Investigation's End

          Everything doesn't swim from blood loss. Everything drifts. The world focuses in and out, gets fuzzy and colder as your brain, starving for oxygen and nutrients begins its slow death slide. A sharp slap brought me back into focus. "You know, I honestly don't have to give you the opportunity to say any last words. You really ought to thank me." The revolver waved in my face for a few seconds before lowering. .357 magnum. Cause of course it was. Jerk probably claimed to be a Dirty Harry fan too, but most likely just liked the thought of machismo violence. Most cops didn't even have a gun like that. Mostly we use either a Glock or a .45 like the one I had hidden in my back. Now if I could just get too it.
          When he stepped closer, I spat on the ground in front of the killer, then grimaced from the effort, fire erupting through my gut.
          "Now that wasn't very neighborly of you," Jackson sneered.
          "And I...suppose....cutting people up...is," I groaned. The world started to grow fuzzy for a second, blackness began creeping in from the edges. I stared at the pistol in front of me, pulling myself back to consciousness.
          "Only if they have good taste. Get it? Good taste?" He laughed for a moment before his face went from a mask of humor to a poisonous sneer. "Bah, you cops are all the same. No fun." I felt something punch my thigh first before I heard the gun go off. My body reacted quickly after, the pain flaming up from my leg.
          "Son of a....." I cried out, my hand moving from the wound on my stomach to the new one in my leg.
          "Do you really want your last words to be 'Son of a'," Jackson asked with genuine curiosity. "I figured you'd want to say goodbye to your wife or son. Maybe to that kid you play ball with occasionally on Saturdays with your boy."
          Jackson's handsome face came into focus for a second as he leaned down close. I could see his soft brown hair, and green eyes. "Whisper it to me, right here, in my ear," he said. "I'll make sure they get it, don't worry. You know, you can count on me."
          "Right...." I cried out, then gasped for a second. "Are you still going...to use that.... Remington type writer?" My hand was shaking just a bit as I gripped my stomach, then leg. I finally relaxed and leaned back, conserving my energy.
          "You finally got the model right huh? How many women did it take you to finally figure that out? Five? Ten? My count so far is forty-two, just so you know." He stepped away for a moment, turning towards the old rotted out window. As he did so, my right hand slid backwards, towards my back. "Well, I was.... brought on the case.... four..." The world went black for a second, then swam back into focus. "Four months ago," I cried. "Took me your second letter."
          "Guess I'll just have to do what everyone else does and resort to magazine letters. Damn shame. There's no style in that." He turned back towards me with a twisted smile. I left my hand on the floor. Jackson was a weird type of killer. The kind that believes in their own press and thinks themselves as 'cool' for it. "Weird choice of last words though," he said pointing that revolver back in my face. My right hand felt cold. Did he see, I thought. For a moment, it felt as though he was staring right through me.
          "Serial number S-8848-1995," I shouted. This made him pause for a second, dropping the pistol out of my face.
          "Now, how did you figure that," he asked. I squinted hard to bring the room back into focus. There was water stains in the old apartment from where the pipes had been leaking. The walls had been painted over and over again, leaving a thick layer of white latex over them. I knew there was carpeting under me that had at one time been gray but probably was now darkened with my blood. My pistol, forgotten about by that psychopath, underneath my back. It may as well have been a million miles away. What a way to go, shot to death in an abandoned apartment in the dead lights district with your saving grace beneath you.
          "I asked you a question. It's rude not to answer," he pointed the gun at my face. I could almost see the bullet in the barrel. I swallowed, my right hand inching a little closer to my back. Just four inches away now. Four inches to freedom.
          "I'm....already...dying," I leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. "It does no good....to threaten to kill...me faster...."
          "You know what? You're right." A flame danced in my face for a second, before he flicked the lighter out. "How about I set that hair of yours on fire? You won't have to worry about it turning white."
          I sighed took a struggling breath. "Okay," I gasped. The fire in my belly was raging now, comparable only to the fire in my leg. It was getting colder as well. "You see, each type writer.... has a unique type face. The flaws in it.... like a finger print." Had to keep him talking. Keep him asking questions until I could get to my gun or the calvary arrived. Come on, hurry up, I thought.
          "Go on. I'm listening." He said, intrigued by my reasoning.
          "Well. That type writer.... was linked to a... counterfeiting case.... years ago." The world swam again, zooming out for a second. Just a little longer.... just a little longer.... It slowly came back into focus.
          "You don't look so good." He said, standing up. "You know what? That was some mighty fine police work." He slid his gun into the waistband of his pants for a second and clapped three slow claps. "Bravo. Here. Consider this a retirement for such fine work."
          The weapon came down and pressed cool against my fore head. "You used a different machine.... for number eight through twelve," I spat out. This intrigued Jackson for just enough that he picked the gun back up and threw it over his shoulder.
          "Well then, that's very good police work." He smiled. "What did I use?"
          "It was.... a Remington....as well...same model...two years newer." I grunted out. My finger tips touched my back now. Almost there. Just a little more.
          "Very good!" He said clapping again.
          "And your name is Reginald." I said still looking at him.
          "What?!" He was shocked for the first time. "How did you...."
          "Careful....to burn off finger prints.... careful to torch bodies...." I said, trying to keep my statements short. "But your...type writer.... made it easier to.... track where you started.... we have the original apartment you killed Sandra Chase in...." I kept talking, wanting him to turn. Wanting to stay alive. Wanting just the slightest opportunity to save myself. But of course, he didn't.
          "You can't," he said, now pointing the weapon back at me. I closed my eyes for a second until I heard the sweetest sound I've ever heard in my life. The distant sound of sirens. Jackson looked out the window for a second, glancing down. I could hear a bull horn shouting at the building, but couldn't quite make out what it said. My fingers wrapped around the butt of my pistol.
          "How did you," he asked, glancing back down out the window into the parking lot below.
          ".... How did they...." he asked looking at me. I smiled slightly.
          "I even pulled your cell phone off of you. How did they find me?" He shouted this time, glaring at me.
          "You're not as careful as you think," I said. "They'll be climbing up the stairs any second now. They will break down the door, and when they do, they'll take you."
          He glanced down at me. "They'll never take me alive." His eyes went to my right hand, now firmly behind my back. Then he glanced back at the door. Finally. Thankfully. I moved my hand towards my back now, slowly. Towards my pistol. My salvation. When he looked back at me, I stopped.
          "How did they find me?!" He shouted now in desperation.
          "Oh, come now...." I grunted in pain. "They know.... your name.... Reginald....they tracked...."
          "My phone," he said, finishing my statement. His face fell at the thought. He stared out the window down at the lot below again. "There's more cars coming. Looks like this will be a spectacular finish to a wonderful career, don't you think?" He turned around to see a .45 caliber pistol staring back at him.
          I gave the only answer I could. I pulled the trigger as fast as possible aiming every shot at him. The window behind him blew out, raining shards of glass on the faded asphalt below. Shock and pain shot across his face as he tumbled backwards out of it. "No, I don't," I struggled out staring back up at the ceiling. The world started to fade out again as the door to the old apartment flew inward.
          "Holy shit," someone shouted at a distance as the world finally faded to black.