M Sellars - Perfect Trust

“She was just a warm up, my friend, and she wasn’t the only one who got dragged outta bed tonight.” He shook his head. “I just now got off the phone with my lieutenant.”

“Oh, man, Ben… I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”

“Save it,” he returned. “Let’s just get the fuck outta here while I still have a badge.”

We walked in relative silence down the corridor and past the reception desk. The guard who had earlier been pushing cards around the computer screen in a hot game of solitaire was now just outside the glassed-in front of the building. He pulled open the outer door and held it for us as we exited through the small foyer.

“Rough one?” he asked as the three of us came through the doorway. He seemed totally oblivious to what had been transpiring within the deeper recesses of the morgue.

“Yeah, Joe.” Ben nodded. “But they’re never a cakewalk.”

“Yeah. Damn shame. Sucks.” He nodded in return as he took a deep drag on the cigarette he held between his fingers and then let out a cloud of smoke. “Well, good luck finding the asshole that did it.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

The nicotine-laden cloud hung in the air and gently wrapped itself around me. The pungent smell was more than I could take. The stress of everything I’d experienced over the past hour combined with the guilt I was feeling at having gotten Ben into hot water. When conjoined they became an irresistible catalyst. The omnipresent and still unexplained craving instantly expanded beyond management to become a dire need.

“Excuse me,” the words left my mouth before I even realized what I was saying, “but do you think I could bum one of those from you?”

“Sure,” the guard answered with a quick grin of smoker camaraderie then warned, “they’re menthol.”

“Perfect.” I nodded my head as I pulled a cigarette from the pack he held out to me.

I hadn’t even realized that the craving had been for more than the nicotine, but the moment he had mentioned menthol, the need within me leaped another octave.

“Rowan!” Felicity admonished as she suddenly realized what I was doing.

She was too late. I’d already tucked the filter end between my lips and was touching fire to the other with the guard’s proffered lighter.

Deeply inhaling I felt the volume of smoke surge into my lungs, cool and hot all at once. An immediate nicotine rush expanded just behind my eyes and flooded outward to every nerve in my body. Menthol giddiness warmed me from head to toe then became an icy tingle across my scalp and down my spine. I closed my eyes with a deep feeling of satisfaction as I reluctantly started to let go of the precious smoke.

What should have come out as a simple exhale, sputtered then burst forth as a barking cough. I bent forward and brought my free hand to cover my mouth as I violently hacked for a moment then wheezed air in once again.

“You okay?” Joe asked.

“Yeah,” I answered as I took another deep drag on the cigarette and expelled the smoke, this time without incident. “It’s just been awhile. But I’m much better now.”

“Jeez, white man,” Ben exclaimed, waving with annoyance at the dense scud of smoke hanging around us. “Give it a rest, will’ya? You’ve hot boxed damn near half a pack already.”

He was correct. In fact, I was working on number ten at this very moment, and the ravenous craving had only now begun to smooth around the edges. Upon leaving the parking lot of the city morgue, I had done no less than demand that he pull into the first open gas station we came upon. There followed a few tense moments of opposition from both Felicity and him, however, I won out. I celebrated my victory by purchasing an entire carton of menthol-tipped 100’s and a disposable lighter.

I’d had no choice but to give in to Ben’s refusal to allow me to smoke in his van and, therefore, ended up quickly huffing a pair of the butts before climbing back into the vehicle for the short trip back around the block to our originally intended destination.

We were now parked in an out-of-the-way back corner booth at Chuck’s, not that where we sat really mattered as we were the only patrons at the moment. The three of us were taking turns administering doses of sugar and creamer to coffee that was an hour or so beyond its expiration. Promises of a fresh pot were already reaching our ears as the coffee maker behind the counter audibly spewed hot liquid into a stained Pyrex globe.

“Aye, slow down,” Felicity chimed in. “It’s bad enough you’ve started up with those nasty things again. You don’t have to chain-smoke as well.”

“Maybe you should talk to Helen about this too, Row,” Ben offered. “She’s probably got some psychobabble to help you out with quitting.”

“Yeah, maybe so,” I agreed if for no other reason than to hopefully get them to quit harping on me. I didn’t bother to point out that she was a smoker herself. “I’ll mention it.”

Still, although I was embracing the practice for the moment, I was as disturbed as they were that I’d started up again. It had been almost two years since I’d quit, and it hadn’t been easy to do in the first place. I’d told myself that the occasional cigar was as far as I was going to venture into this realm ever again, and I’d stuck to it-until now. It was true that I’d been under some very severe stress, but I couldn’t see blaming it all on that. Something else was amiss. Some other factor was definitely at work here.

“Were either Debbie Schaeffer or Paige Lawson smokers by any chance?” I asked as the thought rolled in from the back of my brain.

Ben thought about it for a moment and then shook his head. “Don’t think so. I can check into it, but I don’t recall either of ‘em havin’ cigarettes in their personal effects. Why?”

“Are you thinking that you’re channeling impulses from one of them?” Felicity queried.

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Even when I went through withdrawals back when I quit, I didn’t crave nicotine this intensely. There’s got to be something more to it.”

“Well, I’ll check,” Ben told me. “I’m almost positive it’s a no on Schaffer, but I can’t be completely sure about Lawson. But like I said, I don’t remember any cigarettes with her stuff either.”

“Maybe it’s someone else entirely,” I speculated.

“What?” Ben furrowed his brow. “Like another murder victim?”

“Maybe.”

“Well it’d hafta be another case entirely.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because we’ve already had our quota on serial killers this century.”

I shrugged as I shook my head. “Just speculating.”

“Well speculate somethin’ else,” he instructed.

I stubbed the remaining couple of inches of the cigarette out in the small glass ashtray, and its smoldering carcass joined the other half dozen yellow-brown stained filters. I felt a need to immediately light another but resisted and hoped I’d had enough of a fix to hold me for a while.

“So,” my friend directed us back onto the original topic we’d set out to discuss, “why don’tcha tell me what I just got my ass chewed for?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” I returned.

“That’s not what I wanna hear, Row.”

“I know, Ben, but that’s what I was trying to tell you back at the morgue. It’s all a jumble. I don’t really remember anything coherent.”

He brought his hand up and massaged his neck then sighed. “Lemme cut ya’ a little slice of reality here. We all know that I’m not exactly one for goin’ strictly by the book, so I already walk a thin enough line as it is. Well, tonight just turned that thin line into a fuckin’ tightrope, so you’re gonna hafta give me somethin’. Anything.”