18 Westview

18 Westview

My name is Sean. I’m a detective for the NYPD and I’m 34 years old. I was investigating the murders of over 30 people linked to a serial killer that we call “The Optometrist”, because he or she (we don’t know yet) stabs the eyes out of the victim and feeds them to the victim before kill-ing them. The weapon of choice: a gold brooch, always gold.
         We think the Optometrist is a vigilante serial killer because all of the victims have been criminals in crimes ranging from sexual assault to murder. The killer always leaves the brooch at the scene of the crime, probably to taunt us.
         Anyway, the case went cold and I’ve been reassigned to the kidnapping of an 18 year old girl named Sarah Hartman. I have a lead on her whereabouts and am en route at the moment. Hopefully when I find her, I can reopen the Optometrist case, that is, if the FBI doesn’t take over.
   
I’ve arrived at the supposed whereabouts: 18 Westview Street. It’s a dark, damp, run-down look-ing apartment complex, like something straight out of a movie, very cliché. I get out of the car and shut the door and start down the walkway towards the building. It’s raining out, but relatively warm. I reach the door to the complex, red and faded, and turn the rusty knob and open the door slowly. I walk through the doorway and a musty smell reaches my nostrils.
         The building is drenched in gloom, and I get that bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. The dim light in the lobby adds more to the depressing feel of the place; I already hate it here. I walk past the dirty mailboxes and graffiti covered walls to the elevator, one of those old fash-ioned ones with the gate you have to slide open. “Out of service”, how nice. I look around to find a stairwell sign; to the right, at the end of the hall. I make it up the dirty stairs to the second floor and begin knocking on doors and questioning people about the kidnapping.

I still have no leads by the 4th floor. I hate this place even more. Most of the residents are ass-holes, junkies, or senile, like the old man on the 3rd floor who thought I was here to erase his memory and do scientific research on him. I knock on apartment number 78.
         “This is the NYPD, I’m here to ask you some questions about a recent kidnapping,” I say.
I hear the clinking of the chain being undone and the door unlocking. The door opens to a man in his 30’s, average looking, short hair, 5 o’clock shadow with a little bit of grey in it.
         “Thank you. Hi, I’m Detective Sean Williams, NYPD,” I flash my badge, “I just have a few questions about Sarah Hartman. She was kidnapped 4 days ago and we have reason to be-lieve that she and the kidnapper are residing here. She’s 18, Caucasian, blonde hair, brown eyes. Here’s a picture,” I hand him a picture of the victim.
         “Oh, yeah, I heard about that on the news,” he looks at the picture, frowns, and says, “Nope, never seen her before. But, please, do come in,” he says, and gestures for me to come in-side.
         “Thank you.”
         I’m a bit taken aback by the man’s politeness compared to some of the other residents from tonight. I’m still a bit nervous, all those cop shows and movies come to mind now. Like there’s going to be a bunch of thugs inside and I’ll get into a huge shootout. I have thought of the exact same thing in every apartment I’ve been in tonight. Fuck if I know if that has ever hap-pened in real life. I keep telling myself that that is very unrealistic, but still, the mind does wan-der.
         His apartment is nice compared to most; clean, smells okay. There’s a clock on the wall that’s an hour ahead, guess he forgot to set it back. Right next to the clock is a nude calendar. Classy. There’s an aroma of beef or pork or something of the like in the air. The door closes with a click.
         “I’m John, by the way, John Smith,” he says to me and shakes my hand, “make yourself at home, I’ll make some coffee,” he says.
         Just water, thanks,” I say, and he nods and disappears into the kitchen.
         I walk into the living room to two chairs, a couch, and a TV set that’s playing a re-run of some sitcom. There really isn’t much to look at; the walls are mostly bare, with bland yellowish wallpaper and stained with what looks like tobacco smoke residue. Now that I think of it, the place does smell like cigarettes. Smells like heaven compared to the rest of the complex.
         “Coming down hard out there?” he calls from the kitchen.                                                 “Yeah, kinda,” I respond, “Took me longer than expected to drive here.”
         “Forecast calls for sunny tomorrow, keep your fingers crossed,” he says. I hear the clang of something being dropped in the sink.
         “We can only hope,” I say.
         I can hear his footsteps from the kitchen. Drinks must be done. I say, “So, have you lived here long–”

I shoot the cop in the back of the head. Blood and brain spray on the wall in front of him and he crumples with a loud thud on the floor. Blood pools from his head. I feel a rush of excitement through my veins. I’m examining the spot where the blood and brains hit the wall, blood trickling down. I now watch as more blood pools out of his head onto the floor. I replay the killing in my head over and over. The way he fell lifeless to the floor, the blood spraying like someone splashed a bucket of red paint on the wall. I want to rewind and redo the killing, maybe at differ-ent angles to see how he would fall or how the blood would hit the wall. Maybe try to pop a few shots before he hit the ground, each shot spraying more and more blood– I shake my head back to my senses.
         I flick safety on and throw my pistol on the chair. I can hear a dog barking on another floor, must have heard the gunshot. Need to clean up quick. I rummage through his pockets: I find keys, some change, a notepad and pen, a pistol, and a wallet. I open the wallet and find an I.D – Sean Williams, a police badge, and some cash. I pocket the cash, put the wallet back in his pocket, and chuck his pistol onto the couch.
         I’ll make her clean it up. I go to the bathroom and open the door. She’s sitting there, calm and quiet; surprising, seeing as how you’d think a rich girl would be the noisiest hostage.
         “What was that?” she asks. She winces from the cuts and bruises on her face.
         “None of your fucking business,” I say, and I punch her in the face, “now, shut the fuck up.” I pause for a second, “You know what; I might as well tell you since you’re cleaning up the mess. It was a cop coming to save you! I killed him though, don’t worry.” I laugh.
         There are tears coming down her face, from the punch or maybe because I killed that cop; or maybe both. She stares at me for what seems like minutes. I backhand her to get her attention. This time her lip starts bleeding. She wipes it off and then runs towards me and grabs me.
         I’m about 2 seconds away from punching her again when she kisses me on the lips. I’m confused but I quickly assess the situation and rip her blouse off. I hear a cling when it hits the floor; must be the buttons. I undo her bra and throw it and it lands on the sink. Her nice, round tits (C-cup, small pink nipples, perky) are gleaming with sweat. She moans as I grab her tits and slide my other hand down her stomach and up her skirt. I start to finger her wet pussy (fairly tight) and she grabs my cock through my jeans. She moans as she comes then she stops rubbing my cock. I say, “Don’t fucking stop yet,” and I unbuckle my belt and unzip my pants. I push her down to her knees.

She looks up and me and smiles, “You have very nice eyes.”

I look down and in her hand is a gold brooch.




© Andy Macneil, 2010