Lieutenant Compost is doing his routine exercise, tensing and relaxing his entire body, throbbing between our desks.
“Will you give it a rest? You don’t need any more muscles.”
“Officer Gravedale, taking exercise advice from you is like taking dance lessons from a corpse."
I open up the box of floppy disks on my desk and insert it into the machine, slapping the side of it so it starts reading files, drr-drr-dutt. Security footage pulled from Flock cameras, grainy videos of Los Angeles streets where our car had been spotted. When the other officers in our precinct heard our car had been stolen, they started calling me GTA. The orange sky outside was starting to dim, so I started to pack my things up.
“Where you going?”
“My shift’s over.”
“Not tonight. I got a tip off. We’re going on a stakeout.” Compost says. I groan.
“Come on Lieutenant, when do you take it easy? Haven’t you heard of a work life balance?”
“Nothing's balanced. That killer is still out there. He’ll kill again.”
“Haha, way to lay a guilt trip on me there buddy! Jesus.” I say, opening up a filing cabinet and brushing maggots off the files before pulling one out and throwing it to Compost.
“What’s this?” he says, opening it up.
“Clay McClensley, he sells snuff films on the dark web, we pinched him for stealing body parts from a morgue back in March. We should talk to this guy.”
“There’s a hundred psychos in L.A. that sell death tapes, why him?” he says. I pull my monitor round so he can see it.
“Because the guy who stole our car paid him a visit.” I say. I have a small synthesizer on my desk and play an ominous tone whilst slowly rolling the mouse wheel, enlarging the image.
“You found that out and were going to go home?” Compost says. I laugh, sticking a half-smoked cigar in the side of my mouth.
“Like I said Lieutenant. Work life balance.”
Our car rolls pulls up across the road from an apartment block, barely visible through the rain. We’re out of uniform for this job, Compost is wearing camo pants and a weighted vest and I’m dressed like Columbo, we brace ourselves against the frigid storm outside as we head to Clay’s apartment. Up a damp staircase, the paint from the walls is shedding away. On his floor someone had stolen the lightbulbs from the fittings, so our flashlights cut through the gloom and to his door. I knock. Movement behind the door.
“Who is it?” we hear, muffled.
“I heard you sell something I want. I got good money for it.” I say. The door opens ajar, a small chain between me and Clay McClensley.
“How much money?” he says. Compost boots the door in, ripping it from the top hinge and throwing Clay against the wall. I look up the empty hallway before stepping in.
The apartment is small, smells vinegary. On the ceiling a black mould has spread from the corner, the spores seemed visible from a few lamps scattered here and there. The floor was littered in porn magazines, empty cans of Coors, pizza boxes, videotapes.
“You selling snuff films again Clay?” I say, lighting a cigar.
“You-you need a warrant. You can’t just come in here.”
“What, so those pricks at the DA’s office can warn you to burn your stash? We know you supply tapes to people in high places.”
“Yeah, so then get the fuck out of here.” Clay says, pointing a finger at me. Compost reaches out and grabs it, making Clay turn towards him. The lieutenant breaks his finger without blinking, looking emptily at the howling face of the man he had hold of.
“Listen to me, we don’t care you’re selling that shit to the Mayor, but you met someone today that we want to talk to.”
“Let go of my finger!” he yells instead, trying to get his index finger out from Compost’s fist.
“Who did you speak to today? He was driving our cruiser.” Compost says, letting go. The man stumbles backwards, clutching at his broken Phalanx, looking round the room for something.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He says. I hold up the photo, pointing at Clay speaking with the man who stole our car.
“You know this guys a serial killer, right? We can get you for assisted homicide if you don’t talk. So just give us a name and we’ll wish you a goodnight.” I say. He looks towards the door. Lieutenant Compost sees a Newton’s Cradle on a dresser, plucking one of the metal balls from it and holding it up for Clay to see. We all look at the metal ball between his thumb and forefinger as he applies pressure to it, making it squish between his fingers as if it were plasticine.
“Catch.” He says, throwing it through the air to Clay, clapping hands round it.
“Okay, okay, I don’t know his name. But I have his address. If I tell you I’m going to need to take off for a while.”
“Sure, you want witness protection?” I say, laughing and winking at Lieutenant Compost.
“Just gimme a hundred bucks.” He says. I root through my wallet.
“I’ve got forty. You want to tell us or should the Lieutenant see if he can pop your eyes?” I say, throwing the filthy money at him. He caves in, giving us an address to the south, a few streets away from the port. As we head there we listen to the police radio, a list of violence happening across the city, delivered as flatly as a weather report.
“You never told me why your partner got sent to the uh…what you call it? Mental hospital.”
