7 Deadly Tales (Seven Thrilling Reads!)

by Luis Samways

  ‘Oh wow, thanks boss. I guess I should save people more often!’

  Shaw laughs as he shakes his head in pure disbelief.

  ‘Well it beats you killing everyone now doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose’

  ‘Now get going McKenzie…That’s an order.’

  Frank shakes his boss’s hand and walks out of the Chief's office. He is met with a roomful of officers clapping and cheering him on for a job well done. It turns out that it may be a happy Christmas for Frank after all.

  Thirty Six

  Ten minutes later:

  Frank makes his way to his Ford Capri. The dark parking lot is another reminder of the cold outside. He feels happy that he packed a coat in his trunk. He flicks the automatic switch on his key and pops the trunk open. He sees his coat and reaches for it. Underneath the coat is a bloodied machete. He smiles as he runs his finger across the blade. The voices in his head return.

  ‘FRESH….AND JUICY,’ the voice snarls

  He shakes his head as if he is trying to get rid of the voices. He puts his coat on, and hovers over the trunk for a little while longer, staring at the machete as he does so.

  ‘TOUCH IT’

  He continues to stare. He shakes himself out of the trance and reaches into his trouser pocket to grab his pills. He opens the lid and tilts his head back, swallowing a few pills. He chucks the now empty pill container into the trunk. He shuts it and moves towards the driver’s door. He opens it and steps in, quickly shutting out the cold from the outside. He adjusts the mirror in his car and takes a moment to stare into his eyes.

  ‘A KILLER’S EYES’

  He turns to look at the large book placed on the passenger’s seat. It looks old and worn in appearance. He smiles as he reaches out and touches its crusty rim.

  ‘A KILLER’S DIARY’

  Frank grins as he looks back at his reflection in the rear view mirror.

  ‘A KILLER’S SMILE,’ Says the voice

  ‘Maybe….’ Frank says out loud.

  He turns the ignition and lights the car park up with his halogen beaming headlights. He swerves backwards and screeches out of the parking lot.

  ‘Maybe’ He repeats once more as he turns on the radio and blasts some Metallica on his ride home.

  Luis Samways

  ALL F**KED UP

  A Frank McKenzie novella

  One

  I stood there, dumbfounded by the look of complete insanity on my face. It wasn’t often that I would take the time out of my day to look at myself in the mirror…but when I did, I usually disliked what I saw. I had deep black circles around my cold dark eyes. I knew I looked like shit, but that wasn’t going to stop me from performing my duties as a detective. Nothing ever did, you see. I was always game for doing my job. It’s funny, really – this job makes me crazy, but I still do it to remain sane.

  “Hand me that case file over there,” a guy said to me as I continued to stare into the mirror.

  I didn’t even look at him; I reached for the case file propped up on the shelf to my left. As I did so, I didn’t take my glare off the mirror in front of me. I could see his face in the reflection, waiting behind me. He looked a little disturbed at what he was seeing. I didn’t have time to entertain his curiosity in my fragile state of mind; I just grabbed the file on the shelf and flung it in his direction. He didn’t appreciate it, but kept his mouth shut. He walked away, leaving me with my reflection for company. I saw the rest of the precinct hard at work in the mirror. Some were answering phones, while others were questioning the usual scum at their desks. I didn’t exactly know whose idea it was to put a mirror up on the wall in the middle of our offices, but I didn’t really care. I assumed it was there to remind us that we were human, and the reflections the mirror swallowed into them each day grew ever weaker with each passing case.

  I suppose I knew why I was feeling this way. I knew exactly why I was looking at myself in the mirror. I was questioning my resolve. I wanted to know if I still had it. But what looked back at me that day was far from what I wanted to see. You see, people say the truth hurts; so does looking into your reflection and seeing nothing but empty promises, and lost causes. That was me all over. Detective Frank McKenzie. Ten years with the Boston PD. Ten years I’ll never get back.

  “Frank, in my office,” I heard the Chief say.

