Living With the Law

         I've been on the force for a year now, but it's funny how whenever I walk into a place for an investigation, my hand still rests on the .38 Special at my side. Somehow it's reassuring. The guys at the station tell me that it happens to every PRIC. Paranoid Rookies Investigating Calls. That's what they call me, and that's what I do.
         This call's a missing person. Sort of. A prominent news lady hasn't shown at work for two days and everyone there is screaming. She hasn't answered her phone or door and nobody's seen or heard from her. The Captain figures it's nothing, she just took a sudden vacation. Celebrities do that he tells me. That's why I'm here. It's probably nothing, so he sends a PRIC.
         The address leads me to a loft. That surprises me. I figured she'd live in some nice luxurious house in the Heights. That's where all the celebrities live. I'm not saying the loft isn't nice. The building's made out of the old stone used in the '50s. The story tall windows have been replaced, but they still look like the originals. The glass double doors that face the road have bronze handles. Nice touch. Just inside, standing patiently on the marble-design floor is the doorman, dressed in his cute suit. He's probably thinking the same thing about me. He lets me in without asking to see my badge, unlike most people. They seem to think that badges are harder to get than uniforms. I guess that's why they need protecting.
         "What can I do you for officer?"
         Great, he's a kidder.
         "I'm here to see the news lady on six." That's my own joke. She lives on the third floor, but the station she works for is channel 6. He knows who I mean, but he seems hesitant.
         "She hasn't been through here in a few days, is something wrong?"
         I can't tell if his concern is authentic.
         "That's what I'm here to find out." He's just doing his job, but I wish he'd leave me alone so I can do mine. "There's nothing to concern yourself with," I reassure him, "if you could just show me how to get up there..." you can go back to being a doorman.
         The elevator’s old, wooden floorboards - the whole bit. The engine's new thought, 'cause it rides smoothly. The door opens into a little foyer with another door and a small mailbox with "Letters" written in script across it. More security. And the guys thought I was paranoid. The door's locked of course, but that doesn't stop me. They teach you all about Law in Police Tech, including how to break it. I love this system.
         My passkey slides quietly into the deadbolt, but it takes me a little more than a minute to pick it. Must be an expensive one. Standing, looking at the door, I can think of about ten reasons why I shouldn't go in. The door handle clicks at my guidance, and I find the .38 in my palm. Instinct? Whatever, I don't argue.
         The door swings open easily with a small push, and I press myself up against the doorframe, holding my gun against my chest. Christ, I must look like something out of a bad movie. We're not like that you know. Nobody behaves like a movie cop unless they're scared shitless.
         When nothing happens to the doorway, I peak around then swing in, following my "Persuader". The place is cold and dry, like a room that's been air-conditioned for too long - only there's no telltale noise of one. The light's are all off, and the windows have all been covered with thick blankets. The sun forces it's way through the edges of the makeshift curtains, but that only serves to deepen the shadows. It takes a little while for my eyes to adjust to the light, but I don't notice when they do. I'm too busy trying to place the smell. It's very faint, and smells slightly sweet like burnt roses and Soya sauce. Weird.
         The furniture is neat, and arranged in a way that creates walls in the mostly open area. Behind the high dresser to my left I catch a glimpse of a luxurious bed with the sheets unmade. Over to my right is a kitchen table with a single chair. In front of me, a blanket sways in the window. There's no breeze but I can see a small form creasing the curtain. Cat I guess.
         Suddenly the hair on the back of my neck tingles and the cat bolts from under the curtain. I whirl in time to see a baseball bat swinging at my head.
         Blackness.
         Pain.
         It sears at my eyes, denying me their use. The front of my scalp is throbbing, and it feels warm. Probably blood I tell myself. My blood. Forcing my eyes open, I see why it's such a bad idea. Compared to the dark of unconsciousness, even the half-light penetrating the curtains is blinding. I hope blinking a lot helps, because that's what I'm doing. Eventually I stop concentrating on my eyes and realize I'm tied up. I only panic a little bit, but that's natural. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to calm down and try the eyes again. They work. A little. I see that I'm facing the kitchen table, probably tied to the chair. Beyond the table, against the wall, is a large freezer laying on the floor and a stove. Someone is swerving back and forth in front of them. I wonder if the person's really moving, or if my head is still spinning.
         "Oh, you're awake. Good. I'd thought I'd killed you."
         The voice is quiet and feminine and very, very far away. As the figure draws closer, the voice becomes clearer and more distinct, and I'm sure it's not the lady reporter. She leans down in front of me and wipes something cold across my face. I see the cloth come away red and realize why I couldn't see. Blood. My blood. She turns and walks back to the stove. She's dressed in a nightshirt and socks.
         "Sorry about the bat. I didn't realize you were a cop, what with it being so dark. All I saw was the gun."
         She turns as if expecting a reply. I nod. The knots are good ones, I don't know if I can break out of them. She must have been a girl guide or something.
         "Why the ropes?" I ask, almost afraid of the answer.
         "I don't know," she leaves the stove again and sits on the table, very un-lady like. The shirt doesn't do its job of covering her. "You just seemed so helpless, lying there. I've never had a Mr. Law at my mercy before."
