, Dad," Dave replied dryly.
"Well, I'm not now. Go on and get yourself to school, I'll be all right. You can come by after classes."
Dave grabbed Sam's hand and squeezed it. "All right, Dad."
Dan Briggs was getting ripped by Sam Wexler. Truth was, he deserved it. What had happened was due to his unwillingness to take extra precautions, and he knew it. That didn't make it any more pleasant.
"From now on, Dan, I'm running things my way. You don't like it, find something to complain about to your superiors to get me fired. I don't care. This damn business is gonna kill me one day."
"Yeah, yeah, I get your point, Sam," said Dan, sighing heavily. "So, anything nice to say?"
Sam calmed down. "The killer got away, I presume."
"Naturally," said Dan.
"That figures. And I totaled the car, I presume?"
"Yep. What happened?"
"He skidded to a stop right in front of me. I was going quite fast…so was he…and I swerved out of way but got slammed by a truck…that's the last thing I remember."
"You didn't see who it was, did you?"
Sam paused, thinking. He had seen the killer's face…and he remembered he thought it looked like somebody he knew…but he just couldn't remember. "I think I caught a glimpse of the killer before it happened…but…I can't remember what he looked like at all…"
Dan smiled slightly. "Well, I guess I can't really expect you to, can I?"
"No, I don't suppose so," said Sam, also giving a small smile.
Dan stood up and reached out to Sam, who weakly grabbed his hand and shook it. "Well," said Dan, "I'd better be heading back to the station. See you later, all right, Sam?"
"Don't worry…this is gonna be a short vacation," said Sam, now grinning.
Three days later, Sam was making his usual egg sandwich for breakfast. He was still feeling a little weak; he wasn't about to go leaping across the tops of skyscrapers, but he was feeling much better and was ready to go back to work. He flipped the egg in the pan while watching the television. Dave was sleeping in that morning since he had school off. Twenty minutes later, Sam was on the subway train going to the police station. He had picked up a copy of the New York Times at the subway station and was reading it, sunglasses darkening the already black print. There was an article on his killer and a picture of Johnson's police car, totally demolished. Man, I really did a good job on that, he thought sarcastically. How did the media get these photos anyway?
He continued reading the paper for about another five minutes when it suddenly dawned on him that he couldn't remember what station to get off at. Crap, he thought. He tried to remember the address of the police station, but for the life of him couldn't think of it. How could I forget that? he thought. I suppose just an effect of the crash. It will wear off. But meanwhile, he had a bigger problem. He looked nervously around the train car. Nobody seemed to notice him. Quickly, he quickly unpinned his badge from his search and pocketed it. Nobody was looking at him. He sat for two more minutes, planning out what he was going to do in his head, before turning to a middle-aged woman sitting next to him.
"Excuse me," he said, as the woman looked up from her knitting. "I'm sorry to bother you, but do you know where the police station is?"
"The 24th Precinct?" she replied.
"Yes."
"It was at the last stop. On 100th street."
"Oh," he said. Great. He squirmed a bit uncomfortably as the subway approached the next station. "Um…thank you," he said as he quickly got out of his seat.
"Hey!" she said just as he was about to walk away. "You look familiar. Aren't you a police officer?"
Sam's face turned red. "No…for some reason I get that a lot though…I must look like one." And with that, he quickly turned and walked out of the subway car.
Chapter 5
"You're late, Wexler."
"Sue me Briggs."
Ah, home. This was where Sam needed to be. This was his life. He had just walked back into the 24th Precinct for the first time after the accident, and though he tried not to show it, Dan Briggs was happy to have him back, even if he was late.
"Quit fooling around and get to work!" said Dan, giving a small smile. Sam acknowledged, then went to his cubicle.
Or at least, that was what he was planning. Problem was, he didn't remember where it was. He supposed he was still recovering from the accident and looked about nervously. Nobody seemed to have noticed his discomfort. He then quickly went up on his tippy toes and looked over the tops of the cubicles to find the empty one. Bingo! He then quickly dropped back down and started walking to his cubicle before being intercepted by Jimmy Sanborn.
"Sam!" he exclaimed, slapping Sam on the back. "Great to have you back!"
"Thanks Jimmy," Sam replied. "How've you been?"
"Oh, the usual. In need of more coffee."
Sam laughed. "So, where were we in the case? I could use a refresher."
"Well, Matton's dead, his mother's dead, six other people are dead, the list of friends his mother gave us didn't turn up anything and you said to hold up on warrants."
"All right, I guess that's where we should pick up then."
"Sounds good," said Jimmy. "I'll get right on it."
"All right," replied Sam, finally reaching his cubicle. As he sat down in his chair, his cell phone rang. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out.
"Sam Wexler, NYPD."
"Hey Dad."
"Oh, hi Dave. What's up?"
