The Death of Duty

***Author's note: I've never really tried doing this type of story before, so any and all feedback on how to improve it or your thoughts overall would be most appreciated! I hope you enjoy! ***

December 12th, 8:30pm 

Police Station, Roosevelt, NC  

Okay, so I’m still not entirely sure what the hell is to be gained from this, but if the counselor really thinks that keeping my feelings a damn diary will help my wife comprehend my daily stress or whatever, fine. I love her and I want this to work, so here it is. (It should go without saying that the names of any assholes I happen to mention will have be changed to protect their identities, the last thing I need is a divorce and a fucking lawsuit.) 

December 13th, 1:00am 

Club Red, Bluesboro, NC 

I got showered in urine by a Slavic gangbanger zonked out of his mind on drugs. Not my proudest moment. We’d infiltrated the Bolshevickies not too long ago. Vlad and his boys broke off from the Russian mafia about a year ago, up and decided to head south to peddle their wares. Unfortunately for them, they stuck out like a sour thumb down here and we quickly found our way in to their organization, and I use that term loosely. I’m hopeful this will explain the charges on my credit card to that funky sex dungeon, as well as the sudden onset of tinnitus in my noggin from the blaring of that damn Eastern bloc EDM.

I also caught the infamous Father Murphy balls-deep in a prostitute while sweeping the joint. He was higher than a goddamned kite, rambling on and on about how somebody named 'Billy' broke his heart. I wheeled him and his oxygen tank straight into the back of the cruiser with Vlad and his goons. The weird old bastard is the face of the Calvary Ministry, a group of dildos who want to ban pretty much anything that doesn't conform to 'puritan values.' For once I'm looking forward to a story leaking to the press. Before the night was over, we ended up intercepting their entire shipment of fentanyl. Not a bad night, all things considered.

December 15th, 12:30pm 

Bluesboro General Hospital, Bluesboro, NC 

I’ve been buried under a mountain of paperwork after Yuri Urine from the Ukraine ended up overdosing in the holding area. Vlad claims total ignorance, because of course he fucking does. Yuri coded once, but we got him back pretty fast. Here’s hoping he can still help us unravel what the hell happened, until then I’m checking out the security tapes, after scoring some Excedrin. My head is killing me. Why the hell can’t anything be simple? I’d say at least a priest was by his side when he died, but from the looks of things Father Murphy was giving Yuri more than just a blessing by the time we got in there. 

December 16th, 11:00 am 

Police Station, Roosevelt, NC 

Yuri ended up coding three more times on the way to the hospital. By the time we got him back again his teeth were clacking like there was no tomorrow. Major brain damage. God. Fucking. Dammit. They unplugged him not long after that, now they’re trying to notify the next of kin, but it’s not looking like he has any stateside. If he wanted to pay me back for locking his sorry ass up, the little bastard managed it. I’m still trying to dig the chief’s foot out of my ass.  

December 17th, 4:00pm 

Police Station, Roosevelt, NC 

Vlad’s being transferred to New York State in a week on felony charges, and that’s not even counting what we got on him. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Comrade didn’t say a word after we told him. Oh, the tapes from the holding cells got nothing on it that’s of any use, besides Yuri and Murphy fishing around in Yuri's prison pocket for the fateful pill that did him in. Was he being manipulated into doing that shit, or am I giving the Bolshevickies too much credit? Probably.   

December 20th, 5:45pm 

Best Western Hotel, Roosevelt, NC 

Today wasn’t so bad.  

I finally found a break in a major case that’s been grinding my gears for the past few days. Disgraced senator Robert Martin was found dead behind a Best Western, complete media frenzy, spurned spouses. The circumstances of the senator’s death were certainly suspicious as well... 66 stab wounds generally are. I’ve been a little too busy to bust out the dream journal, so allow me to summarize: it’s been tense. 

My partner Beck and I were combing through security footage when the unexpected happened. One of the suspects, a high-end escort named Jessie Riggs, wound up coming to the station and confessing to murking Martin. The whole thing was clear out of the blue, to be frank. I had only interviewed her once, and while I found her unsettling, she wasn’t even on my shortlist. While I initially had my doubts, she plopped a dagger covered in blood on my desk that fit the dimensions of the murder weapon. Needless to say, I was quickly convinced to check into it.  

December 23rd, 9:00pm 

Police Station, Roosevelt, NC 

We’re still ironing out the details on the Martin case, but it’s finally gaining some momentum. Chief Galloway didn’t even chew my ass out today, wonders never cease. Vlad’s been more of a pal too, begging me and Beck to get the DA to lessen his charges in exchange for information on not just his little Soviet buddies, but their mob cousins too. I don’t expect them to pass if there’s any way to substantiate his info. Should be interesting either way. The holiday season really is a magical time.  