         Seeming pleased with her reply, she pushes off the table and strolls back to the stove where she lifts something and brings it to me. It's a frying pan that gets waved under my nose. Burnt roses and Soya sauce.
         "Want some?"
         "No thanks. I'm on duty." The denial comes naturally. I can't stop it. She thinks its a joke and laughs.
         "So what were you doing breaking into the house Mr. Law?"
         Why does she keep calling me that?
         "Look my names not Mr. Law it's..."
         She cuts me off with a finger over my lips. She leaves it there longer than I like, but there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Between mouthfuls, she manages "I like it better if I don't know your name, ok?"
         I nod again.
         "So polite, even when tied up. I like that."
         She seems excited but what else am I supposed to do? I won't get out of these ropes any faster by yelling.
         "So, you were telling me why you broke in."
         "Well," I start out trying to think of a lie, but I can't. It probably wouldn't make any difference anyway. "The tenant who lives here hasn't answered any calls or the door bell in a couple of days, and we had a report. I'm here to make sure everything's all right." Of course everything's not all right.
         She nods as if that's the answer she was expecting. She hops back to the freezer like a child playing a game. There she stops and faces me again, smiling.
         "I know about Mrs. News, and the telephone. The phone calls really bothered me, so I ripped it out of the wall. As for Mrs. News, well she really bothered me too." Opening up the freezer behind her, she reaches in and feels around for something. Finding what she wants, she gives a hefty tug and lifts the head of the news lady out by the hair. From the way she's struggling, it's still attached to the body. The skin is deep blue.
         "I had to find somewhere to put her so that the place wouldn't smell while I was here. The phone plug helped."
         I notice that the phone plug is wrapped around the neck and the head lolls to one side. I have to fight myself very hard not to puke. She notices my disgust and smiles.
         "Don't worry Mr. Law, I'm not going to kill you like that."
         Not like that, I think, but you are going to kill me. The bonds are as tight as ever.
         She walks towards me again, this time with a purpose in her stride. She comes in real close and grabs my tie. Her breath smells of burnt roses and Soya sauce. The eyes are a wild green that lock onto mine, forbidding them to move. Slowly she undoes my tie and then the buttons of the shirt. She pushes it back over my shoulders as far as it will go and gently rubs my chest with her soft hands. Sick as it may seem I enjoy it. If I'm going to die, I figure what the hell. There's no one in my life who gives a damn anyway.
         I lean slowly forward and kiss her on the neck. Give her what she wants and maybe I'll get out. I'm wrong.
         She jerks back and slaps me hard. Once again I feel the warm blood, only now it flows from my mouth. The look on her face is frightening. It starts off as horror, changes to anger, which slowly grows into a demented, twisted smile. She comes closer again, this time I don't move.
         She licks the blood off of my lip, sending a shiver down my spine. Her tongue slowly parts my lips and forces it's way into my teeth. I don't give into her. She breathes in deeply and grabs my head with her hands while climbing onto my lap. Desperately now she kisses me. The passion is almost visible. I loose track of time -time has no meaning to a dead man.
         Then as suddenly as it started, she stops and pulls back. Getting off me, she glides back over to the stove and pulls out a six-inch kitchen knife. What am I supposed to do, shout? The floors are two foot thick concrete. Besides the rush hour traffic is racing by outside and drowns out all the noise. I wait. I'm surprised at how calm I am. I've always wondered what death is like, now I'll know.
         I'm wrong again.
         She lifts the knife to herself and separates the nightshirt like a piece of paper, letting it fall to the ground. She bends down and rips a piece off the torn garment that she wraps around my eyes. I'm not surprised.
         Now I feel her hands, trembling as they work on my belt. The button is next, and then she's tearing them down around my knees. I have to lift off the chair so she doesn't severely hurt me. What I don't need is more pain.
         Climbing on top of me once again, she drops the knife to the floor behind me as she slides down, her breathing shallow. It's hard to concentrate, but I manage. The knife is just out of my reach, but she's moving too much, too fast to notice that I'm rocking the chair towards it. Finally I reach it and manage to slit my bonds. I also slice my hand in the process. Mingling pain and pleasure in a way I hope I never have to feel again. The gash brings more blood. My blood.
         When she’s finally finished, she slumps forward, holding onto me like a lover. I wrap my arms around her and she looks at me, startled. She sees the look in my eyes and knows that I could've killed her long ago. I stand up, my legs are a bit weak, and carry her in my arms to the bed. She tries to struggle a bit, but it does her no good. She’s playing along with me now. I can see it in her eyes that she knows she’s won.
         I throw her on the bed and return to my pants to get out my handcuffs. She smiles and places her hands together. I only take one. The other cuff goes on my wrist. Now it's my turn and there’s no way she’s leaving until I’m done.
         After an hour, she's laying on the bed beside me, asleep. It's almost too easy. The handcuffs have been off for a while, so I quietly roll off the bed and once again make my way across the floor. This time I grab my .38 where it had fallen near the doorway and then return to stand beside the bed. There's no way I can kill her without someone finding out what had happened. I could make up any number of excuses, but they wouldn't explain everything. I'd probably end up in jail.
         A flash of light splatters the white cotton sheets red.
         In Police Tech they teach you everything about the law, except how to live with it.