by Luis Samways
I sat up as the sweat poured down my face, drenching my eyebrows, nearly sticking my eyelashes together. At first I found it hard to see, but then the light slowly flooded into my vision, and the black spot I woke up with draped across my right eye disappeared. I blinked a few times, washing away the abnormalities of my sight. Then everything became clear. I could see, and my breathing relaxed. I sighed as I reached into my drawer and pulled out a flask of whiskey and some smokes. I multitasked as I opened the flask, downed some liquor, and got to puffing on some nicotine. My eyes felt wide as the chemicals hit my bloodstream and got me to that place where I so needed to be. Finally I felt better but still sat in my bed, looking around at my bedroom.
I had been having some bad dreams lately. They resembled real life, they were so scary. Sometimes I could nearly touch the people in them. I would wake up and still feel their presence. You know what they say about dreams, though; if you die in them, you die for real. I wished that was really the case. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to live this shitty life.
The room was drenched in the early morning light that is a mixture of unspoiled sun and cloudy darkness masking the winter mornings of February. Spring was a little ways off, but I could hear the unmistakable signs of birds chirping away in the trees. Soon the cold would subside and the sun would warm my skin, but that was still a long way off, forcing me to deal with the inevitable cold fact of reality.
I rubbed my hands together for some warmth and caught a glimpse of my watch on the bedside table next to me. It was upside down, but I managed to work out the time after a few seconds of pondering.
“Six forty-two,” I said as I stretched and inhaled some more smoke. “Goddamn smoke,” I muttered as I squinted my right eye from the barrage of hot smoke that was making its way into my sinuses.
I got up and dashed the ash off my chest. I still had the cigarette crooked in my mouth. I breathed in a few heavy breaths and let the cig drop to the ground. I didn’t care — I didn’t have carpet. My bedroom had concrete flooring; I just stamped on the cigarette with my bare foot. The heel of my foot was nearly invincible to heat. Must have been all that walking I’d done through my career, built some sort of force field of dead skin and God knows what else on the soles of my feet.
I stumbled down the hallway and walked into my bathroom, going up to the toilet. I took a piss and sighed once again. It felt good to be off work. Even under the circumstances, I wouldn’t trade time off from the hell that is a murder case for sunshine and martinis. It was a shame about the lack of sun, and cocktails at that. I guessed I’d have to make do with whiskey and Marlboros.
I washed my hands briefly and opened my cabinet up to the sight of a sea of pill containers sitting snugly in the cupboard. I picked one at random and chugged a few pills into my already dry mouth. I shut the cabinet and walked into my hallway, still donning no shirt. I was in my boxers and proud. If it was up to me, I’d only ever be naked, but people would frown upon that when I walked down the street. Another reason I loved being off work. Freedom to let everything hang out!
I walked into my open-plan living room and was just about to turn the TV on when I saw something posted under my door. It looked like a note of some sorts. So I went up to it, half intrigued, expecting a late electricity bill or something, only to find something completely out of the blue. I bent down and picked up the single letter-size piece of paper and unfolded it. What I saw struck me to my core.
YOU BETTER TELL THE TRUTH, YOU FUCKING LIAR, OR YOU’RE GONNA BE A DEAD MAN. GOT IT? PAY UP OR KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT AS AGREED.
The letter wasn’t signed, but I knew who it was from. I knew Ricardo had paid me a visit, but how? I thought he was in county. Maybe those cold streets outside had more than chirping birds waiting for me. Maybe I’d be confronted by someone who had an invested interest in Ricardo being kept out of prison, and me lying in a ditch. I scrunched the paper up and threw it over my shoulder. I stared at the front door for a long while, catching the light creeping in from under the crack in the door. I stared at that light for a minute or two, making sure nothing else was behind the door, and then I got back to business. I got back to resting up and taking a shower. I wasn’t going to let any goddamn letter frighten me into silence. It would take a whole lot more than that to stop me in my tracks.
