Revelation

Her name was Clair Jones. They found her yesterday morning on the steps of her school’s main entrance, sprawled out and beaten into a bloody mess. Her hair looks partially ripped out from her scalp, her eyes, once blue, are now red and lifeless. Dangling by her side, off one of the steps, her arm is visibly cut--seemingly by a small knife, probably a box-cutter (this guy was unprofessional). She had been cut more than once, from what I can see, about twelve times in straight horizontal lines that vertically flow down her arms. Her legs look mangled and crossed with one another, and have the same marks descending down them. I’m guessing there’s a reason for that, but I can’t put my finger on it yet.

She is almost unrecognizable, looking more like a fetus that had been ejected from an un-wanting woman’s womb, bloody and disgusting, rather than a six year old little girl that just had her life wrenched away from her.
         It’s always sickening to see things like this in the paper. I wake up in the morning to a bright, beautiful, vibrant sun, and venture to my mail-box outside hoping that today could be a different day--a day when I didn’t have to work. But after seeing this horrific sight I can’t help but think about catching the asshole that did this.
The paper has two pictures up, one of her body on the stoop, lifeless and pathetic, and one of her school I.D - a completely different story. She isn’t drenched in her own blood and cast out like an abandoned rag-doll on a porch -- instead she’s smiling. She has a beautiful smile, the kind that strips away free will and forces a smile in response; the kind of smile that flips any dark situation on its head. Her eyes are glossy blue, and oh so clear; you could get lost in them for seconds that feel like hours. Such a contrast from the mess that’s probably half way to a coroner’s office somewhere in the city. Underneath her picture is a caption describing her efforts, dreams and accolades. Apparently she was a straight A student - like all child victims seem to be these days - wanted to be a lawyer and wanted to see her father again; the typical goodie-two-shoes kid that didn’t have a bad bone in her body- definitely not enough to deserve what she got.
          I look for references of Claire’s relatives and any way of finding her address. Near the bottom of the paper Claire’s mother, Megan Jones, is identified and her address isn’t far behind. If it wasn’t so early in the morning, I would be over there already, but if I venture there now, I’ll almost certainly run into the cops or worse the FBI.

“We are so sorry for your loss.”

“We will do whatever it takes to bring this guy to justice.”

“Don’t worry”

“Dry your tears”

“You’re safe with us”

“You can count on us”

“We are professionals”

“Trust us”

“We care.”

The type of bullshit they come up with never ceases to amaze me. They’re probably over there right now, softening her psyche with the caresses of their assuring words, but in the end I doubt they make a difference- they’ll disappear with a lot of promises and no way of fulfilling anyone of them. And once enough time has passed, they’ll reappear telling her they ‘tried their best’ and simply didn’t have the resources or time to continue the ‘investigation’. Then they’ll get back in their car and talk about how sad the situation was. They’ll abruptly change the conversation to baseball or basketball as they drive to the nearest bar to drink their guilt away – entirely forgetting the pain of the mother. They don’t care. Not enough at least. I can only imagine the pain she’s going through right now --

“--I should go a little earlier this time”

I throw the paper down on my way back inside, it slaps the side of the gun I don’t use anymore. Guns are messy pieces of equipment and take away from the personal connection between crook and justice. When I take down this guy, I want him to know who I was. I want him to see me as a devil sent from heaven to crush his very existence. No remorse for a child killer. I’ll probably rough him up a bit- get out some pent-up frustration. Maybe slap him once over his head, and then once across his face for good measure and kicks. Shouldn’t think about it too much. I step in the shower and take a long bath. The water rushes down my head, splitting like a roaring river slamming against a jagged boulder. Mentally, I get my bearings.

A job is no joke for me, because a death is no joke to the victim’s loved-ones.
I drag on my white button up dress shirt, hastily pull on my jet black dress pants and pry on my cool black overcoat with my top hat and mask to finish it off. I’m ready.

