I Will Take As Many Words As I Want To Write This Story
The sunrise was a sight for a person like myself that never really saw in his line of duty. When you work night shifts in such a job, it almost feels like you slept the entire night, like you just gotten home from a hangover, but there was no drinking to be had. It was a strange feeling to remember that night, or that morning. Most of my partners don’t remember the first hour, let alone knowing what they were patrolling without the help of the Chief’s schedule on the wall.
It was a beautiful sight to have, something I needed seeing I was tracking down a murderous serial killer. Probably unprofessional of me, spending time watching the crimson horizon rise from the edge of sky’s canvas. I could’ve missed the guy dumping his next victim out in the alley while I watching this comforting marvel. Didn’t matter, we found the bastard that following morning about to kill a young prostitute that fit his liking. The bastard didn’t put up much of a fight, surrendered to the sight of a gun to his head. To most, people would freak out that we even used a gun, but people don’t realize some people are killers. We only compensate in case such an occasion arises. I remember one time I was out with one of those messengers who tells you to pay up when you haven’t paid for a loan, bill or anything in between, impounded a man’s truck and got it ready for tow. The owner had it listed as collateral, so seeing something like that gone, something he bought for his job in construction and approached me, the Marshall and the messenger, brandishing a gun on his him. Showing it to us like he was threatening us, we pulled out our weapons and told him you touch it, you die. Simple as that. Man was threatening to murder the poor guy and we made sure he never made that kind of choice again. I was promoted to detective that day, reason why I’m out on this job.
I had the damn killer in the back of my car, behind a fenced window and in a zip tie. We took about three weapons off of him: a .44 Pistol with only four rounds on him, a kitchen knife that was recently sharpened and a vile of cyanide, probably for himself in case he got caught. He tried grabbing it while we searched him, even trying to pick it out of our pockets. The man was out to taste blood, but he couldn’t face jail time. Most of the patrolman and detectives called him a coward. He did plea that he wasn’t going to do it, that he never did those killings, seeing the weapons he had and acted like a magician put those in his pockets without him knowing. I guess anyone who knows they’ve met the end of their life, they’ll do as much as they can to tell us they never did it, sometimes crying for their parents or mother. I hated seeing that, but it was for the better to witness a man die in his own skin, losing his own mind in front of you than letting a father finish that task for me. Never going to let that happen again.
I was congratulated for nabbing this man when I got back to the station, rookies patting me on the back, Detectives clapping at the presence of me and the Chief himself shaking my hand. People looked at my stone cold face and thought that was the face of a hero. They weren’t wrong, but I felt more like a fallen man. As I shook that old man’s hand, I wanted to tell the Chief that I wanted to quite, but I needed to get that good retirement. I saw right through him as he told me he called the news to talk to me, telling me that I’d make a lot of children’s ideal hero. I felt insulted, but I’d never let the Chief know. I didn’t know why, but I felt a little angry at the old man. Doesn’t matter. I had a couple of newscasters to talk to in two hours.
When they arrived, a bunch of cameras and lights were flashed at me, microphones pressed against my face as idiotic press were questioning me. My face felt red, not in embarrassment, but in slight anger. I didn’t want to talk to these people who would probably hunt for something I said wrong and make me the villain somehow. I watched what I said as much as I could. One asked how did I get it done, easy to answer. We had assistance with the FBI, people who watched killers like him with ease. Another wanted to know if I let any victims die. That made me angry. Trying to trap me in my own words. I stated what was there and made sure I wasn’t to blame for those deaths. Another asked if I brandished a weapon on this killer, threatening him with it, sparking a commotion that if this was the right person, that this killer was just a twenty-year-old kid that was found at the wrong time. I ended the interview as fast as I could so I can get my mind off this, stop the forced doubt somehow. I wanted to turn in my badge, wave goodbye and get that cup of coffee to calm me down. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t give up a job like this and lose all my progress. Almost two decades of work would be down the drain and for what?