***
“I’ll take a Quarter Pounder with cheese and some onion rings. Make them extra crispy. Throw in a strawberry shake and we’re good,” I said into the drive-through speaker.
“Make your way to the front, sir,” an uninterested voice replied through the speaker.
I immediately had the image of a pimply boy in my mind that matched that voice. The type of guy to have slick, greasy long hair. In my head the guy had a greasy towel draped over his shoulders and was picking his nose while he waited for the next customer. That obviously wasn’t the case as I pulled up to the side window and rolled down mine. I saw a greasy-looking fellow, but he wasn’t pimply. He wasn’t young, either. He had quite a gut on him and didn’t look much older than I was.
“Ten bucks exactly,” he said in the most uninterested voice I think he could muster. “Would I be able to interest you in a club card? You get fifty cents off every pound of meat you consume with us. We send you the difference in vouchers at the end of the year,” he said to me as he handed me my bag of food. I shook my head. He didn’t try and push a hard sell on me; I could tell he just wanted me gone. So I obliged and beeped my horn in courtesy to the guy. I drove out of the drive-through and got to speeding down the street.
I pulled into the familiar street that was Day Square, right next to the Boston Insurance Brokers place. I parked and started psyching myself up for another session with the good doctor — Dr. Martins.
I sat there for a while, eating and smoking and eating some more. I ended up pigging out on the food I bought. I guess it was because I hadn’t eaten for a few days. I had my mind on the sex-trafficking case — not to mention the burden of somebody dying at the hands of my own service pistol. I was in a world of my own. The radio was turned off, and all I could hear was the constant patter of raindrops hitting my windshield. I was sucking on my straw, thinking about my problems, when I heard someone tapping on my window. I turned my head to the left and saw somebody holding a bat. Suddenly my window exploded, and the bat came crashing through. I didn’t have time to react, so I clenched my fist and got ready to defend myself. That’s when the guy grabbed me by the neck and pulled me out of the car. I hit the hard concrete with a thud. The wet raindrops hit my face, making my vision blurry. Then I saw him standing over me.
“Keep your damn mouth shut, McKenzie,” he said as he raised his bat and swung down. Nothing but darkness followed. And then that sound once again.
I opened my eyes and realized I had fallen asleep in my damn car. I turned my head to see the window, and somebody was outside my car. It was Dr. Martins. I looked at myself in the rearview, checking for bruising to my face. I had dreamt the whole thing. This time off business was really fucking with my head. I then noticed I had managed to spill Coke all over me.
“Fuck sake,” I said in frustration.
There was another rattle on my window. I turned to see Martins still standing there.
“You going to stay there all day, or do you want to come in for your session?” I heard him say through the window.
I mouthed to him wait a second, but in reality I wanted to beat the shit out of him for making me spill my Coke. “I’ll be with you in a second. Meet me up there,” I said, this time out loud.
Martins nodded and gave me a wink. He walked off, and I hit my fist against my steering wheel.
“Goddamn it, Frank. Get your shit together,” I blurted out.
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out some pills. I tilted some into my mouth and swallowed. I was feeling like shit. I couldn’t believe the dreams were returning. First the one with my wife, and now a hypothetical of me being beaten up by some goon of Ricardo’s. Was I
actually going mad?
I looked at myself in the rearview for a few moments. I noticed my cold blue eyes were a tad grey that day. Maybe I needed a little more rest. Maybe I’d get through it with a couple more Zs. I decided that I had been long enough and got out of the car. The rain I’d heard in my dream was just that – a dream. It was sunny, and the winds were calm. But then again, I had imagined someone breaking into my car with a bat and smashing my window – dragging me out for a whupping, but that was also a dream. I started to wonder what else I’d managed to concoct in my head. Was the letter through my door that morning a dream? Probably not. Either way, I didn’t have time to speculate. I was due a visit to the head shrinker. I was just a bit worried about the possibility of Martins playing another drum solo on my head. I figured I’d risk it. I was starting to believe I needed somebody to talk to about these things, or my dreams would probably consume me. Or worse – become true.
