Killer

I thanked the cops politely - though all three of us knew my words were hollow - then showed them to the door. A gust of wind hit me when I opened it to see them out; little ribbons of earthy, frigid air, lacking in moisture and mercy. The shadows on the lawn were long and thin from the bare trees in the yard. They stretched toward me, the branches like pointing fingers, accusing.

I watched the officers silently leave through a dirty window pane as my breath fogged the glass. Awkwardly, they’d replaced their caps and shuffled to their police car, but not before the fat one turned and stared at the house, scratching his temple. After a long minute, he sighed visibly, shoulders slumped, then clambered into the vehicle. I breathed my own shaky sigh of relief, and let out the pent-up breath I’d been holding. Leaned hard against my chipped wooden cane. Wiped away a bead of sweat on my forehead and thought that they’d been here for a while. It had taken them several minutes to work up the nerve to tell me why they were there, while I grew frustrated with their hesitation.

The fat one was the older of the two. His greasy hair was peppered with gray, and looked pasted to his skull, such was his need of a proper wash. He gave me the side-eye – not once did he meet my eyes directly. Adjusting the waist of his pants under his massive belly, he’d introduced himself and his partner but said little else.

The other one was so thin he looked ill, his long face creased and weathered. Deep pockets under his eyes were purple in the dim light of the room. The curtains were drawn against the cold, and the dark it created made him look like a corpse on my couch.

He had tried to make small talk when they first arrived. I took a small, perverse pleasure in the fact that the thin one seemed to be affected by the cold. He had carped about the bitter wind and rubbed his hands briskly together as he walked into my home, looking around at my life on display. I’d gritted my teeth and played along. Talked about the cold snap we were having. As if cops showed up on your doorstep all the time just to hash about the weather.

I’d led them to the living room, gestured feebly for them to sit. I think I made excuses for the mess. Cleared some old newspapers off the threadbare couch, and mumbled something about being too old to care about clutter. If they were bothered by my little piles, it didn’t show on their faces as they sat. Each had a stereotypical cop face on – flat, blank, and tight. Giving away nothing, the big cop looked at my worn grey carpet, then at the photos lining the wall into the hallway, studying. Judging. I studied him back, but he never once met my eyes. Only sized me up when I was looking at his partner, though I could feel his gaze on me. Wondered what he could possibly suspect of a lonely old man.

Then the thin one had looked me straight in the eye; sniffled once, and told me a father’s worst nightmare. That my sweet boy had just been caught - as the state’s worst serial killer.

Stomach in knots and heart in my throat, I’d weakly shaken my head and told them they were mistaken. He was a good boy, who came to help out his old man often. No, he hadn’t come lately - he’d been busy - I said. The corpse-looking one was firm, but gentle. There was evidence, he stated. DNA doesn’t lie, despite my son’s denial of his crimes. He was being held without bail – one of them said this, but I couldn’t look up to see who it was. When I did, it was the fat one that said I could visit him soon. I’d closed my eyes, tried to erase the picture I’d conjured of my son in a cage.

They ran out of things to say and a thick silence hung heavy in the air. For a series of seconds, I was trapped; immersed in memories of my son’s life. I could tell the thin one wanted to apologize to me. Say he was sorry for something. His mouth opened, then closed, and the fat one put one hand on the thin one’s arm, and he said nothing instead. “Don’t watch the news,” said the skinny one as I started to slowly, shakily stand, signaling that I was finished with their visit. I nodded but didn’t speak. Couldn’t trust my voice not to shake in anger or despair. They said I didn’t have to walk them out – shouldn’t be getting up. I grumbled wordlessly in a way only an old man can, waved off their protests, and led them out. I turned from the door when the police car pulled away, my eye catching the hallway display of photos. My son’s whole life in still frame. “I’m glad your mother’s not alive to see you in prison,” I said to his high school photo. Sitting down in my ancient recliner, I ignored its creaks - as well as the stupid cops’ advice - and turned on the news anyway. There he was. He’d made the lead story. One new photo for the collection, I thought. Stared at his mug shot staring back at me, then grimaced.

“Damn you, son,” I said to the television. “I taught you well, but apparently not well enough.”

***

It was an hour past shift change by the time the two officers left the old man’s small, dilapidated house. The faded blue paint was chipped and peeling, and the dry wooden steps leading to the porch had groaned in protest at Officer Carter’s weight. Both exhausted, their feet scraped the gravel of the potholed drive as they haggardly shuffled to the car. Each drained of energy for his own reason, the two partners were silent. Officer Carter was pensive. The thin one, Officer Daniels, was hunched against the wintry squall, thoughtless except for the silent curses against the slight material of his uniform. They had almost reached the vehicle when Officer Carter stopped and turned. One sausage-like finger scratched idly at his temple while he squinted at the blue house, thinking. Officer Daniels reached the driver’s side of the police car and turned; watched his partner. Not again, he thought impatiently. He wanted a smoke, maybe a double on the rocks. It had been a long day. Just as he was about to say something, his partner turned back without a word, though his stomach rumbled audibly as he squeezed himself into the cruiser. Daniels quashed a few unkind thoughts about the man, then turned on the engine. Held his hands to the air vents; let the heat warm his fingers. His sallow face was all harsh lines, fatigue carving shadows under his eyes. He had been partners with Carter for five years now. He knew what was coming. 

“Not your Vibe again,” Daniels finally said. Officer Carter’s jowls shook as he grunted, still lost in thought. He had been a cop for thirty-four, too-long years; was looking retirement in its sweet, inviting face. He could walk away easily from this one – the case was closed, and the killer was caught. He’d been part of the case, even if only peripherally. It would look good on his record, and made a nice end to a long and exhausting career. If he’d been a little more ambitious, he could have made detective. He had the right cop instincts. Observant and smart – but a little bit lazy. Still, his Vibe was legendary around the department. The rookies made fun of it, but the old-timers trusted it. Now, he wished they’d never come here. He couldn’t shake the Vibe. It always told him when something was off, and he hadn’t liked the way the old man had reacted. He’d been more upset over his son being in jail than the fact that he’d murdered eleven women. He thought back to the hallway lined with photos. It seemed like it had been a normal house once, maybe even filled with love. Now it was empty except for the old man, but it had sagged with the weight of a secret. “Something’s off about that old bastard,” Carter said, his fingers tapping his thigh in nervous habit. “Let it go,” sighed Officer Daniels. “We know the son acted alone, and the old man’s got to be seventy-five if he’s a day.” “Exactly,” replied Carter. “We know his son was a copycat - and we never found the original killer.”