By the time I reach her house the bloody orange sunset has nearly finished receding into the darkness. I walk up around her backdoor and gently knock, hoping for a quick response - she answers. The first thing I notice is her eyes. They seem so weak, tired of life. Water flows from them like an uncontrolled leak as she tries to contain the damage at the sight of me. One of her hands wraps around the side of the door opening, shaking, probably out of severe despair. The other hand grasps the door knob with a menacing vice-grip that could crush a child’s hand. Her clothes and hair are crumpled and unkempt but I guess I can’t blame her after what she’s gone through. I’m not sure if I’m introducing myself to a woman or to an empty shell. 

Fucking cops didn’t do a thing for her.

Those lifeless eyes start at my feet and climb up to where mine would be- if it wasn’t hidden behind thick white cloth.

“Ok, I don’t know what it is you want, but I’m not in the mood for this right now. So could you just—“

“I’m sorry for your loss”

“Ex-Excuse me?”

“I’m here to help you.”
She tilts her head to the side and stares through my soul. It’s never easy introducing myself to new people. If they don’t slap me across the face, they are laughing in my face. People are used to the world being selfish, dark and sad. It isn’t the angry or distressed person that catches attention on a crowded train; it’s the excessively happy person that is deemed eccentric and out of place. So when a random person walks up to their doorstep, people tend to tred cautiously - the mask doesn’t help much either.

“P-please, I’m just—“She starts tearing up. “—not in the mood for this…I don’t want your sympathy right now…please…”
The love she has for her daughter is scribbled all over here face, her tears, and her eyes. She finally catches my get-up and I can feel it coming.

“What do you think this is a joke? Do I look like I’m in the mood for a sick fuckin joke right now…?”
And there it is.

“No…that’s not my intention. Look…I’m sorry for this intrusion, but I’m really here to help. No sick jokes.

My attempts don’t change a thing, she sighs and continues on.

“…H-how are you supposed to help me? Look. Look me in the eyes asshole. My daughter is dead! Can’t you go play Halloween somewhere else...?! Please?”

“My name is ReV.” Finally she gets it.

“Y-you don’t mean? Oh shit. You’re that guy aren’t you?” She wipes her tears.
“The vigilante that’s been on the news lately…”

I can’t help but feel happy knowing that my name connotes relief within people.

I exhale. “Yeah. That’s me. I’m sorry, no matter how many times I do this, I can’t get it right. But that’s me, exactly me. I’m here to help. I know the cops have been here, but you don’t look like someone who’s been reassured.”
Tears begin streaming from her pale white face, she hunches over onto the side of her door.

“They…they told me they’d do their best, that they’d do their best to find her, but…I. For some reason I just don’t know what to think. I don’t—I’m not a bad person, but I just feel like—“She grips her fists into a tightly woven block of stone. “I want that bastard, whoever the fucker is, to pay for what he did. I can’t take knowing he’s still out there, just living his life. I want justice.”

“Then you shouldn’t have gone to the cops.”

“Can you really help me?”

“No question. I won’t stop until you can smile again”

She hesitates. As I have never had a child to lose, I certainly have no idea what it feels like to lose one. But I know my own feelings. I know how horrible I felt when I read the paper this morning. I know how horrible I felt when I read the paper last week. I know how horrible I felt when I read the paper last month. But even the collection and amplification of all those pains must not compare to what she feels at this moment. The cops undoubtedly gave her the generic assurances. She didn’t buy them. Like me, she knew that her case would never be solved, and if it was it would be sheer luck and coincidence. She had already given up by the time I reached for the doorbell earlier.

“But you could be anyone behind that mask. How do I know it’s you?”

Actually a pretty good question.

“You don’t and you don’t have to. I don’t require any personal information, I don’t need to invade any privacy of yours, I just need the info you gave to the police. If you don’t want to give me that, I can work without it or I can just turn around and you’ll never hear from me again.”

“Uhh, wow…ok…” Again, she wipes away her tears and stands upright, whelmed. “I’m sorry. This is a lot to take in…”

“That’s normal,” I try and crack a slight chuckle and as mile. Not sure if she can see the formation through my mask though…

“I mean…what if you’re not who you say you are? What if you’re someone…else…?”
Guess not.

“You mean the killer?”

