CRIME FICTION

An Unlikely Case of The Boogieman

Chapter 3: Can a cop be scarier than his criminal?

“Hello, Officer Moore!” Desmond, my favorite crackhead said, waving his arms wildly as I pulled next to him in the patrol car.

“Hey Des, you seen Malcolm?” I asked, taking a sip of my coffee as I put the car in park.

“No, can’t say I have, Officer Moore. Not Malcolm, Sir, Not him.”

I knew Desmond was lying. I could see it in the way he kept looking up towards the looming figure of Eddie, the neighborhood lookout, perched high on his second-story balcony. I knew he was lying and in the end, I didn’t really care. Desmond’s lying did nothing to change my plans.

“Well if you do, tell him I’m looking for him, ok?” I said, keeping my tone almost casual.

“Will do, promise you that, Officer Moore,” Des said, scratching at the infected track marks that ran down his arm. “Hey Mr. Moore, you got any of those comic books?”

I smiled at Des before reaching into the stash of comics I kept on hand. Every snitch had its price. Some detectives paid cash. Others let their informants work off their debt to society in drug buys and arms deal in exchange for a good word with the judge.

I didn’t have the funds or pull for either of those things. No Beat Cop did. So, I paid out in comic books and cheeseburgers. All things a growing junkie like Desmond held dear.

“Enjoy, Des.”

Des took the comic book I handed him, a wide smile filled with yellow and gapped teeth as he skimmed through the action pages of his favorite Superhero crime-fighting team.

Des turned to walk away; his face buried in the pages of his latest treasure. I let him take three steps before letting out a high pitch whistle. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he spun back towards me, his bloodshot eyes wide with fright.

It was the look of a junkie who knew all it would take was a quick pat down to find the drugs in his pocket.

A quick search of the system for me to find that warrant. Des had been working with me for a long while, giving me bits of information here and there as I needed it.

I knew everything there was to know about Desmond. He had spent his entire life in this neighborhood. A street kid who knew nothing beyond the dead-end street of Brawny and Michael. When he was younger, Desmond had dreamed of making his way out of Las Vegas. He wanted to see what lay beyond the shimmering streets brilliant lies and dazzling facades. He wanted to see something real.

And then he tried Meth. Just a taste. Just one time. Like so many kids before him, all it took was a taste. Desmond had been swallowed up by that dead-end street, off of Brawny and Michael. He would never see what lay beyond those three city blocks I now called my own.

And It was all because of Malcolm. Malcolm had probably convinced Desmond that he was his friend. A predator with a feral grin luring in a child. One small taste for a lifetime of a business.

Desmond was a victim in his own way and I felt sorry for him. His mind was addled and slowed by drugs. He was too thin for his height, his skin drawn tight over bones that were still growing. I helped him out when I could and in return, he gave me secrets on the streets I now patrolled.

But the relationship between cop and snitch is a delicate one. A relationship that could turn ugly at a moment’s notice and Desmond knew it.

I let the tension build for a long moment before letting him off the hook.

“Don’t forget.” I said, louder than needed, “Don’t forget to tell Malcolm I am looking for him.

“O-of course not Officer Moore.” Desmond swallowed, “I won’t.”

I put the car in drive and left Desmond to his own devices. I looked up at Eddie, the neighborhood’s eyes and ears, and Malcolm’s right-hand man. He glowered down at me. I smiled back as I passed.

In the rearview mirror, Eddie pulled a phone from his pocket and placed a call. A call that could only be to one man. The man who thought himself untouchable — Malcolm.

Eddie would tell Malcolm I was looking for him. He would tell him to keep his head low and to watch out for black and whites. That he didn’t know what the police were doing but he had best hold up somewhere quiet and be ready to run.

And Malcolm would do just that.

Just like I knew he would.

I sometimes wondered what it was like to be Malcolm.

To know you were being hunted. To know that your name appeared on every detective’s caseload from Gangs to Narcotics to Sexual assault. To know that with even with all those detectives hunting you, that none could lay a hand on you.

Not in your kingdom of three city blocks. What was a search warrant worth when everyone on your block was willing to hide you? They could place a cop on every major street in the city and you would slink past in the alleys you knew like the palm of your own hand. They could even put a helicopter in the sky because you knew the tunnels that ran beneath as well as the streets.

I wondered what it was like to be untouchable.

And I wondered how he would feel when he realized just how wrong he was.

See, for the most part, Malcolm ran his drugs and girls on the strip, outside of my beat and therefore out of my area of concern. What did I care if some asshole got rich off getting tourists high and fucked?

Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t like the guy. I thought he was an asshole. A real piece of shit and cancer to the polite little pocket of society we called Las Vegas. But he was above my pay grade.

