Good Cop, Bad Cop
The two detectives waited in an abandoned warehouse on the quiet, less traveled end of Lower Main Street for the suspect to appear. During the stakeout, the two law enforcement officers said little to each other. Although they had been partners for several years, no camaraderie had developed between them. The younger cop had always thought his partner was too square, too idealistic.
Damn bleeding-heart liberal! He still thinks most human beings are inherently good. How can he have been a cop all these years and not realized that people are scum, nothing but bottom feeders? He makes me sick with all his psychological mumbo-jumbo. I don't care if a guy was molested as a kid. It doesn't give him the right to kill an innocent person when he grows up.
For his part, the older cop, just days away from retirement, sympathized with the younger cop, even though he rarely agreed with him. The older cop had been only a child in the Sixties, but the decade had left its stamp on him. He was one of those cops who preferred to think of himself as a peace officer rather than an enforcer of the law.
I'm sure not a hard-ass like my partner, no warrior angel bent on seeking vengeance for the problems of society by cracking the skulls of drug dealers, muggers, wife-beaters and pimps. But I can't blame the poor guy for the rage he feels. I had the advantage of coming from a loving family, and I was raised in a good home in a nice neighborhood. My partner, on the other hand, came from the crime-ridden, inner-city streets. The violence and hatred of his environment left their mark on him just as the lofty ideals of the Sixties—peace, love and brotherhood—molded my character. Of course, years ago, when I was a rookie, I honestly believed the world could be changed. Since then, I've had to resign myself to the sad fact that I can't save everyone. I have to be content to save one person at a time: to get one young girl off the streets and out of a life of prostitution, rescue one battered kid from his abusive parents, help get one junkie off of drugs before they kill him and steer one juvenile delinquent on the path to a productive life.
Was it one of life's odd little jokes that two such polar opposites would be paired together in the first place? Had fate's casting director deliberately chosen them for their roles? Or had some genius in the higher echelon of the police department thought their diverse personalities would complement each other?
The younger cop heard a noise outside and went to the window to investigate.
I must be hearing things. There's nothing out there. I wonder what's taking that dirtbag so long to get here. Maybe he knows we're waiting for him. Nah! He's too stupid to figure out that we're on to him.
The older cop sat down on a large wooden crate. He was definitely the more patient of the two. During stakeouts, his partner always paced the floor like a caged animal. The older cop, however, was able to relax, although his senses remained alert for any sign of trouble. The older cop's eyes narrowed as he contemplated the younger cop's movements.
He's like a school athlete anxious for his coach to send him into the game so he can score the winning touchdown. This is the part of the job he likes best. It has taken us years to hunt this suspect down, and now my partner is chomping at the bit to go in for the "kill." The concept of a person being innocent until proven guilty is totally foreign to him. He tries and convicts suspects long before they go to trial. Hell, if it weren't for me, he'd probably sentence them, too. He'd no doubt execute each and every one of them, with a smile on his face as he does it. How does that old saying go? Something about violence begets violence? That's certainly true, and my partner is a prime example of it.
There is no crime in our society more unforgivable than murder. There is no act more heinous than the taking of another life. Even suicide, the taking of one's own life, is considered criminal, although if the guilty party is successful, he or she cannot very well be brought to justice in a court of law.
Historically, however, certain murders have been excused. Self-defense, for instance, has long been considered a valid reason for killing another human being. Crimes of passion, although still subject to punishment, are taken more lightly than premeditated murder. We're all human, after all, with a whole suitcase full of emotions, good and bad, and any one of us, if given provocation, might snap and, in the heat of the moment, strike a lethal blow. What our society does not easily forgive is the large number of homicides committed for personal gain or for revenge.
But the hardest of all crimes for most people to fathom are those murders committed for pleasure or sexual gratification. Enter the serial killers. Since the time of Jack the Ripper, these predators have terrorized our society, yet at the same time, they fascinate us. They have become celebrities in the media. We give them catchy nicknames like Son of Sam, Zodiac, the Night Stalker, the BTK killer and the Boston Strangler, and they are often immortalized in books and films.
The younger cop found people's fascination with serial killers amusing.
Some TV producer casts Mark Harmon to play psychopath Ted Bundy. Why not get Leonardo DiCaprio to play Jeffrey Dahmer or Johnny Depp to play Richard Ramirez? Ain't it just like our society to glamorize the killers? What about their victims? Where's the feature film showing two hours of dead and mutilated bodies? Why not a miniseries featuring maggot-ridden corpses and bits of mummified flesh hanging onto the bones of human skeletons? What would happen to society's psyche if someone could turn on Lifetime or AMC and see what I've seen? No one can imagine the sight of a six-month-old baby whose nutcase mother and her crack-head boyfriend put in the oven at three-hundred-and-fifty degrees while they watched the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. That's a sight that leaves a permanent scar on your brain.
