ROGUE COP

CW: Suicide

I made my way on foot towards the house; on my shoulder, a small backpack. The moon was obscured by clouds and I had to tread carefully in the darkness, my shirt, almost immediately, beginning to absorb the sweat that was oozing from every pore in the heat of this Floridian landscape the instant I stepped out of the air controlled coolness of my truck. In the three years since I’d come south, I had never gotten used to this never ending envelope of humidity.

All around, stereophonically, the unseen creatures that inhabited the undergrowth filled the night air with their sounds: the dominant, intense, rhythmic, high pitched frequency of male cicadas, calling their females to mate, interspersed with the deep, repeated grunts of pig frogs, reminding me of my closeness to water and, as I trod stealthily, heart in mouth, my hearing was on maximum alert for the giveaway hissing of alligators. I took one mighty relieved breath as, my eyes slowly adjusting, I spotted the rusted metal gate that led into the rear of the property.

I had been here many times over the last two years but always in the light of day and to the front of the cabin. My approach, this night, was my first nocturnal visit and I could almost hear my heart pounding wildly inside my chest as I patiently unwound the cord that held the ramshackle gateway to the back entrance of Clint’s house, gradually easing it open, trying, as best I could, not to make a sound that might signal my presence. I could feel the perspiration creeping down my legs and, for a moment, I was glad that I was in shorts but that feeling soon evaporated as I encountered sawgrass that had not, it seemed, been cut for some time, reaching up as high as my waist. Apart from the stiff sharpness of this Muhly pasture that could inflict a thousand cuts on my unprotected legs, I shivered involuntarily at the thought of the cottonmouths or rattlers that might lie concealed within. Damn! Maybe this wasn’t one of my best ideas. It had started to rain; that light, warm, tropical, drizzle that insidiously drenched without cooling.

Just then, for a few seconds, the moon appeared overhead, highlighting the silhouette of the house less than a hundred yards ahead causing me to duck instinctively. But the momentary illumination also showed a rough walkway that had been cut in the grass, edging a perimeter off to my left and continuing on in the direction of the back porch. Crouching, I made my way, noiselessly unclipping the top of my holster as I went and sliding the safety catch. The creamy, coconut-like sweetness of gardenias flooded my nostrils interspersed with the spicy, animalic undertones of hyacinths and I remembered that Clint allowed this natural flora to grow unchecked, the hedgerows abundant with fragrances that almost overwhelmed my senses. In the distance, off to my left, the sound of an airboat followed immediately by the unmistakable coughing chumpfs of angry, disturbed gators gave me pause, my nerves at stretching point. But I knew I had no choice other than to proceed and, as I drew closer to the back of the residence, I pressed the record button of the miniature cassette player concealed in the right side pocket of my soaked through cargo shorts.

“I’ve been expecting ya”.

That familiar voice, deep and sonorous, coming, as it did, from out of nowhere, froze the blood in my veins and I found myself temporarily paralysed, my feet rooted to the spot, my stillness heightening the scents and sounds of nature that surrounded me.

As I recovered my nerve, I focused my eyes on the direction from which the voice had emanated and could just make out the figure of Clint, sat in an old rocking chair that he eased back and forth making a low, squeaking sound, now distinguishable, but, hitherto, unheard by myself because of the cacophony of critter noise that echoed through the night.

“You know why I’m here, Clint”.

My voice sounded reedy and tremulous to my own ears. Christ, this was not a time for faint hearts.

“I surely do”.

Those three little words, to my intensified hearing, sounded…slurred. Was Clint drunk? I walked closer to the rear porch and, as I did, a spark of brightness illuminated my approach and I realised that he had struck a match and, continuing, I saw him light an old oil lamp and everything became clear in its glow: the absence of anybody else, no weapon that I could discern; just a half empty bottle of bourbon that stood beside the rocking chair accompanied, now, by the glowing lantern. Where was his dog? The fierce companion that, ever since I had exited my car, I had feared would sense my presence.

“It were the water hole”, his calm, guttural voice, definitely alcohol affected but also…sad?

“Yep. The water hole. Big mistake”.

I stepped up onto the wooden verandah, my previous nerves now banished, confident that I could, after all, handle what had to be done. Reaching for the bottle, he passed it my way but I declined. All the time, not engaging my eyes, he continued rocking gently, forwards and backwards, the rasping screeching of his chair upon the timber deck beginning to irritate my taut nerves.

“I guess this is the end of a beautiful friendship”.

It was. There was no doubt that he was right about that.