A pimp and a drug dealer best left to the Narcotics and Vice detectives who specialized in that shit.

At the end of my day, I was a beat cop. My responsibility was to the three city blocks and the people inside. And if Malcolm had just kept his head down, I would have been fine letting the detectives do their job and build their case.

But Malcolm had fucked up.

I had sat by the girl’s hospital bed, waiting for her to come out of anesthesia. Knowing she would not. Her name was Kayla. She had long curly hair, the color of spun bronze before the doctors had to shave it off. She was barely over the age of seventeen, barely past the age of consent in Nevada. She had been a runaway and she needed help.

And Malcolm had helped himself.

He had brought her inside his apartment. He had gotten her high and when she got high, he tried to fuck her, but this girl was strong. Stronger and braver than she ever thought possible. Even through the haze of drugs, she had fought him off. She had almost made it out too.

Almost.

I had found her just outside the door, her head haloed in a pool of blood. She had just opened the door when Malcolm came after with an iron skillet. The first strike knocked her to the floor. The second caved in her eye socket. The third split her skull.

And then he went to a friend’s house, in his little kingdom of three city blocks. He probably went no more than to the apartment across the hall. There he washed his hands of a girl’s, not a woman, but a fucking child’s blood, and he watched. Watched as the police arrived on the scene. Watched as she was loaded into an ambulance and rushed to the hospital. He watched, knowing we would not be able to find him.

And he had done it in my neighborhood. He had hurt one of the people who I had sworn to protect. A child who I had found dying at his doorstep. A child I had failed to save.

And he had watched.

A warrant for his arrest had been issued. A warrant for attempted murder would be pleaded down to battery with substantial bodily harm. He would be sentenced to twelve years in prison of which he would serve six. It was how the justice system worked.

But in the end, what the courts did wasn’t my concern. For me, all that mattered was those three city blocks. All that mattered to me was that little girl who would wake up with a missing eye all because she trusted the wrong man. If she woke up at all.

All that mattered was Malcolm.

The time was growing near. Malcolm had left his apartment the night he had nearly killed Kayla, but I knew he was close. There wasn’t a safer place on the earth for Malcolm than that small dead-end street off of Brawny and Michael. He had grown up here his whole life. These were his people. They would feed him. They would clothe him. They would help him run and they would help him hide.

And in the end, none of it would matter.

I drove through those three city blocks, asking every junkie and gangster I knew about Malcolm. No one knew a thing. Most hadn’t heard of him and yet all made a quick call after they thought I had left. Word spreads quickly when your entire world consists of three city blocks.

Whispers that would spread, reaching from junkie to dealer all the way up to the king of the dead-end street. Whispers saying the net was closing in. Whispers that would tell him he could hide no longer.

Somewhere across the valley, a group of detectives was discussing a plan on how best to catch Malcolm. They would type up that plan and then three contingency plans just in case. A week later they would pass those plans up to the brass and they would get sent back for some small revision. The plan would bounce back from department head to department head until everyone had their say.

By the time the plan was ready and every liability covered, Malcolm would have contacted his lawyer. He would have come up with a defense. Some plausible deniability. Or maybe, he would simply disappear. I wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Sup, Moore,” Preston said through bites of his roast beef sandwich. “We good to go.”

Officer Preston leaned against the buddy bumper of his patrol car. The three other officers left their patrol cars and met up with us in the dark parking lot I had made our rendezvous place.

“Yeah, I think so,” I said, looking at each of the new officers as they joined the group. “You guys did as I asked?”

“Hey, you know Malcolm? Tell him Officer Moore is looking for him.” Officer Samuels said, rolling her eyes. “Who knew you had such a flair for the dramatic, Moore.”

Officer Preston chuckled over the meager remains of his roast beef sandwich, his large belly shaking with each laugh.

“Trust me, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Moore lives for the drama. You hear about the time he snatched up Eddie for that battery warrant? Moore must have waited in the utility closet outside of his apartment for two hours. You know what he says when Eddie finally comes out for a cigarette?”

“What did he say?” Samuels said, her bright blue eyes shining with amusement.

“Boo!” Preston said, and the group of officers broke into laughter. “Ever since then every crack head I see been calling Moore the-”

“Shut. The. Fuck.Up.” I said, biting off every word,“ Let’s move already. Give me ten minutes to get into position then do your thing.”

“Copy that, Sir,” Samuels said, giving a mocking salute as she and the rest of the officers returned to their cars.

Malcolm was king of his little shit hole street. He had grown up here and had learned every crack and crevice to slip out of our grasps. Those same cracks and crevices I now made my hunting grounds. I parked my patrol car on the other side of the highway. Before me, separated by a tall chain-link fence, stood the entrance to the tunnels.

