Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

Owen looked at him with contempt. “You gotta learn how to load it first, dumbass. Maybe you ain‘t big enough to wear the big boy pants.”

“Hurry the fuck up. Before those things run off.”

They were hunkered down under the steel bridge that spanned the Willamette, the dark riverwater moving slowly below them. Empty cans of Pabst scattered around, two fresh ones sweating cold in the plastic bag. The air was warm, pushing the stink of the river up the banks.

Owen had seen that old Enfield in his granddad‘s cellar since he was seven years old. Once, when he was ten, he pushed a chair up to the wall and climbed up just to touch it. The black metal was cold to his fingers but the wood felt warm. His grandfather had caught him just as he was trying to lift it from its cradle and Owen had gotten a sharp crack over the ear for it. After that the old man kept the basement locked but Owen never forgot about the gun. Now that his grandfather rarely left his bedroom, Owen took it whenever he wanted. Justin wanted to shoot it so they got the beer and the gun and headed down to the river. There were raccoons and cats down there among the broken bikes and appliances dumped from the roadside and the boys had taken to shooting at them late at night. But tonight was different, tonight they got lucky. There were dogs.

God knows where they came from. Six, maybe seven. Hard to tell at this distance. Big and mangy looking. Strays for sure. They swarmed over something down in the weeds, scrapping over it. Teeth snapping and jaws popping. Feeding time.

Justin tossed his can away. “Lemme shoot already.”

Owen sighed and handed him the rifle. “Here”.

Justin rolled onto his belly in the dirt, aimed and fired. It was that quick. He jumped back at the recoil and whined. Owen watched the dogs bolt away then circle back. They sniffed the air then tore back into the thing in the weeds.

“Fuck are they eating down there?” Justin looked through the scope, watching them feed.

“You missed.”

“You‘re fat.”

Owen took the rifle back and now he lay on his gut in the dirt. He put his cheek to the stock and squinted down the scope. He recalled everything he knew about firing a rifle, all of it schooled from a Punisher comic book. Draw your aim, hold your breath and squeeze the trigger slowly. Bang.

He jolted from the kick but quickly re-aligned the gun and looked down the scope. One of the dogs was flopping in the weeds, twitching in a spastic fit. “Shit,” he said. “Did I hit it?”

The dog was still by the time they walked down there. It wasn‘t dead, just lying on its side, tongue flat on the ground and peppered with dirt. It panted, the ribcage undulating up and down. The boys stood over it, watching it die. Neither one horrified or repulsed. Justin spat on it.

“Lucky shot, is all.”

Owen smirked, watching the dog‘s legs kick. Justin moved on, trampling down the weeds. Looking to see what the dogs were scrapping over.

“Fuck me.”

Justin lurched away and puked. Owen stepped up and saw what was there. Limbs. Legs and feet. An arm. The core of the body had been chewed up and eaten. There wasn‘t even a face. All of it pulled apart like jerky by the hungry dogs. Owen backed away from it and looked around. The dogs were long gone.

JOHN GALLAGHER SMILED as he pushed the shitbag up against the chain link. The guy looked antsy and sweaty in his green parka, and that made Gallagher happy. Few things were as satisfying as watching the eyes of some screwhead when he realizes his world has turned instantly to shit.

Gallagher had been with the Portland Police Bureau for sixteen years, the last eight as a detective with Homicide Detail. And nothing topped working homicide. Ninety percent of the job was braindead boring but the other tiny percentage of piecing together murders and tracking down perps was unlike anything else. The methods one chose to pursue the job were key and John Gallagher led more with his guts than his head and that had consequences. His internal file was stuffed fat with reprimands, warnings and final warnings about his aggressive methods but all of that was balanced against a clean closure rate. The complaints and threatened lawsuits from banged-up suspects were silenced by a clean evidence trail that pinned the son of a bitch to the wall. Just like this shitbag in the parka.

“Hey man, we just wanna talk”, Detective Roberts said, holding up his palms. Roberts was older than Gallagher, clocking down this side of fifty. Cautious and methodical. He hated working with Gallagher and the feeling was mutual. Fourteen hours earlier, they had been at the hospital, looking down at a woman who had died shortly after arrival. She had been beaten and tossed down a flight of stairs in some godawful tenement in No Po. They went to work looking for the woman‘s boyfriend and voila. Now the part Roberts hated, playing peacemaker off Gallagher‘s wolverine schtick.

“Wasn‘t me.” The man in the parka clucked his teeth with impatience. “Go piss on somebody else‘s life.”

“We will, chief”. Gallagher pushed him one more time. “Soon as we‘re done pissing all over yours”.

“Fuck you.”

Parka Man walked away. He bumped Gallagher‘s shoulder on the way and that was all it took. Gallagher smiled. Oh Christ, thought Roberts.

Gallagher kicked the man‘s knee out and he collapsed inward. Parka Man hit the sidewalk bald, found Gallagher‘s knee on his throat.

“Fucking kill you, bitch”, was all Parka got out before he choked.

“See, a bitch is why we‘re here, chief.” Gallagher jammed his knee into the man‘s windpipe. Still smiling. “You put your woman in the hospital yesterday.”

“Fucking told you. Wasn‘t me.”

“How original.”

“Easy, Gallagher.” Roberts scanned the alley for onlookers. “There‘s people around.”

Gallagher ignored him. “Your woman died in hospital yesterday after you stomped her face to hamburger. You know what that means, chief?”

The man seethed through clenched teeth. Gallagher hauled him up. “On your feet, asswipe.”

Parka Man sprang, cracking his skull into Gallagher‘s nose. Blinding pain.

Roberts flinched, then reached for his service issue. Too slow, too old. The man barreled into him like a tackling sled. Roberts hit the ground hard and Parka Man stomped on his guts then ran. But he didn‘t get far, hit full freight by Gallagher. Face to the pavement. Gallagher pummeled the guy mercilessly until he curled into a ball to protect himself.

Gallagher let up, caught his breath. “Roberts”, he hollered, “you want a turn?”

No response. Detective Roberts was still on the ground and he wasn‘t moving.

LIEUTENANT MIKE VOGEL was trying to get off the phone but the damn thing kept ringing. He had big, meaty hands with thick fingers and his cell phone looked like a kid‘s toy in his big mitt. How he pushed those little keys correctly was anyone‘s guess. Vogel was a monster with Popeye forearms and a huge trunk. With his shaved head and permanent scowl, he still looked like the wrestler he was twenty years ago. He was spry and agile for such a big guy and back then, the old-timers in the amateur leagues all agreed he was the best thing to come out of Multnomah county in a long time. His professional tag was Bone Slab Vogel, which he prided himself on. It had a nice horror movie ring to it.

The Lieutenant kept a picture from his glory days, framed and hung on his office wall. Twenty-two years old with a full head of hair, spandex pants and lace-up boots, the whole deal. His press kit photo, Bone Slab posing for the camera with muscles flexed and fury in his eyes.

There was another picture of Bone Slab Vogel floating around the offices of Central Precinct. This one showed Bone Slab shaking hands with Hulk Hogan himself. Big smile, oiled biceps and locks flowing. The problem was the shiny pants Bone Slab was wearing at the time. No word of lie, they were bright red with sequins. His manager‘s idea. Someone in the Homicide Detail had found this photo, framed it and now it moved mysteriously through the office. Sometimes it hung in the main hallway, other times in the kitchen, always askew like it had been hung quickly. A couple times it hung in the men‘s room on the main floor and once in the women‘s bathroom, where it remained undisturbed for a month. Vogel would gripe about it, threatening to smash it but then it would disappear for a while again, waiting like some phantom to reappear in some other location.