The day dragged on, yet there was still no sign of the suspect. The older cop felt an annoying stiffness spread across his back. He had always tried to stay in shape, but age was creeping up on him.
In less than a week, I'll be history down at the station. My nameplate, proudly proclaiming my identity as Detective Ray Downey, will be taken off my desk, and a new name and face will be put in my place. The guys most likely have already planned my retirement party. Retirement! How am I supposed to put my years of service on the force behind me and become a civilian? With all that free time on my hands, how will I keep the memories at bay? Only by concentrating on the job can I get through the day. Now I'm supposed to turn in my badge and gun, collect my pension and spend my days fishing and my evenings playing bingo at the senior center. How the hell can I do that?
The suspect was not the first killer the younger cop and his partner had tracked down, but he was by far the most newsworthy. Named for the old Charles Bronson movie series, the "Death Wish Killer" dispensed his own brand of vigilante justice. His victims, as far as the police knew, numbered seven, but it was feared that the actual body count was much higher.
For the first time, the younger cop was actually reluctant to capture the perp.
Since the Death Wish Killer has been out there cleaning house—so to speak—the streets in this town have become a lot safer. I wish cops could operate like he does. Never mind all this "suspects got rights" bullshit we have to deal with! Only in our mixed-up world does a scumbag get the right to an attorney. I'll bet old Death Wish doesn't read his victims their Miranda rights before he blows their brains out.
A black SUV with darkened windows slowed in front of the warehouse but continued on without stopping. It turned out to be nothing more than a lost motorist, looking for number 1156 Main Street, which was three blocks east.
The older cop cleared his throat and wished he had a cold can of Coke or Pepsi. He hadn't anticipated such a long wait; otherwise, he would've brought a bag lunch with him, or at least something with which he could wet his whistle.
For the first time, he wondered if the suspect would fail to show up. On some level of his mind, the older cop hoped the killer would remain at large. Like his partner, he was aware of the drastic drop in crime since the vigilante's deeds had become front-page news.
Naturally, I don't condone fighting crime with crime. I don't like violence under any conditions. I don't even approve of capital punishment. Yet I realize that once the Death Wish Killer is off the streets, the muggers and rapists will return in full force even though they were never in danger from the vigilante killer. Our suspect doesn't waste his time on the pettier crimes—not that rape and assault are petty, by any means—but the Death Wish Killer is after bigger fish. He seeks out the dangerous criminals that evade justice. Most likely, his heart is in the right place. But when he took that first life, regardless of his victim's own crimes, he, like Anakin Skywalker, crossed over to the dark side and became what he had hoped to eliminate: a murderer.
The younger cop's hand went to his holster, seeking the familiar pleasure and sense of security he felt whenever he held his gun. To him, the feal of a weapon in his palm was better than caressing a woman.
Women! They're nothing but trouble—each and every one of them. Ain't a woman born that can understand a cop, unless she's a cop herself. But your average broad doesn't have the guts to be a cop's wife. Just look at my partner's ex. She couldn't handle it, so she just up and left him, taking their son with her. I remember it all so well. It was right about the same time he and I became partners, just before the Death Wish Killer claimed his first victim. It was late November, the day those two crack-heads roasted that little kid like a Thanksgiving turkey.
I honestly didn't think my soft-hearted partner was ever gonna get over seeing such a dreadful thing, and then to have his wife leave him on top of it! The poor bastard! I gotta give him credit, though. He handled it well. Of course, he pretty much gave up on women after that. Me, I never had much use for them. A broad can turn a man soft if she gets under his skin, and a cop can't afford to get soft. My partner is proof of that. God only knows how many times I've had to save him. If I wasn't always watching his back, he'd be long dead by now.
The older cop stood up, stretched and stifled a yawn. It was getting late. He wished the night were over, so he could go home to bed. After all, he needed his rest. But no! He might have to spend the entire night in the warehouse waiting for the Death Wish Killer. And if they found him, they would have to take him down to the station for questioning. He wasn't sure if he was up to the long ordeal ahead: the accusations, the vehement denials and thinly veiled lies, the long-established good cop, bad cop interrogation routine.
