heightened senses

Brendan Chick

Heightened Senses

“Martineau, can I see you in my office for a minute?” said Captain Sinclair.
I’ve been seeing the captain in his office a lot lately. He kept checking on me every week to see how I was coping with my partner’s death. The whole department hadn’t been the same since Officer Mattox was murdered two weeks ago, and me being his partner of five years and friend since childhood, Captain Sinclair wanted to keep a close eye on me.
“How you holdin’ up Liam?,” aked the Captain.
“I’ve seen better days. Been trying to keep my mind off Mattox as much as possible,” I responded.
“Yeah I know. There’s no easy way to cope with a loss of a partner and even more so with a close friend.”
I could tell by the tone of his voice he was trying to get at something, but I kept the conversation moving.
“So have we gotten farther along in the investigation?” I asked. I knew we hadn’t because I had been checking up on things daily, but by orders I was not to be assigned to the case and I didn’t want to let the Captain in on what I was doing.
“Well…to tell you the truth, no. This whole case is a stalemate right now. The lack of evidence and witnesses has pretty much led to a dead end,” Captain Sinclair said. “It’s one thing to have an officer killed in the line of duty, it’s a whole different story to have one murdered in his home for no apparent reason. I’m sorry Liam, but we’re doing everything we can, we’re just not getting anywhere.”
As much as I didn’t want to believe it I was starting to wonder where the case was going to end up. This whole scenario just didn’t make any sense to me at all. Glenn Mattox’s murder was a mystery, an out-of-the-blue honest to God mystery. In my 18 year friendship with Glenn, I never saw him in a situation he couldn’t handle. He meticulously thought everything through, down to the most finite detail. He never put himself in a predicament that didn’t have a simple solution. I mean for God sakes it would take him a freakin’ hour to decide what movie to rent or which brand of toilet paper to buy. I had a strange gut feeling about my best friend’s murder and I had to find out why.
“Cap, you’ve got to put me on this case,” I said.
“Liam, for the last time you’re not working this case. You have too many emotions flying around right now that will get in the way and prevent you from keeping a level head.” Said Captain Sinclair.
“Yeah, I know… and I’ve been thinking bout this,” I said. “Maybe working this case will help me get some closure. This whole sitting around and waiting game is really getting to me. I feel I could do some good with this, and plus, I know more about Mattox than any other person in this place. It just doesn’t make any sense to me why you wouldn’t put me on the case” I said.
Captain Sinclair shifted a little in his chair but maintained the same composed tone. “I’ve already told you why and that’s final. We’re not discussing this situation anymore,” said Captain Sinclair.
“Yes sir,” I said.
Feeling as if my words were falling on deaf ears, I turned to my next and only other option. I had to get out of this place and clear my head…just try and start over…re-think my thoughts.
“Well Cap, I don’t think I can be here while this thing goes down. The waiting and suspense is too much,” I said.
“What are you saying Liam?” the Captain asked. “You turning in your badge?”
“No. I’m not quitting. I love my job, I would never quit. But I think I need to take a break, you know, just get away for awhile,” I said.
“That’s a good idea. Take a few weeks off and collect yourself. Get away from the city and work for a while and just try and relax. Take it easy for a bit, even though it may seem hard at first. I’ll give you a call in a couple of days to see how you are doing. Now go on, get out of here.”
I gave the Captain a stern handshake and a thank-you for the much needed vacation. I got up, straightened my uniform and headed for the door.
“Hey Martineau,” Capitan Sinclair said. “Where you gonna go? Bahamas, Caribbean, meet some nice island girl?”
“Don’t know. Might head out to LA and see the family for a while, take in the sights. Nothing wrong with LA women either,” I said with a slight smirk. I made my way out of Sinclair’s office closing the door behind me; closing a door that I really didn’t want to open again.

Columbia Metropolitan Airport was barren as Lake Michigan in the middle of
January. The only signs of life were in the form of worry conscious travelers much like
myself. “Got to get to the airport two hours in advance,” my mother would always say.
