Chapter 2:555Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqcW4KvKCcN
Rider on the Storm (pt. 1)
When I was growing up my father used to tell me the only person you could depend on was yourself, and you were dammed if you could trust a single person in this world. I never believed him because for most of my childhood he was hardly around. Sure, on the surface he fit the bill. He'd go to work, pay his dues, and then come home and start the same old broken, sick cycle routine. His routine always began with a bottle, and usually ended with him passed out drunk on the couch with the TV loud enough to make a deaf man put a finger in his ear. Some nights it would end with him screaming and breaking glass against the walls. There was no pattern so I was always in for a surprise. Luckily for my mother, she chose to leave years before. I envied her.
Here's the thing about my father, for all his bullshit faults, no one would ever call him a liar, even when he wasn't sober. On the good days, without saying a word, by just staring me in the eyes, you could tell exactly what he was thinking. You could feel an overwhelming sense of honesty from the man, and just when you thought for one second things couldn't get any worse, he would find a way to make them better. Because that's what father's do. But that's not what all fathers do. Some aren't there not because they choose to abandon their child, but simply because that's what society has decided for them. So in a twisted way, my father was right.
During my divorce, the court taking my wife's side of course, decided it'd be in the best interest of my children if I wasn't around. At the time I had developed a string of bad habits. I would get home from a long days work and the first thing I'd do after walking in that house was crack open a cold bottle of beer in hopes that would relax me enough so I could at least pretend to be there for my family. When that stopped working, I tried straight whiskey, warm and dry. I didn't see a problem with it. I was so blinded to the truth I was too scared of letting myself see. That's when my life went to shit. I had become the type of man I always hated; my father. I'm the sinner after all. The child with the feeble mind. The one who couldn't process anything because all my problems were solved at the bottle of a bottle. Maybe that's the curse of being a homicide detective, and how you handle it. You see things no one should ever be witness to, do things no one should, and somehow at the end of the day you pretend like everything is fine for the sake of keeping your family happy and in the dark. Now I was the liar.
There was something my father penned before his passing, around the time my divorce was finalized, that helped me come to terms with my life as I had known it. A letter, addressed solely to me. It was the most openly sincere and heartfelt piece of writing I have ever read. Lines full of harsh reflection, contemplation, deep seeded regrets, and failures. The paper was wrinkled and torn, with water stains between the pages. It was the most human I'd heard him. The letter itself wasn't perfect, in phrasing or appearance, but those turned out to be the final words he'd ever say to me. In that, it was perfect, and written proof that my father even after death, flawed as he was, always had my best interest at heart. Thanks to my him, I have something to fight for again.
Rain pelted the windshield of my faded silver '87 Mazda 626 like small pebbles being thrown at glass. The tires were worn and were probably a few thousand miles past their use by date but they handled just as well as a washed up boxer would if he were pinned against a young, ripped fighter on steroids. He could get the job done, but he'd take a few beatings along the way. For months I'd been pressing my luck by not buying new tires. Before long I wouldn't have a choice. One of them would end up blowing and I'd be stranded on the side of the road looking like an ignorant ass with no spare. Yeah, that'd look good.
I pulled into the station about thirty minutes after leaving the crime scene just as "Riders on the Storm" by the Doors came on the radio. I couldn't think of a better song to capture such a mood. Between the chilling melody, rapid piano, and slight echo of a repeating guitar lick, not to mention Jim Morison's haunting lyrics, the phrase alone which is so full of atmosphere, the morning was indeed complimented. If I hadn't just seen those bodies in the crime scene I would be thinking of something similar, maybe just as bad if not worse. Music has a way about it that calls to mind emotion and memories. I guess that's why I've always been fond of it. Once the second verse had finished I shut my car off and casually walked inside the building. The eery reminder of the lyric "there's a killer on the road" was a sentiment that couldn't be rivaled. Good song.
On my way through the office I involved myself with the obligatory handshakes and small talk with the other detectives in my unit by the coffee machine. They didn't have much to say. None of us really did. The only topics of interest are basically homicide headlines from the previous day and the latest case they solved. It was a bragging game at best. I had pride too, but that never concerned them. My old friend Charlie Gibson was among them. To his right stood Detective Kellogg, and to his left was a man I didn't recognize.
"Tell me Cole, how does it feel to be back in the game?" Detective Kellogg asked in his Northern Mississippi accent. He transferred here a year ago last week, or so I was informed. His vernacular still managed to catch others off guard.
I didn't have an answer prepared to such a question so I stalled as I sipped on my coffee, which I freshly seasoned with french vanilla creamer and a little packet of half and half. The perfect taste. "I haven't given it much thought really," I said after I took the first sip. "I'll find out after we catch this bastard."
"As long as you don't catch the wrong guy this time. Right Cole?" He tipped his glass to me and smirked before drinking. I winced and sunk the cup further against my lips.
Clearly irate, Gibson fired back. "No need to dig up an old grave boys. Misfortune favors us all. Some just have shittier luck than others."
At the height of the tension and the unpleasant silence, Captain Michaels called for me across the room. Like most men in charge, he wasn't one you'd keep waiting for idle chit chat so I wasted no time in saluting my colleagues adieu. We didn't pause long enough to give each other much condolence, so we made a simple nodding gesture and I followed him to his office through the mess of different ranking officers and they're paper filled desks.