"Just checking in. One of my professors got sick and he cancelled class, so I'm going home. You got to work all right and stuff?"
"Yeah," Sam paused nervously, "Getting here was…er…it was a blast."
"You sure you're all right? You sound a bit different."
"I'm fine," Sam said. "Don't worry about me. Worry about yourself, all right? I'll be fine."
Dave chuckled, then said, "All right, cause I'm gonna get into so much trouble in the subway."
"Oh, quit being a smart-ass," Sam replied humorously. "I'll see you in a few hours, all right?"
"Sure thing," ended Dave, hanging up.
Instantly, Jimmy approached Sam and began, "I've got the warrants." Never a moment of quiet in the 24th Precinct. Even if you put headphones and crank up some heavy metal to the loudest volume, an explosion will undoubtedly happen to ruin the peace. Not that there's a lot of peace in listening to heavy metal, but Sam didn't overly concern himself with that.
"All right," he replied. "I'm gonna go take care of a few of them. I'll keep in touch."
"Gotcha boss," replied Jimmy, handing Sam the papers and then taking off for the coffee machine. Sam chuckled as he watched Jimmy go, then grabbed a few things and then left.
First address: 18 86th Street. Sam read the warrant as he walked out of the subway station. Only in the city can people walk and not kill themselves without even looking where they are going. Life is funny, Sam thought, as he crossed 9th Avenue. He then walked along a sidewalk for a little while longer before rounding a corner onto 86th Street. It was entirely deserted minus cars parked along the side, but then again it was not a major street. He began walking down it just as the sun went down over the tops of the buildings, casting a dark shadow over the entire street. Suddenly, Sam began to feel a little dizzy, before crumpling to the ground as the world about him spun out of control. He lay there for nearly half a minute, passerbys on 9th Avenue giving him only a passing thought, merely assuming him to be another bum, his police clothes being undistinguished due to the shadow.
Finally, he stood up, the dizziness passing, and looked around. Where am I? he thought. What am I doing here? He recognized himself as being in New York City, but he couldn't remember how he got to where he was. He simply stood there, perplexed, before coming to the conclusion that he still wasn't recovered from the accident on the bridge. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Jimmy Sanborn.
"Hello?"
"Jimmy, it's Sam. I'm not feeling too good. I might need a little more time off. I'm going home, tell Briggs."
"All right man. Take it easy."
"Thanks," replied Sam, hanging up. He then started walking home.
A quiet house. Put down the keys on the kitchen counter, take off jacket, start walking down hallway. Stop to inform Dave that he's going to sleep. Open door.
Empty room. Open window. Bullet casing and blood on bed. "Dave?" Scurry to bed; worry on face. .41 caliber bullet. Smiley face drawn in blood on bedsheets. "Dave! DAVE!!!"
Sam Wexler sat on his son's bed fingering the bullet casing the killer had left behind. Three hours had gone by since he had reported his son's disappearance. No success. It was gonna be okay, Jimmy had said. He didn't believe it. The killer never left his victims alive. Just because Dave was missing didn't mean that he was alive. He tried mustering some hope, but he couldn't. Detectives can't create illusions. Furthermore, he realized that the killer must know his identity, or else he almost certainly wouldn't have targeted his son.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps outside of the still open window. Maybe he's come back. Maybe the son of a ♥♥♥♥♥ has come back. He grabbed his gun out of his holster and leaped out the window. It was too dark to see, but he heard somebody running. Soon, he saw the outline of a figure, and without thinking twice shot it. It fell to the ground. He ran forward to the fallen body and, to his satisfaction, saw the killer, dead.
And then, it wasn't the killer. Before Sam's eyes, it transformed into a stray cat with a bullet through its head. Sam stepped back in shock. There was no mistake; he had seen the killer, but it was only a stray cat. Had he really been hallucinating? Trauma from the accident? Nothing made sense anymore.
Chapter 6
Sam found himself the next morning lying on his son's bed, his gun across his chest, his clothes from the previous day unchanged. He sat up and looked around. The window was still open and the smiley face drawn in blood had dried into the bedding. Sam rubbed his bloodshot eyes, then turned and looked at the clock. It was noon. He groaned, upset at himself for sleeping so late, and reached for the phone. He practically punched the buttons, then held the phone to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Briggs?"
"Yep. Sam?"
"Yep."
"How are you holding up?"
"Good enough. No progress, I imagine?"
"Nope."
Sam bowed his head in despair, but kept it to himself. "Well, listen. It doesn't make sense for me to just sit here waiting for something to happen. I might as well press on with the case."
"Sounds good. We'll see you in a bit."
Sam paused. "That's the thing Briggs. You won't. You can't."
"What are you on about Sam?"
"I gotta do this undercover now."
"Why?"
"Think about it. He targeted my son Briggs! He knows I'm after him! And guess what? I'll be next! So I can't get anyone else involved. I've got to do this on my own."