Good cop, bad cop. How easily those opposing roles came to my partner and me. I've dedicated my life to being a "good" cop. I never took a bribe, never looked the other way when a crime was being committed, never used undue physical force on a suspect and always honored my commitment to serve and protect the citizens of this town. The same can hardly be said of my partner. Oh, he would never take a bribe. He's a bad cop, but he's not a dishonest one. No, he's a bad cop because he believes his oath to serve and protect refers only to the upstanding citizens who work, pay their taxes and obey the law. He doesn't give a damn about protecting the rights of the suspects. Furthermore, he's a cynic who thinks the American legal system is a joke, a corrupt machine that is only interested in greasing its wheels with cash. Sure, it has its faults. I'll be the first to admit that there are a lot of guilty people who are found not guilty and released and that occasionally innocent ones are sent to prison. But all in all, we've got a good system, and I'm proud to be a part of it.
The younger cop felt the tiny hairs on his neck rise, and there was an anxious gnawing in the pit of his stomach. The suspect was on his way.
This is it. Oh, yeah, baby! It's time to rock and roll.
The older cop sensed the killer's imminent arrival, too. However, he did not eagerly look forward to the confrontation as his partner did.
It's just part of the job, a necessary evil. I wish to God things were different. I wish the world were a safe place where all cops had to do was direct traffic, find lost pets and warn people of the dangers of driving under the influence. I wish it were a world free of guns, drugs and hatred. I wish ....
The suspect hesitated. He knew the danger he faced. After all, you didn't pit your wits against two cops without taking the chance of getting caught.
The younger cop removed his gun from its holster and hid in the shadows.
Come on, sleazeball. I'm ready for you. Show your ugly face. Just one shot. That's all I need. One shot.
During the course of his long career in law enforcement, the older cop had faced danger many times. On more than one occasion he had stared down the barrel of a loaded gun, certain that the end was near. Although he had been shot several times, he somehow managed to escape death. This time, he feared, things would be different. He felt it in his bones.
Someone is going to die tonight, and that someone might be me.
The suspect held his gun firmly in his hand. Ironically, the Death Wish Killer took no pleasure in killing. On the contrary, he honestly believed taking another person's life was morally wrong and that murder was the foulest crime perpetrated by man. He justified his actions by refusing to see himself as a murderer; he was an executioner. He only killed those who truly deserved die: hardened criminals who, like rabid animals, posed a serious threat to society, those killers whose crimes had gone unpunished and who were highly likely to kill again.
The older cop silently said a prayer, asking God for mercy. Meanwhile, the younger cop tensed. Danger hung thick in the air around him. He could almost feel it, could almost smell the sickening sweet odor of death.
This is going to be one hell of a fight! I hope my partner stays out of it. The last thing I need right now is to have to worry about his sorry ass.
The older cop's thoughts turned to his wife and son, something they rarely did. Those memories were too painful to bear. In fact, Detective Ray Downey had many memories—far too many—kept locked away in his subconscious mind. They couldn't come out. Not now! But he couldn't seem to hold them back any longer.
I'm a good cop. Despite all the horrors I've seen in this city while wearing a badge. Despite the bullets I've taken over the years. I'm a good cop. I lost my wife, my child and my home. I've risked my neck to put men and women behind bars, only to see some young public defender right out of law school get them out again. I'm a good cop.
The younger cop had his finger on the trigger. The sweat beaded on his brow.
What's happening? I've never been scared like this before. I never—I'm a good cop. Where did that come from? What's wrong with me? I can't seem to concentrate. I can't—I'm a good cop. I'm a good cop. I'm a good ....
The Death Wish Killer faced the inevitable. It was wrong to kill a cop. It was a crime punishable by death in many states. But even cops had to obey the law. No one was above it—not even him.
He closed his eyes.
"I'M A GOOD COP!" he shouted as he pulled the trigger.
* * *
The following morning, two patrolmen found the body of fellow law enforcement officer Ray Downey in an abandoned warehouse on Lower Main Street. The detective had apparently died from a single shot to the head. According to the medical examiner, all evidence indicated that the gunshot wound was self-inflicted.
The day before he was due to retire, Detective Downey was laid to rest in a cemetery plot near his parents with all the pomp and ceremony befitting a man of his rank, reputation and years of service. His ex-wife and son attended the funeral, and they both cried when the piper played "The Flowers of the Forest."
It was universally felt among both his brother officers and his superiors that the highly decorated detective had been a good cop, one of the best on the force. No one ever dreamed that along with Ray Downey, the good cop, they buried his two alternate personalities: his partner (the younger, "bad" cop) and the Death Wish Killer.
Good cat, bad cat? Bet you can't guess which one Salem is!