A large storm wash separated me from the back of the dead-end street off of Brawny and Michael. The storm wash was dry for almost ten months out of the year, the cement baking under the oppressive Las Vegas heat. The storm was led to dark tunnels that ran the length of the City.

Those tunnels were a safe haven for the homeless and fugitives alike. Entire towns were formed in those tunnels. Lawless places where drugs and violence ran rampant. When the storms came and the tunnels flooded, those towns would be washed out into the open. With those towns, we would also find bodies. Some would be those who drowned in the surging waters. Others were long dead from overdoses. More than a few from murder.

Malcolm was the King of Brawny and Michael. Safe in the three city blocks he had called home. And yet I knew this was where he was going to run.

Malcolm’s kingdom was on fire. Ablaze with rumors. Police were searching for Malcolm. Every cop around knew his name and they were closing in on him. Only a matter of time and SWAT would be storming his block. Every house would be searched. All those who hid him would be arrested.

Or at least that was what Michael thought.

Malcolm’s world was small. Just three city blocks where he had made himself king. And in a world as small as that, all it took was a rumor. A rumor that the entire force was looking for one man.

One man who had nearly killed a girl who refused to fuck him after he drugged her.

No one was looking for Malcolm. Not yet. All the detectives were busy with their plans and paperwork and warrants. No, there wasn’t going to be a SWAT team bring him.

It would be me. Me and the four other cops I could get to go along with my mad little plan.

I looked at my watch and saw I only had a few minutes left to get into position.

I puffed out air as I ran and jumped pulling myself over a tall chain-link fence surrounding the storm wash.

I slid carefully down the steep concrete ramp of the wash.

I was careful to hide my approach as I ran across the dry concrete wash, sticking as best I could to the shadow as I sprinted up the other side of the wash. The cement was steep and I nearly fell more than once.

I ducked behind the cinder block wall on the other side, doing my best to keep my heavy breath quiet. The ledge was narrow, the space behind the cinder block wall barely big enough for me to stand. I sat there, crouched low. Ready.

And I waited. Listening to the sound of the neighborhood as I sat hidden behind the wall. I wouldn’t have to wait long. Adrenaline coursed through me as Preston and his group of officers made their presence known. My heart thrummed in my chest.

Sirens wailed and howled as the patrol cars sped down the dead-end street. Flashing lights painted the night sky blue and red as they screeched to a stop. I could hear the sound of car doors slamming and the stomp of heavy boots as the officers ran out into the street.

They would yell and bark orders. They would rush toward every house and every apartment. They would cause chaos and everyone knew who the chaos was for. I heard Preston yell for the team to form up and that he had the warrant to make entry into the residence.

Did he have a warrant to go into anyone’s house? Of course not.

Did it matter? Not in the slightest.

As far as Malcolm was concerned, we had him cornered and we were going to kick in the door and drag him out. In Malcolm’s head, he was out of options. He couldn’t hide. He was too much of a coward to fight anyone besides a scared teenage girl.

And what do cowards do when they don’t have a hole to hide in?They run.

I heard him before I saw him. The sound of his breathing, the pad of his shoes pounding on the pavement. It sent fire racing through my veins. There was only one way to run. One way out of this dead-end street that not even the cops knew about.

Not the cops, but Desmond.

Desmond had been the key to my plan without ever knowing it. I wasn’t from this area. I didn’t know all the ins and out. But Desmond did and for the small price of a comic book a week and the occasional pass on a meth pipe he would tell me everything. Like where he bought his drugs and who were the bad guys in the neighborhood. And where those bad guys like to run.

So, I stood at this little section of cinder block wall waiting. Waiting as Malcolm climbed up the wall and popped his head over. He was so close I could smell him. A smell of fear and sweat and cigarettes. Just as Des had said, Malcolm had made a run for the tunnels. If he had made it, we would never have found him.

He would have got away.

“Boo.”

He was half over the wall when he saw me. His eyes went wide with fright. My hand caught him by the collar of his jacket as he tried to backpedal over the wall, and with one hard tug, I yanked him to the other side. He crashed hard onto the narrow ledge of the storm wash.

“Let me fucking go, you spooky-”

My hand caught him under the jaw, gripping him so hard his teeth clacked together as forced him back against the cinderblock wall.

“Shut the fuck up, Malcolm.” I snarled.

“Let me go, Moore!” He sputtered. “Let me go or I will have you fucking killed. I’ll have your fucking whole family killed.”

I pulled my hand back an inch, barely perceivable to the eye and I pushed his head back against the wall. Hard. Malcolm’s eyes went wide and a muffled scream escaped his throat.

