2. Home Slum Home.
I grabbed the photos and the case file from the office. On the way home I stopped at the shop on the corner and got a bottle of whiskey and some Purple. I was feeling nostalgic tonight.
I threw the door of my flop open and went to the kitchen to prepare my dinner. After a few glasses of whiskey and a shot of Purple, I was ready to work. I went to the file cabinet and unlocked the special drawer where I kept my important papers. Why do I need a locked cabinet? I don't have anything special or important.
The only thing in there was a single folder marked 'Stiletto Girl'. Why was it in here anyway? I paused as I reached for it. Why was it locked in here? I sat down in the chair and opened the cover. A flood of memories came back to me like food poisoning.
The vidphone rang, and the screen said it was the office. I answered in voice only mode.
"Slimer?"
"What," I said.
"Slimer, why don't you get that phone fixed?" The old man's voice oozed out of the speaker like a rotten fish head. "I hope you're taking this case seriously."
"Yah sure, like all the rest."
"You on the stuff already? Keep it together, this is important. Keep this quiet, don't go pokin' around with the local stiffs. This is important."
"Ok, whatever, don't tell me how to do the job," I said.
"Listen I mean it, I'll come looking for you if..."
I closed the connection on him. I don't need that shit.
After two or five or ten more drinks I was ready to take on the past.
I looked at the pictures of all the victims I had collected over the four years I trailed her. 17. Not all victims, sure, some had it coming, but 17 total. I couldn’t connect her to all these, not so it would stand up, but I had a feeling, an instinct these were all hers. She was good, a real professional. Maybe that’s why I never caught her. I never came close. I’m just a hack and she’s a professional. I imagined what she looked like, perhaps like a movie star.
I lined up the photos on the floor by date, women and men, almost in even numbers. The women were killed with respect, almost like she hated to do it, but the men had rage behind them. Confident and controlled, but with rage. I compared them to the new one. Sloppy, too much rage. Rage on a woman. Something has happened. This doesn’t look like the professional I know.
I feel sad. I feel like cutting myself.
I threw the door of my flop open and went to the kitchen to prepare my dinner. After a few glasses of whiskey and a shot of Purple, I was ready to work. I went to the file cabinet and unlocked the special drawer where I kept my important papers. Why do I need a locked cabinet? I don't have anything special or important.
The only thing in there was a single folder marked 'Stiletto Girl'. Why was it in here anyway? I paused as I reached for it. Why was it locked in here? I sat down in the chair and opened the cover. A flood of memories came back to me like food poisoning.
The vidphone rang, and the screen said it was the office. I answered in voice only mode.
"Slimer?"
"What," I said.
"Slimer, why don't you get that phone fixed?" The old man's voice oozed out of the speaker like a rotten fish head. "I hope you're taking this case seriously."
"Yah sure, like all the rest."
"You on the stuff already? Keep it together, this is important. Keep this quiet, don't go pokin' around with the local stiffs. This is important."
"Ok, whatever, don't tell me how to do the job," I said.
"Listen I mean it, I'll come looking for you if..."
I closed the connection on him. I don't need that shit.
After two or five or ten more drinks I was ready to take on the past.
I looked at the pictures of all the victims I had collected over the four years I trailed her. 17. Not all victims, sure, some had it coming, but 17 total. I couldn’t connect her to all these, not so it would stand up, but I had a feeling, an instinct these were all hers. She was good, a real professional. Maybe that’s why I never caught her. I never came close. I’m just a hack and she’s a professional. I imagined what she looked like, perhaps like a movie star.
I lined up the photos on the floor by date, women and men, almost in even numbers. The women were killed with respect, almost like she hated to do it, but the men had rage behind them. Confident and controlled, but with rage. I compared them to the new one. Sloppy, too much rage. Rage on a woman. Something has happened. This doesn’t look like the professional I know.
I feel sad. I feel like cutting myself.