Six
“So these dreams you are having, do you think they are related to any guilt you may be feeling in your life at the moment?” Martins asked me with a stern look on his face. I think that was the first time he actually looked serious about anything. I guess the honeymoon period was over between us, and we were down to the nitty-gritty of things.
“What would I have to feel guilty about?” I replied.
“There are a lot of turbulent things occurring in your life at the moment. The shooting that took the life of Larry Burns comes to mind. Maybe you feel guilty about your wife?”
I shook my head in defiance. “I don’t have anything to feel guilty about when it comes to either Larry Burns or my dead wife,” I said.
Dr. Martins continued to jot down some stuff on his pad. He sat there and relaxed a little, taking a deep breath, probably trying to encourage me to do the same thing. “There is no shame in what you do,” he said after a long pause.
“I know,” I replied.
“But there really isn’t, you see, Frank. There is no shame in seeking help when it’s needed. If it was a crime to seek help, than you’d be in prison, and so would every other living person on this planet. Help is needed sometimes, and I’m here to provide you an avenue of exploitation into the world of help. Feel free to exploit it as much as you like. I don’t mind, and neither does the state. They want to see you come out of this unscathed.”
I sat up a little as I wriggled my butt into the seat. There was something about being questioned in that manner that brought out the fidgets in me. I just couldn’t relax around Martins. I felt like he was trying to lead me to pasture or something. Like I was about to open my eyes, and he’d be standing over me strapped into the electric chair. I mean, every time the guy spoke he had a certain way of bringing out the fear in me. It was like everything he said had an ulterior motive — that, or my damn paranoia was returning. I decided that I could do one of two things: ride this sucker out and get better, or run for the hills and wait for fate to take care of me.
It was a hard decision, but I decided that I would indeed start to open up a little more. All the things I’d seen in my career had damaged my perception of life. I guess the doctor needed to know about the things I had seen so he could know why I was the way I was.
Why I am the way I am.
“You ever see somebody get shot?” I said out of the blue.
Martins was caught off guard; I could tell that much at least. “No, I haven’t. But I’ve seen pictures,” he replied.
“Pictures mask the violence of the scene,” I said, finding myself digging deep for some poetic references to death, only to find I lacked the vocabulary. “When you see brain matter leaking out of somebody’s skull for the first time, it really lingers in your mind. Everything you imagined a homicide to look like doesn’t ring true to the reality I find myself in often. You see, Dr. Martins, you may think I need help, but in reality the people out there need it more than me. I don’t go out and kill motherfuckers for no reason. I don’t lace up my boots one morning and decide the world needs an ass kicking. I go out of my way to make the streets of Boston safe. Sure, I’ve seen some shit, but that doesn’t mean I need a shrink to tell me when I need help. Because I don’t. I don’t need help because of the things I see — I just need help forgetting them.”
***
I reached across for the ashtray and tapped the end of my cigarette a few times. I watched as some specks of ash fell into the darkened and tarred glass tray. I watched as the fizzle died out on my smoke, pulling on it once again for the orange tinge to return to the tip. I glanced through the smoke and saw an intrigued Dr. Martins staring through the abyss. He was waiting for me to start off my story. I wanted him to wait. I wanted him to anticipate the worst, so I dragged the whole ordeal out a little as I licked my lips dry and went for another pull.
“You see, it started off when I joined homicide from patrol. I was twenty-three, still fresh out of the academy and fresher out of the squad car. I still had my cocky ways about me, but back then my ego wasn’t nearly as big as it is now,” I said, puffing on my cigarette for effect.
“Go on,” Martins interjected.
So I did; I went on.
“I was young and brash. I had a good record, and people liked me. I didn’t fear anything or anybody. I was king hot-shit around the precinct. Everybody appreciated me. And then on my first night as a detective, I saw the unthinkable,” I said, once again puffing on my cigarette.
“What did you see?” Martins asked with bated breath.
I went on to tell him what I had seen. More importantly, I went on to tell him why I was the way I was.
