Chapter 12 - the Prince of Darkness
Left alone while those two went on the little operation, I had little to do. Did a few minutes of channel surfing, I didn't feel like doing nothing while my lawyer and her investigator were doing all the heavy lifting. She has more channels on her cable and internet packages than I've ever seen before in my life. The problem watching TV at her townhouse, isn't that there isn't enough to choose from. Its actually the opposite. Its too much.
It takes you about an hour or more, just to look at all the channels. Anything you earmarked to maybe watch? By the time you get through everything bouncing a few seconds on every channel looking... you go back to your fallback choice? Its almost over. Its complete overload. I'm no big sports watcher, and I've heard her say more than once that neither is she or her girlfriend.
She has the big sports channel package along with about everything else, though. I asked her what was the point. She shrugged. When you entertain, have clients and co-workers over? The guys will sit and entertain themselves. Is that what it is to be rich, or successful enough like her that its tantamount to rich in my book. You buy and lease things as much or even more for the benefit of everyone else, more so than for yourself.
And people make fun of me for being something of a minimalist in many things. My shots I take weekly and now a little "top up" if I hit a really bad patch... have me calm and logical and introspective about everything. I can think about anything and everything, with complete clinical detachment.
For instance. I feel my love life is shredded for perhaps good, if not for the longest time and that's a best case scenario if ever at all. If I could even have a relationship? I know on one or really more levels I'm attracted to my legal eagle. Looks fine. I like intellectual women, and serious women. Career women if there's no rampant "girl boss" thing going on. Its silly to even daydream. I am ruined, and even if I wasn't? She beyond unavailable. Hell, she prefers other women exclusively.
Going by looks alone? Her girlfriend is rather fetching to me. I like tomboys, female athletes. Taller and stronger women. On looks alone? Her girlfriend looks like a good deal. First blush, over dinner? Huh. Pretty good catch you got there, little eagle. Then, holy shit. Out comes the 4 year old toddler tantrums, and they won't quit. I haven't seen the equal of it before, outside of actual toddlers. Wow, what a hot mess.
Looks good though.
I'd say I don't know what would have became of me without my lawyer saving me, but I do. The cops would have used me and thrown me away like a tissue you blow your nose on and toss when its soggy and no longer useful. Even without that, the physical, intellectual and emotional pain you experience going through what I did? Is positively exquisite. It makes a bad toothache seem like a trip to the candy store.
Just the physical pain of how hard your guts wrench up into knots every time you see the image of your fiance's murder scene flash before your eyes, is like being hit in the solar plexus with a sledgehammer. Hunting around for the bad smell, moments before yanking the curtain to the bathtub back... ouch.
I'm no weak person, and honestly never understood depression and suicide from it. Now? Oh yeah. Without the shots, toss in the cops didn't get run off by my guardian angel... sure. I could see it. It would have become a mercy killing. I'd just be granting myself that mercy, not for something or someone I loved that was suffering beyond the pale with no chance of recovery.
A couple of weeks of shots, and I now can go on. More or less. There's no skipping to work like the old days, but I can survive now. Survive, not thrive. Exist, not live. I knew how important my Rain was, and... okay. I can't obsess on this. It happens naturally every time the damn image flashes and stays in front of my eyes already. No need to dwell on it between PTSD poster flashes.
Life is pain now.
The only real enjoyment now is walking in the rain. And if it isn't enjoyment? Then its the temporary halt of the constant physical and emotional pain. Which makes it feel like enjoyment. Where could I move to. Where I could live and work, and its always raining. Hmm. Didn't a buddy online from Mississippi say they have an extended rain season down there? Food for thought. I could search America, state by state and county by county... checking rainfall averages. The highest? Goes to the top of the list to relocate there. Take the top ten rainfall counties, and see what there was for programming work in the area.
There's gotta be somewhere I can go, after all this is over. It will end, one way or the other... eventually. Because, as I've stated before. Every routine, no matter how grand of a groove or how shitty of a rut, ends sooner or later. Its just a matter of time. This is obviously no groove I'm in, this is shit.
There's no real winning here.
There's only degrees of losing.
I idly surfed the internet just to be doing something, and ran across a meme. Its one of those puppet memes. The puppet is portrayed as saying something. He's looking out the window, wistfully. Its raining. That, the raining and his wistful pose? Is what made me notice it by the way, and for obvious reasons. Then, the caption.
"Just sitting here, thinking about all the guys that committed suicide, and could have went on a shooting spree instead."
