Tighten the straps here, make sure the seal isn’t broken, and all sorts of nonsense that probably wasn’t going to make a difference against a super flu. However, it did make a difference with internal lawsuits against the department.
The other detective stood taller over the top of the paper. “Bill, come on, man. That shit doesn’t bore you to death?”
“It’s where I get my news.” He rubbed a thick bristly mustache that his younger peers mocked but secretly envied. It was his signature trademark in the department, one earned when it was the only acceptable facial hair for an officer. A mustache of the past and grown with decades of experience.
“It’s all scare tactics from somebody’s agenda. Better to just leave it alone.” His partner, Detective Cole Westman, took a seat on the side of his desk and waved a smartphone at him. “Print’s dead man. Electronic is the way to go.”
Bill selectively listened to him, focusing on some article about the economic woes of Detroit, the largest city across the state of Michigan.
The twenty-seven-year-old was a good cop, smart, tough, and above all, skeptical. He had the makings of a great cop if he applied himself more directly, but like most things, good police work took practice. He was prone to periods of S.L.A.P., Sorry Lazy Ass Policing as Bill called it, but he expected it out of this newest generation. After thinking about it for a moment, he didn’t know if Westman was part of the newest generation, but his generation was new enough.
Seemed like every day scientists divided people into more and more little groups with all their little nuances and special qualities and significant defects. There were so many nowadays Bill couldn’t even begin to understand them all and why they needed to be so different from everyone else. He supposed his parents didn’t understand his generation either, and he was old enough to be Westman’s father.
Westman gave him a self-assured grin. “Dude, come on. This has like a thousand news outlets online. You can scroll through here and get all your info for the day in one swipe.”
Bill whipped his paper again, straightening the center and obscuring the troublesome man from view. “I like to read the paper. I can touch it. I can feel it in my hands. I can turn the page. It’s real.” He waited a moment. “If I can’t touch it, it ain’t real.”
He could practically hear the man smirking on the other side of the thin sheeted print. “That ancient technology must remind you of the old days with the stone tablets and a full head of hair. Who was your best friend again? Moses?”
Bill exhaled and clenched his jaw. The age jokes. Always with the age jokes. Gray hair, no hair, beer bellies, and bad shoulders, knees, and backs. All true, but no one wanted to be reminded incessantly of their much closer proximity to death. All the ailments did a fine enough job in that regard. Being told he needed to watch his salt because of his blood pressure. Lay off the booze. Lay off the red meat. What the hell was a man supposed to do? Quit living? He suspected that’s why so many men died early: lack of things to live for. He dipped the paper. “Moses was a fun guy.”
Westman stared at his smartphone, completely zoned in on his screen as if he were getting sucked into a new dimension.
How quickly they became distracted. Generation of tech zombies.
Westman scrolled with a finger, not even looking at Bill. He then swiped right. He flipped his phone around. A picture of a woman took up the whole screen.
“What do you think of her?”
The picture was in one of Westman’s many dating apps. Bill couldn’t keep all that shit straight. Single Fish, Ember, Mating dot com— they were overloaded with people throwing themselves into the digital humanless connection of the internet.
He’d tried one once on a lonely night after a few too many beers but couldn’t figure out what to write in his profile description. Banged-up, divorced detective who’d failed the first two women in his life, three if you counted a mother he never called in some nursing home off Plainfield Avenue. Putting your life on paper never read like you thought it would.
Now the website spammed him with activation emails every day, hoping his desperation for a human connection would bring him back out of the pit of human loneliness into the arena of competitive dating. Sending those to the spam folder always gave him a brief moment of satisfaction.
Bill squinted at Westman’s potential date. The photo was taken from an elevated camera angle like she was holding the phone above her with an outstretched arm. Her lips were pursed like some sort of duck beak. Her hair was streaked blonde, but it was definitely not her natural color; dark hair waved from underneath.
Nothing about this poor girl seemed natural. The image was a bit fuzzy. He couldn’t tell her eye color and she showed the beginning crevice of deep cleavage. Reminded him of his second wife from long ago, not a happy ending and half his remaining pension.
He shook his paper back upright. “Not my type.”
The top of Westman’s clean haircut wavered from side to side over the paper. “Could be fun.” Bill eyed him from around the paper. Westman swiped right. In rapid succession, he swiped right then left four times.
Bill shook his head, feeling obligated to give the man some advice. “What happened to going out and meeting somebody at a bar? Buying a girl a beer and getting to know her.” He tossed his paper down and stood. His back ached from sitting too long and moving helped the shooting sciatica pain running down into his leg.
A few of his peers from long ago had filed a medical claims for their “back injuries” received while on duty, of course, then got to start retirement early. The problem for Bill was he couldn’t afford the dip in pay on his diminished retirement funds. That’s what two divorces did to a man. Work longer for a fraction of your retirement.
Every now and then his former colleagues sent him pictures from their retirement activities. Beers in hand on their boats on Lake Michigan living out the rest of their lives. Problem was, for most of the retired cops he knew, that was a short stint. Most died within ten years of retirement. He guessed it made paying out pensions easier.
