Banks sits next to me, swinging in her chair. It makes an annoying clicking noise every time she moves too far. She’s trying to see what I can. Around us, the Desk Squad catalogue and file, it all seems so superficial, so boring. My view on the world has drastically changed, and I was originally right, the Diablo gene explains so much but yet so little.
After Snag’s insightful speech in the morgue yesterday, I’m more aware of my condition than ever before. I mean, at least it explains why I never did well in school―the school was never on par with my capabilities, hidden away behind my subconscious. The memories of being picked on just because I talked back to the teachers, talked to them like we were equal, flood my mind.
“Y’know if your hands keep spasming like that, Jax is going to notice,” Banks observes, her brows concave as she watches me watch nothing in particular.
“Y–yeah I know,” my words are uneven, as if I’m struggling to speak. My eyes frantically flick around to see Jax smirking towards our side of the Desk Squad, I simply give a smile and flip him off. His lips purse and goes back to filing.
I have to hold onto my sanity, I have to hold on as long as I can―for Snag. I clench and relax my hands on top of the handwriting samples from the Kitsune waitress, Mitsudome Ishizuma. There’s no match from the creature list or the riddle, but apparently Henry Nikita lurked around on the day before and after Officer Pike was at the restaurant. My best guess is that Henry is indeed involved.
“Akira,” Banks claps her hands over mine to stop my fingers from trembling against the file. She looks at me with her large brown eyes, “I think you need to take your tablets, you haven’t had any all day.”
“I–I ca–can’t take them,” I turn away from her. I can’t think straight, the whispers are nothing but a dull hum, but the thoughts of everyone else takes their places―it’s their thoughts or what I think they’re thinking.
“Why? The doctor’s told you to take them, you’ve been doing on meds,” Banks says.
“I think it’s time we process your locker,” I avoid the topic completely.
“How are you gonna do that, we’re not CSI’s,” Banks raises an eyebrow and follows me when I get out of my chair. “Besides, whatever evidence was there could probably be gone now.”
“There’s always going to be trace left behind, all we have to do is create a time line,” I say. “Dad has a kit at the bottom of his filing cabinet, but I need you to distract him when he comes out for a coffee.”
“And how am I going to do that?” Banks lifts her cap.
I shrug.
For the next fifteen minutes, Banks and I create a plan on how to keep Dad out of the office for the amount of time needed to grab his CSI kit. He usually gets one of the Desk Squad to bring him a coffee with the same order: large, black, two sugars. He always orders one at twelve o’clock sharp to keep him going for the next twelve hours. It’s Dad’s weird ritual to not have coffee at the start of the day, but half way through it.
Our plan of attack is set in three stages. There’s no guarantee that it’ll work, and I’ll most likely get fired, but all I can do is try.
Banks and I try to look productive, shuffling paper into neat columns, well at least that’s her job since I’m no longer a member of the Desk Squad―I simply watch Dad through the open-slit shutters for phase two to be put into action. The second stage of my plan is for Banks to lure Dad from the steps of his office by saying that Snag wants to see him in the morgue, giving me the time to slip into his office and squirrel through his stuff. And finally, step three is to get the hell out before Dad gets back fuming.
I make a noise like static over a radio and lean towards Banks who’s trying to look busy, “Psssst, Dad’s getting ready to call the coffee kid.”
“Akira,” Banks gives me a flat look. “We’re not ten and we don’t use walkie-talkies on the Desk Squad.”
“Well either way, phase two is now in action,” I say.
Banks just sighs and gets out of her chair at the precise moment Dad gets out of his. They meet each other half way on the stairs before he can open his mouth to ask for a coffee. I watch as Banks twiddles her thumbs behind her back as she tells Dad that Snag’s requested him in the morgue regarding the needle-like punctures on Officer Langley and Hemming.
He gives her a quizzical look for a few moments but bypasses her towards the front doors of the precinct to walk up Rivingston towards the lab and the morgue connected to our precinct. Once he’s out of the way, Banks skips back down the stairs and flicks Sam’s tie in my face.
