by Afomia Giday
"He's too damn good" Detective Andrew Hamadou slaps his case files on the bourbon
colored desk in aggravation, exhaustion anchors him to minimal function. He's been working on this case for 9 months and the CPD can't dismiss it because the case is still active. The Sapphire killer, the press naming him for his victim pool holding striking blue eyes, kills on the third Thursday of every month. 9 Caucasian, blue-eyed males in their early 20's with their youth snatched from them and the next one tomorrow.
Andrew will not sit around and let this happen, he became a detective for this reason only, because now he can stop these cold-blooded serial killers. Hamadau cannot place the motivations but sophistication is odd for an MO that just popped up- execution-style with hollow-point bullets dangling from the ceiling like a bat. He's only seen that style one place but it would be impossible the MO couldn't have traveled from the rural village, Bodo, Cameroon all the way to Camden, Maine. No, That night died right there. Looking back isn't an option. His legal documents do not tie him to that name better yet that life anymore.
"Hey man.", Andrew's partner walks in grudgingly with his pressed shirt sleeves crumpled and his cufflinks jangling, somewhere in his pocket because it was the last thing his late wife managed to get him. She and his daughter passed after losing both their battles with leukemia. Thomas is one of the most hardworking men Andrew has ever met. He adopted four dogs and gives fifty percent of his paycheck to a cancer research program in honor of his wife. Thomas sees the best in people, Andrew always ends up the bad cop in the gray, stuffy interrogation room. Andrew glugs down the last of his cardboard coffee knowing he will spend another restless night in my box apartment like a rodent.
"Hi, any hits from Vi cap??" Hamadou says just to create conversation with his partner's piercing, icy blue eyes carrying the dark bags of overtime.
"Nah, the FBI is asking for their department to come take over the case", Tom Reeves huffs. " I think we should. I mean we can't have anymore bodies and no new DNA at the later scenes and no hits with ViCap."
Andrew just stares at him in disbelief. "So what do I have to do now for you to have my back? Change my name to Jerry?" He says grasping the thin folders carrying the gruesome scenes tainted with blood. He strokes his kinky-haired beard his ex-girlfriend hated, in distress. Samantha was this tall, slinky brunette, they were both the picture-perfect couple but there became a point where it was all about the pictures. Each time he flashed his pearly smile that contrasted his dark chocolate skin for the media while slipping his bear hands to accentuate her waist, precious time was wasted. His grandmother always told him that his work will be the death of him.
"I've always had your back. That case two years ago. Don't you forget, I had the DA on my tail for you. TWO MONTHS." His face fumes siren red as he just threatens me, croaking his finger at me like a witch casting a spell. "I took suspension for TWO MONTHS. JUST FOR YOU. SO DON’T YOU EVER TELL ME I DON'T HAVE YOUR BACK!" Tom storms out hitting the ceramic mug on the table as the final word.
Andrew groans knowing he screwed up, but he doesn't have time to chase after a drama queen. He has less than 12 hours before the night shadows blanket the earth, coating the world in the shadows and the monsters the adults of the world hide their children from. Andrew visually lays out the PD's upper hand on the case. He clips the photos up on the bulletin board after removing all the "brave" officers, he scanned his eyes only seeing vanilla. The Lord knows that he isn't any stranger to discrimination, he's stared at those hateful eyes of the white man into submission, no he certainly isn't a stranger. He starts using the whiteboard to lay out facts. The media is vigilant of the victim pool, they have DNA entered in the criminal database, they've narrowed down the geographic profile, and set night patrol. Tonight there's nothing Andrew can do, he enters the frosty air only to see his breath in a white cloud lightly tapping his nose, he stuffs his hands into the sanctuary of his pockets. He dribbles his feet into that awkward shuffle through the fluffy, snow and into the frozen leather of his car. He lays his head in peace on his car's headrest and in a second his head melts onto the sinking, marshmallow pillow into the same nightmare he's been living for a year.
1984, rural village Bodo in Cameroon Africa.
