Police cruiser tyres squeak as they hit the underground lot, two cops get out, they talk about burgers as they head to an elevator. Get in, starts to close.
"Wait!" I say, jogging towards them. They hold the door open, I get in.
"Hey there, thanks. I gotta take a shit."
"You new here?" One says, looking me up and down. The fake LAPD uniform I had ordered online was two sizes too big and obviously made from cheaper fabric than the uniforms the others wore. The plastic badge reflected cheaply in the insipid light.
"Name’s Officer Gravedale, I transferred over from ICE."
"Good to meet you brother." He shakes my hand.
"Welcome to the resistance. " the other says. The lift doors ping open and we walk out into a corridor, through some double doors and into the central police headquarters. Hundreds of cops walk around the large hall, leaning on a mezzanine, shouting to each other over desks covered in case files, typewriters and overflowing ashtrays. A topless dope fiend thrashes against two cops trying to drag him towards processing, stopped by an uppercut that breaks his jaw so the pieces of bone slip out of his mouth like tusks. The man throwing the punch turns to me. He's a fortress of flesh, an inverted minotaur, a horror wearing a uniform.
"You on the basketball team?" I say.
"Who are you?"
"They call me Officer Gravedale, but you can call me Seal. It was my callsign backed when I served in the Marines. I killed people." I say, shrugging.
"I'm Lieutenant Compost. I've killed people too." He says, lifting his police baton up so I could see it. There were bits of meat and human hair on it.
"So, do you know any secrets?" I say, hitting the vape.
“We got a briefing!” yells the Chief of Police from the mezzanine. The officers groan, slouching their way towards the briefing room.
We sit on mouldy chairs as the Chief puts a presentation on an overhead projector. He assigns us different duties across the city; driving round in a firetruck filled with pepper spray to attack protestors, standing around on our phones as a school shooting takes place, using tasers on people’s pets until they set on fire, routine stuff for the LAPD.
“Lieutenant Compost, is your partner still in the loony bin?” yells the Captain.
“He is. I met Officer Gravedale this morning, he can ride with me.”
“Gravedale, Gravedale, who the fuck’s Gravedale?” he says, dribbling on himself. I shoot my hand up.
“Right here, Chief!”
“You okay going with Compost?” says the Chief. I nod. Some of the other officers whisper to each other, though stop when they feel the gaze of Compost on their neck. The Captain dismisses everyone and I follow Compost through the corridors and to his car.
“What we working on then big guy?” I say, sweeping empty cans of Whey Protein off the seat, hitting the vape.
“You remember that Video Cop case from early this summer?”
“Sure, that guy dressing up as a cop and holding families hostage. He was caught, right?”
“He was. We got ourselves a copycat in the city, follows the same M.O. as that guy, but he ain’t showing them movies.” Compost says as the car leaves the underground lot.
We’re at a crime scene. House in the suburbs. Living room painted with blood. Against one wall are shards of broken mirror. A blood spatter analyst is taking photographs as we march through tape.
“This is a crime scene!”
“That’s why we’re here. We’re cops.” Compost says. The photographer is about to berate him but another forensics specialist walks up and whispers something.
“Sure thing officer, whatever you say.” She says, leaving the two of us in the room. I sit down on a rocking chair by the window.
“Two victims, dead from exsanguination. What do you think happened here, rookie?”
“They got cut up on the couch. Maybe he used those bits of broken mirror.” I say. Compost shakes his head, picking up a piece of mirror to show blood beneath.
“They’d already bled out by the time the mirror was broken.”
“What do you think happened?” I say, scratching my head with the barrel of my gun.
“We don’t know exactly. What we do know is he ties them up, brings a mirror and then butchers them so they can watch.” He says, showing me photos from other crime scenes on his phone, mixed in with photos of an infant.
“Who’s the kid?”
“Oh, she’s my daughter. Just turned seven years old.” He says, finding a photo of her blowing out candles on a cake.
“Ah, yes. I was seven once. Great year.”
“Nevermind that. What do you think we should do?”