  I stopped looking into the mirror on the wall and took a deep breath. I knew why the Chief wanted to see me. I wasn’t going to go down without a fight, that was for sure. I turned around and saw what seemed like a sea of people giving me “the look.” I didn’t know if what I was seeing was real, but I wasn’t going to stand there for much longer to find out. My mind had been playing tricks on me for a while now, ever since I found that letter from my ex-wife — my now dead ex-wife. I told myself that everything would be fine. I tried to convince myself that I wasn’t to blame. But I guess my mind had finally given in, and it was now controlling me with its depressive grip.

  I cleared my throat and made my way to the Chief’s office. The door was ajar, so I just walked in unannounced. Shaw ushered me to the seat facing his desk. He shut the door behind me and walked around my chair. I could see him fiddling with something in his hand. I wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he looked a little nervous. From all my time working with the PD, I knew when my boss was about to lay down some heavy news. It was like clockwork, you see. Every time we lose a case or fold in court, it was time to get the rubber hoses out and bend over for our lashings. That was police work for you. Someone had to take the blame….even if it was us, someone had to take responsibility.

  “The Commissioner just called. He wants blood, Frank,” Shaw said under his breath. He was still pacing the width of the room like a caged animal with a lot on his mind. I just nodded my head; I knew what he meant. The last case we worked, a drug bust, went sour. One of our officers got killed. It was a stray bullet from one of our weapons. Ballistics matched it to my gun. The thing was, I hadn’t used that gun…I wasn’t even there. I loaned it to a fellow detective who had misplaced his. Fearing repercussions I decided to lend him my heater. Didn’t expect him to put one in an officer’s neck. Didn’t know I wasn’t the only crazy one on the force. It turns out this guy I loaned the gun to had some beef with the now very dead cow he shot. The guy swore it was an accident, and I believed him, but Shaw knew I was covering for someone because I was with him when it happened. We were working a sex-trafficking gig. We were putting the finishing touches on the case when the call came in that one of our men had suffered a fatal gunshot wound to the neck. We first assumed that it was the bad guys, but when none of their guns matched the caliber of bullet in the dead cop’s neck, alarm bells rang. The attending officers were all subpoenaed to have their guns checked, and a match came back on mine. But I wasn’t there, remember, so there I was in the Chief’s office, ready to get milked for information…but he’d be lucky to get a single squirt out of me. I’m no rat, and the one thing you learn at the academy is to always have your fellow man’s back, even if the guy you are covering for did something bad. It wasn’t his fault; it happens a lot. It’s unavoidable; it isn’t a video game out there. The good guys don’t have green tags over their heads. People all look the same in the heat of the moment. It’s a shame, but cops have got to stick together. I’d rather do time in prison than put someone I know behind bars for something they didn’t mean to do. Even if a court of judges would most likely rule it a homicide, I for one know that COPS DON’T SHOOT COPS.

  “McKenzie, I’m getting pretty tired of this covering-up bullshit you are doing. I know you were here with me when that gun went off, so I know for a damn fact that it wasn’t you who fired that weapon. Now, I’m no detective, so forgive me, but it doesn’t take a damn rocket scientist to work out you loaned your weapon to one of the attending officers at the drug bust. The weapon was used and then returned to you. Somehow, everybody’s weapons are now accounted for, so I assumed either somebody misplaced theirs and
asked you for a lend, or somebody is fucking with you and trying to frame you for a murder I know you didn’t commit. You were with me, remember, so don’t try to pull off a leap of faith on me. There is no damn grenade in the trench and you aren’t jumping on it. Get me?” Shaw said to me as he sat down behind his desk and wiped his brow.

  He was a large man, a big Irish ball-buster. He had a thick Irish-American accent that was now meshed into one Bostonian accent that could make chalk melt. He was tough-sounding, but I was never afraid of him. Let’s just say he and I were used to butting heads. If it wasn’t this, it was that, or whatever else he would conjure up in his mind. He was a good boss, but I was under the impression that he didn’t want me around so much anymore. Sure, before it was the same, but right then, at that very moment, I got the distinct impression that my days were numbered in his PD. I would have bet my house on it if I’d ever managed to buy one on my crappy pay.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, boss. I never loaned my gun to anybody. If someone got ahold of my weapon, then I must have misplaced it somewhere. That’s the truth, I swear,” I said, feeling ever so sure of myself that I nearly believed every word I spoke.