On the other side of the line, Dan Briggs knew that Sam was making perfect sense. He wasn't so fond of the idea, especially after what Sam had been through. But there was no other way. "All right. But I want regular reports. Minimum once a day. I'm not gonna lose you Sam. You're the best man I've got."
"Reassuring. I'll contact you through Jimmy. Let him know to be expecting updates from me and that I'm gonna check out the situation at 86th Street first, okay? I'm gonna go there later in the evening; I'll be more likely to stumble across something."
"Got it. I'll have him let you know if we get any word about your son."
"Thanks Dan."
"Anything I can do Sam." Click.
Take two. Sam walked across 9th Street, then rounded the corner onto 86th Street. He was feeling much better now than the last time he had visited this street. He was also dressed in street clothes for his undercover work. He put on his trademark sunglasses as he counted down the building numbers until he reached number 18. It was a grimy apartment building by the looks of it, and it would appear that there was a sleazy bar of some kind down a set of stairs leading down from the street. He grimaced. This was going to be far from pleasant. He looked one more time at the inviting traffic light at the end of the street, the last sign of civilization he expected to see for at least a few hours. Then, he descended the staircase. As he reached the bottom, a very intimidating bouncer approached him.
"ID?"
Sam smiled cooly. "What, you think I'm under 21?" He then moved to the entrance but was blocked by the bouncer.
"I ain't never seen you before," said the bouncer. "The Boss won't be happy."
Sam scowled, taking another step forward so that he was right up against the bouncer. "I'll tell you why your boss won't be happy. He won't be happy because you denied entrance to an innocent man who's just looking for a good time."
The bouncer slowly stepped to the side and let Sam pass. Sam smiled, then entered, glimpsing out of the corner of his eye the bouncer fingering the twenty dollar bill he'd slipped him. He then scanned the room. It was a grimy, poorly lit bar with what appeared to be all of the scum of the city all crammed into the one room. Trying his best to maintain his tough composure, he approached the bar.
"Bartender, gimme a beer."
The bartender nodded, grabbed a beer out of a cooler, and handed it to Sam. "Here you go," he said gruffly.
"Thanks," Sam replied, throwing a few bucks on the counter. The bartender gave a small smile, then pocketed the cash. Sam slowly sipped his beer and looked around. How was he gonna find anything when he didn't even know who to start with? He knew that he had to be subtle, because this place was just waiting for a gun to go off. As he pondered this, a pair of arms suddenly wrapped around his chest from behind.
"Hi honey," said a woman.
Sam turned around to see a scantily clad woman standing over him with her arms around him. Christ, a prostitute.
"How are you doing baby?" she continued.
"I'm all right," Sam replied as cooly as possible. This was so not his environment, and he knew it would probably show soon enough.
"Yeah? In the mood to have a little fun?"
She was not wholly unattractive but nothing special. Nevertheless, he knew he would have to take her up on the offer if he didn't want to draw any attention to himself. And it was not inconceivable that she might know something.
"All right," he said, standing up. She took his hand and led him up a rickety wooden staircase on the far wall. She then led him down a hallway and stopped at a door with the number 4 on it. She opened it, then motioned Sam in. He graciously nodded and then entered.
"What's your name baby?" Sam asked.
"Rose. Yours?"
"Sam," he replied as he surveyed the room. It was relatively small and made of rotted wood. It had a bed and a large mirror across from the bed, and that was pretty much it. One window and the door and that was all. He looked on as Rose began to undress. He began to feel uncomfortable. I can't go through with this. I can't compromise everything I stand for. He quickly decided to stall for time. "So, uh, Rose, when I came in this bouncer fellow said something about 'The Boss.' Who is this fellow?"
She turned around, now topless, and faced Sam. "Johnny said that, huh?"
"Yeah," said Sam, assuming the bouncer was Johnny. He took a seat on the edge of the bed.
Rose turned back around to face the mirror and continued to undress. "He's the guy who runs the joint. He's got a lotta other stuff going on too. He's got a lotta good connections. He gets stuff real cheap and then sells it. Really good business."
"Yeah?" Sam said, feigning interest. "I'd like to meet him. Sounds like he's got some pretty good stuff going."
"Oh no," said Rose, laughing. "He doesn't just sell to anybody. You've gotta have a reputation."
"Oh, I see," Sam replied. Rose then turned around, completely undressed, and began to approach him. Sam's heart began to race. "Well, who does he sell this stuff to? Maybe I could get stuff from them."
"All of the cats in this part of town," Rose said as she pushed him down onto the bed and then reached over and kissed him. Crud, thought Sam. There's no going back now. Rose then reached down for Sam's pants, then reached back up around his neck and kissed him again. Only this time, when she drew back again, there was something in her hands.
It was his gun.
"What the hell is that for?" exclaimed Sam in horror.