For two and a half years we had been the best of colleagues, as close as work mates could be, united in our determination to track down the serial killer who had been terrorising the state from Cape Sable to West Palm Beach and all points in between; two cops, detectives, united in our determination to halt the reign of fear that this murderer, dubbed the Everglades Ripper by the Miami media, had wreaked. But always, it had seemed, despite our best efforts, our joint, devoted commitment, this monster had always managed to stay one step ahead of us.

When we had been appointed to the case, there had been just four victims, the modus operandi pointing to one, same killer. Now, the total had reached eight; beautiful young women, brutalised, their throats cut, left to right; always left to right. We had been close to despair, considering calling in federal assistance, but, out of nowhere, there had come a breakthrough, a huge blunder made in an unguarded moment and the killer had been revealed.

Together, we had interviewed thousands, interrogated hundreds, driven to every part of this vast state, knocking on doors, following each and every clue, often taking us off the beaten track and into towns and communities that neither of us had been before. And, ultimately, in an unlikely spot, a hidden paradisiacal water hole, the error that had finally exposed the killer had been committed. Who, in his wildest dream, would have believed that, after all this time, all these killings had been committed by one of the hunters, a cop!

Still evading my eyes, taking another swig from his bottle, Clint pursed his lips and emitted a shrill whistle which was answered immediately by the sound of paws scrabbling across wooden floorboards. Butch! His pit bull terrier! The dog was inside the house and all of my attention turned to the porch door and the flap cut into the base. I reached for my gun but another hand beat me to it as Clint grabbed my firearm and, without hesitation, thrust it towards his own mouth.

The sound of the explosion, so close, rocked me backwards, only the rail of the verandah preventing me from tumbling out into the sawgrass. My ears ringing wildly, I became vaguely aware of the dog hurtling through the door opening only to be distracted from my presence by the sight of its master, what was left of him, the ceaseless rocking of his chair now halted, propped, as it was, back at an angle against the wall of the house, blood, flesh, teeth and brains splattered in all directions. As the roaring of my ears slowly subsided, it was replaced by the pathetic whimpering of the grief stricken beast and I realised that its jaws were wound shut with duct tape, the reason it had made no sound upon my approach. Retrieving my pistol, I sent the stricken animal to join its master.

The cassette player wound on, the sound of cicadas in the background making it sound like a 50s tape recording full of static, but my voice could be heard well enough as the conversation from earlier that night was repeated for the third time for all those crowded into the office.

“Yep. The water hole. Big mistake”.

Chief of Detectives, Hammond, clicked the tiny machine off, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“Okay. Explain”.

Still in a state of shock, I began, pausing occasionally to gather my thoughts and wipe a tear from my eye.

“Pauline Joyce, victim number eight…”

“Yeah. What about her?”

“She was found in Mt.Dora. When we…Clint and me…got the call and drove up there to investigate, we needed our GPS ‘cause neither of us had ever been there before. That afternoon, late, we were hot and bothered after hours of walking the town, knocking on doors. If I’m honest, we were at the end of our tether, beaten down by our lack of progress in solving the case. Yet another victim, killed so savagely…it was like we were chasing a shadow. I made a flippant remark, said that, if we’d been closer to the beach, the fact that I had no swimming trunks wouldn’t have stopped me from taking a dip…”

My entire audience was following my every word, waiting patiently for me to continue. Hammond, though, in his usual belligerent manner, was not inclined to be so tolerant. Ever since I had transferred here from the Big Apple, three years before, he had treated me like an outsider, somebody who didn’t, and never would, belong.

“For Christ’s sake, Tupper. Get on with it”.

“Clint told me he knew just the spot…”

“A water hole?”

“Yes, exactly. He drove up into the woods to a place that was perfect, isolated, with a rock pool of clear, ice cold water. There was no need to be modest and we both went skinny dipping. Afterwards, I followed him up on to the higher rocks where there was a slab, warm from the sun, where we dried off in no time…”

“For chrissakes, what the hell has this got to do with…?”

“Don’t you get it, Chief?” One of my fellow detectives, Lowenstein, had interrupted. “Clint had never been there before, least that’s what he claimed. So how come he knew a great place, way out o’ the way, to go skinny dipping? Right., Jake?”

I nodded, grateful that one person, at least, was savvy enough to get my drift.

“It took me a while to figure it out. Something kinda nagged at me but I couldn’t understand what exactly. Then, wham! I woke up, a few nights later, middle of the night, and asked myself just that. How did Clint have knowledge of a town he’d never been to before? It was all I could do not to show any reaction during working hours but I needed time to re-check all the files, somehow get a hold of Clint’s GPS, cross check it to the places where the victims had been killed.. Turned out that Clint had been to every single one of those locations. He knew them all. Had scoped them out ahead of time; before the actual murders took place”.