Gallows humor. Laconic as hell. Yet, some truth in it. If you do really want to check out, why not check out with a bang. If they get you? The hell you out, you wanted to be dead. If you win? You can do it again, until you get what you wanted in the first place anyways, which was of course to be granted the mercy of death.
Wow. I could never go on one of those reprehensible kill for thrill sprees. Killing innocent people. That's retarded. Yet... taking out people that deserved it anyways? Almost a noble endeavor. I looked it up. Didn't take long, we live in a strange world. This world, the best of all possible worlds, you know.
Crack house. Filled with crack assholes. Dealers, addicts. Pimps and prostitutes. Your typical shit show and every town has at least one of these little temples of all faiths. Some towns are even graced with several. Just go to any shit-hole of a neighborhood, easy to locate such a thing. What used to be confined to the worst parts of the big city? Has now helpfully been brought to all small towns across America.
Here in Pennsylvania, you need a shit-hole of a small town to locate something like that? You won't need to go far. So, I can relate to the story.
Dad. Had a wife and a kid. Ordinary guy, looked like a nice job, cute wife and kid. Hey, guy was living the dream. Wasn't clear in hindsight, but the mom and kid were out, and... one of them saw something go down. Cops were questioning them, trying to get a handle on who did what to whom, where and why and when. Before anything could shake out? Some head crack asshole decided to eliminate the problem, and either shot the mom and took the kid out as well... or went after the kid and mom bought the farm too.
Either way, guy was... hey, I know the boat he was in. This guy though, ordinary to hell and back. No one would have suspected a thing. About two years later? Without a threat, a word, nothing. He just walks down the street on a fine spring day. Walks right into the crack den and just jacks two big semi automatic pistols and simply goes, to, work.
By all accounts? He was calm as a cucumber. Waltzed right in, and just went to it. Started taking everyone in the crack den out, like he was ordering a pizza. Good lord, he greased everyone. One person survived, but only barely and they're shitting in a bag and had to have their throat rerouted. That's who lived, if you wanna call that "living", to tell the tale.
He took one in the shoulder but it wasn't fatal, he would have lived easily. The police showed up though, before he could walk out as calm as he walked in, and... instead of pinning a medal on the guy, they had one of those typical standoffs. Instead of eating one of his own rounds, or coming out with his hands up? The guy begged and pleaded with them, to not do this. He didn't plan on killing any cops, just crack assholes.
They left him no choice, and started the hail of lead routine. Police will just all dump mags from behind cover, and so they did. Over a thousand rounds of 9mm and 223 mainly. Guy still walks out the front door, and takes some of the cops out, before they spray and pray again, and he gets thoroughly ventilated.
This guy had no history of mental illness. No... nothing. Beyond his wife and kid got killed by criminals for no good reason. Well, if you gotta go anyways, that guy knew how to party first. I can imagine his elation when he was calmly walking through the crack house. They were shooting at him and running, not hitting him, and he was apparently just taking slow careful aim and plugging these assholes. He cleaned out three floors, the basement, and got one hiding in the attic. Their own security worked against themselves. They now can't get out, when he shows up.
Hey. It was a logical thing to do. He couldn't or wouldn't kill himself. He wanted or needed mercy. Might as well take out the people that had inflicted his sentence of living death on him while he's at it.
I should be horrified? But maybe its the medication, no emotional responses. Maybe then again, its what I've been through, still going through. Probably both. But I'm not horrified. I was rooting for the guy, reading the story. I was just about to read the next such story, a guy who went off and made his last stand, when... doorbell, beating on the front door. Oh well, not like reading this stuff is going to do anything to better my mood so its just as well.
She has a high end door system. Honestly, I don't know why they still call it a doorbell. There's no more bell. Even the electronic chimes have given away to voice announcements these days. I have no idea how this front door system works, and I'm a god damn computer programmer. I hit a couple big buttons with Egyptian hieroglyphics on them, and... hey, I can see something on the screen. Wish I had a teenager with me. They can always operate new shit like this easily.
The hell. Two uniformed police officers. Its surreal, I can hear the door being pounded on while I watch it with ever such a slight time delay on the screen. I know I can let them talk to me and talk back to them? Damned if I know how, though. Oh. That explains it, sort of. Her adult "4 year old" girlfriend is here, with the cops. Wonderful. I guess I gotta crack the door, but its not like this is my house.
"Hello."
"Open up!"
"Uh, why. Do you two guys live here?"
"We're police. Open the door, sir."
