by Jordan Jones
“Benjamin said his crew will take every piece of DNA and run it through the database,” Abraham informed us. “Is there anything else we ought to know about the DNA we might find in your car?” Abraham gave me a childish grin.
My chest hurt too much to laugh, but I shook my head in disgust. “Shut up. Just run everything. Have them check the cameras in the parking garage, too. I usually park within the scope of one of them just in case anyone breaks in.”
Both Abraham and LT Anderson propped their feet up on my bed from their uncomfortably-small recliners and continued texting on their phones. This went on for several minutes before LT Anderson stood up and said, “Well, John. I’m glad you’re alive and awake, but there are things we have to take care of at the office. I’ll be back to take any additional statements after I speak to the commissioner.”
They left and I instantly felt relieved. I was alone again, but this isolation felt much different than in my apartment. I chose that isolation.
This was involuntary…and it felt so soothing I never wanted it to end. I was comforted knowing I was stuck in a hospital with nowhere to go. My control slipped out of my fingertips, and the feeling of nirvana overwhelmed me.
I wasn’t stuck in the hospital. I was allowed to be there. I was grateful to be there.
My mind raced at the thought of losing control of my life when I finally fell into an unconscious state of knowing.
Then, it seemed like an eternity before there was a knock on the door.
“Daddy?” The small voice called out from the other side.
“Katherine?”
“Hey, how are you doing?” She walked in, making herself at home.
“I’ve been better.”
“They told me what happened a few days ago; I’ve been staying with Uncle Liam for a few days until I heard about you waking up. Your partner let me know, then I came right over.” She gazed over my bandages and reached out and touched my head. “This doesn’t look like you got in a fight. This looked like you were shot or something.”
“Ol’ Abe told you I got in a scrap on the job, huh?”
She nodded. She appeared as innocent as she could muster. I tried to keep my cool in knowing she was here now, despite the rage building inside of me.
“Well,” I said. “I got stabbed right through my right shoulder blade. I saw it come out the other side. I nearly bled to death on my way here. I was in a coma for three days and I’ve been awake for about an hour.”
I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear the thought of her knowing about my condition and simply ‘wait for the call’ to come and see me. Her audacity was real, but it was masked in contempt and reluctance.
She grabbed my hand and tears left my eyes.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. The awkwardness in her voice offered me little comfort. The inauthenticity only buried the emotional wounds with layers of salt, burning with every word.
“Why don’t you come and see me anymore?” I asked, barely able to get the words out.
LT Anderson barged through the door unannounced, his phone up to his ear. “Oh, sorry miss,” he said to Katherine holding up his hand. “Trotter, the police are searching your house and car. This guy knows where you live now. I’m talking with the Commissioner. Do you have somewhere to stay or do you want us placing you in a hotel?”
I thought for a moment.
After I killed Alvin Dugger twelve years ago, there were threats against my life from some of his family members. They said he was mentally ill and that he should’ve just been in a mental hospital.
I was placed in a hotel then with police at my beck and call. It was extremely uncomfortable and I lost all freedom. There was no way I could do that again.
“I know a place.” I said. “My father has a cabin on the outskirts of town.”
Chapter Seventeen
“You said it’s over this way?” LT Anderson said from the driver’s seat. I was lying down in the back seat of his undercover SUV and could feel the vibrations of the newly paved highway beneath me.
“If you turned left on Meridian then yes,” I answered from my near stupor. He was largely quiet since leaving the hospital, and it was a welcome sign on the surface, though I knew much of what he wanted to say deep inside. There were many questions that brewed between the two of us, but neither felt it was the right time and place to examine them.
He knew what I just experienced would take time to overcome both physically and mentally, and I understood that showing up at a crime scene drunk didn’t reflect well on him. He had covered for Abraham, and me but that was just the beginning of it.
His demeanor was often changing, making it difficult for even a seasoned detective to figure out. As seasoned as I was, I wasn’t about to try to understand him.
All the sudden, it was hard for me to concentrate about any one thing. My mind raced a thousand inches per second, though the blurs that streaked in my thoughts all seemed worth exploring. The faces of William Henson and Geoff Burnley were at the forefront of my mind.
Feeling sorry for either of them seemed out of the question, as they both committed heinous acts of violence on their victims. They, themselves, seemed most appropriate to only have the same treatment perpetrated against them, but only more severe.
The oath that I swore by told me that I had to do everything in my power to find the person responsible for their deaths; it wasn’t the most inspiring cases I’ve ever had, because the very person I was trying to catch had to share some level of values that I had.
A knife was stuck through your shoulder, you idiot, my inner voice said. I didn’t care.
I sympathized with The Sparrow. He was doing what he thought was right, and this town was certainly better off without them.
Breanna Pilson.
Abraham told me about Breanna and what she went through at the hands of Geoff Burnley. If I had known that at the time at his crime scene, I would’ve probably been more of a bumbling fool. Thank God I didn’t know about Breanna.
I didn’t covet The Sparrow.
