The God Killer

The measure of a man is made in crisis, and no man knows his measure until that time when he must act, or someone dies.

I knew. And my partner laid dead at my feet. I had frozen. My finger on my service revolver, the safety off, waiting for me to act to save my partner, the gun trained on the perp, but I failed to fire. How many times had I made easier shots at the range? But this time, it was for real. And had I but squeezed the trigger, my partner’s brains would not be splattered on the wall. My ears rang from the blast of gunfire. I pulled the trigger, finally, repeatedly, emptying the cartridges into the perp, but too late. I closed my eyes for a minute, then engaged the radio and called it in.

“Shots fired. Officer down.”

My partner had not hesitated. She had taken two of them down before the one in my sights fired. I had had a clear shot. What held me back? Was it the idea of ending a life? Was it some moral qualm, staying my hand? No, it was fear. I had frozen with fear.

That was months ago. I received a commendation for bravery. What a joke! But no one knew I froze. I had, after all, fired the last bullet and there was no one else to tell the tale. But I knew. I was a coward. And this woman, my partner, who had not hesitated, who had not frozen with fear, was dead because of me. And I, I was decorated.

There was only so much a man could take. Even with the leave of absence and the counseling, I would never be the same. I swore I would not hesitate, again. But who knew? Would I freeze again? Would I get another partner killed? I needed some assurance I would not.

My new partner was happy to have a highly decorated hero as his partner. If only he knew. At least, it was a man, this time, so I wouldn’t have to worry about being shown up by a woman if things got hairy, again.

We busted a couple of meth dealers working out of a tattoo parlor off Old Market Street. Not much of a market on Old Market Street anymore, other than for drugs and tattoos. Wicked Tats and Potions, the place was called. I bent one of the perps over the glass display counter and handcuffed him behind his back. Vials of merchandize, presumably the wicked potions, wobbled inside the case. The owner of the place, wearing a top hat and black leather, smiled at us through his facial tattoos and piercings. Hard to imagine this clown was once someone’s baby boy, four or five decades ago. 

“I know it’s called a bust, but try not to break anything, Officers,” he said.

I clicked the handcuffs tight, then glanced at the owner. “We will need a statement from you, as well, Mr., uh…”

“Ragnulf, Arne Ragnulf. That translates to Eagle Wolf, I’m told.”

Why would I care about the translation of his name? Eagle Wolf? But there was something curious about this man. In fact, his hooked nose did resemble an eagle’s beak, and there was an unmistakable tattoo of a dark wolf eating a bright, orange sun on his forearm. More noticeable than any of his physical attributes, the man emanated a penetrating presence, a fearlessness, and a certain hidden, implied ferociousness—as if the spirit of the eagle and wolf vied for control of him. “Well, Mr. Ragnulf, I will take your statement once we have secured the suspects.”

Mr. Ragnulf chuckled. “Yes, you will take a statement, but I suspect you will be wanting more from me than that.”

The comment took a moment to process. What else would I be wanting from this mook? I glanced around the shop and shook my head. “I doubt very much you have anything I could want. I have no interest in hocus-pocus.”

Mr. Ragnulf smiled, knowingly. “The measure of a man is made in crisis. Fear kills more than bullets. A man who takes measures, measures well when the time comes.”

I paused and squinted at him. Fear kills more than bullets? “I have no time for riddles.  I will return to take your statement.”

We secured the detainees in the squad car. I left my partner to watch them and read them their rights. I returned to the shop and took the owner’s statement. No, he had nothing to do with the meth traffickers at his shop. Sure, his potions were all legit. Was it believable? Not really, but he spoke with a soft confidence, and stared through me with his eagle-eyes, gray, like a wolf’s eyes. 

“Okay, Mr. Ragnulf. I think that’s it,” I said.

“Yes, I see your virgin skin. Have you ever considered taking a mark? We have many customers on the force.”

I had noticed my fellow cops, more and more of them, sporting tattoos. But what was the point? Just some ugly thing that would only look worse as you got older—and something that could be used to identify you if you ever got into trouble. I glanced at his sleeve tattoo of the wolf eating the sun. “So, what’s the point of the wolf? Trying to mark yourself with a symbol of your name?”

Mr. Ragnulf smiled, then narrowed his eyes. “That is Fenrir, the killer of gods. It is said that whoever wears the mark of Fenrir will fear nothing, not even a god. Or, as you likely believe, the one true God.”

