Flash Fiction Friday

Having just come off of a month of writing with NaNoWriMo, I'm trying to keep the momentum going with a "Flash Fiction Friday".  I've never tried to write a "crime" story before, so I thought I'd give it a try.  If you have the time, I'd love some feedback. 

The Job

He wakes up at five in the morning with a heavy heart.  Silently, as to not wake his wife, he slides out of bed and dresses; she murmurs “I love you” in her sleepy state anyway.  He goes to the kitchen, starts the coffee, and brings the steaming mug out onto the back porch.  The crisp morning air helps him to wake and he looks out over the trees at the rising sun.  He says a silent prayer, finishes the coffee, heads inside.  He grabs his keys, locks the doors, and starts the car.

At work he checks in and is given his assignment.  He fills a Styrofoam to-go mug with less-than-stellar coffee and nods to his coworker who’s heading out the door.  The place is bustling with activity, even at this early hour.  He keeps his head down to avoid the perky receptionist, who always has too much to say.

Today he’ll be working the rural areas, down by the schools, the back roads and the quiet homes.  He can’t help it, but he feels a certain relief in that.  Quiet is safe.  Quiet is good.  That said, he never shies away from Danger.

The Man gets in his car and starts to drive.  The sun is now fully in it’s rightful place in the sky and the world is live with October color.  It’s kind of relaxing, driving with the sun shining and the brilliant leaves blowing by.  He circles through the first neighborhood.  Children are out waiting for buses.  Mothers in big sweaters and pajama bottoms hold steaming mugs as they watch over their babies.  Most of the kids wave as he drives by and he waves back with a smile.  For the little boy in the blue house, he flashes the lights.  Just once.  

Out of the neighborhood he continues his route.  Down the winding back roads he comes behind a silver Honda, speeding, but not recklessly.  He falls in behind the car, pacing it.  The driver notices and slows to a near crawl.  At the the fork in the road, they go their separate ways.

Another road, another neighborhood.  He crawls through, looking for anything out of the ordinary.  Most folks are off to work at this point.  He guards their treasures while they are gone, one house at a time, until he’s sure all is well.

Back at the neighborhood entrance, he falls in line behind a white Oldsmobile.  He can see The Driver glancing once...twice...three times in the mirror to look back at him.  Instinct and protocol, those are the two things The Man has to go on, and this time instinct is telling him that something is not right.  The driver turns left.  So does The Man.

The Driver drives slowly, almost too slow, following the winding road farther and farther from the houses, then pulls suddenly into the school parking lot.  The Man stays behind him.  As he drives, he types The Driver’s license tag number into his computer.  Nothing comes up.  But still, that nagging feeling is there.  The Driver parks.  Sits for a minute.  He’s looking around a lot, glancing back at The Man who keeps his car running a few yards away.  The Man can see The Driver now, he’s young.  Maybe twenty.  Maybe younger.  The Driver cracks a window and starts to smoke, then suddenly puts his car in gear and pulls off.  The Man follows.

They drive further down the road, to a less populated area.  The Driver starts to pick up speed, he’s weaving slightly over the line at the curves in the road.  Still pacing the car, The Man makes note of the speed.  “That feeling” is washing over his body.  Something is not right.  The Driver is now looking back at The Man more than he’s looking forward.  The Driver misses a stop sign at an empty intersection.  Now is The Man’s chance.

He flicks on the lights and siren.  The car speeds up for a moment, then slows and pulls off onto the shoulder of the road.  The Man makes notes on the make and model and calls in to headquarters that he is making a traffic stop.  Still “that feeling” is eating at him.  He says one more silent prayer and opens the car door.

One hand on his weapon, the other in a non-threatening open gesture, he approaches the driver’s side door of the Oldsmobile car.  He can see The Driver, just looking down, head hung low.  The window is still up.  The Man reaches out and knocks on it three times.

No response from the driver.  Not even a flinch.

The Man knocks again, this time shouting a little to be heard, “License and registration please, Son”.

Nothing.

“That feeling” is welling up, but duty pushes him forward.  He can see now that The Driver is no more than a teenager, maybe eighteen.  His hands are on his lap.  The Man leans forward to get a better look inside the car.  He sees a blue duffle bag on the front seat.  A long black raincoat in the backseat.  He can faintly hear music playing.

This time The Man shouts quite loudly “Son, you need to step out of the car.  Now.”