I didn’t even quite respect him.
But, at the very least I acknowledged him for what he was doing. Bravo.
“This is it on the left, I think,” I said, sitting upright. The Vicodin was wearing off fast, and I needed something to relieve the pain.
Abraham pulled up behind us and Katherine stepped out of the passenger side.
“We’ll have two patrol officers parked here at all times,” LT Anderson said. “Every thirty minutes or so, they’ll walk around the area to make sure nothing suspicious is going on.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll be staying too,” Katherine said. “I got ahold of my instructors and told them about this situation. They all thought it would be best if I stayed here, too. I can do stuff online.”
“Here,” Abraham said, handing Katherine a hotspot. “I doubt there’s any internet out here.”
“Nope,” I said with a smile. “We haven’t been here in a long time.”
“Thanks,” she said. She grabbed her laptop and headed inside.
“You’re going to be OK out here for a little while, right?” Abraham asked.
I nodded. “I guess so. I’ll try to rehab this thing and get back in the fight as soon as I can.”
“Don’t be out too long.” Abraham stuck out his hand and I shook it.
“It’s best we get back,” LT Anderson said. “We have a ton of files to go through and an impounded car to tear apart.” He winked at me.
They drove away in separate vehicles and the patrol officers soon arrived, introducing themselves, but I didn’t want to get to know them for some reason. They were Officer One and Officer Two in my head. The voluntary disrespect on my part came from deducing that they were only there because their higher-ups told them to be.
Katherine and I were just a clock-in and clock-out to them.
Officer Two was nice enough, but appeared disheveled and indifferent.
Officer one didn
’t say much, adhering to the notion that he didn’t want to be there.
I wasn’t doing them any favors and spilling any information they didn’t already know. The irritability hit me like a ton of bricks, sending my mind in various circles, cycling through every day in the past week simultaneously.
If they didn’t care about us, the superficial greetings and cordial dialogue would be short-lived. I saw myself inside where I found the electricity turned on and the water was running. Abraham took it upon himself to make sure that all was in order before we made arrangements to stay in the cabin.
“The fridge is stocked full,” Katherine said.
“Yeah, I owe the department after this is all over,” I said.
She turned and looked over the couch and through the blinds. “Are they going to be out there all night?”
“Looks like it,” I said, taking out meat and cheese from the fridge.
“Let me make that for you.”
“I have it.” I struggled to open up a single slice of cheese and stared at the unopened package of bread. It seemed more daunting than it should have.
“Let me do it.”
I stopped my stubbornness. After all, it was nice to have Katherine do something for me for once. The past year has been hard trying to keep up with her bills and mine.
The bar in the kitchen was recently cleaned and the floor showed obvious signs of attention. Abraham was a great guy despite everything the department put him through.
He has stuck with me through everything…
“There’s enough ingredients in here to make some vegetable soup,” Katherine said while looking in the fridge. “I’ll make enough for me tonight and for both of us tomorrow.”
I sat down on the couch facing the small kitchen. The cabin wasn’t much more than eight hundred square feet, and every room was connected. The pictures on the wall were manufactured nature-esque paintings.
The rustic feel the cabin could have had was hindered by the over-saturation of mass produced big-box store items, making it difficult to soak in the surroundings as it was intended.
Katherine turned on the burner for the stove and started something in the large pot. She often cooked for Viv and me years before she went to college. It started out as a joke…letting our at-the-time fourteen-year-old daughter prepare a meal for the three of us.
We found out very quickly that she was a natural in the kitchen. We then deemed Thursday nights Katherine’s cooking nights. We masked the fact that we both hated cooking with her desire to cook.
It was genius.
The last year, she began pursuing her degree in Nursing from Maine State University nearly two hours away. She cut off almost all ties to me, though she spoke to her mother often.
I was the financier and Viv was the confidant. I had taken the role knowing the repercussions, though the amount of hurt I felt with each phone call with Katherine asking me for more and more money was unprecedented in every way.
I felt guilty that I was enabling her to treat me a certain way, so that made it all my fault. How could I have blamed her when I instigated it?
“Is that sandwich going to be enough, or do you want some of this, too?” She asked.
“This is good. Thanks.”
She went back to work, moving in the same ways her mother would when she cooked. Humming the same tunes. Reacting the same way when she sipped from the spoon.
Viv would be proud. I knew I was.
I found it difficult to keep from thinking how the family was all those years ago. My father was involved with raising her more than most grandfathers. He would talk her into getting into just enough mischief to keep her from serious punishment.
He helped pay her athletic fees and other school fees behind our backs. He even sent her to a more prestigious middle school without telling us.
When I found out I was at the wrong school on the first day, I was livid. But, nothing ever came of it. He grandparented her how he wanted to and we did it our way.
I would like to believe it made her a better person, but that was difficult to gauge. She was a bright young woman, but behind the sneaky smile and elegant demeanor, she was as manipulative as the day was long.
Her food was done and she plopped down next to me.
