Waking up for the Night Shift
Fumbling around in the darkness, trying to unravel the bed
sheets that have encased me I scramble to read the time on the clock. 1:50 A.M.
Glancing around my room, I try to unwind my days worries in an attempt to grab
a few hours of sleep. But I shouldn’t bother, my nights are usually sleepless. I
am always anxiously waiting for the buzzer to go off. I wake up every few hours
so as not to oversleep. Therefore I can never really relax. Also, it’s not
uncommon that my job calls me in the middle of the night, so why bother to
sleep at all?
But every once in a while my eyelids will droop and my
thoughts will become light. Just when my head feels heavy enough to rest, my
phone suddenly rings. Glancing at the text, I realize that I won’t be getting
any sleep tonight anyway.
We’ve got another body, and it’s only been dead for an hour.
The next hours will be essential to gather precious evidence. It’s not like the
movies where every detail, every clue jumps out so obviously that the handsome
plucky detective can’t help but solve the case. No, the reality is that with
every passing second that is not used investigating, a key piece of evidence
vanishes into thin air.
There isn’t a set list of suspects, nor a motive or a weapon.
Yet. At times, we are lucky to find an ID on the deceased.
In less than 10 minutes I am changed and ready to go. A
splash of ice cold water on my face and a piping hot thermos of black coffee
are my daily saviors. In fact, I credit the continuous supply of caffeine in my
apartment the reason for my sanity. I race out the door with my notepad, which
is the real weapon of any real detective. I actually hate having to use my gun.
Every time I pull it out, even if the situation calls for it, it means things
have gotten really bad.
A flash back to when I had to shoot a guy who had overdosed
on PCP who had begun punching an elderly storekeeper. The pill head pulled through, but the media
vilified the act citing ‘police brutality ‘. Naturally, no one bothered to ask
about the storekeeper; Phil. Phil sustained 11 stitches around his face and
several fractures. After a few weeks of being in a coma, he was finally able to
go back to his family. Despite the media frenzy, he told me that he appreciated
me saving his life. I am now welcome to free donuts for life from his store.
Unfortunately my state-appointed therapist of who I was
contractually obligated to speak to didn’t see it the same way.
Don’t let the shows fool you. Being a detective isn’t nearly
as glamorous as those perfectly coiffed, cocky, pretty boy detectives. Ugh,
they give us a bad name in my opinion. The corrupt cop/ detective troupes have
also gotten on my last nerves.
Here I am, day after day doing my part to keep this god
forsaken city of mine safe. By the way, I don’t get just one case that I ‘magically’
solve in a scripted hour. It’s more like 20 cases. Per month, not to mention
the cold cases. Plus, I have to document every action, every reaction, every
syllable that transpired in any of my investigations, for fear some snooty
layer feel they can sue me. Or worse, an unrepentant criminal walks due to a
filing error on my part.
Working in homicide, I’ve had to become accustomed to smell
of death. I can stomach it, but I’ll never truly be at peace with it. Even as a
grown man, I’ll admit that some crime scenes are too intense for me to handle. But
I’ll swallow the shock as I always do, how else am I supposed to catch the
psycho that caused it if I’m not composed? The day that death stops bothering
me is the day I deserve to be fired from my job. A heartless detective is good
to no one.
But there’s been times when it tests me. Murder is never an easy thing, but is cuts
deeply when a more vulnerable being is killed simply because it couldn’t
protect itself. The death of a small child or women for example really eats at me.
My nephew, who just turned seven this year, thinks I’m a
basket case because I never let him out of sight when he visits me. Similarly,
all of my female neighbors think me crazy when I tell them to lock their doors
and not go out at night alone. “I’m not paranoid”, I tell them, “There are sick
people in this world.” The last thing I want is to be investigating their
deaths next.
I remember one case of the death of a 20 year old girl. Annabelle
was her name, she was found dumped in a park with strangulation marks on her
neck. Clad in cotton summer dress, she was pretty, thin-boned and very petite.
