The Killing Game. J. Kerley A.
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Janet Wing. Gregory expanded the screen and hit Play.
He leaned back in his chair as the camera panned ranks of cops in a large room, some in uniform, others in street clothes, slack-jawed droolers getting taxpayer money to sit on their asses. The camera zoomed in on a slender, suited man standing from a front seat as someone called his name, Detective Carson Ryder. Ryder seemed about six feet tall, dark hair falling over his ears.
Gregory whispered “troglodyte” as Ryder approached the podium, his suit looking like it had cost fifty bucks with tie and shoes thrown in. The haircut was a ten-minute, ten-dollar job by a barber named Mort or Ralph. The knot of the Ryder-ape’s tie would have been more at home on a bowline.
But when the man forswore the step-stairs to the stage and took the half-meter jump as a natural extension of his stride, troglodyte suddenly didn’t fit. The man moved with a fluidity Gregory had noted in athletes, though nothing about him seemed particularly athletic save for shoulders a bit wider than the norm.
The man stepped into white light beside a podium. The camera panned left and Gregory’s breath froze in his throat. Baggs was the voice who had summoned Ryder to the podium. They touched palms in an imitation handshake and Baggs handed Ryder a framed certificate.
Gregory froze the video and studied his adversary, Baggs, a large man with veiled eyes and mottled skin, attempting to hide encroaching baldness with a comb-over, which merely served to highlight the condition. He looked stupid, which Gregory had expected, needing only a line of drool down his chin to complete the picture.
This is my quarry, Gregory thought as his heart increased its rhythm, burning the image in his brain. This man is dead. Gregory re-started the video, hoping for additional footage of Baggs.
But he found something more interesting. When the Ryder-cop took the certificate, the camera image widened to show an audience leaping to their feet with hands pounding. Ryder studied the crowd, then commenced what seemed to be a ritualized step-pattern, holding the award aloft. Was Ryder dancing? His action further inflamed the crowd. Somewhere in the room chanting started, the words indiscernible but clearly known by everyone.
Braka ros n’da hasun …
I faw telawan telawon
When Ryder finally stepped from the stage he was enveloped in a sea of cops. Baggs stood alone on the stage, looking shrunken, uncomfortable and even more stupid.
Puzzled by the contrast, Gregory did a Google search on Carson Ryder, discovering he’d been the youngest patrol officer to make detective, recipient of a dozen commendations for bravery and resourcefulness. He’d been an Officer of the Year when in uniform, had twice been Detective of the Year. Archived photos showed Ryder receiving commendations from the last four mayors, three chiefs of police, and two citizens’ groups.
Gregory closed his eyes and saw Ryder holding his victory citation high. He added the applause. The cheers. The chanting. The rush of the crowd when Ryder stepped from the stage. There could be only one conclusion …
The man named Carson Ryder was the Blue Tribe’s Warrior.
Though the Chief was the MPD’s head, Gregory realized, a warrior was the department’s heart. Baggs himself was meaningless, as replaceable as a hat. It showed in his face when the crowd ignored him to pay cheering tribute to Ryder.
It was Ryder who was irreplaceable. Thus it was Ryder who had to die. But Ryder couldn’t die in battle. That would turn him into a martyr. He had to die in the worst way possible for a warrior …
In shame.
Gregory turned his attention back to YouTube, saw one remaining video under Mobile Police Department. Four minutes and thirty-nine seconds in length, it carried the title of Random Nightmares. Gregory pressed Play.
Five minutes later Gregory had a perfect plan to destroy Carson Ryder.
Heart racing like he’d just found a cat in the trap, sweat glistening across his palms, Gregory stood and held his hands high, mimicking Ryder’s dance steps at the ceremony and aping the MPD’s praise chant.
“I faw telawan telawon … I faw telawan telawon …”
Harry and I spent several days working a case, trying to put the hammer down on a dope dealer who thought a nine-millimeter was the best way to deal with competition, a not-uncommon career move in the illicit-substances biz. We’d returned at six to read the newspaper. Alcohol was not allowed in the shop, which was why our beer cans were hidden in foam jackets.
Footsteps behind me turned into the Buddha walking our way in a three-piece suit, a smile on his round face, his head as bald as a melon: Don Shumuchuru.
“Don,” I said. “Great to hear your mom’s doing better.”
“They adjusted her meds and she’s like a new person. Thanks for handling the classes. And don’t worry, I’m back in the saddle again.”
“Pardon?”
“I’ll pick up on the sessions.” He grinned. “You just got two nights a week of your life returned, buddy.”
“Uh, thanks Don …”
Don shot me a thumbs up and retreated. Harry was staring at me across his coffee mug, an eyebrow cocked in interest.
“What?” I said to my partner.
“Looks like school’s out,” he said.
Gregory was cross-legged on his living-room floor. He’d done an hour of Bowflex and taken a shower. Supper was protein powder with honey and three slices of organic wholewheat bread.
Beside him was his favorite object, a compound bow, its profile resembling a mechanical bat with outstretched wings. It had a sixty-pound pull that fired an arrow at over two hundred miles an hour. Gregory had asked the decorator if the bow might be hung over the fireplace in place of the scribble-painting, but the man’s face had told Gregory he was in one of those areas where he lacked understanding.
The bow had been a thirteenth-birthday gift from his stepfather so the two could enjoy deer season together. Gregory’s stepfather had grown up on a farm in central Alabama and when his parents died had inherited the six-hundred-acre tract. By that time he was living and working in Mobile, but he’d kept the farm, leasing it to tenant farmers and hunting in the two-hundred-acre woods. Whenever they went out together, the old man was always blabbing about how much he enjoyed hunting, loved the woods, loved the streams.
Over there, son, is where my father bagged a fourteen-point buck. How I loved to walk these woods with him, Gregory, and I wish I could have just one of those days back …
A tear rolling down the old man’s cheek, weird.
Gregory was fascinated by the word Love. The morons used it as if it meant so much, but also to mean very little. People said they loved other people. Some said they loved their automobiles. Others used the exact same word about canaries, or cats or dogs. People loved Mexican food. Or their shoes. Or a paint color. It was another trait of the morons that they had no solid meaning for a word they used like water.
Gregory had been to funerals where the word seemed to dominate … yayaya loved his children, yayayaya, a lover of humanity yayayaya we will miss his love yayayaya … and all the morons who had loved the piece of dead stuff laying in the box would cry and howl and moan and act like death had happened to them. The person was gone: find someone else to do what they did for you.
But no, it was Love, death, pain, love death pain … which was really pretty interesting when you thought about it.
Despite its liquid character, Love somehow had a big influence on the idiots, and Gregory knew whatever the word meant to the morons, it must have been something