How most drug dealers, murderers, kidnappers get caught originally starts as a speeding ticket. A busted taillight. Expired tags.
I fall under the expired tags category. In a matter of seconds, I might get promoted to the murderer category.
The tags expired two days ago. It’s a classic I’ll-take-care-of-it-sometime-soon idiocy all of us humans suffer. Now these expired tags might be my one-way ticket to the electric chair.
As I pull over, I take several deep breaths to remain calm. I glance in the back seat, notice a spot of blood, a bare foot, and throw another blanket over the body. I take two more deep breaths that release more oxygen into my brain, making it hard to focus. All I need to do is remain clam.
That’s going to be hard, because there’s a dead body in the back seat.
That’s going to be hard, because this isn’t my car.
That’s going to be hard, because I don’t even have a driver’s license.
My partner is supposed to be with me, supposed to be the one driving, supposed to be the one with the driver’s license.
Mine was taken away from me two months ago in a DUI incident I’d rather not get into. Honestly, the only thing I can think of at the moment is my fat partner basking in the Florida sunshine while I have one foot in my grave and the other in a padded cell.
I take one more deep breath, my finger tips going numb.
The state trooper walks up slowly, taking his time. From every state trooper I’ve been pulled over by, which is now a total of three, they all saunter up to the vehicle they just pulled over. Like some kind of dictator or judge that demands our unconditional compliance to their every wish, just that they not write a ticket.
This time it’s a male. Tall, skinny, fit, just like the rest. I’ve yet to be pulled over by a fat state trooper.
He stays upright, looking into my rolled down window, as if bending to my eye level is an act of submission to me. Instead, I’m the own who has to crane my neck up. I bat my eyes, piecing together my thoughts.
“Your tags––”
“I know,” I cut him off. “My tags are expired. They expired last week.” I tell him, “Happy New Year,” and then flash a big smile, teeth and everything.
“How’re you doing, officer?”
He stares through his sunglasses. It’s not even sunny. It’s January. The sun hardly exists here in January. The sunglasses are an intimidation tool. The reason I know this is because it’s working. My knuckles are white as my fingers coil around the steering wheel. It takes everything in me not to glance to the backseat.
“It’s a little chilly today, huh? I’m thinking Winter is gonna last us a little bit longer this time. I bet you it’ll snow before today’s over. What do you think?”
I ramble when I’m nervous. I also am desperate to avoid the trooper’s impending request.
“License and registration, please.”
Deep breath.
Hands sweaty on the steering wheel.
Don’t look in the back seat.
I swallow on a rising lump of desperation in my throat. I say, “I’m sorry, officer, I totally forgot my license at home this morning.”
He doesn’t even blink. Well, I couldn’t tell if he did or not because of the sunglasses, but this trooper is made of granite. If I tell him I have a sick baby at home, a husband with a bad heart, and monetary debt up to my eyeballs, this guy wouldn’t so much as clear his throat.
“Registration, please.”
I thought you’re supposed to say please to be polite.
I go to the glovebox, praying to God that there’s a registration in here.
There’s a paper with a one Robert Campbell on it with some other stuff. I hand this to the trooper.
“It’s my boyfriend’s car,” I tell him. I add, “He’s in the hospital with heart disease.”
Just like I thought. He doesn’t even clear his throat.
“What’s your name?”
I bite on my tongue before I stutter. “Jessica Smith.” Sounds ordinary enough.
“I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be here!” My smile falters and slips down into a nervous scowl.
I look behind me. The second blanket I threw over the body has faint pink stains on it. This is when I ask myself why I chose to use a gun rather than a rope. This is when I ask myself why I’m not a better shot.
When the pink stains change to a darker shade, the trooper comes back.
He hand doesn’t hand me the paper.
He just stands there, me looking up at him, a kink in my neck.
Something kicks the back of my seat.
I turn around to find the blankets convulsing. Suddenly a bare foot shoots out and kicks the back of my seat again.
“Greta!” I yell at the flailing body. “Greta, go back to sleep!”
The trooper moves from my window to the backseat. I imagine right now his eyes are growing two times their size. He backs away from the car, withdraws his gun, and yells, “Get out of the vehicle!”
This is embarrassing, I think to myself. All these cars driving by, witnessing this. I’d rather die than get out of the car.
“Get out of the car! Now!”
“All right, all right,” I call. “Just hold on one second.”
I’m still getting kicked in the back of the seat and my blood is starting to boil. I pick up the gun from underneath my seat and shoot the hysterical body behind me. Blood flings onto the back windows. My original plan was to kill the bitch, why cut myself short?
However, I realize the second after I pull the trigger that that was a bad idea. Although that took care of the slut in the back seat, my one shot is an invitation for the state trooper to unload his clip at the car.
Ducking, I crawl into the passenger seat and open the door.
In the back seat, the body is moving more than ever from all the bullets that are hitting it.
If this was my car, I’d be furious. However, all of the trooper’s bullets that are tearing into the body and shattering the windows, it doesn’t bother me. Crouched, I move to the front of the car, standing up when I get to the nose. Two out of the five shots I take hit the trooper.
I really need to practice.
The trooper is writhing on the ground. I walk over to him, gun in hand. He’s staring up at me from behind those sunglasses.
“There’s a camera in my car,” he grunts through his insufferable pain. “I have your license plate, your boyfriend’s registration.”
The registration, actually, is now soaked in his blood next to his body. I reply, “Robert Campbell is not my boyfriend.”
I say, “I have no idea who Robert Campbell is.”
I say, “Jessica Smith isn’t even my real name.”
I point the gun at his face, saying, “I should thank you for finishing my job in the backseat. I thought I finished her off with that last shot, but now I don’t have a doubt that she’s dead. So, thanks.”
“Wait,” he exhales. “Don’t shoot me. Please.”
I thought you’re supposed to say please to be demanding.
“I’ll forget your face. I don’t even know who you are. I’ll get rid of the tape.”
I smirk. “You don’t have that much will power, do you, friend?”
“Just don’t kill me. I have children.”
I’m no doctor, but the way he’s bleeding out now, me shooting him is going to get him into the afterlife quicker. Nevertheless, I move the gun away from his face. I pick up his gun so he can’t shoot me in the back as I walk away.
This entire time, cars have been driving by. Speeding by, to be more accurate. No one wants to insert themselves into the situation. Especially when they see over a dozen bullet holes and blood on a car and a state trooper dying on the side of the road. No one wants to get involved in that.
No one.
If only I updated the tags on the license plate. The tags are in the glove compartment where the registration was. I may not have a license anymore, but I know where the tags go and how much trouble they can get you into. Trouble like murder; now a double murder. I’m on a roll today.
I get behind the wheel of the state trooper’s car. As I adjust the seat, someone is shouting into the radio at me. I find the switch and turn it off. After a few seconds of deliberation, I decide to keep the strobe lights on. There’s nothing I hate more than traffic, and there’s bound to be a lot of that between here and Florida, where my partner is, where my third and final murder will take place before I’ll let the any kind of authority stop me.
ns 15.158.61.6da2