“Let’s just hope that my FED-dar doesn’t go off,” she says and points to the office.
I look to the pull-push doors of the precinct, there’s nobody suspicious lurking about, and Sam had to go to a conference with his other vanilla latte drinking agents concerning Henry Nikita’s whereabouts in East Village. I ignore Jax who asks what I’m doing in Dad’s office, I simply close the door behind me and begin my search.
Apart from the desk with the photos, that certainly don’t contain me, the two trays holding case reports and other forms, Dad’s desk is rather clean. His computer monitor is off and his two black pens are neatly placed next to the trays. Above the desk on the wall are degrees and a photo of Dad shaking Chief Banks’ hand in front of the precinct. My eyes trail to the large filing cabinet on the wall to the right of Dad’s desk.
I open the first two drawers and instantly grimace. Files are categorised in alphabetical order and half of the first drawer is only for the letter ‘A’. I close the first drawer and look at the second; none hold any information that I particularly need. I notice that the larger third drawer is locked; I presume that’s where Dad keeps his kit.
I tug harshly at the drawer, causing the cabinet to rattle. Seeing that a key is needed, I turn back to Dad’s desk and start to open the drawers there. Nothing’s in them apart from notebooks, a copy of Helter Skelter and some stationary equipment. I reach into the back of the second drawer to feel a small metal object, flat, on some kind of chain.
I pull it out to see two keys. Both are of different makes, one fits into the cabinet whilst its counterpart must unlock the last drawer in Dad’s desk. Out of sheer curiosity and bad karma points, I open the locked drawer in Dad’s desk to find a mustard coloured file that a certain FBI Prat brought in.
I gently lift it out of the drawer to see the words: ANGEL BLUE stamped in red like I remembered. I place the file on Dad’s leather chair and look out the shutters to see Banks tapping her non-existent watch. I nod at her and go to unlock the cabinet. I pull out a clunky CSI kit and slam the cabinet drawer shut.
When I go back behind Dad’s desk I see Banks waving her arms at me, I frown at her and lean over the desk to see her pointing at the stairs. I make an ‘I-don’t-know-what-the-fuck-you’re-talking-about’ gesture with my hands, she holds her index finger up to me and scribbles something with a marker on a back of scrap paper and holds it up to me.
MY FED-DAR IS GOING OFF. GET DOWN.
I realise what she means a second too late, Sam’s already opening the door by the time I jump into Dad’s large leather chair and spin it around so I’m facing the wall with the kit and ANGEL BLUE file to my chest. I bite my lip and pull his tie off as swiftly as I can.
“Uh, Deputy Chief Stevens, I have the witness reports from the fifth victim up in Midtown. The Sphinx are guarded by Shifters and they said that Henry Nikita wasn’t around and that they’d never seen Officer Johnson, but they know that whatever killed him wasn’t one of them,” I hear Sam toss the file on one of the trays.
I see his reflection in the photo frame―he turns to leave when he stops. “They gave me a riddle, but I can’t decipher it, I’ll leave it on Stevens’s desk. You don’t know where she is, do you? I’ve been trying to call her but she’s not answering,” when there’s no response, I hear the leather holster holding Sam’s silver plated gun release. “Deputy Chief Stevens?”
I sigh and spin around in the chair. Sam lowers the gun with a deep frown on his face. He opens his mouth to speak but I stand up and wave my hands, almost dropping the case and file.
“I know how this looks, but you can’t say anything,” I whisper loudly. “I’ll figure out the riddle later, but I need to go.”
“Is that―”
“No,” I manoeuvre from behind the desk to make a jump for the door.
“But that’s―?” Sam’s cut off once more.
“No,” I hiss.
“―my tie?” he finishes with a raised eyebrow.
How awkward.
“Oh…yes,” I hand him the royal blue material and look out the window to see that Banks has left her desk to probably stall Dad. “Um, I thought it would be best if I return it. I’m sorry that I kept it overnight I didn’t realise I still had it. Now, I…better go.”
