by Clare Quinley F10
Two men stood looking at each other in an office brightly lit, despite the closed shutters to one side. It was midday in San Francisco but even then, police sirens could be heard from the street below, reminding the men that crime might be nocturnal but it never slept. Parallel strips of light hit the first man’s face slantwise. His eyes were wild and, in between mellowed lines of skin, the light revealed a slowly reddening tint on his face. This office belonged to the man. He leaned on his desk by his fists. This was the lieutenant. The second man leaned against one wall of the office. This was not a casual gesture. The most casual thing this man had done was kill thirteen men. This was the inspector.
Inspector Harry Callahan was the kind of man who rarely changed expression and, when he did, the change was minimal. But for those who knew him, the slightest curved eyebrow might mean he was ready to reach under his jacket and blow a three inch hole in you.
Callahan raised his eyebrow at the lieutenant.
“Dozier Iowa? What do you want me to do Briggs, rescue cats from trees?”
“Dammit Callahan, you’re on loan, and that’s that.”
Whenever Callahan was in his office, Briggs always stood up behind his desk. And while he did this for no other subordinate, it was not out of deference to the inspector.
“Callahan, maybe if you read the paper, you would know there’s something called collateral damage. It makes the press hot, and right now the press is really hot for the SFPD. Thanks to you.”
Callahan’s hand darted under his jacket. He scratched his chest.
“Briggs, when I see a man wearing a facemask in a library, trying to light a road flare over a bucket of gasoline, I think arsonist.”
“Yea Callahan, you’re a real hero. And the firefight you started burned the library down anyway. What is it with you, don’t you ever think before you go in shooting?”
“I’m sorry lieutenant, next time I see a perp with a submachine gun pointed at me, I’ll try to reason with him.”
Callahan didn’t say another word, and a silence followed. The conversation had reached its inevitable point where Callahan would gaze at the lieutenant silently. Briggs narrowed his eyes and rounded his desk to come within inches of the inspector. Neither man broke the eternal staring contest that was their tradition every time they met.
“You’re a goddamn piece of work, aren’t you Harry? If I had it my way, your ass would have been on the street badgeless last Tuesday.”
Callahan indulged in an upward twitch of the side of his mouth.
“Yeah Harry, I bet you’re real happy. But listen to this, I’m setting you up with a partner from Dozier to make sure you don’t get too happy.”
Callahan’s mouth twitched downwards.
“Enjoy Iowa, Harry.”
Officer Peacock and Inspector Callahan sat in the dusty cruiser. Peacock was a man at least twenty years the inspector’s junior, yet already his beer belly was beginning to form. Now and then, he would laugh jovially at his own jokes, which caused the donut crust on his uniform to vibrate as if lying on a taught drum.
“—so I tried to grow a beard but I ended up taking my pants off too much. Ha Ha! Good one, ain’t it?”
Callahan stared out the window.
“You must think it’s boring way out here but a buddy of mine who patrols out in Stevensville told me there’s bodies showing up all over. All the same guy, he says. Call him the Rocket Ripper cause he only kills with ballpoint pens. Dumps the bodies in wheatfields.”
“That so?”
Callahan sounded noticeably interested. Peacock put on an air of importance.
“Sure is. It’s not as safe as you think out here. We have our share of sickos.”
Peacock leaned in close to Callahan, as if to make him his confidant.
“They got thirteen reported killings this year. But there’s been even more disappearances. And they’re getting closer.”
“Peacock, this job might just have gotten interesting.”
Peacock smiled even more than he normally did.
“Yeah, I thought you might warm up to this place.”
Peacock leaned in even closer.
“You know the really sick part?”
“Do tell.”
“This guy kills only cats.”
The inspector rubbed his temple.
“Hey, what do you think about wheat, anyway? I mean, I grew up in the fields out here but I always wondered what they’d a-look like to a city dweller. I guess it don’t matter much. You know kids go there to neck. I did too when I was young, but I mean, but now it’s kids. Sometimes you wonder where things are goin’ and then when you figure it all out they’re already someplace else. I went to Chicago once. I get off the train, and the first thing I see’s a girl with green hair and a bone through her nose. Looked like she came clear from Martian Africa—”
“Peacock.”
“Yeah, partner?”
“You said we were going on a sting.”
Callahan raised his eyebrow. A gust of wind bent the highway billboard concealing the cruiser.
“Sure did. You’d be surprised how many kids come through here speeding. Guess you don’t get too much of that back west. I seen that movie, ‘Bullit’. San Francisco’s all hills and slopes, but out here it’s nothing but corn, wheat, and flat highway. You probably never had to chase anyone for speeding. Don’t worry, stick with me and you’ll learn the ropes.”