My girl was a lawyer. When you date and sleep with a lawyer for years? You get lectures about what to say, and more accurately what not to say, to police officers when you have to deal with them. Also, my recent crash course in watching a girl simply manhandle a murder investigation, detectives, DA, even a judge as well as the rest of the police station? My main take away lesson from that. Don't just do what you're told. Probably not in your best interests.
"Well. I can see you look like police officers. Uniforms. Guns... even the car out there. But... if you don't live here, I'm not seeing why you need to come in."
He sighed and crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back. He probably figured this is his macho, TV cop pose. I'm guessing, anyways.
"Yeah. We're here, we're police. Come on, open the door. I'm not playing games all day. We want to have a talk."
"Yeah. That? Is all well and good. But see, you can talk just fine right there. I can talk pretty good, from in here. All good, really."
"Sir? Open the door. All the way. Either you step out here? Or we're stepping in there."
"Why do I have to leave the house. For that matter, why do I have to let you guys in the house. Do you, like, have some kind of paper saying this?"
"I've about had enough of this! Open the door. Now!"
"Why?"
"Because I said so, that's why! We need to have a talk!"
"We are talking. Well, I'm talking. You? You're yelling."
He sighed and pinched his nose, while palming his face. Frustration is setting in. Why? Because I'm imitating my lawyer. He can't get me to do what he says, like he's accustomed to having done. I'm starting to have fun, this is mildly entertaining.
Actually, now that I remember it? This is an expensive security door setup. There's a foot lever, and... there. It brings up a big metal bar, that holds the door where the chain puts it when its chain cracked open like now. If anyone tried to kick and break the chain and come in? The big metal bar stops that from happening.
"That's it. Give me your ID. Now."
"Nope. Can't do that."
"Why not!"
"Well, mister cranky pants... because some other uniformed cop? Took my wallet, and everything in it. If you really want my ID? You'll have to go steal it out of the evidence room. Now, if you do that, though? Be a sport and give me my wallet back. I'd like to order a pizza, maybe do a little online shopping."
"Open the door!"
"Nope."
He sighed again. His frustration level is rising.
"And... why not."
"Why should I. If you don't have a warrant? I don't have to let you in."
"Well. You have a choice. You can either let us in there? Or, you can come out here."
"Or, I could just stay in here."
"What the hell is your problem!!"
"Actually, my only problem right now? Is two guys in uniforms, at my door. Without a warrant."
"Sir? You have to talk to us."
"Actually? No. I don't. I, have a right to remain silent. I might close the door? And start using that right. I was doing something, before you all came here to bother me. Without a warrant."
"You're really not going to open the door, are you."
"Probably not."
"And why not."
"I'm just curious at this point. You started out telling me I had to come out, or I had to let you in. But? It doesn't seem to be happening. Does it."
He sighed, and his partner rolled his eyes.
"Not really, no."
"So. That means you lied to me, then."
"And how did I lie to you... I can't believe I'm playing along with this retarded game!!"
"You said... and I quote. I had to come out there, or I had to let you in here. You also said, you needed my ID. Now. Since you don't seem to be able to make me come out, and you don't seem to be willing to force your way in? And... the cops have my ID in the evidence room, so you don't get that, either. It, uh... is kinda looking, like it was all lies."
"How is that lies!"
"Duh. That's all just stuff you wanted. Not stuff you needed. Which means, I obviously can't trust a damn thing you say now. That's... one, two... three lies. Your game? Seems to be to tell me you need things, and I have to do things... but? Turns out... not so much. Now. If you could show me a warrant, well... that would be something."
"I can go get a warrant. Any time I want."
"Really. Warrants, you... just print them out on your little cop computer, whenever you feel like it. Like I print out coupons. You... don't have to go get a judge to sign it, nothing official. Just... go get one, huh? Well. Go ahead. This? I gotta see."
His partner I just noticed, had one less stripe than the one doing all the talking. No wonder he's trying not to smile, just keeping quiet. He's having a ball watching his partner with more seniority get the runaround, and can't do anything about it. My lawyer is right, this is fun. There's way less "authority" in this situation. Most of the authority? Is "implied" or "assumed". Just like she said. Now the other guy, quiet up until now, asked if he could take a crack at this. The guy doing all the talking up until now? Just shoveled his hands at the door, be my guest it said.
"Sir? We have a complaint."
"Uh. Okay. I mean, everyone has a complaint about something or other. Or, is this an official complaint."
"This lady? Lives here. She wants to come in, and look around. See if she left anything here."