Sam stands there for a moment and looks down at the tie to run his fingers over the embroidered writing on the back of the fabric. When he turns to talk to me, I’m already out and down the stairs. Banks is at the door of the precinct flailing her hands around like her arse is on fire, trying to stop the steam coming out of Dad’s ears. Shit, Snag probably saw Dad come out of the elevator and then told him to turn right back around.
I hunch my back when I scamper down the stairs and cross the aisle to my desk. I throw the case onto my chair and slide the Angel Blue file beneath the stack of papers next to my computer monitor.
Dad excuses himself from Banks’ company and marches up the stairs to his office. Inside, Sam’s still standing there wondering what the hell just happened. They exchange words and Sam points to the fresh witness statements given by the Shifters; Dad simply nods and sits down at his desk.
“A’ight, nobody says a word,” Banks glares at the opposite side of our aisle to the Desk Squad members that we don’t like.
“What, that you just didn’t break into DC Stevens’s office? I like my job thank you very much,” Jax grunts from behind his computer. “What’s in it for me if I keep this side of the Squad shut, huh?”
“I’m not going to get blackmailed by you, Sinclair,” Banks glares.
“Take me out for a burger at the diner this Sunday and you have my silence,” Jax bargains.
Banks turns to me for support. I simply give a shrug and spin my chair around so I’m resting my arms on the front of the chair, so the back of the chair is facing Dad’s window. I can’t afford to be seen with the CSI case, Dad would tape my resignation back for sure. Banks clenches her jaw and nods. And hence, the silence of the Desk Squad is bought.
“This better be damn worth it,” she hooks her arm around mine as I collect the kit and Angel Blue file.
The lockers are through the door behind our side of the Desk Squad. You need to scan ID in order to get through, which means Dianne needed someone’s card from Seventh Precinct to get in. I frown and place the kit on the bench in the middle of the second aisle where Banks’ locker is kept.
I flick the latches on the case and ease it open to view the contents: evidence sealing tape, graph paper, pencil, ruler, latent print kit, permanent markers, protective equipment (masks, gloves and booties), paper bags, placards, plastic bags, containers, chalk and tweezers.
I take out the small latent print kit and twist the lid off the lycopodium power and grab the dusting brush. Thankfully, the lycopodium powder is bright pink to show up on the dark green surface of Banks’ locker. I take to the task of dusting locker #246.
“I haven’t used my locker for four months, so I don’t know what you’re looking for,” Banks sits down on the bench and watches me dust. “Look, I know you can’t say anything about the case you’re working with Mr Vanilla Latte but I’m your best friend, you can trust me.”
I exhale and lower the lycopodium powder to see no good prints. I put the cap back on and place it back in the kit to retrieve the small click-torch and the tweezers. I look at the keyhole that has fresh scratches around it, which could only happen if someone tried to put mismatched keys into the lock.
The tweezers grasp a strand of red hair; no doubt Dianne’s and I place it in one of the small plastic sealing bags, closing it with evidence tape. My eyes dart between the scratched lock and the smudged pink granules of lycopodium.
Dianne must have watched the Seventh Precinct for a while without detection to know Banks’ routine to not go to her locker. Then Dianne would obviously need inside access to know which locker Banks uses. But how could a dead woman do that if her body is in Woodlawn cemetery?
I click the torch off and pick up the Angel Blue file. I breeze past the first three pages within the stacked file and pause at the fifth page where a list, written differently to the one found in Dianne’s throat, is placed. I pull the paper out and hold it up to the light. Twenty creatures corresponding to twenty numbers along with their ‘designated’ territories.
Night Crawlers have all alleys under their duristicion in Upper Manhattan, mainly around the Hell’s Kitchen region. Shifters had no assigned territory and wandered around on their own free will as long as they didn’t harm the public―however, Sam said they guard the Sphinx in Midtown. Vrykokolas lurked around cemeteries with no set location. Aries are confined to their bars and clubs, their main hub being in Harlem. Kitsune don’t leave the Rakkiteru and the Baines simply stay in Central Park unless something encroaches on their territory―like Dianne’s body.