Peacock gave Callahan a friendly pat on the shoulder. A small smear of doughnut jelly appeared on Callahan’s pristine grey suit jacket.
“Good movie, Bullit. I seen The Great Escape too. How about that Steve McQueen, anyway? All one-liners with him. I—”
“Good actor.”
A voice scratched out over the radio.
“Calling unit 67. Dispatch calling—”
Callahan’s hand darted to the radio.
“This is 67, over.”
“67, we got a 417 in town on Lake and Davis.”
Callahan gave an appraising glance at Peacock, who was searching in the cruiser’s footwell for his gun.
“We’re on it.”
Henry Patrickson was a pudgy, friendly looking man who had worn jeans and a wife beater perpetually for thirty years. At current he was on his farmhouse porch, being pudgy and friendly looking while brandishing his twelve gauge. Peacock, Callahan, and mailman Johnson took cover behind the cruiser.
“He’s crazy, just crazy,” said Johnson. “He thought I was gonna take his cat.”
“Get off my lawn!” shouted Henry.
Peacock shouted back.
“Henry, you can’t just aim a shotgun at the mailman! You gotta be polite to people.”
“I said get off my lawn!”
Peacock handed Callahan his gun.
“Hold this.”
“Peacock, what the hell are you doing?”
Peacock walked around the cruiser and approached Henry. Henry’s shotgun sight approached Peacock’s face.
“Now Henry, listen here. No one took your cat. Milly probably just ran off somewhere.”
“Peacock, get back here!” shouted Callhan.
Peacock talked over his shoulder.
“Henry just needs to be reasoned with. I’ll calm him down. I’m a good talker, Callahan.”
“Milly would never run off! I been watching the news. It’s the Rocket Ripper, I just know it!” shouted Henry.
Peacock seemed to consider this.
“Actually, you have a point there.”
Peacock was a bad talker.
“And all you do is sit on your ass, Peacock. So I’m handling this myself!”
Peacock, who had no answer to that, stopped walking towards Henry. His expression was a mix of “you know, you’re right, I hadn’t thought of that” and the expression one gets when a shotgun is pointed at their face.
Peacock began to sweat, and make half-turning movements, like little twitches, as if to run back to the cruiser. But every time Peacock did so, Henry’s shotgun twitched with him and he would freeze.
This went on for an awkward two or three minutes. Then a meow was heard from a nearby tree.
“Milly!” called Henry, who ran to the base of the tree and dropped his gun behind, on the grass.
“Meow!” called Milly.
“Oh no, Milly! She’s stuck!” cried Henry.
Callahan, who had holstered his gun, ran with Peacock to the tree, and handed him his. Callahan seemed to remember that a crime had, despite appearances, actually occurred. His hand went back under his jacket, but before it came out Peacock put a restraining hand on his shoulder, and shook his head no.
“Man nearly lost his cat, Callahan. Give him a break.”
Callahan raised both eyebrows. He stared at the ground and his other hand went to his temple. Peacock went to comfort Henry.
“Milly!”
“Henry, don’t worry, she’ll come down fine.”
“Milly!”
“Henry.”
“Milly!”
“Henry!”
Callahan was rubbing his temple madly. His other hand remained in his jacket. Then Johnson came over behind Callahan, hand outstretched.
“Jeez, thanks Mr. Callahan. Thought that man would shoot—”
“Milly!”
“—someone. Probably—“
“Henry!”
“—would have too—”
“Milly!”
“—if you hadn’t—”
“Henry!”
“—been there.”
Angels sang as Dirty Harry Callahan withdrew his Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum. His aim was true. Wagner played in the distance.
BAM!!! CRACK!!! One, two three, four and more shots sounded like lightning strikes. The three other men around Callahan stood in awe. Limbs fell from the tree, along with Milly, who landed on her feet, unhurt.
“Milly!”
Henry ran to his cat and embraced her. Peacock followed him, putting a comforting hand on one shoulder. The two walked back inside Henry’s house. Johnson stood where he was, stunned.
Callahan turned around to face Johnson, and smiled.
“I’ll take that handshake now—”
Johnson’s hand had fallen to his side. Something slipped out of it. Callahan looked at the ground near Jonson’s feet. There lay a blood-encrusted Reynold’s Rocket ballpoint pen.
Johnson seemed to realize this. Then he seemed to realize Henry’s shotgun was on the ground two feet away. He made a twitching motion as if to go for it.
“Uh-uh—careful.” said Callahan. His arm was outstretched towards Johnson. Johnson looked down the half-inch diameter death tube, indecisive. Callahan noticed this indecision, and smiled broadly. He spoke.
“I know what you’re thinking, did he fire five shots, or six—”
THE END
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