Killer

The aftermath of a murderer’s actions

“Come in,” I said to the cops. My words caught in my throat and came out as a grumble. The voice of an old man. They’d know my tone was hollow if they’d looked me in the eye. I showed them through the door. A gust of wind hit me when I opened it to see them in — little ribbons of earthy, frigid air, lacking in moisture and mercy. The shadows on the lawn were long and thin from the bare trees in the yard. They stretched toward me, the branches like pointing fingers, accusing.

It had taken them several minutes to work up the nerve to tell me why they were there while I grew frustrated—enough with the hesitation.

I didn’t offer them refreshments, though I was drinking coffee. They didn’t ask.

The fat one was the older of the two. His greasy hair was just past his ears, was peppered with gray, and looked pasted to his skull; such was his need for a proper wash and haircut. He gave me the side-eye at first. Then he looked at me directly. His eyes were piercing. He didn’t miss a thing. Fatty was the one to watch, I thought.

Adjusting the waist of his pants under his massive belly, he’d introduced himself as Sergeant Carter and his partner as Officer Daniels but said little else.

The other one, Daniels, was so thin he looked ill, his long face creased and weathered. Deep pockets under his eyes were purple in the dim light of the room. The curtains were drawn against the cold, and the darkness it created made him look like a corpse on my couch. Like a zombie.

Zombie had tried to make small talk when they first arrived. I took a small, perverse pleasure in the fact that this thin man seemed to be affected by the cold. He had carped about the bitter wind and rubbed his dry hands briskly together as he walked into my home, making a raspy, “shh, shh” sound as he gaped at my life on display. I gritted my teeth and played along. Talked about the cold snap we were having. Oh sure, as if cops showed up on your doorstep all the time just to hash about the weather.

I’d led them to the living room, gesturing feebly for them to sit. I made my excuses for the mess. I cleared some old newspapers off the threadbare couch. “Too old to care about clutter,” I mumbled. Put the clippings away. They never noticed a thing. If they were bothered by my little piles, it didn’t show on their faces as they sat.

Each had a stereotypical cop face on — flat, blank, and tight. They sat on the old couch, the tired springs not supporting Fat Cop. He sank into the cushions. It made the thin one sort of rise up and lean toward him, sitting higher, and I bit back my smile at the comedy of it. They looked like they were on a see-saw.

Giving away nothing, Fatty looked at my worn gray carpet, which was the same color as his eyes. He studied the photos lining the wall in the hallway. Judging. I scrutinized him, and he suddenly honed in on me and met my stare, chilling me to the bone. He sized me up. I pretended I was looking at his partner, though I could feel his gaze on me. I wondered what he could possibly suspect of a lonely old man.

Then, the zombie looked me straight in the eye, sniffled once, and told me a father’s worst nightmare.

My sweet boy had just been caught — as the state’s worst serial killer.

Eleven women? Is that what they think? Stomach in knots and heart in my throat, I’d weakly shaken my head and told them they were mistaken.

“He’s a good boy who comes to help out his old man.” No, he hadn’t come lately — he’d been busy working. The corpse-looking one was firm but gentle.

“What does he help with when he’s here?” He eyed my dilapidated home as if mentally ticking off the work that needed to be done.

“Projects. We have special projects we work on,” I said.

The fat man suddenly looked right at me with his shrewd gray eyes, and my stomach lurched, but my face stayed impassive.

There was evidence, he stated. DNA doesn’t lie, despite my son’s denial of his crimes. He was being held without bail — one of them said this, but the voice was muffled in my haze, and I couldn’t look up to see who it was. When I did, the fat one said I could visit him soon.

I tried to erase the picture I’d conjured of my son in a cage.

We ran out of things to say, and a thick silence hung heavy in the air. For a series of seconds, I was trapped, immersed in memories of my son’s life. I could tell the thin one wanted to apologize to me. Say he was sorry for something. His mouth opened, then closed, and the fat one put one hand on the thin one’s arm, and he said nothing instead.

