A key card slot was placed just beside it. I swiped the card I had stolen from the cop on the ground moments earlier. The light flashed green and I opened the door. I flicked on the lights which immediately lit up the room. It was a fluorescent white light that made my skin look an awful shade. Like I had cancer or was on the verge of death. Most of the files are online now but there were still boxes and boxes sorted by year spread across two shelves. The other shelves were covered with evidence boxes. Again, these were sorted by date. 2009. 2012. 2008. 2008? Who the fuck organized this place? I backtracked and went around the corner. Finally, 2017.
I checked my watch. Only a few more minutes. I was sweating under the pressure. There wasn't much there. It's a quiet town. I quickly found the evidence box. There was no time to check inside. Before I knew it, I was out the door. Unfortunately, so were the cops. They shouldn't have been back that quickly. It would have taken them exactly 12 minutes to get form the police station to the address I gave them. Then another 12 to get back. Not including a few minutes, they would spend there trying to figure what was going on. Someone must have traced the call or something. I could see their cars from the end of the street speeding in my direction. They skidded to a stop.
Still running for the car, I looked back briefly. A gun was aimed at my back. "Freeze"! "Hands in the air Rogers"! I ignored the yelling and jumped into the car starting it in seconds. Right before it started I had this paralyzing fear that it wouldn't start. Which, from the state of it, is highly possible. The teen I stole it from must have been trying to be a mechanic. Trip out his car, make it go faster or something, sounds like something I would do. Anyway, he was clearly no mechanic.
Shots were fired ricocheting off the car. The windshield shattered. I wound down my window and picked up my gun as I drove around the cop cars. One was already on the move turning around ready for pursuit. Bracing my injured shoulder against the seat and holding the staring wheel I used the other hand to put a bullet in the tires of each car. Perks of being a sniper. I was a good shot. One of the best. I was trained that way.
I sped off with the evidence box in the back seat. I parked down an alleyway between a restaurant and an old nightclub. The building screaming for repair. No cops went past for a good five minutes so I figured I had lost the trail. The occasional group of people walked by. Girls wearing short dresses with low necklines and guys following their every move. I wanted to laugh at the sight. I was one of those guys once.
The light in the car didn't provide much light. My eyes were adjusting. I didn't know what was inside the box. What they had against me. Either way I didn't stop to let myself think about it too much. Instead I lifted the top and stared at the contents inside. Inside an evidence bag was my gun. Of course, it would be here. There was a strand of hair in a smaller bag that looked a lot like mine. Stupid bloody cops. Wow you found a strand of my hair in the house I've been living in for two months. Shocker.
Other than that, there really wasn't much physical evidence. There were two files. One contained information about my gun and the hair. They also had a bunch of fingerprints lifted from the scene. Nothing from the actual killer of course. My finger prints on the gun. A report about my 'motives'. Information about my therapy sessions. What the hell? I thought that stuff was confidential! I've never actually seen my therapy files.
It's for the therapist only. I spared a moment to read through the comments. None of them really displayed me as a threatening person. Mostly the same kind of stuff. 'Jacob is working through facing what he has seen overseas as part of the marines. He feels central guilt for what he has done' or 'Jacob is suffering from mild depression, note: check keep eye out for more signs next session and recommend pills. Also, recommended he gets more involved with his work to keep mind occupied'. Mild depression huh?
The next file contained only pictures. Of the crime scene. Cat's body. Bloody and lifeless on the stained carpet. I turned away ready to be sick. Nothing came reminding me that I hadn't eaten in a while. Any appetite I had was long gone by then. I hadn't wanted to look through the pictures but I needed to see if there was anything I could have overlooked.
There was something just in view tucked underneath the bed. I brought the photo closer to my face to try and see the image clearer. It didn't work very well. I pulled out my phone, the battery once again going low, and turned on the flashlight. The image while still being unclear was much easier to see now. It was a dog tag. Mine. I'd given it to Toby. He seemed to want it more than I did. He was fascinated with playing with it for a long time. He asked me why I wore a dog tag one day. I told him. He was hooked on the idea of it all.
Isaacs was still around my own neck. His would never leave my neck. Ever. Not for anyone. Maybe his family deserved it more, but they'd never brought it up and neither had I. After examining the photos for a while I'd accepted there was nothing there that was of any use to me. That just left the bullet. My only lead. I had wanted something better. A single bullet isn't much use. Easy to trace but even so, not that helpful.