Unless, it was never Dianne in the first place...of course! She could’ve reached out before her death if somehow she caught wind of project Angel Blue and approached a Shifter to infiltrate the precinct. A Shifter could easily knock someone’s ID from their back pocket and use it to enter the lockers and take my clothes. But then how could Dianne come back? Shifters (according to the information in Angel Blue) can only imitate appearance, not DNA.
The truth lies in the coffin.
Mitsudome Ishizuma saw Henry Nikita lurk around the Rakkiteru restaurant before and after Officer Pike’s death, if her handwriting samples aren’t a match, then perhaps her witness report can shed light on my dilemma.
“Akira stop,” Banks grabs the collar of my white button-up. “You’re scaring me. Let me in and I can help you, I can’t stand it that you’re awake all hours of the night worrying about these creepy murders with that Mr Vanilla Latte boy who’s obviously not pulling his slack.”
I block Banks out for a moment as my voice catches on to what my mind is processing. I mutter incoherent words as I persevere to the door until Banks lets me go. I open the door and slide the papers around for the Mitsudome Ishizuma’s witness statement.
One can interpret the murders so many ways; (a) they can be dismissed as racist killings since two of the seven victims aren’t of American descent, (b) a warning to the NYPD that their power of authority can’t tame the creatures, (c) a statement to those of Angel Blue or (d) a threat towards those carrying the Diablo gene.
I enter the locker room again with my nose in the witness statement. It’s full of broken English and describes that Mitsudome Ishizuma saw Henry Nikita stand in front of the restaurant and when half of the staff told him to move on he said, ‘if you have any trouble with coppers I can deal with that.’ When Officer Pike came in and ate his Onigiri, Mitsudome Ishizuma saw him lean into the driver’s side of his patrol car and told his partner something. The car drove off without Officer Pike and then Mitsudome Ishizuma found his body when taking out the garbage. After the body was processed and collected for autopsy, Henry Nikita showed up that afternoon once the police left and winked at the waitress, opening the front door of the restaurant to say, ‘told ya so love.’
“Akira if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll go get Mr Vanilla Latte,” her nickname’s for Sam knew no bounds. I continue to ignore her until she pulls my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and dials a number. “Hello Mr Vanilla Latte, no this obviously isn’t your partner. Yes we’ve met, yes I’m her friend…get your tailored arse back to the precinct, Akira’s on a mission from God and it’s freaking me out. Yes, I’ll let you in don’t worry…okay thank you.”
I lower the witness report and my eyebrow twitches.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Banks gripes. “I can’t handle my best friend keeping secrets from me. If you’re in danger then I need to know.”
“But you can’t know,” I growl and bundle up the Angel Blue file and hand it to her, “don’t open it, simply sit on it so Sam doesn’t know I have it.”
“What is it?” Banks takes the file from me and places it underneath her. She crosses her legs to spread out her body more so the file can’t be scene. She puts her cap onto her lap just for extra measures.
“Something that has killed a lot of good Officers,” I respond and walk over to the door of the locker room where Sam is waiting. I tug at the handle and it opens freely. Sam waves his FBI ID in my face with a scowl.
“I take it that your entire precinct doesn’t permit FBI access?” he grits.
“Obviously,” I say and pace back towards the locker. Sam stands at the end of the bench and looks like he wants me to explain myself, if his Diablo gene is going to be as slow as it is now, I might as well simply lock him in here and figure the case out by myself.
“Your friend here says that you’re on a mission from God,” Sam says.
“So I’ve heard,” I lift the witness report back up to my face and snap my fingers with every step I took, pacing the length of the row of lockers. “The Kitsune that you released yesterday after questioning said that Henry Nikita was around the crime scene before and after Officer Pike’s murder. A source tells me that the ‘truth lies in the coffin’, and there is a coffin tattooed on Nikita’s throat. I believe that Nikita is linked to these murders―now tell me, did you show Dianne Hemming’s photo to the Shifter’s and Sphinx?”
Sam glances at Banks, “I now understand what you mean―she’s not usually like this, right?”
“I think it’s because she didn’t take her medication, she’s been jittery all morning,” Banks replies.