"Mommy", a little boy whimpers, smushing his little toes on the sandy rocks wandering around the circle of blackened huts moonlit. The little boy awoke to the missing feeling of his mother's cocooning warmth. He wanders around in the dark outside and suddenly the sky turns scarlett and smoke floods the grassy air into a thick smog, the chirping crickets get drowned by the hollering and coughs of the Cameroonian people agonized in fear. The one radio down the street from the fish market starts buzzing on its on and statics, "takedown…power…presidency…bomb threat...shelter...AAAA" The little boy just whined for his mother, his shrieks pierced the chaos, he felt the most pain. His feet immediately dash to the shanty his mother told him to never enter.
"Mon fils, Je t'aime tellement," His poor mother cries out, clenching her eyes as her salty tears season her face. A man grips the ebony set of cloth masking his jaw. He points the Speer hollow-point gun and POW! POW! POW!
The little boy just stares and the icy cobalt eyes framed in chalky, snow wrinkles lower to meet his dirt-colored pupils. The boy's eyes fixiate. The boy runs and runs.
"Andrew Hamadou you are under arrest for the murders of John Baker, Lin Harris, Henderson Campbell, Jonah Browne, Elijah Drummer, Aubren Merce, Ernie Smith, Ondrea Bard, David Rubarbe and the attempted murder of Detective Thomas Reeves. You have the right to remain silent and refuse any questions. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and if you cannot afford an attorney one will be appointed to you before speaking to the police." A statement Andrew has said a million times but now he's caught up confused like a deer in the headlights and the car isn't stopping. What is going on? He pondered. Dave one of the officers at the PD is resting his hand gently on Andrew's hair in disbelief. Andrew looks into his eyes hoping the same Dave that used to buy him egg benedicts on Tuesday mornings will tell him WHAT THE HECK IS HAPPENING.
Andrew stares at his hands, they're pale and lined with brown like a color pencil went over it. I bet a fortune teller couldn't have predicted this. How could you be making jokes right now? He scolds himself. He presses his nose against the window and sees a crime scene analyst pick up a Speer Hollo-point gun and bag it in an evidence bag. What did you? What did you? What in the actual heck did you do? He presses his face into his palms like he's splashing cold water to wake himself. His body is so drained that the metal tinge of the handcuffs don't make Andrew flinch. He sleeps.
Andrew is rushed out of the car when the sirens' wails come to halt and arrives at his workplace. The press is just a blurry noise that makes Andrew's head pound, someone grabs at his shirt and Dave slaps the hand away, mics and flashing lights shove themselves into Andrew's peripheral line of sight. One of the deputies put a jacket over his wild, untamed 'fro.
"Is it true that the Sapphire killer has been caught?"
"Was he the detective on this case?"
"Did he attempt on his partner?"
"How come his latest victim didn't fit the age group of the killer?"
"Was he completely lucid in the murders?"
"Is he the killer?" The press crow annoyingly, trying to get the best scoop for their publicists.
Andrew crows his neck to hear Dave and Reeves whisper to each other, "How did they get here so fast?"
Reeves shrugs wearily, he looks so worn out, clutching an ice pack on his left hook. Tom just stares at the stars drizzled amongst the atmosphere, wondering why God keeps taking people out of his life. Am I the problem? He drags his feet into the crisp, whirring air conditioning in a huff. The Lieutenant calls him over and they exchange a few hasty grunts and Reeves sits at his desk and just stares.
Dave's bare hands coax Andrew's broad shoulders to the nearest interrogation box. Andrew can't even think. He's on full panic attack, he doesn't know how to diagnose himself.
"You killed them." Reeves walks in, raking his blonde hair, and holding files. "You were going to kill me."
"No" Andrew stares up. "I don't kill."
"You killed them, all nine."
"I have never harmed an innocent," Andrew at this point is trying to convince himself. "I'm good. I'm good. I'm good. I'm good. TOM! I am one of the damn good guys." Andrew reaches to hit something in frustration but the steel on his wrists anchor him to the table.