“Well, maybe we can track down a store that sells giant mirrors. I’m guessing this couple didn’t have this enormous mirror in their house, there’s already one against the far wall.” I say. Compost looks down, processing.
“Good thoughts.” He says.
We track down all the mirror stores in Los Angeles, interview a few owners, no leads. We show one of the guys photos from the crime scene, he identifies the mirror must be a custom job due to its dimensions. We end up parking up outside a mirror factory down towards Irvine.
“What happens if we find this guy, Lieutenant?” I say. Compost pulls a shotgun from the backseat.
“We’ll kill him.”
“And if we get the wrong guy?”
“C’mon, we’re cops. Who’s going to stop us?” he says, winking at me. I nod, and we head across the sandy car lot towards the factory, its walls made of corrugated metal, a lone chimney trails smoke overhead like a forgotten cigarette. We enter an open warehouse door, passing a mound of broken glass, a tipped over bin. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around. The shotgun looks small in Compost’s hands, more like a magic wand than a weapon. I unclick my holster, keep my hand by my waist, we walk up some stairs and over a vat of molten glass.
“Everybody must be out to lunch.” I say, scanning the darkness of the factory.
“Shut up.” Compost whispers, pointing forward. We can hear sounds ahead. A quiet screaming.
We cross the walkway and look down on a corner of the factory where they kept the finished mirrors. Someone had brought four huge mirrors together into a box, with a film projector in the middle. A moving image played against one of the mirror walls, reflected again and again between each of the mirrors. It was of an elderly couple on a sofa, writhing in blood as a masked man stood to one side. He was dressed as a cop. Compost brings a finger to his lips and we sneak down the industrial stairs, walk into the room of mirrors, the murder scene projected against our bodies as we search for the killer. Compost relaxes.
“He must have heard us, ran away. But we’re close.” He says. I nod.
“Lieutenant, this reminds me of when I did my training, especially in interrogations.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah, don’t you remember?” I say, taking my gun from the holster. His eyes fix on mine. For a cop, he caught on fast. We both raise our weapons and start shooting the mirrors around us, and sure enough, behind one of them stands a man, flinching from the gunfire and broken glass.
“You idiot. All cops know that there’s always someone behind the mirror.” I say.
“Please! I just work here, I got scared!”
“So you thought this snuff movie was just for fun?” Compost says, turning the projector off.
“No, no, that’s why I’m scared, I saw this and was like, what the hell, then I heard you coming and I thought you were the guy. Please, let me go, I just work security here, I’m covering for my nephew.”
“You expect me to believe that?” Compost says, walking over to him, taking the man’s head in his hands.
“What if he’s telling the truth? The real killer might still be near.” I say. Compost processes this, gently releasing the man’s head from between his huge hands.
“Let’s take him back to the station, Gravedale. Further questioning.” He says, picking up the man and carrying him like a baby out of the factory. When we get outside our car has gone.
“I guess the killer took off in our squad car.” I say, looking round.
“The fake cop now has a real car.” Compost says, sweat dripping from his temples. The man is silent and still in his arms, eyes wide with fear. I soothe him with a lullaby.
As the sun begins to descend over the Pacific, me and Compost are sitting at a bar, playing tiddlywinks with bottle caps.
“You think we’re going to catch this guy?” I say.
“Yup.”
“Shame about the car.” I say. The police had tracked down its transponder a couple of miles from the mirror factory, it was untraceable, out somewhere in L.A. traffic.
“Mmhmm.”
“The scary thing is that this killer looks like us, drives our cars…how are the public going to trust us now? Next time they might think twice about calling 9-1-1.” I say.
“You talk a lot for a cop.” He says. I remember that I too am posing as a fake police officer, and keep my mouth closed, besides to drink the awful American beer and eat handfuls of bar snacks. I wish Compost a good evening and hit the road myself, walking through the Los Angeles night. I’d come across a few serial killers whilst visiting the United States, wondering to myself why that was, as if the soil of the country was cursed, inflicting madness and disaster on those that lived on top it. Manifested destiny of horror. All around me flash sirens, lights, advertisements, cars, a deconstructed rainbow laying all around me. As a carcass shines with maggots.