"You ask too many questions," Rose replied coldly, holding the gun to his forehand,"not to mention you had a gun in your back pocket. You're a cop."
Sam desperately looked for an escape opportunity. He had been disarmed without even putting up a fight and now he had no weapon. Mustering up all the strength he could, he said, "Well, what are you gonna do now? Shoot me? Or bring me to The Boss?"
"Oh no," Rose said cackling. "I'm not gonna shoot you. I can't get myself dirty when I've got customers waiting downstairs. And The Boss doesn't need to see you. He knows you're here, and he wants you dead. That's all that matters. So I'm gonna go downstairs and get a few of the guys to come up and blow your brains out," she said, retracting the gun and getting off of the bed. She then quickly dressed and moved to the exit.
"Don't try to escape," she said at the door. "The window is a two story drop, and there are three armed guys down there just waiting for something to shoot at. And I'm locking you in through the door. So if I were you, I'd just say your prayers and then wait for the guillotine to fall." And with that, she exited.
Sam looked after as the door shut. As soon as he was sure she was gone, he went to the window and looked down. Sure enough, there were three men with guns in their hands pacing a courtyard of some kind. He knew he had no chance there. He then went to the door and tried to open it, but the lock was firm. He then quickly pulled off his shoe, reached his hand in and pulled out a walkie talkie. "Jimmy," he said as quietly as he could. No response. "Jimmy!"
"Sam? Good to hear from you man! What's up?"
"Listen, I'm in deep trouble man. Just listen. Get the entire force to 18 86th Street and bust the place up, you hear?"
"What? What have you found?"
But at that moment Sam heard the lock on the door being undone. He quickly muted the walkie talkie and slid it under the bed just as the bouncer and one other man burst into the room, guns in their hands.
"Any last words?" said the bouncer.
Sam desperately tried to think of a way to get out of dying. "Um, yes. Would your boss be interested in knowing about a police raid planned on this fine establishment?"
The two men looked at Sam in shock, then at each other. "I think he's bluffing," said the bouncer, though he spoke with uncertainty in his voice.
"Tell us more," growled the other.
"Nope. I'm only going to talk to your boss." Sam knew this was risky, but he had to kill time.
The two men looked at each other again. Then, the bouncer beckoned. "Come on you scumbag. We'll take you to the boss. But don't expect to get anything out of it."
"Oh, I'm not. Just want to get this load off of my shoulders before I die."
"So, you say you have some information for us?"
Sam stood in front of a desk belonging to an older man smoking a cigarette. Behind him were five men wielding guns pointed directly at him.
"Yes, sir, but first, I want to get some things straight."
"Ha!" The man stood up and walked menacingly around the desk to where Sam stood. "You're a fool," he whispered cruelly into Sam's ear before walking back to his chair. "You're not exactly in a position to bargain, are you?"
"On the contrary," said Sam cooly, "The only time I bargain is with my life."
The man smiled. Sam concluded that this must be The Boss, who then proceeded to say, "You know what, you ain't that bad for a cop. I almost like you." He leaned forward and put his arms on the desk. "All right. What do you want?"
"First, I want my life. I leave here after I disclose this information without any harm befalling me."
"Go on," said The Boss.
"Second, I want to know some information too."
"Such as?"
Sam paused. Where was the squadron? I'm running out of time! He quickly thought up, "Well, Rose said that you wanted me dead and implied that you wanted me dead even before I came here tonight. Why?"
"Cause my boss wants you dead."
"Your boss?"
"That's what I said."
"So you're not at the top of the chain of command?"
"No," said the man smiling. "I'm on the second tier. Which is good, cause if you're at the top, you're more liable to get hit."
"Who is your boss?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"Because I'm going to die anyway, knowing how these things work. So I might as well know."
"Ah, but supposing that for some reason you were to escape - "
At that precise moment, the door flew open and three of Sam's fellow policemen entered. The five bodyguards turned around, stunned, as the cops prepared to open fire. Taking advantage of the distraction, Sam quickly snatched a gun away from one of the bodyguards and then ran to the other side of the room. The remaining four bodyguards opened fire, followed by the cops. Within a second all of them fell to the ground dead from multiple gunshot wounds. Sam began to exit when he suddenly realized that he hadn't seen The Boss since his comrades had entered. Realizing what was about to happen, Sam dived out of the way of a bullet fired from behind the desk, then quickly returned one. There was a cry of pain before The Boss slumped over to the ground, his arm extending beyond the desk and a pool of blood forming around him. Sam cautiously approached, looking for any sign of movement, until finally he rounded the corner of the desk and saw that The Boss was unquestionably dead. He clicked his tongue. He didn't want this…this was too much bloodshed, not to mention he had lost a key source of information. But what had to be done had to be done.
He turned around just in time to be knocked out cold by a lamp to the head.
Chapter 7 and beyond…