She’s shocked. “I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—“

“No. It’s fine. You should be cautious. I’m just a random stranger walking up to your back step. Cautiousness is warranted. Don’t worry.”

“Uhh…ok…Ummm. Maybe—do you wanna come inside?”

“Are you sure?”

Her eyes twitch, probably searching for the sirens of police that may be nearby. Maybe she contemplates turning me in. Her nose opens to let in air to her deprived lungs. Her heart begins pounding so hard, that I can see her shirt palpitate. Her face flushes with the bright bloody red color of anxiousness. Her tears dry up. Her mouth dries and demands saliva to liquefy. She swallows a gigantic gulp. I watch it travel down her throat and dissipate. When I look up, a second has passed since my question.

“Yes….I’m sure. Come in. I mean…if you were the guy, you would’ve done something already right?” She giggles desperately. Her nervousness is obvious but I guess she figures her options are minimal at this point. People will do anything to for their children, and ten times that for a dead one. Am I wrong for taking advantage of her desperation? Maybe. But it’s necessary. 
She continues on.

“And really, isn’t it kind of dangerous for you to be out here right now?”

Throughout her home, bland, uninteresting walls and monochromatic color schemes run rampant. She carries me through her stainless steel kitchen, through her tan, plastic covered living room with the 32” mega screen at the center and up through the second floor stairs into a guest living space. She picks up a picture and tears well up in her eyes.

“She was only six. What kind of sick fuck could even think of hurting an innocent little girl like that…?”

“World’s a messy place.”

She looks up at me, judging me. “And I suppose you know everything about it then, huh?”
I had no choice but to laugh at the observation. Under the circumstances, I probably shouldn’t have noticed her soft skin, beautiful sea blue eyes, and warm smile. But I did. I noticed it and I couldn’t stop my mind from coming back to it at every second’s pause in the conversation. I had to frequently remind myself of my purpose here. She helped with that.

“So, exactly what are we supposed to do here?”

“We talk. Can you tell me anything about the last few days? When did you report your daughter missing?

“She was supposed to be home last night after a class convert. The school bus was supposed to drop her off at my house at 9. I called it in immediately when the bus driver said he hadn’t seen her “

“Anything else about your daughter that I should know?”

“She was just like any other little girl: kind, hardworking, a little crazy from time to time” she laughs lightly “ But I mean, that’s nothing that you probably haven’t guessed already right? I mean someone like you, you probably already figured stuff like that?”

“Anything helps. What about the last few days? Anything unusual?”

She takes a step back and slumps onto a cough near the door of the leisure room; I brace myself.

“Absolutely nothing!” They say things that are wet, cannot get wetter, but her watering eyes made me think twice. “ I mean look at her” I walk closer to her as she shoves a small picture of Claire into my hands. “ She was so innocent! The last few days, were just normal days. She went to school. We went to the mall. We watched a movie. We went to her father’s grave to pay respects. Just normal stuff that we always used to do before…” She pauses. “…before all this…”

I figured it was time to give her some space. There was obviously nothing left to gain from the conversation, but as I slowly walked out from the room, she grabbed my arm and stared into my eyes.

“Why…? Why do you do it? Why are you helping me?”

Sigh. “I’ve always been an observant person. People aren’t complicated. If you look hard enough and simply observe the life around you, you can see the patterns.”

She replies “There are always exceptions to patterns”

“Yeah, there are exceptions to every rule, and that may be the only real rule. But, the majority of people do things for similar reasons, and if you can break those down you can see the hidden underbelly of society. You can see the truth. You can see that the guy, who drops a quarter in a homeless man’s hand, doesn’t do it because he wants to help, but because he wants to get that bad feeling off his chest. You can the underlying selfishness that drives the majority of “good deeds” that people do. Things like that make you see the world clearer, and people call you cynical because of your clarity.”

“That does seem kind of harsh…”

“But things aren’t that black and white. There are reasons for every action people take. Reasons for everything. And who is to say what’s right or wrong.”

