Dave Zeltserman - Bad Thoughts

DiGrazia spat on the floor, his eyes now shining like red hot coals. “I would love to bring the piece of shit in here and do the questioning, but well-” he shrugged, his shoulders slumping helplessly “-I don’t suppose the courts would be too happy about it.”

“How old is the kid?”

“Thirteen.”

Bill Shannon stood, blinking at his partner. He felt cold for a moment, very cold, especially around the forehead. “What do you mean, thirteen?” he heard himself asking.

“Just what I said,” DiGrazia muttered, annoyed.

“A thirteen-year-old kid torturing and murdering his mother?”

“That’s what it looks like,” Aukland agreed.

“We’ve got to nail him, Bill,” DiGrazia said. “It would kill me if he got through this as a juvenile. You agree?”

Bill Shannon found himself nodding. The coldness in his head was disorienting, like ice pressing hard against the inside of his skull. His eyes wandered around the room and focused on the gaping red hole carved out from the dead woman’s throat.

“When I was a kid I used to spend my afternoons playing hockey. I guess times have changed, huh?” DiGrazia asked.

Shannon nodded again and let his partner lead him to a much smaller bedroom, maybe a third the size of the dead woman’s. It was crammed solid with uniformed cops. A few nodded silently to him, their faces pinched, hostile.

“Someone open a doughnut shop in here?” Shannon asked.

“We’re keeping the boy company,” one of the uniformed cops grumbled.

DiGrazia winked, smiling broadly and showing off some denture work. “Okay,” he announced. “Slumber party’s over. Clear out.”

As the cops squeezed past Shannon, one of them muttered he’d give a month’s overtime to spend five minutes alone with the kid.

“There wouldn’t be enough left of that shit to put in a paper bag,” he promised with deep conviction into Shannon’s ear.

With the room emptied out, Shannon got a good look at Jamie Roberson, the dead woman’s son. The kid was sitting on his bed, his head hung loosely as he stared at the floor. There was a puffy redness about his eyes, the rest of his face a sickly white. He had on the typical urban teenage uniform; army boots, a Beavis and Butthead tee shirt, and a pair of torn jeans. Long, red scratch marks could be made out plainly along his thin arms. The kid seemed so young, his face small, freckled, his eyes glazed and dull. As Shannon looked at him, he felt the coldness within himself intensifying, the ice pressing harder against his skull. For a split second he lost his balance and had to clutch on to an oak bureau next to him for support. He shifted his gaze past the boy to a South Park poster on the wall.

DiGrazia gave his partner a dig with his elbow, and then walked over to the boy, his face forcing a somber look.

DiGrazia to the boy: “Jamie, we appreciate your bravery in this. I guarantee you we want to catch the sicko who did this as bad as you do.”

DiGrazia then turned to Shannon, his expression darkening to show his malice. “What Jamie tells us is when he arrived home his mom was already cut up, with the knife sticking out of her throat. When he tried to pull the knife out, like any good son would-now get this-his mom turns out to still be alive and starts scratching him like all hell, not recognizing her own son. Isn’t that right, Jamie?”

The boy nodded, a tiny sob breaking out of him. As Shannon shifted his gaze downwards, he met the boy’s eyes. The same dumb sort of look a deer gives when it turns towards oncoming headlights. It hit Shannon hard, harder than if he’d been cold-cocked. The room started reeling. A thick shadow fell over his eyes, thick enough that he could taste it in his throat. Then it darkened and his legs gave out from underneath him.

The world disappeared as he was swallowed up in an icy swirl of blackness. He could hear DiGrazia swearing and then the boy crying hysterically. Then the noise faded to nothing. There was a sense of movement. Shannon tried to step forward. He felt his body jerk spastically as if he had no control over it.

The sense of movement stopped. After a while the black faded into gray, and then into a mix of shadows. Finally shapes formed. Shannon realized he was sitting on something. Through the haze he could make out DiGrazia. His hand shook as he lifted it to his forehead. Touching his skin was like touching a wet corpse.

“What the hell was that?” DiGrazia demanded, his teeth clenched tight enough to crack them apart.

“I guess I fainted,” Shannon said, laughing softly. He saw that he was in a bathroom propped up on a toilet. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror attached to the back of the door and laughed pitifully at what he saw. His eyes had a hollowed out look, his face flushed and shiny wet with perspiration. He leaned forward and dropped his head between his knees, rocking his body back and forth.

“That little puke’s hysterical now,” DiGrazia forced out.

“That boy was in shock. You had no right trying to question him.”

“Is that so? The poor kid, all shook up because he butchered his mom like a piece of meat. Maybe pushing that knife into her throat afterwards traumatized the young lad. Excuse me for not showing enough sensitivity to the matter.” DiGrazia’s face quickly went from red to white. “Fuck you.”

“You should’ve brought him to the station.”

“Fuck you!”

“Yeah, sorry. I’m not in the mood. I’m sick.”

Even with the buzzing in his ears, Shannon could hear the harsh rasping sounds of his partner’s breathing. He could hear it speeding up, like a crazed bull blinded by blood and rage. Then with a dizzying whirl he was pulled from the toilet and slammed hard into the wall. DiGrazia’s face was inches from his, his breath sour in Shannon’s face.

“Get your hands off me,” Shannon demanded weakly.

DiGrazia didn’t say a word. He had his hands wrapped around Shannon’s collar. He tightened his grip.

“I’ll tell you what, you let go of me and I’ll find some Girl Scouts for you to rough up. Or maybe some invalids. How’s that sound?”

DiGrazia blinked twice, the rage passing slowly from his eyes. “What the hell’s going on with you?”

“I got sick, that’s all. I think it’s some sort of virus. Get your hands off me.”

DiGrazia let go and Shannon slid down the wall, ending with his knees tucked close to his chin.

DiGrazia turned towards the door and then spun around, staring down at his partner. His eyes closed to thin slits. He demanded that Shannon tell him what was going on.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Uh uh. Don’t give me that crap. Every year around this time it’s the same thing. You start coming in late or missing work altogether. You become unreliable. I can’t count on you for a damn thing. Then… Are you hitting the booze already? Susie told me you hadn’t started yet, but I’m not so sure. You kind of look it, pal. And it would sure explain why you collapsed in there.”

“Come on. You know better than that.”

“I do?”

“I’m not drunk. Okay? I haven’t touched any alcohol since-”

“Since last year this time, is that it? So what the hell is it then?”

“Nothing.” Shannon shook his head. “At least nothing I can’t handle. I just need a little space right now.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been telling me that for five years and it’s always the same thing. I always end up getting fucked, just like today. You realize that?”

“That’s not really true. You had no right questioning that kid without Youth Services present. You know that as well as I do.”

DiGrazia regarded his partner slowly, dispassionately. His face relaxed. “Why don’t you take a departmental leave until you’re back to normal?”