“Did you or did you not, Prat?” I raise my voice towards Sam, hoping that they’d both catch the hint that I’m right here and can hear them.
“No, I didn’t think it was necessary. Dianne Hemming is supposed to be dead,” Sam puts his hands in his slack pockets and looks around the locker room. “And what is this mysterious ‘source’ you speak of?”
“You’re such a Prat!” I shout at him.
It’s so frustrating that he doesn’t see what I do. If we’re the same then how come he can’t make the damn connection? And then I realise that the killer only texted me, he wants me to know, not anyone else. This is going to get troublesome. And I can’t tell Sam about the killer’s text messages, I have to follow Snag’s instructions and not trust anyone from the FBI.
“N–never mind,” I toss the witness report towards the bench and hold my hand out towards Banks. “Keys,” I hope she doesn’t notice my fingers shaking like I had Parkinson’s, but she does.
“Take your medication Akira,” Banks says.
But I can’t take the Ritalin; if I take it then it’ll numb the Diablo gene. I see that Banks will only give me the keys if I take the Ritalin. I pat my jeans pockets down for the small container, once I retrieve it; I place one tablet on my tongue and pretend to swallow, hiding the capsule beneath my tongue. Banks, ignorant to my trick, hands me the keys to her locker.
Sam folds his arms as I place the key into the lock and turn two it two times in a clockwise direction. The mechanism clicks and I open the door. The inside’s empty apart from a small stack of five photos and a piece of thick cardboard, the same style found in Dianne’s throat.
“Phone,” I hold out my hand and Banks hands me my phone so I can take photos. I pocket my phone and Banks passes me gloves and opens six plastic evidence bags. I sift through the photos to see that they’re all from the funeral of Officer Donovan―Blake’s father.
What concerns me is that all of the photos of individual people. There’s one of Dad standing with his hands clasped in front of the casket. One of me but Blake’s image has been cut out. A separate one of Blake crying with his hand on the flag draped over Officer Donovan’s coffin. A picture of Banks standing alongside her father whose image has also been cut off and finally. A photo of Sam―he looks a lot younger and stands in front of a casket in a different outside ceremony. It must be his father’s. All of our eyes have been scratched out. Nikita.
RinG a riNg a rOsiE,
A POckeT fUll of poSIes,
AsHEs, asHes,
WE all faLl Down.
I don’t understand the meaning until I see the flower petals scattered down the aisle between the rows of chairs in Officer Donovan’s funeral photo. My mind then pieces together the puzzle, it may not be a riddle, but the message rings loud and clear. The ring refers to a circle, because the case will make us go around endlessly. Ashes because we all come from the earth and will one day go back to it. We all fall down meaning that we will die.
“What is it?” Sam takes a step forward. “Stevens you’re trembling...Stevens look at me.”
I shake my head, there’s no time to bag this evidence, there’s no time. I’ve run out of that. Blake Donovan. I need to get to Blake. He doesn’t have the protection of the precinct, he simply is a recluse. A recluse with no defence against the killer.
I spit the Ritalin tablet out.
“Take these photos and give them to Dad, make sure you tell him that I took his kit and will apologise later,” I say to Banks as I rip off the gloves and throw them onto her lap. “Also, with that thing I can’t tell you about, I want you to give it to me when your shift is over. I don’t want you to let that thing out of your sight. Clear?”
“O–okay,” Banks looks rather startled but waits for me to literally drag Sam from the locker room before she removes the Angel Blue file.
As I get out of the locker room, Dad’s there to intercept me. Before this can become a shouting match, I order Sam to get in the SUV and will direct him to Blake’s apartment. I then turn my attention to Dad when he asks what the meaning of all the noise is.
“They’re going to kill Donovan,” I tell him in the foyer of the precinct, just out of earshot from the Desk Squad. “Blake Donovan is going to die.”
• • •
All I do is tell Sam to drive and to go through a couple of red lights. I check the ammunition in my gun and click the mag shut. Sam glances at me, his green eyes are wide at my sheer determination. He has no idea what’s going on, hell even I don’t know. All I know is that Blake is in danger.
