“It Was a Very Good Year” by Frank Sinatra blared over the
speakers at Detective Carter’s retirement party. After twenty years of serving
his community, he was pushed out of the force due to an overall lack of results
in his later years, so you could safely assume that this song was ironic
considering the circumstances.
He glanced down at the newspaper in front of him and read a
disturbing headline, “SERIAL KILLER STILL AT LARGE, CLAIMS SEVENTH VICTIM IN
TWENTY DAYS.” His wrinkled face screamed a hellacious existence; he’d been
beaten and battered by the game of life. His bristly moustache had remnants of
alcohol resting within. Detective Carter shook his head and ordered another
shot of rum. The bartender glided over to his seat and poured it for him, and
continued to do so after the shot pourer stopped at one.
The detective spoke, “I’m not paying extra.”
“With your pension? Ha. You should be buying the whole bar a
round.”
“Funny.” He tipped his head back and swallowed the rum
without hesitation. “Fill me back up, I’m going outside to have a smoke.”
Detective Carter turned in his chair and reached for his jacket to brace himself
for the cold Yonkers autumn.
As he walked towards the exit, he felt a dark presence enter
him to his very core. He felt it deep within himself, yet proceeded to push the
door open. Once outside, he reached inside of his coat jacket for a fresh pack
of Newport 100’s. He did his ritualistic exercise of packing the cigarettes,
three times from each direction. He tore off the cellophane that enclosed the
pack and tossed it to the ground with no regard.
“Littering is not good, detective.” The man behind the voice
stepped out from the shadows and stood two feet from Carter.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Should I?”
“Considering you’ve spent the last year and a half trying to
catch me, I’d say you should, yeah.”
The detective’s mouth sat agape as the man strided over to
him to look him in the eye.
“How does it feel to know that I’m not close to done? I’ve
perfected my craft, more than you could say for yourself. You’ve exhausted
every method to catch me, yet it can’t be done? Why is that, Jon? Want me to
fill you in?”
“Be my guest. You’re somebody else’s problem now.”
“Ha. That’s funny. You’re funny, Jon. You know something,
detective? And I use that term as loosely as possible because you’re nothing
short of a living, breathing punch line. You’re an old washed up drunk who
couldn’t catch a seven year old playing freeze tag.”
Jon let out a deep sigh, clearly becoming agitated at the
words this man was lashing at him.
“What’s the matter, getting under your skin? Truth hurts
doesn’t it? Now let me cut to the chase here. Ha, what a turn of phrase, huh?
Maybe if you’d done exactly that I’d be rotting on death row right now, but no.
You didn’t have what it takes and never did. You’re a disgrace to your
profession and the force both. You should be ashamed of yourself, Jon.”
“Say what you need to say and get the fuck out of my face.”
The man let out a sincere belly laugh and leaned back
against the wall. He turned his head towards him and spoke freely.
“You’ve spent the last, what, fifteen or so months trying to
get me, Jon? What’s one thing you didn’t do?”
“Enough with the riddles, either say what you need to say or
leave me be.”
The mysterious man took two steps back and walked in a short
circle. He stopped and gathered his thoughts before letting them out into air
between them.
“What you did wrong, what they all did wrong, is that you
and everyone else who is on my trail neglects the notion of thinking LIKE me.
Think like a ruthless, homicidal maniac. I know, it’s not easy for you heathens
to do such a thing. I want to be caught. I want my name to live in infamy.” He
took a turn and began to walk away. With his back turned towards the detective
he said, “My name is James Altiwood and I will turn over the ends of this Earth
to prove my point… and you will witness it. Have a good night, Jon.”
Jon disappeared into the shadows of the night and Detective
Carter stormed his way back into the bar. He was furious. That was until he
reached his seat, rum on the bar in front of him. He allowed the shot to
slither down his throat. He sat back and went through what James had said to
him in his head. As the words spun around like a rampant tornado, he stood up
at once and placed a twenty dollar bill on the bar. “Here’s your tip, have a
good one.”
About an hour had passed before Detective Carter pulled into
the Home Depot parking lot. He stepped out of the green Ford Taurus and made
his way to the automatic doors. The sliding doors opened and he walked through
them with dark intentions in mind.
He thought to himself, “first things first, garden
department. James wants me to think like him, then that is exactly what I will
do.”
He did just that, once stumbling upon the garden department
he came across a teenage boy wearing an orange Home Depot smock. As Jon called
for his attention, the boy turned in his direction. His hair was a mess and he
wore a plaid shirt beneath the smock. The worker’s name tag read BILLY. He
asked if Jon needed any assistance. Jon shook his head yes and asked where he
could find a hatchet and a shovel.
As Billy directed him to the hatchet first and shovel next,
he thought to himself that he may have just waited on an aspiring serial
killer. He was right.