Ha! There I sat staring out the window into a blank nothingness, watching the crews pace back and forth on the tarmac. Nothing but the sound of jet-engines and luggage carts filled the void. The occasional traveler on their cell-phone broke the silence every now and then.
Atlanta, Georgia. Hartsfield International Airport. A buzzing metropolis. Delta’s hub and second busiest airport next to Chicago’s O’Hare. People from every walk of life. Going, coming, staying. The businessman hustling to his next connection flight constantly on the phone receiving news from co-workers on what he missed during the one hour flight.
In my gate I didn’t find the typical L.A. constituents that you would think would be boarding a flight out to “Tinsel Town.” Then again, the two hour layover eventually revealed LA’s true colors. I got an early taste of the LA lifestyle choices people chose to take. Women with obvious signs of cosmetic surgery were sitting down in their overpriced outfits clutching onto their Louis Vuittton handbags. The men were covered from head to toe in black looking as if they were about to attend a funeral. Then there I was with a pair of khaki shorts and a cheap polo shirt that I had purchased at a discount store for $15. One wouldn’t have a hard time picking out the tourist on our flight. To say the least I felt a little out of place. Next stop LAX and a chance to take a much needed break, at least that’s how I thought it would be.
I’ve always had a fear of heights. Flying just multiplied it by a thousand. The short 35 minute flight from Columbia to Atlanta seemed like it took days. Delta managed to cram 189 of us into a Tylenol sized 727 which made the trip that much more uncomfortable for me. Now I was about to board a plane for a five hour flight across the continental US. The whole planes are way more safer than cars bullshit never sat well with me either. I tried to calm my nerves by taking my routine deep breathes but found out it didn’t work like always. I had a strange gut feeling about this flight, something I couldn’t put my finger on. There was no sense in working myself up even more so I sat back and continued on in the June issue of Sports Illustrated.
The loudspeaker above my head creaked on and broke my concentration from the steroids in baseball article.
“We would now like to continue our boarding of Delta flight 2234 non-stop to Los Angeles with zone five please. That’s zone five. All passengers seated in zones one through five are now asked to proceed to the gate for boarding. Thank you.”
The sweet, docile, southern voice of the elderly women behind the desk didn’t ease my nervousness of the flight. If I had to fly, which I rarely did, I would always book my seat in the middle of the plane. Figured that to be the safest part of the plane I guess. Of course it wouldn’t really matter where I was sitting if the plane decided to take a nosedive from 30,000 feet.
I snatched up my carry-on and made my way through the swarming crowd to the ticket counter. I received a polite “Hello” and “Enjoy your flight” from the sweet old southern lady who was collecting the boarding passes. Yeah right, enjoy the flight, I thought to myself. If I don’t hyper-ventilate and pass out first.
It took about 20 minutes for the rest of the plane to fill up and start the taxiing out to the runway. The captain came over the intercom with the typical aeronautical talk, and the flight attendants underwent their usual but very useless pre-flight routine. The captain came over the intercom once more and informed us that we were third in line for takeoff. My nerves started to get the best of me and I clinched both armrests with a death grip.
I slightly grazed the arm of the middle-aged woman sitting on my right. I whispered “I’m sorry,” only to get a snobby, smile as she looked up from her copy of Cosmo.
The man on my left seemed nicer and offered some words of encouragement.
“Just relax partner,” he said with a pleasing smile. “It’ll all be over in no time.”
Staring at the ceiling and taking a deep breath is answered with a sigh. “Yeah, the takeoff’s quick. But it’s really that whole five hour span of intense speed and turbulence that really gets me.”
“True. But at least they offer alcohol and a mediocre movie to tide you over,” he said.
I just gave a little chuckle to please him while I concentrated on my breathing routine and a spot on the ceiling that looked like it could’ve been formed from a leak. Always reassuring. For the next 10 minutes the man next to me and I engaged in idle chat. I appreciated the fact that he was trying to calm me down but I hoped that he didn’t think I would continue in discussion with him for the whole flight.