As if I needed a cop’s compassion.

“Don’t watch the news,” said the zombie as I started to slowly, shakily stand, signaling that I was finished with their visit. I nodded but didn’t speak. Couldn’t trust my voice not to shake in anger or despair. They said I didn’t have to walk them out —I shouldn’t be getting up. I grumbled wordlessly in a way only an old man can, waved off their protests, and led them out.

I watched the officers silently leave through a dirty window pane as my breath fogged the glass. Awkwardly, they’d replaced their caps and shuffled to get into their police car, but not before the fat one turned and stared at the house, scratching his temple. I shrank back, not wanting to be seen.

After a long minute, he sighed visibly, shoulders slumped, then clambered into the vehicle. I breathed my own shaky sigh of relief, let out the pent-up breath I’d been holding, and leaned hard against my chipped wooden cane. Wiped away a bead of sweat on my forehead. They’d been here for a while.

I turned from the door when the police car pulled away, my eye catching the hallway display of photos — my son’s whole life in still frame. “I’m glad your mother’s not alive to see you in prison,” I said to his high school photo.

I saw my wife’s photo and looked away, not meeting her judgmental gaze. Sitting down in my ancient recliner, I ignored its creaks — as well as the stupid cops’ advice — and turned on the news anyway.

There he was. He’d made the lead story—one new photo for the collection. I stared at his mug shot on my sixty-inch screen, staring back at me, then grimaced.

“Damn you, son,” I said to the television. “I taught you well, but apparently not well enough.”

It was an hour past shift change when the two officers finally left the old man’s small, dilapidated house. The faded blue paint was chipped and peeling, and the dry wooden steps leading to the porch had groaned in protest at Officer Carter’s weight. Both exhausted, their feet scraped the gravel of the potholed drive as they haggardly shuffled to the car.

The two partners were silent, each drained of energy for his own reason. Officer Carter was pensive. The thin one, Officer Daniels, was hunched against the wintry squall, thoughtless except for the silent curses against the slight material of his uniform.

They had almost reached the vehicle when Officer Carter stopped and turned. One sausage-like finger scratched idly at his temple while he squinted at the blue house, thinking. Officer Daniels reached the driver’s side of the police car and turned to watch his partner. Not again, he thought impatiently.

He wanted a smoke, maybe a double on the rocks. It had been a long day. Just as he was about to say something, his partner turned back without a word, though his stomach rumbled audibly as he squeezed himself into the cruiser.

Daniels quashed a few unkind thoughts about the man, then turned on the engine. Held his hands to the air vents. Let the heat warm his fingers. His sallow face was all harsh lines, fatigue carving shadows under his eyes. He had been partners with Carter for fifteen years now. He knew what was coming.

“Not your Vibe again,” Daniels finally said. Officer Carter’s jowls shook as he grunted, still lost in thought. Carter had been a cop for thirty-four, too-long years; was looking retirement in its sweet, inviting face. He could walk away easily from this one — the case was closed, and the killer was caught. He’d been part of the case, even if only peripherally. It would look good on his record and make a nice end to a long and exhausting career.

He could have made detective if he’d been a little more ambitious. He had the right cop instincts. He was observant and smart — but he was a little bit lazy. Still, his Vibe was legendary around the department. The rookies made fun of it, but the old-timers trusted it.

Now, he wished they’d never come here. He couldn’t shake the Vibe. It always told him when something was off, and he hadn’t liked how the old man reacted.

He’d been more upset over his son being in jail than the fact that he’d murdered eleven women. He thought back to the hallway lined with photos. It seemed like it had been a normal house once, maybe even filled with love.

Now, it was empty except for the old man, but it had sagged with the weight of a secret.

“Something’s off about that old bastard,” Carter said, his fingers tapping his thigh in nervous habit.

“Let it go,” sighed Officer Daniels. “We know the son acted alone, and the old man’s got to be seventy-five if he’s a day.”

“Exactly,” replied Carter. “We know his son was a copycat — and we never found the original killer.”