Tom holds his hand out to calm him, but Andrew flinches. He's surrounded, the walls are closing in, his throat is very dry. Suddenly it is very hot. He needs to take off his clothes. He needs to leave.
Andrew opens his mouth to say something, but Tom gestures for him to not. He closes the gap and he screeches the chair against the concrete making Andrew grit his teeth. He pours Andrew a paper cup with water. Even when I'm not a cop he still plays good cop. Andrew snickers. The Lieutenant barges in with a bang. The door bounces from the wall like it's in shock.
"WHAT THE HELL IS SO DAMN FUNNY? YOU ARE A BLOODY MURDERER." The Lieutenant is huffing with his emerald vein jeweled on his forehead. "First black guy I hire and he ends up being the first serial killer in fifty years. Good God."
"Gary c'mon let's go. You need to sit down. We all need to process this. Race is not our mentality nor sicknesses." Thomas rests his hand and leads him out, the Lieutenant gives me a face of contempt and adjusts the police belt over his beer belly like that restores his dignity.
Thomas he walks in with his spider veins bulging out their chiseled arms, his cufflinks jangle in that pocket, it was always obvious when he was coming. He couldn't surprise you. He licked his lips and started off.
"But the person pointing that gun at me wasn't you. I-I- I saw it. In your eyes. No, that wasn't you." Thomas guides his words out, never in a million years guessing he would have to say this. "That was not my goddamn best friend."
"What am I gonna do?", Andrew whimpers, staring at Tom, for a second there he saw his mother hush him and tell him it was okay. It hits Andrew. He's become the very person he swore to lock up.
"I'm gonna help you. We're gonna get you help." Tom leans and engulfs his warm hands on Andrew's coffee, creamy, chained hands.
"Who was I? Who am I? Tell me what happened." Andrew searches Tom's eyes. Temporary psychosis? Evil hypnosis? Delusion? What did I do? Andrew rummages his mind.
Tom groans in agitation. "I woke to get a glass of water and you just walked in with your pajamas. I was about to call for you, but you just started bumping into stuff, not flinching. Something was off. So I pulled my gun from the safe and hid behind my kitchen hallway door. I snuck through the den to get to the opposite side of the bedroom door. You just wandered into my room like a robot with bloodthirsty eyes. I decked you with my left hand and when you hit the ground there was a gun dangling from the back of your ass. When I saw the gun my heart broke, again. You broke my heart again." Thomas looked at Andrew. Andrew drew his breath in, right then he just wanted to hold it long enough that maybe time will stop. Thomas tilted his head to catch the toffee tinted eyes of Andrew and said, "Sleep Paralysis. You're the Sapphire killer. You've been hunting yourself."
Hunting myself?
It clicked like puzzle pieces in his head. Andrew had received news from one of his diplomat friends a year ago that his mother's murderer got killed in a prison raid. His stressor. He actually reached the point of murder. Multiple. The fact that his mother's murderer took the easy way out sent him over the edge. And when it got to the point he only saw those blue eyes when he closed his own Andrew must've had a psychotic break.
"Shut your eyes, Tom." Andrew states. Tom hesitantly crinkles his raisin lids over his blue eyes. Tom hopes his friend will just make it all go away. He remembers playing hide and seek with his daughter, maybe he'll see her when he opens his eyes. "Shut your eyes right now and listen to me. I deserve it all. Do not make any deals- " Tom chokes up his voice, he cannot lose anyone else. "I'm not done. Let me rot and never let me see those eyes again. Now send a lawyer in. I am done speaking. GET. OUT."
Tom bows his head down like a dog. And puts all his might into closing that door with a bang, the office rumbles and for a split second he could swear he heard the press stop to listen. He cusses at the window. He can see Andrew sitting, just sitting, and giving up. He peels his eyes away.
Andrew might have killed 9 people but he's haunting way more.
No he's haunting himself. He was hunting himself. Andrew prays.
May I never reach peace or serenity with myself Lord