Harvey

A Meeting with Death

Another murder. God, have I become so desensitized to death that the loss of an innocent life is "just another murder"? What the hell has happened to me? I quickly walk down the street towards the crime scene. Pervs yell things at me that I would be arrested for if I said them. I walk past an "exotic dance" show where the women catcall me and beckon me inside. I grimace and pull my hat down low. I just had to walk today. Know what they say? In this town, you don't walk for your health, you run. I suppose it's funnier if you're a cop who's literally seen people lose their lives for that reason. The winter sun slips through the thick cloud of smog overhead. If the city comes alive at night, then during the day it's a zombie. Remnants of the poor decisions made when the sun was down litter the streets. Broken bottles, used hypodermic needles and old condoms pave the way to my destination. So much for a yellow brick road. I pass a woman screaming and crying while clutching what appears to be an infant. The middle of her skirt is stained red as is the ground surrounding her. Her wails penetrate my bones. I catch sight of him in the reflection of the woman in a puddle. I turn away and pick up my pace. That's not my problem. That's not my jurisdiction. There's nothing I can do to help her. Where the hell is that crime scene?
A shiver runs through me. I've lived in this city my whole life and been a cop for half of that. There's some things you just never get used to. I think I'm going to have a drink tonight. I continue my walk. Graffiti litters everything that stayed still long enough for someone to tag it. The bums around their fires are pale and washed out. I can see every detail on their pock-marked, scarred faces. Everything looks worse in the light. I see the lights of a cruiser spinning in the distance. This must be the place. As I see the crowd gathered, I slow my approach. Must be high profile if there's a bally. No one in this town is shocked by death. Why isn't Special Victims on this one? I almost don't want to find out.
The crowd of housewives and high school dropouts parts at the sight of my badge. I wish criminals were so passive. I duck under the yellow tape. Christ, there's so much blood. It's soaking the sheets covering the bodies. I snap on a pair of plastic gloves and lift up the edge of the sheet. I can hear the crowd shift behind me to get a better look. Friggin' buzzards. I don't recognize the face under the sheet, but honestly it'd be impossible without forensics. Young Blood walks up behind me to get a closer look. He regrets it. As he runs off to puke, I stand and skim the area. It's just another shitty alleyway in a filthy town. The body is a well dressed woman. The pearls scattered around appear to be real. If they're not real, then they're better fakes than anyone in this area could get. It's not in a better part of town, but, God help me, it's not the worst. I bend down to check the other body. It's a man, possibly a date or spouse. Nice suit; it's better than any of the ones I own. Half of his head is blown off, but if it's who I think it is, then this city is screwed. Young Blood walks up behind me to ask me a question (probably something annoying about crime scene procedure) when he sees what I'm looking at. He wheels around, presumably off to vomit again. I drop the sheet back to the ground. I stand with a grunt just as the chorus of Young Blood vomiting sounds off. Friggin' prep school kid. Seeing that spoiled brat off his game is almost worth walking out here. Almost. One of the paramedics comes over to me. I tell him I'll get the details later. He points me towards the kid.
He's a young boy in a suit much like his father's. He's a kid playing dress up. He has an orange safety blanket wrapped around his shoulders. The color is glaring in the light. He's clutching it tightly. His eyes are blank. He has paths of snot and tears running down his face. The paramedics have wiped his face off, but the blood of his mother still stains his small suit. I curse. This is no time for alliterations! I look down at my shoes. I don't know how to talk to kids. I haven't talked to a kid since I was one. I shift my eyes anywhere but towards the little boy. I see Young Blood hanging over a trashcan. I call him over and point him in the direction of the snot-nosed kid. That's two of my problems, now onto our feature presentation. I glance down at the sticky mess of pearls and blood coating the already disgusting cement. I need to walk away.
I walk further down the alley, past the barbed wire police line and the trashcan full of Young Blood's lunch. I glare at the crime scene and light up a cigarette. "Those things'll kill ya," Says a voice from behind me. I shake out my match and turn around. In front of me stands a tall, thin man. The winter sunlight avoids everything in this alley except for him: he shines. His cue ball head is adorned with a tall, black stovepipe. His suit is cheap and tight, even for him. The legs are too short and reveal his high black socks. His shoulder blades protrude from his back as though he is growing wings. He has an unnaturally large smile. A word pops into my head: sharp. He's all angles, from his bony hips to his matchstick fingers. His tie is black with small white skulls. I roll my eyes. Adorable.
"Hey buddy, this isn't a Tim Burton movie. Go back to Beetlejuice." I take a drag from my cigarette and blow it into his face.
"You know me. You see me near every day. I dare say we're good friends."
I scoff. "Friends with you? Don't make me laugh. You're a selfish son of a bitch."
He frowns, or at the very least he attempts to look contrite. "I'm only doing what I'm told. You know, I'm just taking orders from 'Him upstairs.'" He holds his heart and points skyward. "Hey, think I can bum a cigarette?" I shrug and offer him my pack.
As he's lighting up I say, "You met my mother yet?"
He grins. His teeth are stained. "Not yet. She must be a tough old broad. How old is she now?"
"Ninety-one." I gesture to the crime scene. "What's the deal here? Why these two?"
"See that boy in the corpse wagon? He's gonna do big things one day." He takes a drag and blows rings. "Those two needed to be dead for it to happen. Orphans are very motivated."
"Christ, don't you ever see them as people? You do realize that's who's dying, don't you? It's people. Real human beings with lives."
"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was talking to a saint! Look everyone, a real live saint! What happened, did St. Peter take your job manning the pearly gates? Listen, I think of you as meat, alright? Your deaths are just my job."
"So you just talk to everyone this way?"
"You're special, you know that. We're old friends. Some people are just closer to me. I mean, they're generally serial killers, but..."
I laugh. "You're a real flatterer, you know that?"
"You confuse me. I mean, I meet a lot of people, but you've got a really weird relationship with me. You actively seek me out and passively kill yourself, but you don't really have the balls to do it."
I stamp out my cigarette and watch Young Blood and the boy. Young Blood has wrapped his jacket around the kid and is hugging him as slow, painful tears run down the kid's face. "I don't know, I just kind of hope that things will change." He stares at me. I turn from the scene and busy myself with lighting another cigarette. "Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky and win the lottery."
My companion looks at the kid. "Yeah, maybe you're right." He stubs out his cigarette. "I've got some work to do down at St. Luke's Hospital. I need to get going. I'll see you soon." I nod at him. He starts to walk down the alley.
"Hey!" I call out to him. He turns around. "If you see my mom before I do, tell her I'm sorry." He nods and walks off. I turn back to the crime scene. Young Blood meets me halfway. The kid was picked up by his guardian, thank God. The paramedics are moving the bodies. Unprofessional though it may be, I rush over and pick up one of the pearls. I ponder it between my fingers. This case opens more questions than any other I've worked with. Why was this rich family out here? Was it as simple as a botched robbery or as complicated as some kind of hit put on the family? Why did the kid survive? Why didn't anyone help him until this morning? I can't wrap my head around it. I walk to the meat wagon. The paramedics have just about finished. I look in at the bodies. Flies already swarm them, despite the paramedics' best attempts to keep my evidence clean. Young Blood, having gotten info from the forensic geeks, runs up to me and starts spouting numbers and theories. I brush him off. We've done enough for one day. I'm going to have a drink.