Horror Stories For The Mad

Love Never Hurts

Fuck this city. Fuck this job. Fuck this cold ass whether.

Detective Miller wanted to go home. He wanted to get a little bit of alcohol in him, and he wanted to sleep. Of course, he had to keep watch on the new kids. They were like preschoolers. Dammit, they were around that age, weren’t they? He wouldn’t be surprised if Jones came to him right now to report that Chipman happened to swallow his pencil.

This was a serious crime scene. Why would they hire amateurs? He was doing fine on his own. So what if Greg had died. He hated thinking about that death, but it was inevitable. All death was inevitable. It’s even more inevitable if you did what Greg did and ate nothing but Heart-stopping Hoggies. It was in the name. No wonder he went into cardiac arrest.

Maybe his relationship with Greg wasn’t as amazing as he remembered it as. Maybe it was slightly worse. Greg hated him. Greg called him corrupt or something. He wasn’t that corrupt. He was just getting by. It was one time for God’s sake.

He looked down at the body which he had only half forgotten in his day-dream. The man was about the age of those preschoolers following him around. He was face down on the concrete. It was clear that he had jumped. Blood splatters were surrounding him. His back had broken from the impact. His organs became oatmeal. His bones were dust. His body was twisted in strange ways like an abstract art. This was Detective Miller’s life. This was what he had to see every day.

He squatted to get a better look at the splattered brains. Was he lying to himself now? He didn’t need a better look. He knew the cause of death. He saw the cause of death. He was- used to be friends with the cause of death.  He stood up straight. Whatever.

“Find something, Miller,” called someone? He wasn’t going to look to find who. He could have said yes. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to come clean. His stress was going to give him an end like Poor Old Greg. He wiped his hands on his pants. That was an old habit. It seemed to amplify in these stressful moments. “N-Nothing,” he barely got out. “Must have fallen. Suicide,” he suggested.

He walked away before anyone said anything else. He climbed the building to find the second crime scene at the top. His two children were there. “Find anything,” he asked? Chipman went ridged like he always did when authority was around. His back turned into a metal pole. His face went white. Jones glanced back as she leaned into the gravel. God, why did he have to choose a building with gravel on the roof?

“I don’t think this is suicide,” Jones explained. “Why not,” he asked carefully? Jones was his favorite of the two. “T-The gravel. I-It doesn’t seem... it looks like someone was p-pushed,” Chipman tried to explain. “I noticed it,” he added, and he hated Chipman slightly more.

Miller crouched down to look at the gravel. It did look like someone put up a fight there. “Nonsense,” he lied. “It’s nothing,” he said. Jones gave him a skeptical look. “It looks like someone was grabbed from the back, pushed around like this, and then shoved off of the edge,” she said as she attempted to reenact the parts that could be reenacted. “I think you’re seeing things that aren’t there. You two need a break,” Miller recommended, “Grab a coffee. I don’t think we’ll be leaving soon.”

He watched them leave. Chipman obviously wanted to argue. God, that boy was eager. He looked down at the gravel. “Had to be gravel,” he muttered and shook his head.

His entire body shot up a good inch as something touched him. An arm wrapped around his neck with a hasty speed. “I have a gun,” the owner of the arm explained. “God dammit! You’re still here! I thought I told you to skip town! Dammit,” Millers cursed. “I’m going to have to if you keep yelling. Keep your voice down,” ordered the person behind him.