December 24th, 8:20pm 

Club Red, Bluesboro, NC 

I’ve been following up some of the info Vlad’s been dropping like breadcrumbs, and it’s all come back legit. We found a ledger the guy stashed at his club packed to the brim with some mob secrets. I feel like I’m walking over my own grave by just holding it. Thank God it’s heading to New York with Vlad next week. The Martin case is getting more complicated. Jessie stopped talking yesterday and now things are starting not to add up so well. Hopefully she’ll be more helpful after some time in solitary. 

December 26th, 10:00am 

Best Western Hotel, Roosevelt, NC 

 After a surprisingly pleasant Christmas with my wife and family, it’s back into the shit show. The manager at the hotel gave me a ring a little while ago, told me that they caught site of some weird shit on their cameras. While we’d investigated all of the footage that was centered around Senator Martin’s time at the hotel, including the scene of the murder which was just as pixilated and unusable as you probably guessed, we were missing the murderous hooker. There was no evidence of her being around him at all, with the possible exception being on the grainy footage of the attack itself. The blurred attacker could be her, maybe dressed in in a priest's outfit with one of those weird little collars and shoulder pads? I think I'm starting to project now. 

December 28th, 4:00pm 

Police Station, Roosevelt, NC 

Jessie is sticking to her story and claiming she killed Martin, but I’m not so sure anymore. I think there’s something missing there, but it doesn’t really matter, Chief Galloway said to drop it. Jessie’s going to end up going to jail for life by the time the jury is done with her. I still don’t get it. Maybe she’s got brain damage too. Who knows? My wife wants me to take a little time off of work so I can go on a trip with her and our daughter at her parents’ lake house. I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, maybe that’s just what the doctor ordered. Galloway seems to think I’ve earned it, which is a phrase I didn’t know she had in her vocabulary. I’ve just got to finish faxing Vlad’s paperwork to New York before we ship his ass up there and I’ll be good to go.  

*** 

An explosion sends glass and little chunks of wood and metal raining down on top of us like snowflakes. I am thrown from my seat into a neighboring cubicle. I feel the unforgiving point of the desk connect with the back of my skull, feel the sharp, searing hot jolt of electricity before darkness falls, well for a while at least. 

When I come to, orange flames are starting to spread out to the office floor. Clouds of thick smoke are bellowing out from the holding cells. Only a pair of fire sprinklers are active, but they douse the room with gallons of water with astounding proficiency. At first all I can hear is the sound of silence. After a while that loud void of noise transitions to a dull constant whine before finally transitioning to the shrill squeal of the fire alarm. The more my hearing returns, the clearer I’m able to get my head. I focus in on everything occurring around me, listening carefully to the crackle of the flames, and the screams of the wounded.  

Arms, legs and other assorted body parts are scattered amongst the rubble. Vlad’s smoldering head now rests in the hanging garden Beck kept in the corner by his desk. Two detectives, Ramirez and O’Malley are lying in a pile of their own cooked bowls. Beck has been fused into the wall- his chestnuts thoroughly roasted. There are other bodies, but they are too charred to recognize.  

I rise to my feet like a worn-out circus clown at the end of a shoe and stumble through the clouds of smoke to the front entrance, where several surviving cops had gathered. They look about as out of it as I do. Stepping through the metal frame of the shattered front door, I stumble forward onto the sidewalk, the crunch of the shards of glass accompanying my every step. I look up and see Galloway, who is staring vacantly in front of her. She’s breathing heavily, constantly running her hands through her smoldering hair.  

“What happened?” I ask.  

“Jessie Riggs,” Galloway replied, her voice slow, almost dreamy. “She pulled a hand grenade out of her snatch, then sent it sailing into Vlad’s cell while we were getting ready to take him to New York. To make matters worse, Murphy was sitting right next to him. That lecherous old man’s oxygen tank blew up alongside it, taking out everyone in there except me. I don’t think Jessie expected that part though. Shit rocketed right into the girl before it went off. Ain’t never seen nothing like it in my life.”  

I look down in my hand and I see that I’m holding Vlad’s ledger. Whatever he knew, it caused a girl to lie about a murder of a senator just so she could kamekaze Vlad’s ass in the middle of a police station, along with the rest of the Bolshevickies. I think about my wife, who’s trying so hard to make things work between us, my sweet kid who I would die for in a heartbeat. I can't bring this shit home to them. I hand the ledger to Galloway, who takes it with wide eyes and an uncharacteristic amount of trepidation.  

“What do you expect me to do with this?” she asks me, looking over her shoulder at the pair of police officers limping away from the scene before returning her gaze back to me.  

I shrug, then turn around. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about chief. I’m going to find somewhere less glassy to rest up before EMS gets here. I suggest you do the same.” I say.

As I begin walking, I hear her whip the ledger into the flames.