To her killer that translated that she had no way of fighting back. I bore the
burden of breaking the news to her father. All I can say is that the news broke
him. He wanted the straight truth, and I gave it to him. This man sobbed
loudly, cursing himself for not somehow being able to prevent this from
happening. I never knew Annabelle the way he did, but I felt his helplessness
emanating from him. It was then, that I did something that I shouldn’t have.
In my clenched anger towards this unknown perpetrator, I
swore that I would find him and lock him away so that Annabelle would have justice.
It is my job to be the voice of those who had been so cruelly silenced. Let
the perpetrator try to justify his sick act behind bars. He can wail all he
wants about his ‘rights’ being taken away when I send his good-for-nothing hide
to prison. At least, I’ll rest easy knowing that I’ve done my part to keep this
from happening again to other law abiding citizens.
If you’re wondering, I never did catch the man who killed Annabelle.
But I haven’t forgotten, and in my spare time I keep on searching. It doesn’t
matter that now she’s been classified as a cold case and I now investigate on
my own dime. It doesn’t matter that new cases keep piling up, and I must
investigate their deaths while trying to console the surviving loved ones. I will find this awful man. I will send
him off to be punished to the fullest extent of the law. Her father is counting
on my promise made that awful day. Annabelle won’t rest in peace until then.
Lord help me, because when I do find him, my first instinct
will be to send him to hell personally. People raise their eyebrows when I say
that I believe in the Devil. Trust me, after becoming a detective and after
having witnessed firsthand the hatred that permeates this world, you would
believe in him too. There are acts that
are so vile, so deeply evil, committed with such callousness that they are
simply inhuman.
Serial killers for example have now reached an almost
god-like status in our entertainment. Screenplays have taught us to identify
with the killer, be transfixed by his method of operations and revere his brilliance.
If time allows, pan to the dead victims’ family for added plot device. But, in
the meantime, show us scene after scene of a deeply disturbed killer who revels
in taking away life. Writers and directors never seem to answer the burning question?
Why?
That was the same question I put to a suspect. After a
series of unexplainable murders a profiler decided to rule them a serial
killing. Persons of interest were then asked routine questions to determine any
connection to the victims. My partner and I spent two weeks tracking down and
interviewing a handful of people from different walks of life. A heroin addict,
a high class corporate lawyer, a bike salesman, a young fashion designer, a
college dropout, and a gang member were among those whom we interviewed.
Each answered our questions without any hesitation. Suspects
won’t be determined until we sort out their information later. But I know who
did it. Of course, I still can’t prove it. But one day he’ll show his cards
again. A clean-cut young man, in his early thirties, with sandy brown hair and freckles.
He was raised in a stable home and graduated at the top of his class. That’s
the serial killer. How do I know? He told me.
There’s that question again – why? At his place of employment,
I showed the bike salesman a few photos of the victim. His face became twisted
in horror at seeing an ordinary family man lying on a slab in the morgue. But
for a split second the edge of his lip curled upwards. A tiny self-satisfied smirk betrayed the true
nature behind the fine tuned mask of morality he pretends to wear. No one
caught it but me. But, I couldn’t be sure.
My partner was
interviewing the salesman’s boss, asking for a verification of his employee’s whereabouts. They both were out of earshot. It was now
just the salesman and I. I asked him the question that only the killer would be
able to answer. My voice was low, a barely audible whisper.
“Why?”
His expression changed immediately, his warm smile
evaporated and his eyes gave me a stone cold stare. His voice was clear as a
bell.
“Why not?”
There were no maniacal laughs, no monologues of his
superiority, no pseudo –science reasoning explaining his madness. Nothing. He
simply turned and helped the next customer who had flagged him down. With a
wide smile he explained the new features on their latest bike model.
I can feel my blood pressure rising, the vein in my forehead
is starting to throb.
It is a sign of a deeply perverse and wicked society that
believes it has the right to take away the life of a vulnerable soul and then
simply detach itself from said act with no remorse or pity. Its times like
these that I wonder where went our humanity.
Ok, Ok, breathe Scott. You need to reel it in, if you expect
to do your job well. A ‘hero’s’ fury’ won’t help dispel the preconceived
notions that people have with detectives. That being said, I wouldn’t change my
occupation for the world.