"Oh. She doesn't live here. I know that much."
She was silent up until now. How in the hell these cops managed that to keep her mouth shut? Well, I'm in awe now. These white men truly, have big medicine. That ended, sadly.
"You don't live here!"
"Well. Neither do you. I? Am a guest, staying here. Just like you were. But? You're no longer a guest, last I heard. So? That's that."
The second cop tried again.
"Sir? She gets mail at this address. Which means, this is actually a legal residence for her, so... she has a right to come in and look around for stuff."
"Oh. If you could just show me a piece of mail with her name on it, and this address on it? That might work, then."
"Well. I don't have the mail on me. I'm a policeman, not a mailman."
"Oh. The uniforms? Similar. But, I see you have guns, so... right. Policemen, not mailmen. Gotcha."
We stared at each other a while. He shrugged.
"Well?"
"Officer? Did you see this mail, with her name on it? Or... did she just tell you that. Because as far as I know? She doesn't live here. She was just dating the property owner. Who isn't here. And... there's no way, I'm letting you guys come in here, and hold me at bay. For her. While she runs all over the house, taking whatever the hell she feels like taking."
"Uh, sir? If you're not the property owner, that's really not your call then, is it."
"Well. Its not really your call. Not hers, either. Its... the property owners call. But. I am a guest. I live here, as long as the property owner invites me to. And... when the property owner is away? That makes me... the property owner's agent. To act on her behalf, until she gets back. And... if you could just show me that piece of mail, or... did you seriously let some girl just walk in the police station, tell you about mail you never saw... and you think you're just gonna barge her in here, you two keep me busy, while she ransacks the house. Uh, no way."
He now looked at her.
"Ma'am? He does have a point. You didn't actually show us any mail, you just claimed it."
That did it. She started cutting her 4 year old fit, as bad as the night prior. She's pushing on the door, slapping it, now kicking it. Doing nothing for her, by the way. The bar I raised with the foot lever? I gotta get one of these things, this kicks ass.
Now the cops are trying to calm her down, which I could tell them, that ain't gonna work. But let them find out the hard way. At least she doesn't have access to any pots and pans to attack them with, she's handicapped now. Now this, is even more entertaining. I'm quite amused now. I get a free floor show.
Ah, the cavalry arriving. Here comes my lawyer and the investigator. They're trotting up, because two cops and the 4 year old are in a fracas at the door. At this point? She can take over. I punched the lever back down so the door opens, and closed the door to mainly undo the chain. I went back in, none of my affair now. After a bit, just the lawyer and the investigator are in the living room, so... I must have done good not letting people in the house.
She was just smiling and shaking her head. She sent the cops and her girlfriend packing. She said the cops hauled her off, because she was pitching a fit.
I asked how their little mission went, and they described everything. In a nutshell, the governor was interested and heard her out with him there, because it was a "security related" matter, which was why she had an investigator with her. The governor called in his "security guy" and ran it past him. Those two went and had a pow wow, and then they both came back, all smiles.
The governor was all happy that they brought this to his attention. And while he understood the pickle she was in, he assured her she did the right thing coming, and figuring out a legal way of ensuring he hadn't crossed paths with the "loon" she described. They both scoured all the lists of numbers. Supposedly, this was belt and suspenders, but in reality it was a manufactured excuse for him to see all the lists, because he was the one with the video recording glasses.
The investigator would not have much for a while, because he had to play the video in slow motion, stop it, write down a few numbers... then continue in this fashion. In other news though, I got to learn the entertaining nickname the governor had, his "political nickname".
He was known informally, and mainly behind his back? As... get this... "The Prince of Darkness". Charming, huh. I thought so. The investigator chuckled and explained it wasn't nearly as diabolical as it might sound. Most politicians he explained, and she concurred on this point... that most of them build and maintain their "power" base the traditional way. You put or help put, people into positions. Now those people owe you, and can likely be counted on for at least rudimentary support when you call and ask for it nicely. Its referred to as "positive politics".
Which sounds a whole lot nicer than the way I described those kinds of arrangements. Nepotism, borderline corruption, the good old boy network, you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours, the right hand washes the left hand. Seriously, leave it up to politicians to come up with a word for nepotism, that sounds like a political science 101 definition,
All politicians use that as a building block, naturally. Yet, a few go the other way as well. They develop a reputation of negative politics. If you think you have enough or all the bases covered? You can risk taking people out of positions, and now you have another tool in your toolbox to use. Apparently, he earned a reputation of being particularly adept at removing people and going around them and rendering them impotent and powerless the way he could maneuver his network, so... the joke was that he was the Prince of Darkness. He was the devil. He could grant you things in return for your soul, or he could destroy you.