I just hope it isn’t too late. Maybe he didn’t answer his calls because he’s already dead; maybe the killer’s already dumped his body.
When Sam slams on the brakes, I open the car door and nearly get clipped by a taxi. I inhale deeply and close the car door, not wasting any time by walking across the road. I bolt, I have my gun poised at my side as I enter Blake’s reception area. I don’t flash my badge to the receptionist, I simply run up the stairs to Blake’s apartment. Number 54B.
I can hear Sam’s urgent footsteps follow me as I look down both corridors; they are empty but the faint thump of music echoes throughout the floor. I head down the corridor to the right and find Blake’s door straight away.
The door’s slightly ajar and his room is silent. A pungent odour flares beneath my nostrils; it smells like a dead body. Sam turns into the hallway and chances after me, his gun at the ready. He nods at me and I don’t hesitate to kick the door in.
“NYPD!” I shout.
My voice echoes through the trashed living room. I’m not sure if Blake’s apartment’s been ransacked or he just hasn’t cleaned it in all the months his dad’s been gone. The living room’s empty so I move onto the small kitchen and Blake’s father’s room. I kick the bedroom door in and scan around, it’s empty.
“Stevens,” I hear Sam call.
Oh God, I think. What’s Banks going to think if Blake’s dead?
I run back out into the living room and almost stack it on an empty bottle of Miller Lite. I regain my balance and follow Sam towards the bathroom, which I suppose he’s already checked, to see him with his back pressed to the wall near Blake’s bedroom. There are faint rustling noises and strange guttural groans. Maybe I did figure it out in time.
“Ready?” Sam asks.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say as I kick in the door.
“What the fuck was that?” Blake’s groggy voice grumbles.
As I stumble into the room, I turn around and head straight back out, pushing on Sam’s chest to lead me back into the hallway. Blake is having some rough sex with a woman I’ve never seen before. How embarrassing. How embarrassing for me. Here I am, bursting into his room expecting to find his mutilated corps, just to find him getting his jollies with some hooker!
I slide my gun back into its holster and clench my fists. Blake soon appears with the sheet wrapped around his torso, I try not to point out that his junior is still wide awake. He looks between me and Sam, his mouth opening and closing. To save him from saying anything, I slap him across the face.
“What the fuck was that for?” Blake yelps, gripping his cheek.
“What was that for? Banks and I think you’ve been a rotting corpse for the past five months! We thought you’d hurt yourself but instead you’re shagging anything that moves! I can’t believe you Blake!” I seethe.
“Babe who is it?” the woman tramps about, nude, to the bedroom door.
I turn Sam around so he doesn’t have to puke. I keep my eyes on the ceiling because it seems to be the only clean thing in the whole damn apartment. I blindly reach into my back pocket to fish out my ID.
“Detective Akira Stevens of the NYPD, you better get back inside that room before I arrest you for indecency,” I keep my eyes glued to the ceiling.
“Pfft, whatever,” the tramp does as told and disappears into Blake’s bedroom, whining about a swift return from her ‘dark knight’.
“What―?”
I slap Blake across the face again.
“You need to get your shit together, Donovan. Banks can’t keep vouching for you any longer. One day, she’s going to wake up and realise that you aren’t the man for her because you’re taking her trust and shitting all over it,” I crack my knuckles. “Has anybody been to your apartment apart from your…conquest?”
Blake runs a hand through his messy black hair and wipes the sweat from his brow. Both of his cheeks are inflamed from my slaps, the stench of alcohol seeps from his pores and I take a step back as he belches.
“Er, yeah this guy,” Blake rubs his stubbly jaw, “what’s this about…and since when did you become a Detective?”
“Was this the man?” Sam turns back around and holds up the mug shot of Henry Nikita. I get the odd feeling that Sam carries around a photo of the perp all the time for some reason.
“Yeah, he said he was a friend of my dad’s,” Blake scrubs at his bloodshot eyes, “I think he came around a few days ago, we had a beer and then he left. He’s a weird guy, didn’t think my dad would be mates with someone like him.”
“Did you leave him alone for any time at all? Did he leave your sight?” Sam asks.
