Hatchet

The Line

I spent most of my life living so far from that line that separates the good folk from the bad that I barely knew it existed. I graduated from the Academy, and that was the first time that line and I really got acquainted. I made sure I kept my distance. At first. A few years of policing later found me inching my way slowly towards it, until finally I was toeing that pencil wide line on occasion.

It wasn’t greed that lured me there, but intense frustration driving me, tempting me into acts no law-abiding copper should take. But as narrow as the line was, it still made a barricade as hard as rock. I knew what side I really belonged on.

The day I stepped over was the day I arrested Johnny Fivekill – not his real name as far as I knew, but the street has a way of getting straight to the heart of things. I appreciated that most of the time 'cuz it made my life easier when they labeled themselves. But Fivekill had just upped his count to six, and for once we’d found out before the street. Every bone in my body knew it was him. There was a com-ping putting him in the area. I had the cabbie that had dropped the victim (a Little Harlem native chickie who went by the name Monet, but who everyone called Manny) off, and the cabby swore that he saw someone of Fivekill’s description get up from a door-stoop to tag after the street-artist. That was the last anyone saw of Manny.

Anyone who wasn’t involved in killing her, anyway.

But HQ also had six witnesses, a receipt and some doctored footage that put Johnny Fivekill in the next district at the time. He was pinged going into Downwind the day before Manny's death, but no border-crossing back. And he was home when came knocking on the Downwind shithole he was shacked up in. He’d answered the door all innocent, asking what he could do for the circle of nice officers. Made me long for the old uncivilized days where even opening his mouth could be considered resisting arrest, to be discouraged with maximum efficiency.

And so there I was when the handset went live, telling me to dump the scum back on the streets because the Judge refused to tag him. And I was pissed.

I’d seen Monet’s body.

And I looked in the rearview mirror and I saw the smug smile on the untagged pile of refuse in my cage.

And that was when everything just became so clear. Can’t beat them. Can beat myself up for decades trying, but I can’t every tag and bag them all. So if you can’t beat them, you join them. Right?

So I asked Fivekill if there was anywhere he wanted to go on the city’s dime. Polite-like.

And while the Unit was taking us across the border to Fartown I ran a little search through my personal com with the signal scrambled the best I could, and sure enough Fivekill had pissed off more than a few arresting officers. He had a flag on his head from the Chief of the Unknowns.

Before that day, the thought of doing business with ol’ King Brass would have made me want to puke. But I was passed that, seeing only the hazy red miasma of a lifetime of ideals being ground to dust and blown up my ass. There was an Unknowns headquarter in Fartown. Of course – what nest of rats doesn’t have tunnels everywhere? So when I dropped Fivekill off in front of a place much more upscale than his bolt-hole in Downwind, I slipped a little surprise into his pocket. And made sure I was pinged as returning to the precinct in Little Harlem.

I took as shower, changed into street clothes, grabbed a crime-scene coverall kit out of my locker, and then left everything electronic that wasn't implanted behind, except the tracker-pad and a eCloak I’d “forgotten” to turn in from a bust a few weeks back.

It was a long walk to the border, and another long walk to the Fartown's Unknown HQ. But that just meant I had time to think, to decide if I wanted to be a tipster… or a collector. In the end I decided on both – tell them I knew where he was and ask the privilege of taking this one out myself. I was the one with the tracker. I was the one with the power.

A split lip and aching rib cage later nearly disabused me of my notion of power, but I’d gotten my own knocks in.  I must have impressed somebody, because I was given a meat cleaver, a decoy police helmet, and a shadow. The guy tagged behind me with a blaster and a constant stream of annoying chatter. I kept my own mouth closed.

The tracker led us to a little place a few blocks east of where I’d dropped Fivekill off. Hoping my gift hadn’t been discovered and discarded, I climbed the cement staircase to the fifth floor. My shadow was puffing a little by the time we got to the top and my ribs were screaming at me, but I was floating in adrenaline heaven. I knocked on the door, and brought my borrowed helmet visor down.

“Open up! Police!” I shouted for good measure – to make sure that Fivekill came to the door with his open-handed innocent act, and that none of his neighbors got overly interested in his visitors.

The door hissed open and Fivekill stood outlined in the frame, looking more harassed than innocent – disheveled and greasy with narrowed, red eyes and a snarl on his lips.

“What the fuck do you want? I just got cut loose – this is…” Whatever he was going to say next was lost in a squeak as he saw my shadow standing there, tats on display and the blaster pointed at the door.

“Confirmed?” My voice sounded distant. Like most of me had already stepped over that line into the forbidden country and only a little part of me tagged behind, denying the inevitable.

“Yah, you got ‘im. We need ‘is ‘and. For the Archives.”

“Done.” I lunged through the door before Fivekill could react, cleaver raised high.

The rest was messy and short. Not as short as it could have been - I was a 140lb female with police combat training and muscle-enhancements, and he was a 250lb male with street experience and some illicit hormone treatment in his past. But I had a big knife and he had a hell of a lot of surprise on his face as I brought that long edge down right between his eyes.

It was cleaner than Manny’s end had been, but I wasn’t in it for tit-for-tat. Just for the endgame.

Still, I was glad for the visor that kept the blood out of my eyes and for the flash-fabric coveralls. When it was over, I slammed my cleaver down his left wrist – mainly because it was closer. My fingers only shook a little as a picked the limp hand up. It felt like a dead rat - squishy and still warm. I dropped it the baggie that the shadow held out, then stripped out my coveralls. I kicked Johnny Justkilled’s feet back across the threshold, and triggered the door-close mechanism before peeling off my gloves in the way they’d taught us in biohazard class. Putting all that mess inside the helmet and donning some wrap-around reflective shades, me and my shadow walked casually to the stairwell.

No peep-lights came on, no doors opened. We had just killed a man in his own front hall and no one cared. Sure it was the middle of the night, but it was shit like that which really got to a copper, I tell you.

Later that morning I had the privilege of being called to the homicide I’d committed. It was out of my jurisdiction, but L.H. Precinct often lends us out 'cuz we see twenty murders to most other districts’ one. I pointed out the missing hand  - the Unknown’s calling card and warning all-in-one – and that’s where the case died. One scumbag getting what he deserved, another scumbag adding a notch to his knife, and the rest of the city just tidying around it.

I was tapped to sweep the video net - just as a formality - and did some cleaning of my own. The next job I remembered to bring a wig and a one of those neat ID chips that changes pings every few minutes.

The stuff you learn when you just take a little step.