“Creep”—Radiohead
I'm a sad, pathetic little fuck—it’s all I can think as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Now, I know that's probably not something you're likely to hear from most thirty-somethings who are fit and possess a legitimate career. Something more than “entrepreneur,” that is. But for me, it's an intrusive thought that takes over from the moment I wake. Blame me if you want, but I was programmed this way.
The morning news spouts the usual depressing bullshit in the background as I sip my coffee and Jameson, half ignoring what I'll get to experience firsthand shortly. I've been a homicide detective with Asheville’s police department for four years now. I served three tough years in the army before that. I've seen the worst this world has to offer, and I live it every single day through victims and heartbroken family members, through the carnage and bloodshed.
I rub a hand through my uncombed hair. The ever-present tired look in my eye staring back at me from the mirror is a nice reminder that being a detective takes the life right out of you. That's not the only thing sucking the life out of me, of course. My childhood comes into play quite often. My time in the army also consumes my thoughts, playing out like fucked up home movies in my dreams.
Sometimes I look back and wish I could change things. I wish I could erase the war, erase the pain of growing up broken. But more often than not, I'm resigned to a sense of understanding. I've made my peace with the Lord, however broken that peace may be. I'm his factory defect. I try my best to fight the absurd carnival of torment inside my mind, but alas, it’s a twenty-four-seven party.
The unusual bustle of the department at seven in the morning lets me know I'm in for a treat today. I'm one of only a handful of detectives around when I arrive most mornings, and I'm always the first one in from the day shift. As I reach my office and toss my briefcase onto the desk, my partner, Detective Tommy Matthews, appears in the doorway. He raps two knuckles against the doorframe and lifts a manila folder, shaking his head.
"Let me fuckin' guess," I huff as I sit in the stiff leather chair. "Another cold one?"
"You got it. Two units found her around 3 a.m., dumped in an abandoned house down on Tenth Street." Tommy tosses the folder on the desk in front of me and takes a seat himself. "It was a fresh one. Cold maybe three hours."
"Tenth Street? Go figure. Is it our guy?" I flip the folder open, grab a pair of reading glasses from the desk, and slide them onto the bridge of my nose. I only hold the folder for now, peering over the top of my glasses at my partner and waiting for a response.
"Sure looks like it. Tortured and his signature Xs. When Joe called me this morning asking if I could come in early, he said he could tell right away this was our guy. Either that or a real good copycat." He motions to the folder, drawing my eyes to it. "If you'll look at the pics he took and the report, you'll see what I mean."
I scan the information and see a picture of a woman, shirtless with jean shorts hiked down to her ankles. Her hands are bound with her own bra. A mess of duct tape is wrapped around her eyes and nose.
"She was bound the same way,” he says. “No rape, but looks like some real fucked up shit was done to her before she died. And like I said, she was marked like the others. We got the examiner looking at her now."
Her face is beaten beyond recognition. Each breast is engraved with a deep, bloody X, the nipples removed. I flip the picture and review Joe's report.
Tommy continues as I read. "Twenty-seven, no immediate family, a dozen or so prostitution arrests. The last one was just two months ago. This is our fucking guy, Jax. Or a real good fucking imitator."
"Is Joe going to let us in on this one or be a prick as usual?" I ask, knowing full well our dear Detective Sanders is a bit of a hoarder when it comes to big cases. He detests sharing credit.
"You know with any other case he would've bitched up a storm and probably kept us as far away as possible, but he knows this guy's yours. He knows what the case means to you. Besides that, Chief Wentz knows what the case means to you. I don't think Joe's going to fuck with that," Tommy says, much to my relief. He motions to the book on my desk, the latest best seller from my all-time favorite author, EA Mercer. "How do you even read that shit? Considering what we do for a living, you don’t get enough murder and mayhem on the job?"
"What can I say, man? The guy changed my life. He’s the reason I became a cop. Besides, he’s a North Carolina treasure,” I say as my mind drifts to my college days, which seem so long ago.
I got out of the army without a clue of what I wanted to do. I went to some shit college to be a financial planner or some nine-to-five bullshit like that. Picked up one of his books one day, and I fell in love. I wanted to be one of the detectives from his novels, catching the cocksuckers that now take up my every thought. Their crimes are a morbid tapestry in my brain.
I smile, raising my palms to show off my pint-size office. "And the rest is history. Now I'm the made man you see before you."
Tommy grins and shakes his head. "You sure you ain't regretting changing your degree? A recent college grad on the arm and a Benz in the drive don't sound half bad." He scans the tiled ceiling and blinding fluorescent lights as if in thought. He shakes his head again. "Yeah, real fuckin’ good."
"Shit, at least you got a wife and kid. You're smart—you got married in college. Trying to find a wife after getting in this field? Not fuckin' happening."
"Riiiight, like you even try, Peralta. When's the last time you had a damn girlfriend?" he asks, his face scrunched in wonder. "Last time you went on a date even?"
"Longer than I can remember, my friend. Now, don't we have more important shit to do than talk about my love life?" I say, waving the folder at him.
"I suppose so, but let me know any time you wanna take the wife and kid for a weekend or year or whatever!" He flashes a cheesy grin below his Tom Selleck mustache.
"I'm gonna have to pass."
"Well, it's a standing offer, partner." He laughs, putting his hands on his impressive beginner's beer gut.
Ten years my senior, the donuts and therapy beer have caught up to him. Then again, he probably hasn't seen a gym in a few years. He always says it’s elbow tendonitis acting up. Mr. Excuse is what I call him. Like me, he joined the department at an older age than most. I thought getting into this gig at twenty-six was tough; I can't imagine doing it at thirty-two. But he's a funny, hard-working old bastard and a damn good partner.
"I'm gonna go ahead and give you a forever hard pass then." I laugh, running my fingers through my damp hair. My office runs furnace-hot, so I'm in a constant state of sweat. "So we have eight identical murders now with this guy and another three that look awfully similar." I open the file again, jostling through the top few pages. “All arrested for prostitution—"
"And about one or two more disappearing every few months… and that’s just in Asheville," Tommy interjects. “We know he’s operated elsewhere.”
"Exactly. He's precise. He’s smart. Leaves no evidence. Some found dead for mere hours, others for weeks, but no sexual assault with any of the victims. So why keep them?"
"They're his trophies. Maybe he gets off on the power. Who knows, man? You know how these motherfuckers are. There's no rhyme or reason to it."
"But that's where I think you're wrong, my friend," I say, closing the file and stuffing it into my briefcase. "I think there is a pattern to it. It's a game he's playing. And I get the feeling he knows exactly what he's doing." I stand, remove my coat from the rack, and slip it on. "Let's go down to Tenth Street and talk to some of the regulars. See if they've seen anything strange with any of their Johns. We can swing by the crime scene too."
Tommy stands too, rubbing his hands together. "Hooker patrol, let's do it! I'll get the car warmed up."
He turns and heads out the door. I don't move right away. Instead I let the four years I've spent chasing this killer wash over me in a flood of fucked up reminiscence. Four years of torture, mutilation, and death. Four years of missed chances and blown opportunities. I'm still no closer to catching him than the day I started, but it's what drives me.
That—and this motherfucker killed my baby sister. For that, he will be caught. It’s just a matter of when.