I was thinking, what would be the irony that I felt my very soul had been taken from me, by killing my Rain. And if it came out that he had been in on this thing? That therefore, literally mind you... the Prince of Darkness, had been the one to steal my soul. It really doesn't get any more poetic than that. If it went down that way? I would be literally going up against the devil himself. And, I had no intentions of making any deals with the devil. Nor would I be intending to play devil's advocate.
Okay, the poetic thing is over. Turns out I don't have nearly the sense of humor I once had before all this shit-storm came down. I'm pretty sure that all the devil puns would have amused me a lot more, before this. I used to enjoy puns and plays on words quite a bit, actually. Maybe its the medication ruining my sense of humor.
Still though, you have to admit. The investigator reads the tea leaves? Picks this guy out of the hat that is this investigation... and the guy's nickname ends up being the Prince of Darkness. Thus, the irony.
I got my first look at the governor and his top security guy. And some of the offices they used at the governor's mansion. I asked what the investigator thought about him. He said he was more interested in the governor's phone calls, and I said no the security guy.
Remember, on his conspiracy theory? The governor would never do his own dirty work. It would be the job of a military contractor, a popular choice for top politicians to have for security matters. This, could be the guy that redecorated my fiance's bathroom. He went with red, as a theme.
I remarked that the security guy didn't look like much. The investigator shrugged at that.
"Eh. You know you can't judge a book by its cover. If the guy was a former military contractor, not that it means he did anything just on that note, but... if he was one in his former life... what. Were you expecting a mustache twirling bad guy? Tying damsels in distress to rail road tracks. What."
Now I just shrugged.
"I know. He looks pretty... what. Benign, right?"
"Yeah."
"Well. Most of the military contractors? They really don't stand out like sore thumbs. I mean, if you were expecting... Marines? No. These guys don't get loud and act up. Most of them, are average sized guys, and most of them look average, too. They just... blend in. Really, that's part of their weapon. I mean, you go and send six marines in somewhere. You might as well call the enemy, tell them you're sending six agents in, its about how much low key you can get most marines to be. These guys? Blend right in. And? Way more dangerous than Marines."
"How so."
"Marines? Find the enemy. Confront the enemy. Defeat the enemy. Go home, drink beer."
"Okay, yeah. And them..."
"Sneak. Hide? In plain sight. And why even confront the enemy. Marines? Want to fight you. These guys, don't want to fight you."
"Well... how are they so dangerous, if they don't want to fight you."
He smiled.
"They won't fight you. They just kill you. Quietly. Then go back to hiding in plain sight, cruising right under radar. See my point?"
Good punch line, I have to admit.
"And how do you know so much about these guys again?"
"Oh. I ran across a few. Here and there."
"Well... you're still here to tell the tale."
"Uh..."
"What."
He smiled.
"Military contractors? Tend to go into a couple lines of work when they get back to the real world. One of them? Is security."
"Yeah, you said that."
"Well... you can add... investigator, to the list too, I guess."
It took me a few seconds for it to dawn on me what he meant.
"Oh..."
He nodded, now that I got it. Another punch line. He's good with the punch lines.
"Okay. What do you think about the guy then."
"Hard to say. I can tell you this, though."
"Okay..."
"We always said, we have three jobs. The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker."
Another punch line. This guy always has one.
"Meaning..."
"Butcher. Kind of self explanatory. Those guys? Big, small. Loud, quiet. They all... kind of have the... light of god in their eyes, if you know what I mean. They're not all there."
"Okay."
"The baker. Thinker. Planner. He'll set you up. This one? The quintessential intellectual bad boy."
"And the candle stick maker?"
"Small business owner. He does all the jobs."
"Can you find out..."
"We both do security. We gabbed, we exchanged business cards. I'll make a few calls. Check him out. See."
"Okay. And... if he is. Which one is he, you think. That bathroom I was in? That would be the work of the butcher, right?"
"Yeah. But... the plotting, the maneuvering. The deceit. More like a baker. A baker? Might subcontract out the butcher work. Or? Candlestick maker. He thinks, plans, maneuvers... and does the dirty work."
"What can you tell me about him. What's he like."
"Not much. Quiet. Doesn't talk much. Smiled a lot."
"And to you, that would indicate..."
"Those? Were the really dangerous ones."