She looks confused “ I honestly don’t know where this is going…I want to know why you don’t just work with the police”

““When you’re part of a group you end up making group decisions rather than the right decisions. I got tired of making group decisions.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Too many times, I’ve watched punk criminals go free because they had the right lawyers and all the money in the world to shove in their face.  Watching the teary eyed, defeated faces of the parents , the sister, the brother, the child of the victim, just sitting in their seat, emotions tearing at their soul, held back by better judgment, as they watch the son of a bitch smile his way to the door….that shit pisses me off. And I couldn’t be a part of it anymore.” I could feel the foam forming, the adrenaline rising within me, but I couldn’t stop myself from continuing.
“This world needs justice, not from a group but from individuals. When we stop being individuals, we stop making the right decisions. My group days are over and done with; I’m making right decisions now. And even if when it’s all over, I end up being wrong, at least I tried to make a difference based on my inner self and not based on some someone else’s. This is why I do this, to make a difference. To save people regardless of how much money they have or how much time it takes. I won’t give up because someone else’s case is more important, and I won’t put a time limit on your vengeance. When I come to your door, your happiness is foreshadowed. I’ll get this guy. Without a doubt. I promise.”
She snaps back “Are you going to kill him!?”
“No. I don’t kill people. That’s not my job; I can’t choose who lives or who dies.”
“But! What if he deserves it!?”
I walk out of the door before she could comprehend everything I said, her last words banging through my mind. As I blew past a couple doors in a heat, I noticed something. Every door was open, except for one.
“Is this your daughter’s room?”
“Yeah”
I didn’t want to intrude but I had no choice but to ask if I could enter. The possibility of a major clue was too much for me to handle. She reluctantly said
yes and I entered the blue room, greeted by dolls, books, rugs and her bed. Nothing seemed abnormal. I was about to leave to go through my contacts for any leads when I came across a little red book on a desk in the corner of her room. On the front, it said Journal in scribbled cursive handwriting. There are people who can deduce a personality based on how they write. I wondered what they would say about her if they saw it.


May 29th, 2011 Journal Entry #1

today was Sunday and my mommy wants me to write this thing called a journal. she says that i have to cuz she says it helps make character but i don’t know wat that means. She says she did it when she was little too so i guess its ok. but i don’t know what to say. today we went to see daddy . hes still lying down in that bed. Momy calls it a coffin but i don’t know what that means. i wonder when hell wake up. i want him to take me to the park again. that was fun! Mommy cried when we say him but i don’t get it cuz hes only sleeping. Hell be back soon anyways. shes always crying now. Wont even let me turn his pictures up. i guess daddy made her mad before he went to sleep. i wish i cud make momy happy again. maybe tomorrow i can give her a real big hug so she can call me her angel again! now i cant wait for tomorrow! I should sleep now! Bye journal. bye me.

May 30th, 2011 Journal #2
today was monday. school was boring. teacher says im a good writer for my age. that made me really happy. and mommy was happy too. she gave me a biiggggg hugggg. i always feel warm in mommy’s hugs. i hope she does too. we went to the mall today. it was really cool. best part we met a man there his name was jim. He was funny. he was mommy’s friend but i never seen him before. he had a little girl with him just like me. she was fun too. we ate ice cream and sang songs then went home. mommy and me watched movies but I have school tomorrow so have to go to bed now. Bye me.
Journal # 3          May 31, 2011
today was tuesday and it was a bad day. a little girl went to sleep today just like daddy. Her daddy came to my house to see mommy. he was that funny guy i told u about before. he was crying like mommy but i don’t know why. i went to give him a hug like mommy and he hugged me tight. he called me terry. he was so happy and so was i. i feel bad for him. i don’t like when people cry. i hate crying. my eyes get too wet and then i cant see good. mommy let me stay home cuz of that man. so i was kind of happy. i wish more people would sleep everyday so i cud stay home a lot.

Journal 4 MAY 32, 2011  June 1, 2011
today was Wednesday. Momy was still sad today i cud tell becuz of her face but she always smiled when she saw me. She made me yummy sandwiches for lunch and smiley face cookies. It was good. I love mommy’s cooking. I cud eat it all up. i saw mommy’s friend again when i was eating. he was behind a tree but i cud still see him. i don’t know why he was there but he was happy again. mommy used to be that happy back when daddy was not sleeping. I wish she cud be that happy. like that man. He waved to me and i waved baack cuz he was so nice before. mommy picked me up for school and he was waiting with me for her to come. he always calls me terry. i don’t know who terry is though.