“So, what is there to do here?” she asked, dunking her spoon into her bowl.
I gave a big stretch and leaned back against the blinds and yawned. “Sleep,” I answered her after a long pause.
“I guess I could do some work. These assignments are ridiculous,” she finally said.
“Can you answer my question?” I asked.
“Dad…”
“I’m serious.” I cleared my throat in an attempt to delay the inevitable. “Why don’t you ever come and see me anymore?”
She sighed and was obviously annoyed. I had her trapped now. Earlier she was bailed out by LT Anderson breaking into the room.
Now she had nowhere to go.
“I think you know,” she said. “You know why.”
She was right…I did. It was a hard pill to swallow, but I thought that I at least deserved some gratitude for how far I’ve helped her go.
“That’s not good enough for me,” I responded. My tone was slightly more aggressive than I meant it to be. “I pay for everything for you. Room. Board. Food. Gas. Everything.”
She looked up at me from a slouched position with her eyes narrowed and mouth open.
“That’s not even close to what you pay for,” she said. “Mom and Craig pay for almost everything. You help me with gas money and groceries. Western Maine State is expensive. You help a little, but it’s not on par with what they do for me.”
The needle struck hard through my side hearing that. I was almost convinced I was Katherine’s gravy train to a four-year degree, but I was only able to pay for groceries?
Vivian’s real estate business no doubt took off on the west coast; that much was clear. She told me she wasn’t going to help Katherine with her schooling, which was part of the divorce decree. Then, she decides to help her out behind my back.
I felt swindled.
The pride I felt in paying for Katherine’s schooling was incalculable, but that feeling was beginning to fade away. I was unsure how I should feel.
“Anyway,” she said. “I still feel weird about the way you two ended it. A lot of iffy stuff went on and I always thought you two wanted me to pick sides. I don’t know. I just know I don’t like it.”
“I didn’t mean to make you pick sides,” I said quietly.
“There were other things, but I don’t want to get into that.” She picked up her soup, gave me a kiss on the forehead, and went into one of the bedrooms.
The blinds remained half open and I looked out at the officer sitting in the car. The other was walking around, shining his flashlight in the brush on both sides of the road.
At least they were doing their jobs. They didn’t like the post, but they took it seriously.
Maybe they weren’t so bad.
I spent the night reading Plato’s Republic with the fire crackling in the fireplace. The shadows danced along the walls, mixing in with the harmonies running though my head.
Socrates argued about justice and morality to a bunch of wannabe philosophers. They asked if the just man is happier than the unjust man.
I wasn’t so sure.
The Sparrow seemed to be enjoying his work and I seemed to be dreading mine.
But, he did appear just in his work.
It wasn’t fair to call him unjust, especially in his eyes. He was someone with direction in his life, and I had none. Everything was planned out, calculated, and maneuvered for me to be a police detective.
Alvin Dugger made himself known to me at the right time.
My father was a police captain at the right time. Everything fell into place, and it felt awful.
A just person does what they feel is just, no matter how warped their ethics were. The Sparrow fit this category, and even I could
n’t argue that his slayings weren’t completely unjustified.
I couldn’t believe where my mind was going. My thoughts were enmeshing with that of a serial killer, one that attempted to take my life.
But, he didn’t. In fact, he purposefully saved my life. He gave me reason to live, though the reason hid somewhere between my own self-doubt and fear. I’m sure it was snuggled next to the crippling depression that continued to pull me down into the earth every chance it could.
It was a part of me, and I of it. The choice I made going forward would dictate the rest of my life.
Was being a police officer still what I wanted to do? Did the bad outweigh the good?
What was the good?
I popped a few more Vicodin and laid down on the couch. There was another bed, but I wasn’t worthy of it. My best friend was a serial killer by the pseudonym ‘The Sparrow.’ We had much more in common than I’d like to admit.
He would continue to strike down as many abusers as he could, and who was I to stop him?
I was nobody.
Chapter Eighteen
The physical therapist was at the cabin by eight o’clock sharp.
Although the wound was still healing, the doctor wanted me to get to work on rehabbing it as soon as I could. If it stays stagnant, you might experience atrophy, he told me. The last thing I needed was loss of movement or more muscle loss. Years of drinking caused enough of that.
The therapist made me stretch my arm above my head and swing it around just a little to ensure movement. Katherine was busy in the kitchen cooking up nearly everything in the fridge for breakfast. She’d even offered some to the PT, but she declined.
The pain wasn’t as intense as I was used to, and I was less angry about having to move around than before. She contorted and bowed my arm in ways I couldn’t explain and then Abraham knocked on the door.
“Hey, John…m’lady,” he said, tipping his fedora to the PT. He waved at Katherine in the kitchen and she resumed working. “I thought I’d stop by to see the progress.”
I laughed. “It’s been one day.”
“I know, I know.” He took a sip of the coffee he brought from the office. “I just want to get you back in your chair. I’m sick of Welker already. It’s been one day.”