He walked over and picked up the handle of a coffeepot stained black and badly in need of a scrubbing. He tipped the pot back and unloaded the steaming contents into his brown-ringed mug, also in need of a thorough cleaning.
He pushed a white and red box with his finger. It slightly resisted his finger’s force. “Bingo.” He flipped the lip with the tip of his finger. A lone, plain ringed donut of dough lightly dusted with sugar lay inside. “Seriously, who buys the donuts with nothing on them? Nobody likes them, so why do they always get them?”
A couple of the other detectives laughed into their computers. Westman snorted, watching him. “You gonna eat it?”
Bill shook his head and snatched up the donut. The outside was dry and plain, clearly having been left out for far too long. He squished it between his fingers. Probably less than twenty-four hours out. He dunked it into his coffee, swirling it around to soften it. “Yeah, I’m gonna eat it, but I’m not going to be happy about it.”
“Sure you’re supposed to be eating that stuff? Didn’t the doctor say something about diabetes risk or heart disease?” Westman raised an eyebrow in concern. “Lots of carbs too.”
Bill plopped back down at his desk and aggressively plunged the donut into his steaming coffee. “There’s a reason why I’m not married anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t listen to bullshit.” He shoved the donut in his mouth, feeding his hunger and fueling his body. The phone rang on Westman’s desk. He tossed his smartphone down and scooped up the receiver to his landline.
“This is Westman.”
Bill flipped his paper to the back. Unrest in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Capital in chaos. He skimmed through the article, shaking his head. People were crazy out there. He didn’t need to be a cop to understand that. He pressed the rest of the donut in his mouth as if eating could stop the madness of the real world.
“We got one,” West
man said, standing up.
Bill kept reading for a moment before Westman’s words registered. “Got one?”
Westman nodded with a short smile. “We got a body in Crescent Park.”
Bill narrowed his eyes beneath a thick brow and bushy eyebrows. “Crescent Park? That’s not far from here.” His words dribbled out as if his mouth didn’t believe him.
Westman grabbed his sport coat and draped it over his shoulders. “Near the hospital.”
Bill stood and slipped on his sport coat, concealing his black Colt .45 1911 pistol in his shoulder harness. The gun was relatively flat and had a single-stack magazine. Combined with a few extra pounds, it was an easy conceal beneath his armpit, even with its longer barrel than the standard department issued Glock 17s.
It was the same weapon he’d used for the last twenty-six years on the force. The black slide was showing signs of dulling into silvery gray from the countless times it had been shoved into the holster then pulled back out. Even the brown handle had faded to mocha, the same color Westman took his cappuccinos. He always demanded they were made with cream instead of milk with a thick foamy layer on top.
When the department had switched to .40 caliber Sig Sauer 229s and then 9mm Glock 17s, he’d been grandfathered in, allowing him to maintain the usage of his older firearm as long as he could perform on their biannual firearm qualification course. He supposed it was a perk of being one of the oldest on the force.
Let the crusty veteran operate in his own vacuum and he’ll do good work and keep the young’uns in line and in one piece. Also a bonus, if they came down to another layoff like they did in ’09, they always laid off the young guys first. Last in, first out rule. He suspected it was more of a don’t sue us for age discrimination than a loyalty thing. Screwed the youngsters, but two alimonies kept him on the job.
He readjusted his gold badge clipped to the front of his belt. “That’s not a gang area.”
Westman shrugged his shoulders. “Nope.”
Bill slugged his coffee back, tonguing the bits of donut that had fallen in. It was promising to be a long day filled with paperwork and questions then a stiff drink at the bar.
“Jane Doe. Said animals got into it.”
“Animals?”
“That’s what the sergeant said.”
Bill sighed. “All this for a pittance of a salary that two greedy wenches get half of.”
Westman smiled. “No one told you to get married.”
Bill touched the handle of his 1911, making sure the gun was secure. It was a natural reaction to carrying a firearm for so long and a habitual safety measure built-in to make sure he never was without it. On the flip side, it was an indicator to someone in the know he was carrying a weapon. “Let that be a lesson to you. Wait until you’re forty.”
Westman smiled, white teeth showing beneath his stubble. “I was planning on it.” He held up keys. “I’ll drive.”
THE DETECTIVE
Crescent Park, Grand Rapids, MI
Two patrol officers in navy blue uniforms stood near the yellow police line tape strung around trees cordoning off half the park from foot traffic. They both wore blue surgical masks as brought about by the super flu protocol.
Bill approached. Although he was sure they recognized him, he tucked his coat to the side to reveal the gold shield of his police badge.
“Detective,” the shorter one said. The officer lifted the yellow tape for him to dip under, followed by Westman. The smell of exposed insides clobbered Bill’s nose and Westman covered his face with his sleeve.
“Jesus, we should get masks,” Westman said, his voice muffled.
Bill studied the scene. A sheet had been draped over the corpse. Crimson blood seeped through like someone was painting a white canvas with only red paint. He glanced angrily at the patrol officers. “Did you let the coroner’s office know to get down here? We need photos of everything and this body out of here.”
He studied the concrete and glass office buildings, a layered parking garage, and the children’s hospital nearby. The park itself was surrounded by red-brick streets mimicking the original roads from over a century ago.
