Detective Grimm

Twenty five to life years later.
Fifteen with a good lawyer.
Seven with an appeal for a reduced charge of manslaughter.
Three with good behaviour.

The rain slashed down on the street carrying all the mercy of a .44 magnum, sending the few people dumb enough to be caught out scurrying for cover. Cars crouched miserably against the sidewalk, whilst overhead a crossing sign blinked mournfully.

Walk
Don't walk
Walk
Don't walk

It was a dark and stormy night alright. Just like in the movies.

Flanagans was a working mans bar - or to be a little more accurate, a professionals bar, if you get my drift, and that included the dames. Wasn't the kinda place you went into unless you had business. Tonight however, the business was a welcome home party for one of their own. One who had gone astray, fallen foul of the law.

Fallen foul of me.

Patience is a virtue. One of the few I still possessed. Twenty five years is a long time to wait though. Good thing that "Justice" saw fit that I would only have to wait three.

Three years.

I remember it as though it was yesterday. The house, the stairs, the horror in the bedroom. I recall the scene like it was a photograph, it was the little things, the ordinary things that stood out.The jar of cold cream with the lid missing, the sock discarded by the bed.

The smell of stale smoke, lifted by the damp, filled my nostrils as I glanced at the newspaper lying on the passenger seat of the car I sat in.

CHEVALIER TRIUMPHS AGAIN!

I lit another cigarette, watching curiously as the match flared briefly against the deepening gloom and died. Not much longer now.

Midnight. As if on cue the rain died away leaving the streets strangely quiet. Like the whole city was holding its breath.

I flicked the spent cigarette out the window, it sparked against the sidewalk before dying with a soft sizzle. Another glance at the newspaper, Sophie's face smiled back at me through the faded newsprint.

The neon sign in the window of Flanagans clicked off. Closing time. The front door opened spilling the last remaining barflies out onto the pavement. One by one, they rolled off into the night until only one remained, still haranguing the barman - just one more for the road.

The man was lean, wiry, with a hatchet face and eyes that glittered hate. He cursed once more at the unforgiving bar-room door before lurching off down the street.

Rourke.

I thumbed the starter button on the dashboard and the engine growled softly into life. Thrumming gently I eased the vehicle away from the sidewalk, tyres grinding on the rain soaked asphalt. The car cruised easily, almost silently, stalking the the spindly form of Rourke as he staggered along muttering to himself.

They say weasels have a sixth sense, I dunno if thats true or not, but in spite of his own booze soaked brain, Rourke must have had some inkling, some sense of the danger. He tottered round unsteadily and peered blearily up the street.

As he turned I switched the headlamps on - full beam - and gunned the motor. Rourke raised an arm trying to shield his eyes against the glare, curling his lips in a feral snarl.

A wet slap on the metal, a crunching series of thumps from the wheels and it was over. I gave it some gas and took off into the night.

Chevalier puts men behind bars where they belong. He's a cop like me. A good one.
My name's Detective Grimm.
And sometimes, just sometimes, I make sure they get what they deserve.

---------------------------------------------

Chapter 2

Do I feel guilty?
Sure, why not?

Its early, but still too late for breakfast. The only sound in the squad room is the clickety clack of the filing clerks typewriter. A rare sun sends shafts down through a grubby skylight, illuminating dust motes that swirl gracefully, dancing.....just like......

clickety clack

The typewriter pounds onwards, reporting loudly as it snaps down history, distilling the blood and death into neat official little black letters.

Back when I was in the academy I would type up my own reports...back when it didnt matter, back when it wasnt real and each case was a puzzle to be enjoyed. I didnt even notice the faces of the dead back then.

clickety

I stare at the blank report form, trying to will the words into being. Words that can't hope to hold the horror, the gut wrenching blood pumping screaming death crashing down with each keystroke, leaving a dried black stain behind.

CLACK!!

Each character another chalk outline, telling its tale of ruined life, butchered dreams, and fractured bodies lying twisted on the floor. All destined for the same place, a dogeared file in an overflowing cabinet in a dusty basement. Discarded lives, cheap and wasted, like ground meat in the gears of the city.

I hate this town.

clickety click ding!

CASE CLOSED