The pilot finally got us off the ground and eased into his cruising altitude. The fasten seat belt sign dinged and I immediately loosened the strap that was digging into my mid-section. The man to my left looked over and offered his hand and his name.
“Stewart Lockland,” he said.
I accepted his greeting and acknowledged with a hand shake. “Liam Martineau, nice to meet you.” I responded.
“It’s a pleasure Liam,” he said. “What you headed out to California for?”
“Just a much needed vacation. And yourself?” I said.
“Oh…a little business, a little pleasure,” he answered.
“I hear ya,” I said trying to give him a little hint that I wasn’t really in the mood for full blown conversation with a total stranger. He didn’t get the hint.
“Yeah…got some meetings with some clients in LA. It’s a bitch making these trips every coupla months but I’ve got to get paid,” he said. “And the thing is, I can’t stand these bastards. So stuck up with their hoity-toity LA lifestyles. Too good for us ‘small town southern folk’ you know,” he stammered.
“Yeah. Gotta hate those people,” I said.
For the next 30 minutes he talked my ear off about his local business back in Atlanta, his wife and kids, his golf game. Stuff I could really give a shit about. But I humored him, and he kept talking. Finally a slightly attractive flight attendant came by and took our drink orders which ceased the yammering for a minute. I got a beer and gladly paid five dollars for the calming beverage.
“You know, one in the air equals two on the ground,” Lockland joked.
“That’s the plan,” I said.
As soon as the flight attendant continued on her rounds, Lockland started back up right where he left off. I was only graced by ten more minutes of Lockland’s bullshit before the in-flight movie, Catch Me If You Can, started. Even though I’ve seen the movie a couple of times, I shelled out another five bucks for the headsets just so I could get a break from my new friend.
As the opening credits came across the screen I couldn’t help but think in the back of my mind that I had seen this guy before. There’s no way. I’d remember a talker like this, it was something that came with my job. Retain details of every suspect and witness for future use. I tried to shrug it off but something about this man just seemed…familiar. I had a gut feeling that somewhere in the past I had come across this character before. The volume in my headsets got louder as the movie’s dialogue started. I reclined my seat and eased into a somewhat comfortable position. That Tom Hanks, I thought to myself. He can do anything.
***
My whole life I’ve lived in many different small towns in many different states. Despite the differences each town possessed, one thing always remained a constant; the lack of change. Now my life had completely been turned upside down and flipped inside out with the recent murder of my partner. A change was needed and I had intended to make the best out of the time I was going to spend in Los Angeles.
Seeing the family again was something I looked forward to. It had been 3 yrs since my last visit to California when I attended my niece’s christening. It was good to get away for awhile but I was preoccupied by a case I’d been working on 5 months prior. Charleston, SC, a laid back coastal city began making national headlines when children started disappearing and were later sent back to their families in pieces via gift wrapped boxes. I was constantly on the phone with Mattox back in South Carolina obtaining details and new leads. My trip was cut short when I received a call saying that a presumed suspect was about to be brought down, and they thought I would like to be present considering Mattox and I were the lead investigators in the case. I booked the next flight back to South Carolina not knowing the next time I’d be in L.A. I’d be closing the same case Mattox and I started, except without Mattox.
***
The intricacies of a job are what drive people to do their best work. The good pay, the health benefits, the rewards. None of those really apply to someone whose job requires taking somebody else’s life. A contract killer isn’t a position kids go around telling parents and teachers that’s what they are aspiring to become. These people are harvested usually from a disturbed youth or a notion that they are supremely invincible. The role of modern society has no bearing whatsoever and ethics are thrown out the window along with emotions. One can’t begin to ascertain as to why these people choose this lifestyle. But one man, who knew nothing besides killing, became a ruthless murderer when his taste for blood grew beyond the bounds of his job.
Victor Sentrick was known in his field as “The Sovereign.” Nobody did a better job with as little mess to clean up. Most of his 100 or so hits took no more than ten minutes and his marks never knew what hit them. Not only could this man kill he did it with the relative ease of an 18 year old doing third grade mathematics. He could take down the President in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve and be gone before the poor bastard even hit the ground.