         Damn! I filtered through the next couple of pages in haste. A sick joke, it wasn’t possible! Every other page. June 2nd “I saw mommy’s friend again.” June 3rd “I saw mommy’s friend again.” June 6th “I saw mommy’s friend again.” Out of all my years working as a cop, and the last few doing my solo act, I have never run into a possibility like this. I called Megan back into Claire’s room and popped the question that Claire couldn’t answer.
“Who the hell was Terry?”
“My friend’s daughter. She died a couple weeks ago. How do you know about her?”
“Did you know that Claire had been seeing Jim for the last few weeks? That he’d been watching her and meeting her consistently?”
It’s slowly starting to sink into her now.
“What the hell do you mean!? Claire hasn’t been meeting him. She would have told me!”
         I threw the journal into her arms and tell her to read the journals up to the day before she died. I heard her gasp and grasp for air as I jammed the door back and rushed towards the front door. One more question.
“Where does Jim live?”
         It was a cold night out and Jim’s house was illuminated with lights seemingly in every room. I watched him filter through each window blinds as he paced from kitchen to garage over and over again. He was obviously up to something, not necessarily criminal, but enough to investigate. God I hope I’m wrong.
         An hour passed and finally his pacing stopped. He turned on his car and drove off in hurried fashion. I took my time to survey the insides of his house without drawing any attention from passersby. His house resembles Megan’s to the tee. It’s almost exactly the same make-up, down to the pale, boring colored walls and the stainless steel kitchen. I made use of my lock-picking skills and made my way into his garden variety home. The house was filled with pictures of his dead daughter Terry, but that wasn’t what caught my attention. What shocked me about his home were the many pictures of Claire; their numbers outgained Terry’s. He had pictures of her at school. He had pictures of her near her home. The bastard even had pictures of her visiting her father’s grave. Sick fuck. The worst part was, Claire resembled Terry so much.
         I toured the rest of the house hoping to find some explanation for why Claire’s pictures were up. Maybe he was a professional photographer and Megan had hired him to take pictures of Claire. But at her fucking father’s grave? No! This made no sense. I had no other choice but to accept the reality. He was obsessed with Claire. But that still didn’t mean that he killed her. There are lots of obsessions in the world and not all of them end in murder.
         After surveying all of the rooms in the house only one remained. The basement door. There was no wind in the house but my body came under a dreaded chill, forcing my bones to tremble as I slowly turned the basement doorknob. It wasn’t pitch black but god knows I wish it had been, because what I saw down there, in all its clarity, left nothing to my imagination.
         Blood was everywhere. Not just any blood too, dried blood, maybe a day old. It was on the handrails, on the steps, on the floor, everywhere. I had to hold my breath to save myself from vomiting under the weight of the putrid stench of it all. Disgusting. I tiptoed around the dried pools and chairs, deeper into the basement and found myself surrounded by empty canisters of bleach, paint rags and other cleaning materials. Some of the pools of blood had been scrubbed off and covered with thick rags, which combined with febreeze, was able to hide the smell. I could no longer help myself. I threw up over everything.
         As I finished whipping up my mess and DNA, I heard his car roaring back into the drive way. The devil had arrived and I was ready to pass my judgment. But I hadn’t prepared for him to come so soon. The situation had frozen me.
         I hid myself behind his stairwell hoping he hadn’t come back alone. This anger pent up in me was too much for one man to endure. Unfortunately, he came alone down the steps carrying more materials in each arm. I watched him start to unravel his materials onto the floor. My pent up anger overflowed sending me into his direction. I hit him over the head and watched him bash through his filled and empty canisters and across the dried up blood that I was now sure he was the reason for. He was out cold, so I tied him up to one of the chairs I had passed earlier and waited for him to wake. Normally, I would call the police and let them handle the situation, but not this time. All of my rules were pointless.
“There are no fucking rules.”
         The monster woke up after five minutes of my own contemplation; I couldn’t figure out exactly what to do with him. I wanted to beat him. I wanted to make him feel pain he had never imagined before in any sick dream of his. This was before he opened his mouth.
