Who Watches...

New Story. 1,300 words. Go.

‘We’re all pulling double shifts’ he sneers, small crumbs still lingering on his chins. ‘It’s a difficult situation for the whole station. I hope you understand.’

I hope you understand. And if I don’t? I shake my head slightly and walk out. Time off delayed again. We’re all pulling double shifts. Bastard. Still, I consider, it’s probably for the best that I’m the first to go on patrol with the new kid. The guys round here well, they’re not corrupt as such. Just a little, uh, tarnished. A corrosion of low level bad hangs around them, cultivated over years of seeing too much of the night and too little of their wives, manifesting itself in petty shakedowns and minor extortion. Sure the rookie will get exposed to that sooner or later, but he needs someone to show him that it’s not all alcoholism and abuse of power.

He’s waiting in the garage, by my squad car. Nice guess. He isn’t smoking or leaning against the door, just standing stoically waiting for me to join him.

‘Hey’ I shout, walking towards him. ‘Parks isn’t it? You’re with me today.’ He holds out his hand and I shake it briefly. ‘I’m Detective Blake.’

‘Nice to meet you sir, I’m Preston’

‘Any relation of Preston Parks on Duke Street?’

‘Uh…no sir, not that I know of’

‘Huh’ that, apparently is where the conversation dies.

We idle along Main Street, but the scanner is silent. I decide to show Preston some of the town.

‘You been here before?’ We haven’t said a word in twenty minutes.

‘No, sir. To tell you the truth I hadn’t even heard of the place until I was transferred’ I let out a short laugh at that. That’s word for word what I said to the old superintendent when I first got sent here.

‘Sir?’

‘Oh nothing, you just made me remember my first day.’

As the car rolls out of the nicer part of town I recall exactly what happened then. If memory serves Barr showed me the best place to get a freebie of coke and spent the rest of the round stopping in to ‘friends’ houses.

‘This is the place where most of your work will be.’ I say honestly. Really the police only deal with poor people’s crime; the stuff done behind closed doors around Trees Lane is none of our concern. The houses round here are tightly packed together, leaveovers from when the big steel plant employed the whole district. Preston seems about to say something, but he stops short.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

‘Could you show me the other parts of town first, I have a feeling I’ll be seeing a lot of here.’ Preston’s shaping up to be a real comedian.

‘If you like, I suppose’ I pull up the car at the next intersection and turn around. In no time at all we’re cruising past the tall white mansions of what the people call the better part of town. Old growth trees line each and every fence, privacy you can’t buy, privacy you inherit. Everything stinks of power and privilege and pots of really old money. The sharp contrast between the two neighbourhoods startles me for a second, despite the fact that I’ve driven this town end to end more times than I care to remember. It’s a difficult situation for the whole station. Damn difficult situation for the whole city, for Christ’s sake. Course, lots of the rich are on it too but they get the pure stuff. Makes no difference in the end. Shit build up in you, makes each trip higher, more intense. It makes you extroverted, by turns happy and violent; you’re either everyone’s best friend or breaking a bottle over the bar.

‘Preston, you ever heard of Trace?’

‘I…’ Before he can answer the scanner squeals, the tone urgent on the other end.

‘All cars, this is control, is anyone in the vicinity of Trees Lane? She asks. I pull up the mike and respond. ‘Affirmative Control, this is WPD Detective Blake WI-113. We are currently on Park Road, please advise.’

‘Detective Blake we have reports of a domestic disturbance at 21 Trees Lane, please proceed.’ I place the mike back in the holder and set off.

We stop the car in the driveway of the house. The front gate is lying open, odd at this time of night. As we approach the door, we can clearly hear shouts coming from the Third floor. I walk up the steps quickly and knock heavily on the door. No response. I knock again. ‘Sir, this is Detective Bl-.’

I’m interrupted by a pounding gunshot and the shattering glass that rains from the window above us. I kick the lock, but the door is solid oak. I pull my gun and fire a shot into the woodwork. The door yields to another kick. A second and third shot echo through the empty house Preston and I race up the wide marble staircase and open the entrance to the master bedroom.

A woman slumps, clearly dead, backwards on the four poster bed. Huge exit wounds show on her chest and a smaller entry mark on her neck. Ludicrous amounts of blood paint every surface, and standing, undisturbed, smiling like the devil incarnate is the smallish man of middle years who has just murdered her.

He stays stock still, with an ineffable grin decorating his pallid features. His eyes bear all the hallmarks of a chronic Trace addict. He stares off in his own world, unaware of the horrific scene he has orchestrated.

Both Preston and I are holding our pistols tightly, their sights never straying from his head. We need not have worried, the offending weapon lay, partially submerged in blood, at his feet. Large calibre cases surround it. He still hasn’t moved a centimetre since we entered.

Every fibre of my body screams to pull the trigger and punish him, to be judge and jury. Except the judge and jury of this city wouldn’t kill him; not by a long shot. Guilty but insane. Not Guilty by reason of insanity. Manslaughter, hell they might even get away with justifiable homicide. With the fucked up higher ups here they’ll probably give ‘em a goddamn medal. My thoughts are fighting against the revulsion I feel. Kill him and chalk up a score for us for a change. Kill him and clean up a tiny corner of the world. Kill him and show them that they’re not above it all. Kill him .KILL HIM.

The explosion of the gun deafens us all, plunging us into a pit of silence, punctuated by an incessant ringing. Sound returns in waves of unfocused noise.

When I open my eyes the man is lying back against the wall, adding to the blood all around him. Fuck. FUCK. I lost. I killed the poor motherfucker. The drugged up bastard didn’t even know what he was doing and I shot him right in the face.

It takes a while for me to notice that Preston is as ashen faced as me. I’ve got to do something, I’m the goddamn detective. I say ‘Hey, uh, Preston…don’t worry you did nothing wrong…you-.’

And finally, I realise.

My gun never fired.

But Preston’s did.

***

We didn’t even catch any heat for the whole thing. Resisting arrest; happens all the time. The chief countersigned all the paperwork without a second glance.

That was fifteen years ago, and Preston’s a high up in the force now, in LA or Washington I think. He manages the police force for the whole district and I’m damn glad he does. I’m glad there’s one person up there with the incorruptible moral sense to dispense justice like that.

Sometimes though, I wonder if I should be.