I paused. Was there something to this mumbo-jumbo? Could a tattoo make you fearless? The image of my dead partner, and her blood, filled my mind. 

Mr. Ragnulf nodded. “Yes, a police officer must face many fears. Perhaps, the spirit of Fenrir may help. And the Vegvisir, the Viking Compass, combined, they provide fearlessness and protection. A spiritual sword and shield. Very powerful.”

I rolled my eyes. “Superstitious nonsense.”

Mr. Ragnulf chuckled. “Perhaps but let me show you the design. Just for fun.”

Mr. Ragnulf leafed through a book of designs and pointed to one—an outer circle of runes and an inner circle of witchy-looking symbols pointing out from the center, leading into a wolf’s head down the forearm. The thing looked badass, but, well, evil. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, though. It seemed to call to me. Could I permanently put this thing onto my body? Would it make me fearless? In the depths of my soul, I knew it was wrong. But, in the depths of my soul, I wanted this thing. I wanted its power. I wanted to be ferocious and fearless, like the wolf—the wolf that killed gods and ate the sun.

I closed my eyes tight and broke away from it. I took a deep breath. “Let me think about it. I’ve got to get those two clowns down to the station.”

Mr. Ragnulf smiled. “Of course. Think about it.”

He knew he had me and that I would be back.

So, now I sport a sleeve tattoo of the Viking compass and the wolf, and, it might just be a kind of placebo effect, but I actually think it works. Somehow, my fear is gone. I act without hesitation. My instincts are sharper. Had I had it, back on that bad day, would my partner still be alive? That is water under the bridge, now. But even the memory of my fear has faded. Rarely do I imagine that which made her all she was splattered on the wall in that bloody mess. And, when I do, I feel no guilt. That part of me that felt fear, that felt guilt, that questioned my worth, is gone. And good riddance.

A call. Some woman reporting a prowler. My partner answers dispatch and confirms the call. We arrive at the address, exit our squad car, and inspect the yard with our flashlights. No one around. A car is parked in the driveway, with a smashed passenger window. Was it the work of the prowler? No one here now, though.

I knock on the door of the residence. “Sheriff’s office. You called about a prowler?”

No one answers. I knock again. “Sheriff’s office. You called about a prowler?”

I wait for a response. The door opens. A middle-aged African American woman in a bathrobe. Need to take care, racial sensitivity. She’s futzing with her phone. 

“My God, my God,” she says, “you need help.”

“I need help? Ma’am, you called us for help. We checked for a prowler. We couldn’t find anybody.” I glance toward my partner. Something is off about this woman.

“My God, my God, you need help. I called because of a prowler.”

Each time she says my God, it irritates me more and more. We are here to help. Why is she calling for God? “Yes, ma’am. We checked. We didn’t see anybody. Are you okay?”

“Me? I’m okay. I’ve taken my meds. I’m okay. You, you need help?”

I glanced at my partner, then back toward the woman. “Would you like us to check the inside of the house?”

“My God, my God, can I help you?” The woman backs off into the house, inviting us in. 

The house is a mess—dirty clothes lying around, books and papers scattered on the table, a tea kettle heating on the stove. We need to get some info for our report and see if this woman is okay.

My partner and I step into the house.

“Could you hand me that bible?” she asks, motioning to a book on the table.

I reach for the book, but my arm stops. I can’t seem to do it. “Can we get your name for out report, ma’am?”

“Musser, Elise Musser, is my name. I need help.”

She fumbles with the phone and calls the sheriff’s office. “I need help. Yes, they are here. I need help. Please stay on the line. Just wait a minute.”

Something is really off about this woman. “Ma’am do you have any ID?”

She fumbles in her purse. I watch carefully. She might draw a weapon. 

“My God, my God. You need help.”

“We’re here to help you, ma’am.”

“Help me?” She chuckles. “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus.”

I draw my weapon and point it at her. “You better not! I’ll shoot you in the face if you do!”

I cannot believe the words coming from my mouth, or that I have drawn my weapon. What is happening?

“I rebuke you in the name of Jesus,” she repeats.

I stare down the gun sights at her. She pulls her hand swiftly from her purse. The wolf tattoo descends my arm and bites the trigger. 

Bang!

The shot blows through her skull. Her brains, like my former partner’s, splatter on the wall. No hesitation, no fear. Not even of God. As promised. And in her hand? A weapon: a bottle of holy water. No way I can avoid going down for this one. I glance at the tattoo on my forearm. The wolf seems to smile. Fenrir: the killer of gods.