Knock Three Times

3. Art Reflecting Dreams

                A SCATTERED MIND PACED anxiously from one corner of the precinct's holding cell to another, as Samuel Higgins anxiously awaited the arrival of his lawyer, but the late morning sun which shown through the windows opposite the room gave no comfort to his incarcerated state. He had been processed yet not formally charged, and no police officer seemed to bother questioning him further, as he was a somewhat frequent occupant. They had removed his hat, belt and shoelaces, as was official protocol, but the temperatures were much colder in the cells this time of year. The hard surface of the cement slab provided was a cold mockery of a warm bed, only lowering his body temperature further had he laid upon it. And so he paced mostly to keep warm, rubbing his arms and wishing he had worn a jacket the night prior.

    'Hey, someone want to turn up the heat?' He yelled out, shaking his head. 'My lawyer aint gonna like you denying me warmth, yo. Shit aint gonna look good when we standing before the judge, cruel-ass mo'fuckas.'

    The only other prisoner was a woman in the next cell, but she had been passed out since before he arrived, sleeping off a night of heavily induced narcotics. He assumed she was in for prostitution, considering the streetwalking attire she wore, but unlike him, she had been provided a thick blanket to keep her warm. As she shifted in her sleep, the less than gentlemanly prisoner stretched his tattooed neck to sneak a look up her skirt—or perhaps simply envying her warmer state, the watchful eyes upon him could not be certain, though the former seemed obvious.

    'Where the hell do these creeps come from?' asked Leonard Dawson as he watched him through the monitor in the next room.

    'The system, of course—where else?' replied Detective Jenson, hovering over his shoulder and watching the perp whistle at the woman in the next cell, hoping to wake her up. 'This exemplary citizen,' she emphasized her sarcastic tone. 'Bounced around from one foster home to another after his mother passed away from a drug overdose when he was ten. Samuel was away at prep school when it happened; been in and out of correctional facilities ever since.'

    'Prep school?'

    'Mhmm.' she replied, scanning through a paper file with his name on it. 'Believe it or not, Samuel comes from rich blood, the only son of Cotton and Margaret Higgins.' The name struck an instant chord as many of the monuments all over Belleville had been named or dedicated to one member of the Higgins Dynasty or another. The family were once known for their generosity and commercial success, but was now just another forgotten chapter in the city's history. 'Lady Death was a cranky old witch who liked to beat little kids with her cane if they dared step foot onto her property uninvited.'

    'Sounds like you speak from experience, Jenson.' Dawson smirked as he stirred his coffee, and the glimmer of guilty pleasure in her eyes revealed the truth of the matter.

    'I'd be lying if I said I hadn't been dared once or twice to ring her doorbell and run.' Jenson admitted. 'That godforsaken cane hurt like a bitch though.'

    'So . . . you knew Samuel then—or S-Dawg?' He asked rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of his alias.

    'Hardly ever saw him.' Jenson shrugged. 'My friends and I got the notion that he was an embarrassment to his mother—a disgraceful secret to keep hidden from the public.'

    'Difficult to imagine why.' stated the Constable as he watched the alleged prostitute whip a high heel across her cell, listening to the perp pleasure himself and losing her patience. 'Disgusting.'

    'Maggie Higgins was quite obviously too old to be his biological mother—maybe his grandmother by the look of her.' she shrugged. 'There was a rumour going around back then that Lady Death had murdered his real mother and kidnapped Samuel to use him in her satanic blood rituals. Kids right?'