  Shaw just gave me a stern, cold look. At that moment I could tell he had lost a lot of faith in me. I suppose he thought I was one of them, one of the suits. I knew he wanted me to be that guy – be that detective who cooperated with the top guys and licked each other’s asses when the time permitted it. But I wasn’t going to let anybody tell me who and what I should stand behind. I might lack a lot of things as a man, but commitment to my peers isn’t one of them. Loyalty is a trait I find hard to do away with. That, and hatred of the suits. Wearing a suit doesn’t make you more of a man than I am. See the things I see, solve the case, and then maybe I’ll respect you. Being paid double what I get paid for deskwork and paper pushing isn’t what I would consider worthy of respect.

  “So be it, Frank. Have it your way, then. I’m just warning you that I gave you a chance to speak up. Don’t hold that against me. I did my job, and I expected you to do the same. I was mistaken,” Shaw said.

  I felt the blood boiling in my head. Was this guy trying to push my buttons?

  “I do my job day in, day out. Don’t try to sob-story me into giving someone up. I already told you the truth. If you can’t accept that, then that’s too bad. I am not here to make your job easier, Shaw. If you suspect someone was playing foul and shot one of our boys, then do a damn investigation. Get your damn hands dirty, but don’t come groveling for bits of information on people. That’s the wrong way to go about trying to frame a guy for murder. If you want to put somebody away, then get some fucking evidence before you start parading around here, marking people’s graves,” I said, standing up and clenching my fists.

  “Sit your ass down, Detective. If you want to throw fists at somebody, you should be throwing them at yourself. Do you not see what the fuck you are doing to this precinct? Can you not see through that shortsighted pair of Plasticine spheres in your dome that you call eyes? A man was killed on the drug bust. Our man. The guy had a damn family. Three children, a wife, and dog. He was twenty-six years old, damn it! Twenty-six! And you are going to let some damn fucking trigger-happy moron take away their dad — their husband — because of principles? You are willing to live with yourself after knowing that your gun was fired at that man? That your goddamn gun killed that man? That your stupid arrogant self believes that what you are doing is okay? That what you are doing is taking one for the team?” Shaw said, running out of breath. He stood up, facing me, and blinked a few times. He lowered his tone and dug his eyes deep into mine. “You’re telling me that you’re fine with that?” he asked.

  I stood there for a good while, just staring at my boss. I knew he was right. He had me at that conclusion as soon as I walked in. I was just angry at myself. How could I even contemplate covering up for someone? Was I going insane? I guess that was why I had to look at myself long and hard before walking into his office. Maybe that was why I didn’t like what I saw. I guess now I know why I felt the way I did. Trust Shaw to help me see the light. That fucking no-good good-hearted-man!

  “I’m sorry, boss – I don’t know what came over me. It’s just my damn head — it gets to me, you know, all this shit. Day in, day out, always the same shit. It’s hard for me. I know I sound like I’m making excuses, but maybe it’s time I realize what I’m doing to myself. I’m seeing a shrink, you know. Started yesterday. Signed myself up and everything. My first appointment is after work,” I said.

  Shaw just blinked at me. He looked confused.

  “I’m sorry, Frank, but forgive me for sounding blunt, but I couldn’t give a flying fuck about your damn appointments. Just tell me who shot Larry!”

  I nodded my head and got to telling him what happened. Everything was told, even down to Ricardo asking me to wipe down the gun after giving it to me. I knew something was up right then, and after a few beers at home, I figured it out. Ricardo had shot Larry on purpose. I suppose I wanted to make Ricardo pay my own way. Maybe that was why I held information back from Shaw. Truth be told, I didn’t have the foggiest idea what I had planned for Ricardo, but I guess now it didn’t matter. Shaw was surely going to cuff Ricardo and do him for murder. I heard a rumor that cops don’t do too well in prison. Cops that kill cops? Maybe they don’t even reach prison before their number is up. Who was I to deprive the inmates of a blue blood?

  “You did the right thing, Frank. Larry can rest in peace now,” Shaw said, still standing, this time reaching over the table and patting me on the shoulder.

  “What about Ricardo? Will he rest easy?” I asked.