“Us cops call it Bedlam. It’s out towards the desert, that’s where they send the police who go crazy. Mostly detectives, but plenty of officers too. Once you go there you don’t tend to come back.”
“The LAPD needs its own dedicated facility?”
“There’s plenty of men that have been made insane by the streets. Last couple of years though, things have got a bit more twisted. You might have think you seen it all, then one day see something so evil it changes the way you see things.” He says. I think on what he said and we drive through the night without speaking again, as the animals do.
Compost cuts the engine, letting the car drift silently down the puddled street, rolling to a stop outside a house painted black. Across the road is an empty truck stop, dead weeds, razor wire. Somewhere nearby there is a rhythmic pumping noise, joining the sound of rain falling, though the clouds were beginning to clear so that Mother Moon looked down on us. Compost and I take our guns out, signalling to each other to approach the door to the dark house. The guy inside was a serial killer, setting up mirrors so people watched their own murders. He got access to houses by dressing as a cop. Beyond that, we didn’t know anything about him. I rubbed rain from my forehead and stood opposite Lieutenant Compost, the front door between us. Compost steps, is about to kick the door in, but I bring up a hand to stop, try the handle. Its open. I enter, with Compost close behind, our flashlights click on. We are greeted by dozens of other flashlights clicking on. Compost pulls his gun up, and some of the other figures move, pulling theirs. We’re surrounded by mirrors.
As we walk through the dark house, its a maze made from mirrors. We catch out reflections in the dim, shining flashlights in our eyes as we round a corner, deeper into the labyrinth. It is almost silent save for the sound of distant machinery. The two of us walk through mirrored corridors, find a door. It leads downstairs. A glance between, an unspoken agreement. Carefully we make our way down the stairs and the air smells like copper. We come to a closed door, on this one hangs a mirror that has been shattered. I slowly turn the handle and enter. The room in the basement is big and gray, a sofa and a small table sit across from a huge mirror that takes up a wall. As we go further into the room, I realise it isn’t a mirror, but a window into a perfectly symmetrical room. I go over to the glass and my breath steams against it.
“What do you see?” Compost says. On the other side of the glass, out the door steps a figure. It is a thin man with black hair and black eyes. Compost raises his gun and shoots. The glass catches it. Bulletproof. I watch the man walk over to me, watching me, Compost shoots again, twice. He leans towards the glass, looking at me. I lean closer. There’s a noise behind me, and the man turns, looking past my shoulder. I spin round to see a long, thin blade protruding from Lieutenant Compost’s head. He gurgles. The blade is pulled out then appears again, this time from his chest. The huge cop collapses, and standing behind him is a man in a duck costume. I bring up my pistol, shooting at him as he flees, catching him in the shoulder before he disappears through the door. I rush over to my fallen partner, his eyes rolling in his head, one side of his face droops as if it is made of wax. I grab him, holding on as his eyes become unfocused. I whip round to the mirrored room but the other man has gone, leaving me to cradle the man’s head and we both become wet with blood.
An ambulance. Police cruisers. A helicopter overhead. I watch them take away Lieutenant Compost just as the Chief of Police turns up.
“What in the hell happened here GTA!?”
“We got ambushed. The Duck Killer was there, stabbed Compost with some kind of sword.”
“Why didn’t you call for backup? Get a goddamn warrant?”
“Sir, you’re not listening to me. These serial killers are working together. We need to call a press conference, we need to warn people-“
“Shut your damn mouth officer! We’re not causing a panic.” He says. I look north towards the city, burning.
“With all due respect sir, how can it get any worse? This country is dead, don’t you get it?”
“No, you don’t get it! I don’t care if you think this city’s going to hell, we still need law and order, we still need rules! You’re taken off this case, that’s a goddamn order.” He says.
“Fuck you.” I say. He slaps me. I slap him back.
“Give me your badge and your gun Officer, that will be all.” He says. I look around at the other cops who’ve been watching this and shake my head as I take my gun from its holster and hand it over.
“Whatever, man. You know, when I joined the force, I thought it would be like The Shield. But actually, it’s just like The Wire. And I think we all know The Shield is better. So, fuck all of you.” I say, walking over to the car and reversing away, leaving the crime scene behind like a rotting dream.
I’m in my hotel room as dawn breaks, drunk on tequila,
looking at a map of L.A., trying to make sense of it. There were seven active
serial killers in the city. What if they were all working together? For what
shared purpose? I take a drink from the bottle and sit down heavily in a chair
by the window, watching the dawn colour everything red. I might not have a
badge or a gun, or even a partner. But that didn’t mean it was over. I light a
cigarette, looking at the map of the city catching in the morning light,
shining red, red, red. In every end there is a beginning.
