posted on Aug, 13 2009 @ 11:41 AM
'Stop it!' she yelled. 'I don't BELIEVE you!'
'I'm afraid it's true, ma'am.' The department's chaplain, a twenty five year veteran of the force, was at a loss for what to do next. This was
his least favorite part of the job.
'I'm sure it was quick.'
'It was QUICK?!' The anger welling up took her mind off of the grief.
'It was QUICK?! You heartless bastard!' She pounded on his chest with both hands.
He was used to the outbursts, the disbelief and equally used to what usually followed; the inconsolable grief.
'I'm sorry. He was a good man. Is there anything I can do?' He knew the answer. There was never anything he could do.
Somehow this responsibility had fallen into his lap ten years before and he seemed to be stuck with it now. Many days he dreaded going to work and
others he tried his hardest to do what no one else wanted to and struggled to do it with compassion. They were all people, after all.
'Just get out. Just go and leave me alone.'
'Yes ma'am. Can I call anyone for you?'
'Just get out.'
He walked out the door and paused for a second to listen. 'She might change her mind,' he mumbled in his head.
He thought the silence was unusual but it was only because it was being drown out by the relief that his part was over and the gratitude that, for
another day, it was someone else and not him.
His ford was older, probably the oldest in the fleet. He didn't need 'all that fancy stuff' that the younger guys seemed so impressed with.
He was from a simpler time, when cops walked their beats and actually talked to people like they WERE people. The younger guys always prodded him.
'What's UP, Barney, How's it hanging, Tut,' Kids can be so cruel. Cops can be worse. Just this morning one of those 'punks' asked him if he knew
Jesus. When he answered 'Not really." the kid said, 'that’s surprising. Didn't you two wander around healing lepers together?'
He always tried to blow the comments off, but he was a human too, after all. The last thing he was EVER going to do was let them know they had gotten
He often found himself chuckling inside when he saw the guys decked out in 'all that fancy garb.' They looked more like soldiers than cops. They
didn't iron their shirts, or shine the bars on their epaulettes. He didn't understand how this had happened. How we had gotten to this point.
Although it was old, the ford started right up. Fleet maintenance did a good job. They couldn't speak too much English, but he was always happy with
their work. All the shifty smiling and glazed eyed stares made him a little uncomfortable, but he was always happy with the results. Car troubles
seemed like some sort of universal language.
It was just about eleven. After so many years on the force, the chief let him pretty much keep his own schedule and his two hour lunch time was just
around the corner. It's funny how the human mind works. In less than a second he had seen the time, thought about lunch, felt remorse for not giving
his all at the office, and decided it just wasn't worth it.
His thoughts always wandered. They made a lazy, irregular oval around how much more he had to work; for the day, the week, the year. How long until he
could leave all of this behind him and finally do what it was that HE wanted to do. How long until he could enjoy retirement. When he got to the part
where he was sitting on the bank of the river with a fishing line attached to his toe, and his favorite hat shielding his head from a summer sun, he
would chuckle inside and convince himself that the department still needed him.
Occasionally he had a guilty indulgence. He kept track in his head of the weirdest things he had ever seen, the most unusual positions a corpse was in
or the most difficult circumstances to believe, had he not witnessed them himself, or been informed by trusted associates. When he was not engrossed
in his duty, he often found himself reliving these images like his own personal snuff films.
There was the guy that had died in his recliner, trousers still open, his flaccid 'manhood' still exposed. The computer still on the page he was
watching. He remembered the story about how the evidence tech. was made to 'make the body more presentable' for the photographs and the legal
troubles so narrowly averted. Apparently the other guys thought that was pretty funny. He remembered thinking that this guy was five years his junior
and how quickly you can check out.
There was the pretty young Asian girl. Just eighteen years old. She met a guy online and tricked her parents in to dropping her off near the motel.
She told them she was going to visit friends. Two days later the missing person report came in. Four days later the stench in the motel room was so
strong that guests in the next rooms had complained. They found her body stuffed in the wooden bed frame, under the mattress. His own daughter was
older then, twenty seven. Eternally jaded by what he had seen, he always harped on her to be careful and made sure she knew how to defend herself.
His favorite, in a macabre kind of way was the guy the construction workers found in the driveway after they heard shots and had gone to investigate.
This guy was old. Eighty one years old. No family, no nothing. He had a decent house and a couple cars, but no one to share them with. It was easy to
relate. The old man lay in a pool of his own blood, with three gunshot wounds to the head. To this day, the fascination had not worn off and the
leathery old cop played with this often. It held special meaning for him.
It turns out the old man was brilliant, but desperately alone. He had used the INTERNET of all things, to download plans for a 'robot' and built it
out of parts he had scrounged. The body of the contraption was made from his city-issued trash can. The irony of that choice was a constant source of
fodder for the internal strife that always plagued the chaplain when we found himself dwelling on this story longer than the others. The robot had one
purpose. It was designed to pull the trigger on the old man's .22 semi-auto pistol. It performed flawlessly; putting three rounds into the old man's
head seconds after he flipped the toggle switch. The grouping was just a little off, but not bad for a homemade killing machine.
He knew better than to EVER tell anyone the things he thought about. He needed his job and the last thing he wanted was to be forced through another
'psych. eval.'; he had to do it once before when Shelly had died. They had been married for twenty nine years and she had been through more with him
than any sane woman could have handled. He always smiled when he thought about her. Sometimes he felt like he could still smell the perfume she had
worn for the last ten years. She tried so hard to make him happy and he missed her terribly. It had been six years. He always promised her that they
would never die so that they wouldn't have to live alone. The thought of either one being without the other always lead them down the same road; An
empty but romantic promise of mutual immortality.
[edit on 13-8-2009 by KSPigpen]
[edit on 13-8-2009 by KSPigpen]