“You sure about that?”

I saw something in Malcolm’s eyes. Malcolm was the king of his small domain. He was a drug dealer. A pimp. He ran this neighborhood with fear and violence. And at that moment, he was scared.

Scared of me.

“You don’t got nothing on me.” Malcolm gulped, a tremble in his voice.

“I got everything I need, Malcolm.”

My voice didn’t sound like my own. This wasn’t the same numbing feel I had felt before. The icy feeling allowed me to keep cool when everything fell apart around me. No, this was different.

I wanted Malcolm to be scared of me. I wanted Malcolm to be what he feared. I wanted to be Malcolm’s nightmare. The nightmare of another nightmare.

A monster that hunted monster.

“I got a girl with a fractured skull in your doorway. A girl you drugged and tried to rape. I got a warrant for attempted murder already signed by a judge. And now I got you, Malcolm. I got everything I need.”

I spoke loud and clear. Preston said I had a flair for the dramatic. Maybe he was right. I wanted the people to know who I was. The man that dethroned their king.

I wanted them to see me for what I was. What I had become.

I could feel the eyes of everyone in the neighborhood, looking down from their apartments. Not everyone in this neighborhood was like Malcolm. Some were just families struggling to get by. Families with children.

And now they saw Malcolm for what he truly was. Not untouchable. Not a king. Just another coward who had sold them all a lie.

“So, what.” Malcolm hissed, “Who are they going to believe. My lawyers or some half-brain dead junkie girl?”

Malcolm made a sound deep in his throat and a yellow globule of spit and mucous splattered against my cheek. I closed my eyes for a second and I saw her.

Kayla. The girl whom Malcolm had lured and drugged. The child he tried to fuck and then kill. I saw her small body haloed in blood and from the window across the hall, I saw Malcolm watching. Smiling. Knowing he was untouchable.

And then Malcolm fell.

I watched as he fell, flipping end over end as I wiped the spit from my cheek with the shirt off my sleeve. He flew a good five feet before hitting the steep incline of the wash with a sickening crunch. He cried as his knee hit and bent at an unnatural angle. He flipped end over end down the wash, skidded the last ten feet on his side, and finally came to stop against the dry cement at the bottom of the wash.

He groaned as he tried to crawl away, blood streaking the pavement from his scraped elbows and knees. I put my knee across his hips and placed his wrists in cuffs.

“Jesus Christ, Moore.” Preston said, running down the slope of the wash behind me. “What happened?”

“He spit in my face,” I said, feeling the cold in my voice. “And then he fell.”

There was something in Preston’s eyes. Something not fear but also not fear. I could tell he had questions. And I didn’t want to think of the answers.

So, I made excuses. Excuses I would say then and later on in my use of force board. Maybe Malcolm lost his footing. Maybe he pushed against me and I lost my grip. Anything could have happened. It all happened so fast.

Anything other than what I knew had happened. Anything to believe I was still a good guy. Anything to believe I still held that thin blue line.

Malcolm was a monster. He raped women and pushed them into the sex trade. He sold drugs to kids like Desmond, profiting off their addiction as they grew up broken. Malcolm had beaten that girl and if she ever woke up, she would have nightmares of his face for the rest of her life.

But as he lay, bleeding and bruised at the bottom of that storm drain, I saw something else looking up at me. I saw fear. His eyes were wide, his breath in panicked gasps. I could smell it on him.

At that moment, Malcolm was no longer a monster. He wasn’t a king and he sure as hell, wasn’t untouchable. Right there, in the bottom of that storm drain. Malcolm was simply scared.

“I guess it’s true about what they call you,” Preston said, his voice low and quiet. “The boogieman.”

A week later, after Malcolm had been taken to jail, that girl woke up. I never saw her again. I never asked about her. I don’t think she will ever know my name and I am not enough a fool to think me catching Malcolm will do anything to stop the nightmares that will keep her up at night.

But that is the job I chose. When I took this job, I wanted to help people. I wanted to be the hero that saved them from the monsters that hid in the shadows.

And now I know I am anything but a hero. But if I can’t be a hero, I will be the nightmare of nightmares.

I will be a Boogieman.

More exciting reads —

Next Chapter 4: How A Dog Named 205 Save My Hardened Heart

Previous Chapter 2: Slow Nights on Watch I

For the next crime fiction: The Beat We Walk

For quick access to other chapters: Go here

Merlin Troy writes fiction inspired based on his time as a police officer, paramedic, and veteran. He is working on his first novel which will be available for readers when published on Kindle. Expected release: July 2021 Subscribe to receive his stories and updates.