monster...saying yes to the dragon
“How do you do it, Jack—How do you track them?”
Ten years working with Jack Reilly and I was still feeling like a rookie. I found it hard to believe FBI profilers made the trek from Quantico to tiny New Haven, just to interview my partner and garner a few nuggets of wisdom from him.
“You gotta get inside their heads, Bill—think like they do.”
I shook my head in awe. “It can’t be that simple, Jack—Those profilers aren’t stupid—still, they can’t do what you do.”
He shrugged and sipped at his coffee, eyes glued to the apartment building we were watching.
Jack Reilly had solved twenty child abduction cases, just in the ten years I worked with him. Over the course of a distinguished thirty-year career, he brought closure to over fifty families. I couldn’t even begin to imagine the far-reaching effects of what he did.
Suddenly, he lifted his hand to warn me and tossed his coffee cup out the window. “There’s our mark. Let’s go.”
We were out of the car and trailing a young, disheveled man in a dark coat. For fifteen minutes we walked aimlessly through rainy streets. I could barely keep up with Jack and he was twenty years my senior.
“Maybe we should move in closer, ” I gasped.
“Can’t—he’d make us in a minute.”
“Then why’s he doing all this circling?—it seems so useless.”
“Hah—to you, maybe, but to this guy—it’s his ritual, his security blanket. He’ll tire soon and his nerves will stop jumping and then he’ll lead us directly to the kid.”
“How can you know that?”
He gave me a sidelong stare and I wished I could draw my head back into my raincoat like a turtle in a shell.
“There he goes!”
We watched as the young man shifted a few planks on a boarded-up window and dropped down to the basement of an abandoned building.
“Call it in, Billy, then stay here. I’m going to pay our friend a visit.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for back-up?”
Again, the sidelong glance. “I call the shots, okay?”
I nodded.
Jack pushed aside the planks, and dropped to the floor, silent as a cat.
Twenty minutes later, the disheveled guy was sitting morosely in a squad car and two overjoyed parents were hugging their five-year old son.
Jack was backslapped more times than a politician. I’ll bet he could have run for Governor and won. Even the press corps worshipped him and totally ignored me. I didn’t mind. I was his partner. That’s all that mattered.
A few weeks later he was dead. I was inconsolable.
Apparently he had cancer for years—never told a soul, not even Meg, his daughter in Iowa. She came up for the funeral, but was a complete mess—couldn’t even go through Jack’s things—I had to do that.
I didn’t mind. I was his partner. That’s all that mattered.
I swallowed my grief and did what had to be done. The day after the funeral she was on her way back to Iowa.
Two weeks passed before Meg phoned again.
“I’ve got another favor to ask, Bill.”
“Anything, Meg. You know how I felt about Jack.”
“Dad had a hunting lodge on Sunset Lake. I’ve arranged for a realtor to list it, but I was wondering—Could you drive up and gather whatever personal mementoes you might find?”
“Of course, Meg. I’ll send whatever I find by UPS.”
“You’re a real friend, Bill and you were a great partner to dad.”
“I really miss him, Meg.”
“I know you do, Bill. I know how close you two were.”
That’s all we said. I hung up the phone and cried like a baby. I don’t think I cried as much when my own dad died.
I spotted the white frame cottage backing onto the lake. It was just where Meg said it’d be and it was everything that typified Jack—remote, rugged and silent.
I parked my SUV and went exploring. The view from the dock was spectacular and the autumn trees reflected in the lake were the color of a setting sun. Sunset Lake—seemed appropriate.
The interior of the cottage was remarkably neat—not a thing out of place. I went to the kitchen, found a kettle and some bottled water and made instant coffee. It wasn’t bad—better than the gut-rot Jack and I used to drink. It was hard to believe we wouldn’t do that again—spending hours on a stakeout, just sitting together and passing the time.
Off in the distance I heard the call of a Loon and the first patter of a cold rain on the roof. Jack must have loved it here. Later on, I figured I’d build a fire, take the chill off his house, sit and drink a scotch in his honor and put to rest some old memories—but for now, I had a job to do.
I started upstairs and worked my way down. I went through every dresser, every cupboard and looked under every bed. I found a teddy bear wedged in between the bed and the wall in the guest bedroom—one of Meg’s from when she was a kid—she’d be glad to get it.