The Driver turns to look at him, his eyes blank, his mouth in an eerie crooked smile.  He rolls down the window.

“Sorry, Officer.  My favorite song.  What did you say?”

The Man repeated his request, stepping back in the proper stance, hand still on his weapon.  The Driver smiles again and turns to reach across himself and unbuckle his seat belt.  He then unlocks the door and kicks it open.  The Man flinches for a second, only a second, but doesn’t react more than that.  The Driver steps out of the car, then leans against it, cocky.

“What’s the problem officer?” he asks, with a wry smile.

“You blew through that stop sign, son.  Didn’t you see it?”

The Driver just stares at him.

“Please turn around, son.  I’m going to detain you and search your car.”  Protocol.

The Driver laughs.  “The hell you are.  I haven’t done anything wrong.  Just write me a ticket.  I know my rights, Officer”.  He says the last word with a drawn-out snarky drawl.

“Kid, turn and face the car” the Man repeats, keeping his tone strong and even and reaching behind him for the cuffs.

The Driver hangs his head, as if in defeat.  Then everything changes.

The Driver lunges at The Man, knocking him back but not over.  They start to struggle.  The Man repeats his command for The Driver to put his hands behind his back.  To stop resisting.  The Driver headbutts The Man square in the chin and then suddenly The Man feels a sharp burning in his arm.  He ignores it and wrestles The Driver to the ground.  With his knee in The Driver’s back, he twists the kid’s arms behind him and applies the handcuffs.  The kid is swearing and spitting and calling The Man every foul name in the book.  The Man hits the button on his shoulder, calling for back up.  He hoists The Driver to his feet and pushes him front first into the back of the car.  He spread the kid’s legs and pats him down from head to toe.  He finds a wallet and a pack of mangled cigarettes.  With the kid spitting and still spewing obscenities, he carefully places him in the back of the cruiser and closes the door.  

The Man realizes that his arm is still burning.  He looks down and sees blood trickling down his hand from under his sleeve.  He reaches up to the top side of his bicep and feels warmth and wetness through the tear in his uniform.  He swears to himself and calls in for a Medic.

He approaches the Oldsmobile once again.  On the pavement where the scuffle occurred lies a black box cutter, blade protruding, covered in his blood.  He walks to the back of his cruiser and takes out an evidence bag.  Carefully, he uses the bag to pick up the knife and lets it fall inside.  He lays the bag on the trunk of the Oldsmobile car.

The second cruiser arrives and the officer notices that The Man is bleeding.  The Man shakes off his concern and starts to lean in to inspect the car.  The second officer approaches the car from the passenger side and removes the duffle bag and places it on the hood.  They continue to search through the car.  They find nothing else, save the black raincoat, which the Man brings out to the hood as well.

The second officer opens the duffle bag and lets out an audible “Fuck”.  Hidden under a couple of t-shirts is a small arsenal.  A Glock, A Sig, and a Hunting rifle.  There are plenty of bullets for each.

The Man puts his hands in the pockets of the rain jacket.  He pulls out a folded piece of paper.  He unfolds it and reads with widening eyes.

“Today is a day that will go down in history.  Evil shall overcome when good men do nothing.  Good men, they do nothing.”

The Man gingerly places the note in an evidence bag and hands it to the second officer to read.

“Shit, Man” he says “You saved the fucking day”.  

If only it were so simple.  

In the weeks to come, The Man is placed on administrative leave siting unlawful arrest and police brutality.  The Driver is claiming that he was using the box cutter to defend himself against The Man.  He is claiming that the items that The Man found in his car, that they were for shooting practice and hunting.  The town is divided; the kid comes from “a good home”.  Nobody seems to see that the guns were real, that the bullets were real.  The kid suffered a few bruises, but his parents are screaming for The Man’s badge.  The Man’s supervisor thinks everything will be fine once they get to Court.  The Man only hopes that is true.  

The Man sits on his back porch a lot now.  His cut is healing, but the damage to his muscle will need physical therapy.  He keeps to himself a lot, sitting silently, looking over his backyard at the trees and the birds.  He keeps wondering how different things would be if he had just written the ticket and walked away.  He wonders if the kid had pulled into the school for a reason, a reason other than getting the police car off his tail.  He wonders where the kid had really been headed.  He wonders if maybe, and this is a big maybe, if maybe he really had gotten the whole thing wrong.  He takes a sip of coffee, leans back, and doesn’t really think so.