“Nah…but he was acting weird, really on edge…he kept saying he had to repent for his sins,” Blake rests his head against the wall and sighs. “What’s gotten into you Akira, you never used to care about shit like this before.”
I slap him again.
“I swear to God, I will pistol-whip you,” I spit at him, “did this man touch anything at all while he was here?”
“I said no! We had a beer together and then he left, that’s it,” Blake steps at me like he wants a fight.
Sam pushes him back slightly and pulls out his ID, “Special Agent Samuel Pingelly, FBI. This man is Henry Nikita; he’s wanted for murder in Louisiana and is possibly connected to crimes in Manhattan. Now, for your friend’s sake I can arrest you for harbouring a criminal, but you need to calm down.”
“What are you doing with a FED?” Blake narrows his eyes at me. “And I wasn’t harbouring anyone, we had a beer, he left, get the fuck over it.”
I ignore Blake’s rudeness and then look around the hallway. I notice that every scrap of police memorabilia is missing. Blake’s room is messy and even when Keith was alive, never kept his clothes in the wardrobe. His uniform, shield and effects aren’t anywhere to be seen.
“Where’s your Desk Squad gear?” I ask.
“I gave it to that guy,” Blake averts his eyes. “I resigned the day after dad was killed; I’m not on the Desk Squad anymore. I’m not anything―I’m done with the NY–fucking–PD. That job killed my dad; I’m not going to follow in his footsteps. Now if you’re done with breaking into my home and accusing me of pointless shit, I think you should go.”
I bite my lip hard enough for it to bleed. The metallic taste coats my lip as I storm out back into the living room. Why must he be so stupid? Why did he have to be so naïve? I wanted to hit something, shoot something, and release my frustrations somehow. I grab the empty bottle of Miller Lite and throw it against the wall causing the brown glass to shatter and leave a brown stain on the paint.
“Yeah break everything too,” Blake’s voice follows me out into the living room. He crosses his arms and pulls the sheet tighter around his torso. “What’s happened to you Akira? The girl I used to work with on the desk never even spoke to FED’s.”
“SHUT UP!” I grip my head. “How can you be so stupid Blake, the guy I knew on the desk never missed a shift, was ten minutes early to every meeting…where is that man now?”
“He’s dead, Akira,” Blake’s tone hardens. “He died the moment Keith Donovan’s coffin was lowered down into the pit. I can’t do it anymore Akira, that job will kill you―especially since you’re in the field. I can see what it’s doing to you, you’re twitching, you’re not sleeping…its PTSD I tell you.”
“I think we should go,” Sam cuts in before I can throw another bottle of Miller Lite. He turns back to Blake and gives him a cold glare, “If I can’t arrest you for harbouring a criminal, I can charge you for underage drinking. You’re eighteen, the legal age is twenty-one.”
“Kiss my arse, FED,” Blake says.
Sam rolls his eyes at Blake’s immaturity and follows me out the door. Sam stops me at the foot of the stairs abruptly. His green eyes search mine for a moment before he sighs. He digs his royal blue tie out of the pocket and and places it in my shaking hands. He knows that I’m crying but doesn’t comment on it. My tears continue to fall before he decides to speak, cutting off my babbling as I cry.
“I take it that you’ll explain everything to me on the ride back to the precinct,” he guesses.
I simply nod and hold the tie back out to him. When he refuses to take it, I drape it across his shoulder and walk down the stairs slowly, knowing how hard my hands are shaking. Is death really capable of hurting people like that? Is it responsible for shattering their every being? Is it proficient enough to turn the best man into the cruelest monster?
My phone vibrates on the last step, I scrub hard at my eyes to stop the tears, but they keep flowing. I dig around in my pocket and retrieve my phone.
Unknown:
I am always around, but never seen.
I am often avoided, but you can’t outrun me.
I will come for you when you’re old and grey,
or maybe even the very next day.
I will come with a cold embrace and give you rest,
with a chilled kiss on your face.
I come in many forms of emotional state,
whether it’s irony, love, laughter of hate.
I am everyone’s final fate.
Death.