He could imagine business people snapping photos of a body in the park with their smartphones, catching him in the background gagging from the smell of entrails.
The patrol officer checked his watch. “Yeah, we called an hour ago. I guess they’re running behind today.”
“Why’s the sheet on the scene?”
The patrol officer shook his head, a sliver of uncertainty in his eyes. “We thought it better than leaving it out in the open.” His eyes creased with worry. Bill couldn’t tell if it was stress about being reprimanded for breaking protocol or concern for the victim’s remains.
“That’s bad form before we get our crime scene photos.”
“The body . . .” the officer trailed off. There was enough youth in his eyes to let Bill know he was a rookie, probably unaccustomed to finding and dealing with dead bodies. That would change, and he would see a lot more dead bodies before his career was done. It came with the turf. People died all the time, mostly from natural causes in their homes, but who did the public call when they hadn’t seen their elderly neighbor for a few weeks? The police.
Bill glanced down at his name tag. Zimmer. He didn’t know the name, but then again, it seemed every day he knew less and less of the men and women around him, more fresh smooth-cheeked faces, fewer dark circles beneath the eyes of the old-timers. Men and women whose eyes grew more and more calloused each day to the depravities mankind did to one another until that was the new norm while everyone else in society went about their merry way, attending their PTA meetings and bake sales, oblivious to the primal evil going on around them.
“Remember that for next time. All right?”
Zimmer nodded. “Thank you.”
Bill walked through trampled grass. By midday, the area would be crawling with business people wanting to eat their lunch in the park, trying to soak in all the warm weather that remained at the end of summer. Not much longer and the temperatures would start to drop.
The white sheet made him pause. It rustled and he blinked. Did that move?
“Another one this week. You ever seen so many in a month?”
Bill glanced at Westman. “It’s the weather. When it gets hot, people go hot.”
Westman chuckled, shaking his head. “Makes you almost look forward to winter.”
“Not exactly.” A warmer climate was precisely where Bill would be headed when he retired a hundred years from now when he could afford it.
Bill crouched down, taking light blue latex gloves out of his pocket. He wasn’t obese, but he’d put on a few pounds over the years. His belly hung over the sides of his belt. He felt every extra pound in his knees, hips, and back. He ignored the nagging signs of age and slipped the disposable gloves over his hands, snapping them when they had reached his wrists. He gently began to lift the edge of the sheet.
Westman cut in. “Masks? You know the chief.”
“Nah. She ain’t breathing anyway.”
“Who? The chief or the girl?”
Bill sighed, gritting his teeth. “Both.”
Westman put his mask on, the rubber band digging into the skin of his skull, and crouched next to Bill on his haunches with ease.
Bill lifted the sheet about a foot. Even a veteran like himself wasn’t prepared for this level of grotesque violence. In all his years, he’d never seen anything like it.
The external damage done to the woman’s face had rendered her unrecognizable. Flesh had been forcefully ripped from her cheeks and neck, revealing bone and molars and a good deal of the muscle and upper layers of tissue. Her nose was partially missing, and a gaping, gory hole had replaced her eye.
Westman quietly gagged, trying not to vomit in his mask. Bill gulped his down. He tugged the sheet gently, attempting to not disturb any evidence that might lead them to what had happened to the poor woman. A piece of DNA could r
ip a case wide open just like the left side of her face.
She wore the remains of a tan, flower-laden, airy long-sleeve top, one he would expect a younger woman to wear at night in the summer. A top that suggested she was carefree and available, a modern version of hippie attire. It lay in a tattered mess, hardly covering her body. Something had run claws down her chest and sides, shredding her to ribbons.
Pieces of the shirt laid at her sides; threads of torn cotton matted with clotted blood stuck to her body. Bill turned his head toward the ground eyeing the rest of her. Her abdominal region was strewn about. Someone had just opened her up and tossed around her insides like they’d lost their keys then left her to rot. Chunks of rubbery reddish-brown liver rested near her hand. He had to look away for a minute to collect himself. Jesus Christ.
Confusion spread over Westman’s face. “What the hell did this?”
“I don’t know.”
Her lower half was untouched. He let out a small sigh of relief. At least she hadn’t been sexually assaulted. He assumed as much anyway. The autopsy would tell him for sure, but in his thirty-two years of experience, this wasn’t a rape/murder case. From the blood on the ground and on her body, he expected her to have been killed here in the park.
Westman eyed Bill. “Disgruntled boyfriend? Jilted lover?”
“I’d hate to see what this guy is like on a date.”
“Modern-day Jack the Ripper.”
“Jack the Ripper was better to his victims.” Bill’s eyes were drawn back to her face. Her straight mocha-brown hair was stuck to her forehead and neck. With his gloved finger, he shifted a few strands of her hair to the side. The hair resisted his tug, clotted into the wound. A soft crackle emitted as the hair pulled free.
Puncture wounds midway up her neck in a small oval.
“Are those bite marks?” Westman asked from behind his mask.
Bill tilted his head, studying the holes.
“You ever seen anything like that?” Westman stared at him.
The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3] Page 116
