seymoure | Chapter 9

Chapter 9
“Evidence”

Lt. Dan “Hacksaw” Peterson walked down the 48 steps from the Detective’s Room to the evidence locker with an arm full of evidence on one side, and a threateningly full cup of rotten coffee in his one free hand. Detective Soo made the coffee and someone (it was Peterson’s joke, so he never got tired of it) should have sued him about it.

The corrider was empty between the stairs and the window behind which Sgt. Molly Shire waited to catalog all the intake of evidence from the day, so she could go home to her brood.

Peterson slopped coffee on the floor as he made a vain shot at drinking enough to stop the cup from spilling.

“I’m not cleaning that up. If anyone slips on it, it’s your retirement account it comes out of, not mine.” Shire chided him, with mock anger.

“I’m a detective, we don’t clean things up,” He shot back, “Unless the Mayor’s family is involved.”

Both of the Police Officers laughed.

Peterson stepped up to the window and placed his bundle on the counter.

“Anything to retrieve the day from total and complete boredom?” Molly said as she opened her book and prepared to start writing.

“Two books, the same title,” He said as he liberated the tomes from the mass of paper, “Both involved in two different murders, in two different parts of town.”

She looked up at him, “Some kind of serial thing?”

“You’d think so, but there was absolutely nothing else in common. One was a geeky collector; the other was a low life crook.”

“Well, I don’t explain anything,” Shire said, “I just lock it up till it’s needed.”

“That’s how I feel about the crooks,” Peterson said.

She turned the book to him, “Well, you sign here and it all goes from your possession and into mine.”

“I’d be happy to . . .” He said taking the pen from her hand and then he froze.

After a second she realized this wasn’t a joke, something was wrong.

At that instant a long machete came through the detective’s neck, cut across the surface and finished its progress until his head dropped off the tall policeman’s neck.

Shire reached for her service pistol as she recognized the killer behind him. It was Selic McMahon, the most vicious serial killer in the city’s history. She had been reading a book about him just today.

Selic McMahon had died at the turn of the century.

She got off the first shot as he faded from existence.

The hallway was instantly full of police personnel. Molly Shire had no idea what to tell them.

The two books fell off the counter and onto the floor.

Somewhere, somebody laughed. It sent a shiver up the spine of everyone present.