There was a collective gasp among the gathered detectives, audible enough to make me look up for the first time in my narrative. Only Hammond still looked unconvinced.

“I still don’t see this. On the tape it was Clint that first mentioned the water hole”.

I sighed deeply, shaking my head, no longer able to disguise my contempt. How he’d ever made Chief was a mystery to me. I almost spat out my next words.

“He knew, Chief. Knew that he’d screwed up. Should never have taken me to that water hole. While I was busy hiding my thoughts from him, he was waiting for the penny to drop. He knew that it would eventually because we’d been together for so long and knew each other too well. I may be slow but I usually get there in the end. I went there tonight to confront him, get him to admit everything on tape before I arrested him because I knew that, once we got him back here and he lawyered up, he’d clam up, deny everything. That was my plan but he had other ideas and…”

My whole body shuddered at remembrance of what had occurred. Monster or not, Clint had been my buddy, my partner and, now, thanks to my carelessness, he was no more, killed by my gun. No cop should ever allow his gun to be snatched from him. As I wept, one by one, my colleagues lined up and showed their empathy: hugs, pats on my shoulder, whispered “well done” and “great job”.

Of course, once the press got hold of things, though they did not know the full facts, the department made sure of that, my name was plastered everywhere. Through it all, I declined to be interviewed but, a week after Detective Sergeant Clinton Reid, the Everglades Ripper, had been cremated, ashes scattered to the winds, I received my citation and a promotion to Lieutenant and the entire female population of Florida, grateful for my work, breathed a sigh of relief, free from the terror that had hung over the state for so long and declared me their hero. A famous, true crime writer contacted me offering to ghost a book about my hunt and eventual unmasking of the serial killer; all profits split fifty-fifty. As part of the publishing contract, I had to appear on several national TV shows and, for a while, I was a minor celebrity. These things are fleeting of course and, as the furore settled down, I focused, once more, on my police work, my bank balance substantially improved.

Only Hammond seemed unable to accept my version of how things had played out, that night. It was more than an ingrained hatred of anybody from New York who did not talk the same way or preferred a good old fashioned hot dog to seafood, any day of the week. I was not one of his boys and nothing I could say or do would ever change that. He made sure I knew it too. Sometimes, I would look up and catch him staring out at me quizzically from within his office. But, when days turned to weeks then to months and there were no further killings, he seemed to accept that, perhaps, his suspicions were unwarranted and his favourite detective, Clint, had, indeed, been a serial killer but those six months were the toughest of my life. Finally, I put in for a transfer back north, homesick, still confused over my partner’s guilt and the manner of his death. At least, that was the official version.

Unofficially, everything had pretty much happened just how I’ve described. Except, it was me who’d made the fatal error of suggesting a nice swim in that water hole. Course I’d realised my mistake almost as soon as my naked body hit that ice cold water; could not believe my own stupidity. Clint, good cop that he was, had been too savvy to have shown any reaction but I just knew, deep down, that he’d cottoned on. When I saw that he’d been going back through the files on his own, something we’d always previously done in partnership, everything was confirmed and I cursed myself over and over. But I also knew that I had to act; make my move before Clint did.

As I’d stepped up onto that verandah, that night, and saw that he was unarmed, satisfied that I had enough recorded, without hesitation, I drew my pistol and jammed it straight into Clint’s mouth and blew him to kingdom come. Then it was just a matter of tidying things up to suit my story. Not least, I removed my GPS from my backpack and swapped it with Clint’s. I never could figure out why he’d silenced his dog that night.

You see, for as long as I can recall, behind my mask of respectability, I am evil personified; a cold stone killer. You may judge me; I’m sure you will. But something beyond my control consumes me and only the sight of blood, gurgling from a gaping neck, provides me with an orgasmic release, satisfying my needs…for a while at least.

I heard that Hammond had taken early retirement, the only man to have harboured doubts about my story. Those last six months had been agonising for me, having to restrain my murderous instincts day after day under his watchful eye and there’s no doubt that he succeeded in making me paranoid. Now, sometimes, in a crowded Brooklyn street, I think I have sighted his face. One night, in a restaurant, I looked out through the window and could swear I saw him lurking across the road in a doorway but, when I focused properly, he was gone. Out of all of us, he was the one with true detective instincts.

No matter. I have selected my next victim. She serves me coffee every morning, just across from my precinct, her delectable, long, slender jugular, hidden by her winter turtleneck, just screaming to be exposed. This very night, my insatiable blood lust will be unleashed once more and who will dare to suspect a detective who is considered a hero, the man who caught the Everglades Ripper?