Driving down the highway in the middle of the night, it is
quieter than a grave. But then I spot a few hoodie clad figures walking by the
side of the street. Please, please stay safe. I don’t know what you are doing
so late at night, but please stay alive until daylight. I take a few bits of my
energy bar while I read the dashboard clock, its 2:30 in the morning.
It’s cheesy to say, but I truly went into this job to help people.
I believe whole heartedly in the “protect and serve” mantra of the police force.
If you’re thinking I’m one of those detectives that cherry
picks which victims were more deserving. You’d be wrong. Dead wrong. I can’t
stand those that believe that way, even if they are civilians. Yes, victims who
were good people will be truly missed. But victims who were of a low social
class are still victims. Maybe they have no one in their lives to mourn them
but they have the same right to be put to rest peacefully. I’ll find out who
killed you, I promise. There I go again, making promises I can’t keep.
I am becoming emotionally involved again. Hey, at least it
means that I care about the people I investigate. Sure, it means attending more
funerals every month than any normal human being should, but it’s worth it.
I’ve never been good at communicating my concern for others through words. But
through my actions, they know. I’m not a judge, jury or an executioner, but I’m
on their side.
I’m no saint myself, yet I pray that I have the strength to
continue to protect the innocent, and the vulnerable in whatever way I can. Who
else will?
Growing up as a kid, I never felt safe. I wasn’t strong,
brilliant or special. I felt all alone in a world of blood thirsty wolves
gnawing at the chance to destroy me. I thought maybe if I was a superhero, it
would all change. No villain would hurt me. I would never feel weak again, and
I’d dedicate my life to protecting humanity from the clutches of evil. I’d
especially protect young boys like me who felt powerless their entire lives. My
solemn oath to protect the forgotten would be unbreakable. Maybe one day I’d
meet a girl superhero, and then we’d protect the earth forever.
I chuckle when I think back to my childhood dreams. I can
tell you that I never did get super powers. Instead of a cape, I wear a badge.
No matter how hard this job gets, my desire to help others won’t be quenched.
I’m still looking for the Missus Superhero. But, I’ll worry about that some
other time.
I’ve reached the crime scene. Reporters have already begun
to swarm and the crime scene investigators are already on the job collecting samples.
I park a few blocks back, not wanting to make a grand entrance.
The yellow crime scene tape ropes off the alley and a huge
crowd of onlookers. They gossip and speculate about the victim and who they
felt committed the crime. A wave of tips is going to start pouring from the
phone lines, most of which are useless. Once in a while, we strike gold.
Dodging the flashing lights of the cameras and the cluster
of questions from prying reporters, I approach a burly police man guarding the
blocked off street. Flashing my badge he lifts up the yellow tape, allowing me
entry no questions asked.
My partner motions me over. He spoke to the coroner and they
have the ruling. “Homicide,” he says. “Precinct has given permission to investigate,
proceed.”
The victim is a young man, mid –twenties, of mixed race
background that we will determine later, with no ID. Possible robbery, but all
options are being kept open. No witnesses. Naturally. But his phone has been
left on his person. It begins to ring, and I answer it.
“Hello? Matthew, where are you?” says a voice on the other
end. It’s a female, and she sounds troubled.
“No ma’am this isn’t Matthew. Who may I ask is this?”
“It’s Carla, and who is this?” Now she sounds really
worried.”
“Detective Scott Robertson, Precinct 23, badge number 7624”
Carla begins to sob loudly. The background voices of what
must be her family, demand to know what is going on.
“What happened to him? What happened to my boy? “, she wails.
After that, her words are unintelligible, but grief transcends the sounds she
utters.
I never know how to properly answer this question. I take a
small moment to look back at her boy. He’s lying on the ground, eyes closed
curled up in a small ball. Blood on his chest show that he’s been stabbed
multiple times. The weapon is unknown and still at large.
So, this body is Matthew.
I whisper to him in my head before turning around to answer who I
presume on the phone must be his mother.
Hello Matthew. I’m Scott. I’m going to find out who killed you,
I promise.