The downstairs was easier to inventory and it took me less than ten minutes to fill the cardboard box I brought. I sat back on the sofa chair staring sadly at all that remained of Jack’s personal life. Everything else would be sold with the cottage.
It was then I noticed a door partly concealed by a coat rack—a side door to the deck? I moved the coat rack and opened it—it led to a cellar. I was surprised. I didn’t think cottages had cellars, but it made sense—it would probably function as a cold room. Another room to search.
I flicked on the light switch and descended the steep stairs. At least the cellar had a concrete floor. The walls were not insulated though and the room was illumined by a bare light bulb.
There were several cardboard boxes that contained junk mostly—old car parts and assorted bits of machinery with no apparent use. I was just on the point of going back upstairs when I noticed a small cookie tin tucked up into the rafters on top of the main beam. I couldn’t reach it.
I went back upstairs, got a wooden kitchen chair and carried it downstairs to the cellar. I stood on it and retrieved the tin box and carried it and the chair back upstairs to the main floor.
Taking the flask I brought with me, I poured two fingers of scotch into a tumbler and sat at the coffee table, prepared to finish my inventory of jack’s things. When I opened the lid and stared at the contents of the box, my mind at first failed to register the significance of what I was seeing. Then, slowly the true nature of the box became apparent.
It was a trophy chest, filled not with Jack’s medals or commendations, but with items of significance chosen from each of his victims. Jack was unquestionably a child predator. I counted thirty distinct items representing cold cases dating back to Jack’s first year on the force. The items represented one child victim for each year served.
The horror and revulsion at what I was seeing made me gag. I rushed to the front door, stood on the porch and puked over the rail. The rain poured down soaking me —I didn’t care. I was trembling, but not from the cold. A spasm started again deep within me and I puked bile now, feeling my stomach muscles cramp. I staggered back inside and fell on the couch, lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling.
You gotta get inside their heads, Bill—think like they do.
I pounded my fist on the sofa back. How the hell could you Jack? How could you do this to them—to me—to Meg?
I wanted to smash everything and bring everyone in the world to their knees. I was half-crazed with madness and at the same time filled with a profound despair. You can’t do this Jack—You can’t let us down.
But he did.
All the years of hero-worshipping him and all along he was the very thing I despised.
I couldn’t even begin to imagine the far-reaching effects of what he did.
I’ll be the hero now. When I bring this before the police commission, I’ll be the new frigging hero and Jack will be…
I saw Meg’s face in my mind’s eye—the tears mingled with pride. I looked at the teddy bear I found. Was it Meg’s, or was it…I hated him at that moment. I lay there staring at the ceiling feeling myself going slowly insane.
I don’t know when I finally decided. It was near dawn before I knew what I’d do.
I took the trophies along with the teddy bear and threw them in the fireplace. I searched and found an old box of Eddy’s Matches on the mantle.
Strike on box.
I did and threw the match into the pile of evidence and watched it smoulder, then leap into flames and then eventually turn to black ash and die out.
He had never told a soul. I wondered what became of his. I thought of Meg and cried for her. Then it hit me—thirty children—gone and with no closure for their parents. I cried for them—for all of them—but it was beyond help now and wouldn’t matter in the end.
The only person I didn’t cry for was me.
I swallowed my grief and did what had to be done.
He had made me an accomplice in his crime. He left me to clean up his mess.
I didn’t mind. I was his partner. That was all that mattered.
Great story, John! I enjoyed reading your post.
Followed & Upvoted.
thank you, lazariko12
This was a nice one-off tale. The writing was on point and the characterization was flawless. I predicted the ending ever since the "get inside their heads" line though. Very Dexter-esque. A better title and some time adjusting the formatting would definitely improve the post. Also, you could've stretched it to make Jack feel more of a hero to the reader, instead of being told that he's a hero by Bill. I guess it was a limitation by the first-person perspective. In any case, as it is, this was a great read. Looking forward to reading more stories from you!
thank you, jedau. I agree with your observations. This one's a little outside my usual lane and I could have revised it, but as you say, it was a one-off and it had some features I liked :)