“Who the fuck are you?! What the hell do you want from me?! Huh!?”
I sat across from him, lights gleaming across my face, and I couldn’t think of anything to say or do. I stared into his eyes. His words were meaningless.
“Are you listening to me asshole!? Let me go or else I’ll call the cops!”
“Not likely. Your hands are tied and you have the blood of a little girl littered all across your floors. Maybe you should stop talking before—“
“—fuck you assh—“
I punched him. Right across the face, I punched him and enjoyed it.
“Don’t open your filthy mouth! I know what you did. I already called the cops and told them everything. They are on their way right now. You’re caught!”
“By who? An idiot in a mask!”
“Exactly. I want you to tell me everything. From start to finish. What the hell did you do with Claire, and why!?”
His face scrounged up into a confused ball. He replied, “I don’t know what you mean? Who is Claire?”
“I’m really not in the mood for your bullshit right now. What did you do with Claire? Megan’s daughter. I read her journals, I know you’ve been following her for the past couple of weeks. Stalking her. I know that you had been talking to her and calling her—“ It hit me. He’s been calling her Terry for the past few weeks after his daughter’s death.  They both resembled each other so much they could have been sisters. As I have never had a child to lose, I certainly have no idea what it feels like to lose one. But I know my own feelings. I know how horrible I felt when I read the paper this morning. I know how horrible I felt when I read the paper last week. I know how horrible I felt when I read the paper last month. But even the collection and amplification of all those pains must not compare to what he felt when his daughter died, and there is no way of predicting how a person will react to something like that.
“You really thought that Claire was Terry didn’t you?”
He eyes swell with tears
“She was my Terry. She was my baby. Mine! That fucking car crash had no right to take her away! But then I wake up one morning, and Terry is back, going to school again. She was just as beautiful as if she hadn’t gone anywhere. I talked to her everyday and it was perfect.”
“So why the hell did you kill her!”
“Because—“
“You had no right to take her life. You cut her up like a piece of meat. Why would you do that to your own daughter!?”
“Because—“
“You’re sick!”
“Because she wouldn’t listen…She kept saying that she wasn’t Terry. But she was! S-so I had to make her realize it. So I took her yesterday so that I could convince her of what she was. I picked her up from school before the school bus; she used to always love when I did that. I wanted her to see her real house and her real family, but she didn’t want any of it! It was like she died and came back hating me! And she wouldn’t listen! She wouldn’t listen to anything. I tried. But she wouldn’t listen! So I had no choice. I got fed up and tied her down her, just so she wouldn’t leave. I didn’t even tie the ropes tight, just so she would be comfortable. I went out to get her some food and when I came back she had unraveled everything and tried to run away. But I was smart. I had unplugged all the phones and locked up the house before I left. But when I came back and tried to gently put her back into her chair, she bit me! So I punished her… I beat her repeatedly, begging for her to remember who she was. But she wouldn’t listen. So I kept beating her….and I cut her to make her understand the pain she was making me feel. And then…she was sleeping again and I don’t know when she’ll wake up.”
There was no part of my body that wasn’t screaming in agony by the time he finished his heart wrenching speech. His words were meaningless to me. All I could see was Claire flailing in agony as he mercilessly beat her, calling her his Terry and asking her to do something a girl her age could not. All I could envision was the simple, peaceful life that Megan and Claire had been living, protruding with a bright future, that this sick man had just ended—and for what!? Because he was sick and misguided? Because he was insane? No!
         I beat him. I beat him like he beat Claire, leaving nothing but a half-recognizable pile off bloody pulp as a reminder of my anger; and then I kept beating him. I beat him and didn’t care for his human rights. I beat him and didn’t care for belief of not killing. I beat him, ignoring my bloody, aching fists cries for pause. I beat him until it didn’t make sense anymore—until there was nothing left. Until he wasn’t moving. Then I wallowed in my mess, slumping against his cold wall, speechless and shocked by my brutality.
         “It was necessary.”