Sanford Crow

CHAPTER 11

PART TWO: DELIRIUM

1994

It was a strange case, and Detective Crow had lost all hope in solving it. He put his mind inside the killer's. Let the shadows creep over his thoughts. They've been there before.

The killer's pattern was predictable. The only way to complete the cycle was to be where Detective Crow was at that very moment... waiting.

He didn't like using Abigail as bait, but desperate times call for desperate measures, as he was overly fond of saying. She didn't object; she knew what she was in for. The maniac had butchered her sister and she wanted nothing more than to put him behind steel bars, or better yet, deep into the ground.

The alley was confining, slick, and streaked with oil marks. It reminded him of a cave. Abigail stood there shaking, nervously puffing on a cigarette. She'd dressed for the occasion. Six-inch stilettos. Fishnet stockings. Dressed as a prostitute. Dressed like her sister.

Loud footsteps echoed down the alley. Abigail was afraid; Detective Crow could see that. His finger caressed the trigger on his standard-issue Glock. Don't worry, Abby. I won't let anything happen to you.

A dark figure appeared: broad shoulders atop of a muscular torso, with slim, long legs and wide oversized feet. Only his face was covered by the dark cast of the alley.

It's him, Crow knew it. Intuition told him so. The man was draped in black; his long raincoat flapped as he walked. This is when most men would feel the panic creep into their consciousness, screaming "RUN!" But Detective Crow lived for these moments. He thrived on them.

The stranger crept closer to Abby's exposed back. He could see something in the suspect's hand, shiny and pointy.

This is it, Crow thought. The man in black lunged, knife in hand. Crow emerged from behind the dumpster with his gun raised.

"Get down!" he screamed to Abby, but she didn't move. She couldn't. She saw the man—the same man that murdered her sister. She froze.

All she could do was scream.

Detective Crow got off one shot; one loud BANG! The sound pierced through the alley and trailed off. The man turned.

And everything went black. Silence. And a sound rose in the distance: heavy guitars, loud drums. "Get vertical! Get vertical! It's the power of Dew!" Teenagers then screamed into the camera and were drinking Mountain Dew.

Sanford shot upright in his seat. The soda jingle struck him like ice water to the face. Reality came rushing back. He had been lost again, his mind adrift in a TV movie.

Most of the time when he'd watch a detective movie or show he'd transform himself into the main character in his mind. He'd perform the heroic acts, recite the cool lines, affect the same bravado. In those moments, he was everything he wanted to be. But an itch on the back of his neck, his back stiffening up from his slouch, or the scratchy cushion under his ass would too quickly bring him back to reality in his one-bedroom apartment.

Popcorn bits and kernels littered his shirt and the couch. He could still taste the salt on his lips and feel the butter slick on his fingers. He ran his hand through his thick and wavy hair. Then he moved on to scratching his beard; it had gone from trim to shaggy in record time and itched like hell.

The fantasy had lasted longer than usual this time, taking him deeper than it ever had before. He believed therapy had a hand in that, opening doors that were meant to be shut and unlocking memories that should've been caged forever.

It was five in the morning, and Sanford had been awake for two hours. Instead of confronting the day ahead, he had put on the television. The sun outside was yet to rise, and the only light in his apartment was that from the movie.

Detective Crow couldn't even pass a goddamn psych exam, he thought to himself. He turned the television off; it had started to depress him. The coffee in his cup had cooled to room temperature but he sipped it anyway.

A half-eaten slice of chocolate cake lived on the coffee table. It was part of his birthday celebration, which he'd had with Sadie. Turning thirty-five felt like nothing to celebrate, but it was an excuse to be with her. The gray in his beard had become his calendar, and he knew it was almost time to shave. Maintaining a respectful appearance was only done for her sake, so as not to embarrass her any more than he already had.

He wouldn't see her for another three days. Every other weekend was simply not enough. Through the times spent without her, he could feel himself slipping.

It's only three more days.

But that's another seventy-two hours.

Which equals another four-thousand-three-hundred and twenty minutes.

Jesus Christ, that's forever!

The lamp was just in reach. He turned the knob and a blue flash erupted from under the shade. It blew. His heart began to palpitate. The darkness in the room seemed to grow.

The phone... I need to call her. Now! He picked up the phone, disregarding the clock. He had her number memorized. The phone rang twice and went straight to her answering machine.

"Hi, you've reached the offices of Dr. Diane Wesley. We're sorry but the offices are closed at this time. If you would like to—"

He hung up.

The clock said 5:14 AM. His session with Diane was at nine.

He'd been walking on a tightrope since their last session when she asked him to do something he was yet to even try. A stack of blank pages sat on the coffee table in front of him—next to the old cake—with a pencil lying across it. It had sat there untouched for seven days.

How could she ask me to write it down?

It was absurd to him. How could writing down what happened possibly help? She had him write about other moments in his life that he chose to forget: embarrassing moments in school, sexual failures, but she had never asked this of him. This was too much.

He supposed he knew it was all leading to this moment. She used his own hobby against him, insisting that he write to unlock the trauma instead of to escape it. The more Sanford thought about doing it, the more he knew...

A picture of Sadie sat on the end table, her eyes followed him as he moved. She had her mother's eyes, blue and animated like the bottom of a flame. But she had his dark hair, his nose, his ears, his everything else. He was just happy that she didn't have his memories.

It was his goal as a father to give her only good ones. It was a difficult goal, becoming harder and harder to do.

But he tried. For her, he would try his best.

The pencil was in his hand, lazily dangling. He let his mind drift.

It was Christmas morning. 1969. The last Christmas Sanford would ever celebrate. He heard a sound, and he knew it was the only way he could start the story. The last sound his mother ever made, followed by the worst sound of all.

Deafening silence.

He wrote.