In Response to:
https://similarworlds.com/3724831-I-Challenge-You-to-Challenge-Me-to-Write/2628300-WRITERS-WEEKLY-CHALLENGE-WEEK-OF-APRIL-18-2019
It was a beautiful sight to have, something I needed seeing I was tracking down a murderous serial killer. Probably unprofessional of me, spending time watching the crimson horizon rise from the edge of sky’s canvas. I could’ve missed the guy dumping his next victim out in the alley while I watching this comforting marvel. Didn’t matter, we found the bastard that following morning about to kill a young prostitute that fit his liking. The bastard didn’t put up much of a fight, surrendered to the sight of a gun to his head. To most, people would freak out that we even used a gun, but people don’t realize some people are killers. We only compensate in case such an occasion arises. I remember one time I was out with one of those messengers who tells you to pay up when you haven’t paid for a loan, bill or anything in between, impounded a man’s truck and got it ready for tow. The owner had it listed as collateral, so seeing something like that gone, something he bought for his job in construction and approached me, the Marshall and the messenger, brandishing a gun on his him. Showing it to us like he was threatening us, we pulled out our weapons and told him you touch it, you die. Simple as that. Man was threatening to murder the poor guy and we made sure he never made that kind of choice again. I was promoted to detective that day, reason why I’m out on this job.
I had the damn killer in the back of my car, behind a fenced window and in a zip tie. We took about three weapons off of him: a .44 Pistol with only four rounds on him, a kitchen knife that was recently sharpened and a vile of cyanide, probably for himself in case he got caught. He tried grabbing it while we searched him, even trying to pick it out of our pockets. The man was out to taste blood, but he couldn’t face jail time. Most of the patrolman and detectives called him a coward. He did plea that he wasn’t going to do it, that he never did those killings, seeing the weapons he had and acted like a magician put those in his pockets without him knowing. I guess anyone who knows they’ve met the end of their life, they’ll do as much as they can to tell us they never did it, sometimes crying for their parents or mother. I hated seeing that, but it was for the better to witness a man die in his own skin, losing his own mind in front of you than letting a father finish that task for me. Never going to let that happen again.
I was congratulated for nabbing this man when I got back to the station, rookies patting me on the back, Detectives clapping at the presence of me and the Chief himself shaking my hand. People looked at my stone cold face and thought that was the face of a hero. They weren’t wrong, but I felt more like a fallen man. As I shook that old man’s hand, I wanted to tell the Chief that I wanted to quite, but I needed to get that good retirement. I saw right through him as he told me he called the news to talk to me, telling me that I’d make a lot of children’s ideal hero. I felt insulted, but I’d never let the Chief know. I didn’t know why, but I felt a little angry at the old man. Doesn’t matter. I had a couple of newscasters to talk to in two hours.
When they arrived, a bunch of cameras and lights were flashed at me, microphones pressed against my face as idiotic press were questioning me. My face felt red, not in embarrassment, but in slight anger. I didn’t want to talk to these people who would probably hunt for something I said wrong and make me the villain somehow. I watched what I said as much as I could. One asked how did I get it done, easy to answer. We had assistance with the FBI, people who watched killers like him with ease. Another wanted to know if I let any victims die. That made me angry. Trying to trap me in my own words. I stated what was there and made sure I wasn’t to blame for those deaths. Another asked if I brandished a weapon on this killer, threatening him with it, sparking a commotion that if this was the right person, that this killer was just a twenty-year-old kid that was found at the wrong time. I ended the interview as fast as I could so I can get my mind off this, stop the forced doubt somehow. I wanted to turn in my badge, wave goodbye and get that cup of coffee to calm me down. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t give up a job like this and lose all my progress. Almost two decades of work would be down the drain and for what?
In Response to:
https://similarworlds.com/3724831-I-Challenge-You-to-Challenge-Me-to-Write/2628300-WRITERS-WEEKLY-CHALLENGE-WEEK-OF-APRIL-18-2019
22-25, M