There was a man. A man I met in Afghanistan. Alexander. Last name. Unknown. In fact, I'm not every sure Alexander is his real name. But it's what he told me so it's what I call him. He was in a township we were supposed to be protecting from the Taliban. Only problem was that once we moved out of the town to head to the next, the Taliban would move straight back in. Our work seemed so pointless at the time. We did so much but watched everyting go back to the way it was as soon as we left. I suppose it provided a bit of hope to the locals. Made our country proud.
We met by accident, but hit it off pretty well. Whenever we got a bit of down time Alexander would meet me at the local bar. He showed me types of tequila I didn't know existed. An email now and again is the only contact we've had since. He's not the kind of guy you want to bring around and he never does anything for free. The guy is sometimes pretty bad news. Last I heard he was living here, in town I mean. But I have no clue where exactly. So, I did some research.
It wasn't long until I found someone on the street who knew his name. Should have known he'd be a notorious drug dealer or something. Heard whispers he was staying in house on the opposite side of town to the police station. Carefully chosen of course. So, the next day I drove over there. For the most part I had remained out of sight. While everyone was on alert, no one seemed to question me as much as I would have thought.
Alexander was at 1176 Lake Cole Road. Jut around from the East Side Auto Salvage place. The property had no fencing. The house was a cream color with a brown roof, the paint chipping away and peeling off. A rusted trailer and a sun damaged car were parked on the grass off the dirt driveway. I pulled in and parked on the grass too. I made my way up the steps to the small wooden porch. My knuckles barely made contact with the door when I heard an angered yelling.
"Fuck off! I told you I don't have any more fucking drugs. So, get the fuck off my balcony"! It was Alexander all right. We weren't that close if I'm being honest. But the guy owes me. Even if he doesn't remember me, because it has been a while, he will remember the favor I did him. My fist pummeled against the door repeatedly. "Fuck the hell off"! Alexander yelled once more opening the door finally. He was holding a small handgun. SIG Pro. Semi-automatic. Sophisticated gun for someone in his line of business. Still I couldn't admire his choice. Considering the latest models out there now that gun is pretty pathetic.
The gun was lowered at his side. He never aimed it at me but I had no doubt that he would. No doubt he would fire it too. "Ahhhh Jacob Rogers! It's been a long time! I apologize for that, fucking men trying to come over here and demand for drugs". "Hi Alexander", I addressed him with a knowing smile. This is the guy I remember. "Come in", he opened the door wider so I could slip through. He bolted the deadlock behind me.
"You're all over the fuckin news! Got into some big shit I see. Now that's not the Jacob I remember". I laughed. Alexander dropped the SIG on the same table beside the door. It's only other occupant was a dying plant "Well what do you remember"? "I remember the guy that saved my fucking life. For that I owe you a great debt. Which is most likely why you are here. Are you not"? Alcohol drifted off his lips, but he was sober enough.
"Actually yes". It was true about me saving his life. There was an incident in Afghanistan once. The Taliban came storming into the town we were staying in. Alexander was there. They had heavy machinery. Several units were gathered there at the time. It wasn't a base, but almost a meeting place of sorts. We lost a few men that day. None that I knew particularly well. Though I'd be lying if I said it wasn't grim.
Alexander was pulled into a hostage situation. Lost story short, we got him out. I was the one who shot his captor. Alexander had a gun under his chin the entire time. Said it was the, and I quote 'scariest fucking thing of his motherfucking life'.
"So, what do you want"? Alexander asked sitting heavily on the faded brown chair. The room was dark, the curtains unopened and it smelt funny. Like rotting wood and dust. "Drugs? Money? Fake ID"? "None of those actually. I need information". "What kind of information. I figure a guy like you would be able to figure stuff out of his own". "Do you know who this bullet belongs to"? I handed him the metal. His hand closed around it, bringing it closer to his face. His expression changed for a split second. Could have blinded and missed it.
"Just a standard bullet I'd say. It's pretty hard to trace a bullet like this". "Don't bullshit me Alexander. I know you can trace it. Who does it belong to? You must know". "Why is this so important to you anyway"? I pulled out the photograph of the crime scene. Alexander grimaced at the sight of Cat's body. "I am sorry about Cat, Jacob. She was your sister, no? I saw it on the news. Terrible thing. I know you couldn't have done that".
"I didn't. But I need to find out who did. Look, I pulled that bullet from my shoulder the other day after a group of men came to attack me at an apartment". "What happened to the men"? "They're dead. I think". "You think"? "Look that doesn't matter. You know who uses these types of bullets right". By then he was on his feet ready to guide me out the door. "I'm sorry but you'll have to talk to someone else". "I'm not leaving until you tell me who's bullet this is". He muttered something in Russian under his breath. Cursing. "It is a Russian Mafia bullet".