  Shaw shrugged his shoulders in earnest. “Fuck knows, but cop killers don’t tend to rest that easy come yard time down county lockup.”

  I nodded.

  “I guess I can rest easy now,” I muttered.

  “You did the right thing, Frank,” Shaw repeated.

  I didn’t feel as optimistic. Doing the right thing is one thing, but selling out is another. I guess I was torn on which I had just done.

  “Get to that damn shrink. I bet you have a lot to get off your chest, my boy,” Shaw said, patting me on the shoulder once more.

  “I feel like a rat, Shaw,” I said.

  Shaw rolled his eyes and made his way next to me from behind his big desk. He put his arm around me, trying to comfort me.

  “Rats are vermin, Frank. You are a life-saver. A good detective. Sure, you have some issues, but you are a good man. A rat wouldn’t give a shit about a fallen comrade, but you, you care. That’s why you did what you did. And any officers out there who think different are the true rats. Because doing the right thing isn’t something vermin do. They shit on everything, infecting it. What you did was clean this case up and give Larry’s wife some justice. Rats don’t care about justice,” Shaw said with a smile on his face.

  He was right, but I still couldn’t help feeling like a rat.

  Two

  I shut my locker door with authority. I wasn’t in no mood to be quiet about it. The locker room was empty anyway, so it was just me and my frustrations. I punched a dent into the hard metal grated surface. I was in pain, but my anger was far greater than the inconvenience of a bruised knuckle.

  “Get it together, man,” I whispered to myself.

  My lungs were convulsing under the stress of the situation. For some unknown reason, I was far from all right. At first I feared the worst. Maybe my lifestyle of prescription drugs and recreational partying had caught up to me. I felt a knot in my chest. I held my hand over my center and tried to steady my breathing. Was I having a heart attack? No – I was just stressing out. As soon as I calmed myself down, my body regained its composure and I felt okay, if not a little on edge.

  I caught myself staring at the dent I had made into the locker door. I winced as I spotted a blood smear on the dent. I looked down at my still clenched fist and saw what was more than a bruised knuckle. I had slice
d it open. There was a fair amount of blood on the floor. I hadn’t noticed the warm trickle until I looked down.

  “Just great,” I muttered to myself.

  Now if anybody was going to make themselves present in the changing room, then I’d have to explain why I was leaking life fluid from my hand. I shook my head and opened the locker again. Inside were a few old T-shirts of mine that I had used many a time. They were crinkled and un-ironed, much like the clothes I was wearing then. I ripped one of the old shirts and made a makeshift bandage. I wrapped it around my hand and fastened it with some loose string from the garment. My bloody hand was showing some red through the bandage. I decided to ignore it and got on with my cool-down period after my shift. Usually I wouldn’t have much time for cooling-off after I punched out, but seeing I was being let off a couple hours early, I thought I’d sit down on the bench in the middle of the room and collect my thoughts.

  My locker was still open, but I didn’t really care. There was no use shutting it; I had managed to bend it at the rim where the lock would go. I’d have to get a replacement door. I didn’t have anything of value in my locker, unless you considered a few poster girls on the inside valuable. The stale smell of body odor drenched the dry atmosphere of the locker room. It was a smell I was used to by now, but it had always hit me in the face with surprising impact every time I set foot in the room. I didn’t know who was to blame for the smell, but whoever it was, it wouldn’t kill them to take a cold shower once in a while.

  I sat on the bench, looking at my feet. I noticed my shoes looked scuffed. Maybe I should have bought a new pair, but I wasn’t one to flash cash on some pumps. I remained fixated on my thoughts of what had occurred that day. Plenty of questions were making their rounds in my dome. Plenty of self-doubt accompanied it. I had never felt so torn before in my life. Did I do the right thing? And then I realized something; there is no right thing. Either way I would have felt shitty. But I guess the consolation prize was the fact that Larry Burns’ wife would now know who killed her husband. Would it help her get over him? Probably not. In my opinion, it would make things worse. I mean, who in the hell would prefer to hear that their beloved relative didn’t die by the hands of a criminal but by the hands of one of the good guys? Does anybody truly want to hear that sort of truth? I know for a fact I wouldn’t.