Why I am the way I am.
Ten Years Ago
May 28th, 2003
I walked into the precinct feeling like I was made out of gold. Golden Boy McKenzie. That’s who I wanted to be. It was 9 p.m. when I got the call that would set the bar for the rest of my career.
“Hey, McKenzie, nice hit on the field last Saturday. I thought that sucker was going to hit the Russian space station. You hit like a pro — why didn’t you play in college?” a young guy by the name of Santiago asked me as I poured myself a coffee.
“I didn’t turn pro because of one thing, my friend,” I replied.
Santiago just looked at me in anticipation. “What? Why didn’t you turn pro?” he asked.
I paused for effect and winked at him. “Your mom never let me get to practice. That woman tired me out some!” I said, cracking up in hysterics.
Santiago found it marginally funny. We had met in the academy and became close friends, but I knew what I could say and what I couldn’t. To this day, he and I are buddies. The only difference between us then and us now is that we’ve seen a whole lot more of a whole lot of shit. So much so that neither of us jokes around like that anymore. We know what is important now. Back then we were just kids. Stupid dumb kids who didn’t know the meaning of life and what we were heading to. Dumb enough to think we could make it as homicide detectives. Ten years later, we are still “making it” as detectives — partners, in fact. But we are missing the one thing we had when we entered the game. We are missing our humanity. That got taken away from us that day. I still remember the call as if it were yesterday.
“Santiago, McKenzie, you two join Shaw down Firbank’s. We have a homicide call. Get there now,” our station leader at the time called out to us from afar. He was halfway across the room but didn’t bother walking up to deliver the news. He was always a loudmouth, that guy. Didn’t last too long. The alcohol got him in the end. He died on my twenty-fifth birthday. Shaw took over after that. Been there ever since. At that time, however, he was lead detective. Senior of thirteen years in the business, and we were supposed to meet up with him down Firbank’s. I didn’t know where that was exactly, but police dispatch would help a bundle.
“Firbank’s?” I said out loud.
Santiago nodded his head. “Nice neighborhood. I got an aunt down there. She’s dead now,” he said.
“So how you ‘got’ an aunt
down there if she’s dead?” I asked, knowingly trying to annoy my partner.
“Shut up, man, you know what I mean. She’s always in my heart!”
With that both of us walked out of the precinct and into our car. At the time it was a real banger. An old Ford of some sorts. Now, however we roll in a newer Ford. Not much of an upgrade, but it did us fine nonetheless. We didn’t have an inkling of what we were about to see. It was our first night as paid homicide detectives. We’d seen dead bodies before. Years on patrol will do that to you. You see all sorts. Dead gangbangers. Dead shopkeepers. Dead mothers. Dead hookers. Dead pimps. Gunshot wounds. Stab wounds. Brick to the head wounds. Knife to the neck wounds. All sorts.
We just didn’t expect to see anything like we were about to see. To this day, I haven’t seen much worse. I’ve seen equal, but not much worse. I’m sure there are plenty of days left on my clock for me to see worse. I just hope it’s sooner rather than later. The anticipation is killing me. But back to the story.
So we were in the car, still feeling jovial. Sure, we knew we were heading to a crime scene, but I think that our collective way to deal with nerves and the unknown was to act like nothing fazed us. That was our big mistake, you see. Something did faze us. It always does. No matter how much you resist, something will always faze you.
“You reckon your wife will mind you staying up late all the time? I heard it can be a grind on these shifts. Murders don’t wait for nobody’s nap time. It’s all go from now on,” Santiago said as he took a corner.
“I don’t know how she’ll react. She’ll just have to get used to it. I can’t help my work hours. She knows the deal, anyway. She married a cop, for Christ’s sake,” I said.
“A soon-to-be-divorced homicide detective if you’re not careful, dude,” Santiago replied.
“Nah, she won’t divorce me. She’d be crazy to!” I joked. Inside I knew Santiago was right, and now that I know the things I know, I should have put a lot more effort into my relationship. A little too late now.
