Saturday, December 20, 2008

Could It be Him?

Again, I was being pulled into the water, as I struggled with the bastard to save myself and get a grip of him at the same time. The fucking currents were so strong that it was nearly impossible for the either of us to keep hold of the rail that had broken down. And yet, he continued to pull at me, even as his own grip was loosening, screaming at me above the deafening current, “I’m going to hell, and you are coming with me.”
And soon, he lost grip of me as well, and away he floated into the darkness in that flooded night…
I woke up from the slumber that had enveloped me in this summer heat. It had quietly invited me into its laps, promising me comfort and warmth, and continued to do so, till someone had placed his hand on my shoulder.
“Sorry I fell asleep,” I spoke, while rubbing my face to awaken myself. “So, what does the report say?”
“It’s difficult to ascertain whether she was raped or not. However, some man is responsible for the murder. The autopsy woman thinks that the killer is a psychopath, and wants a forensic psychologist to map out the killer’s profile.”
I don’t know why I feel I know this killer. I feel as if he is challenging me to chase him, to track him down. I cannot recall when I met this guy, or where I had met him, but this bastard knows me too well, and is making a mockery out of me and my team. Damn that shithead.
“Do whatever she says,” I spoke tersely, and got up to walk towards the coffee machine to refresh myself with a cup of strong coffee. The coffee was good, and got me awake and kicking, and I could snap back to work.
“So,” I spoke as I walked back into our office, “What else have we got?”
“Nothing is possible. Nobody in the hood knows anything about the woman except for the fact that she was working as a waitress in a restaurant uptown. Other than that, they don’t know a thing about her.”
“That’s not something new,” I barked out, even as I saw a young woman wander into the station. I instantly recognized her from that day at the site. She was one of those bloody reporters. “What on earth is she doing here?” I shouted at my colleagues, who began to shiver, even as a couple of them scampered to save their skins, and rushed towards the upstart who had dared to enter in without any prior intimation or approval.
I do not know what arguments the three of them exchanged, though it was dead hot for sure, for fingers were being wagged at each other, and faces being contorted into those of gargoyles with sheer anger and frustration, as I stood on the other side of the glass wall. Then, one of the men came towards me back into the other room, with the other that goddamn woman towards my office.
“Chief, she wants to interview you. Her name is Sam Young, and she is from the Daily Star, whose editor, she claims, is a close friend of yours,” the guy blurted out, with an extra emphasis on the last four words to paraphrase her.
I snorted out of disgust, as you may be well aware of my contempt and disgust towards this entire breed of some alien species that subsists on the miseries of others, while claiming to bring truth to the fore. Damn the bitch, I thought, as I moved towards the small cabin I call my office in this God-forsaken place the people call a police station. “Please come in,” I spoke, barely concealing my anger towards her, which she coolly ignored, and stepped in, and placed her comfortably into a chair opposite to mine, into which I slumped. “Yes ma’am. What’s your problem now?”
“My name is Sam Jones, and I am from the Daily Star newspaper…” she began, at which I snapped irritatingly.
“I know who you are ma’am. Please come to the point. What do you want?”
She looked at me with a pensive look in her eyes, and then after her minute of hesitation, spoke up.
“I would like to know whether we have any idea of who the killer really is. Basically, I mean, do you have any leads on this case? And what do the forensic examination reports say?”
“And what would you do with what has been uncovered so far, eh? Trying to run a parallel investigation here? Do you think this is some kind of a joke going on?” I spoke tersely, letting her know the exact amount of irritation that I felt (if there were a measure of the same).
“Excuse me Mr. Maher, but our readers have the right to know the truth…” she began defensively, trying to convince me with the so called argument of rationality, though looking clearly off-guard at my analysis of her interest.
“”Fuck your readers,” I spoke out with a smirk, even as I gulped down the remaining coffee, and then lit up a cigarette. “Do you think they really care for your sensationalist ways? Do you think they like it when someone makes them cringe the way your horrid articles do?”
“Look Maher,” she began speaking with a bit of anger in her tone, “I cannot help it if others do that; I do not intend to do the same. I am here for the truth as it is; I do not give a damn if the readers cringe or throw up on the details. If they are so gross, I will exclude them. I just want the facts Maher,” she spoke angrily, pointing her pen at me, “I am not the police; I am just a reporter who wishes to report something. Get it?”
I looked the lady, who was now standing up instead of being seated. She had some guts to be so direct and frank, as well as rude, in a police station. “John sent the right person for the first time,” I spoke with a smile, and a belief that for once, somebody has the spine to say things as they are.
The interview went smoothly, with the right questions being asked, and the answers being crisp and short. Finally, as the interview came to a close, she asked me,
“Mr. Maher, there was a similar case about fifteen years ago, in which you only were involved, that seemed to have the same set of circumstances. Do you think the two are connected?”
“No ma’am, I cannot say that,” I replied honestly, “You see the victim had died in the flash flood that year. But it would be better if you refrained from reporting about it”
In my mind, however, I felt the same twitch as her, which she seemed to have sensed the same thing, and she nodded in approval, as if she understood really what I meant. Could it really be him? After all these years, he re-surfaced from somewhere. But he died that day, I re-assured myself. No, it has to be someone else, I thought. But they say a detective’s gut always senses the truth, and mine had too. But where could I get the confirmation for it?
One thing is certain though; I still hate these dogs who go by the name of journalists. I really do.

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