No Lives Matter

Written on a 1-hour plane ride from San Francisco to Las Vegas. Again, no editing or rereading. 

It was a savage scene to say the least. The blood stains saturating the entire morel room was akin to a mangled hose with numerous puncture holes throughout turned on to capacity. Limbs scattered in such a way that one could only surmise just how much pleasure whomever was responsible must have received from producing such a brutal masterpiece. The coroner took one long look around the room, surveying the carnage and exhaled in as exaggerated a manner as humanly possible.

"This isn't a crime scene, it's a friggin' bloodbath," he declared matter-of-factly, but oddly unfazed by the sheer grotesqueness of the spectacle before him. "You don't need a coroner, you need about a gallon of gasoline and a match."

"That's not the kind of professional opinion I was hoping for, Doc," Terry, the lead detective sent over to find answers, stated.

"Ok, you want my professional opinion?" The coroner mocked, frustrated by the obviousness of the situation. "There are people dead. I don't know how MANY people are dead because there are arms and legs and various other body parts scattered all over the place. My opinion? Get a forensic team in here to piece this flesh puzzle together. Make them earn their paycheck for a change." He smirked and guffawed when he thought about what he had said, a not-so-subtle hint of arrogance in his mannerisms noticeable by all.  

"Don't tell me how to do my job because you have no interest in doing yours," Terry snapped back, balling up his fists inside the side pockets of his wool thrift shop sport coat that was clearly not purchased with the slacks he was wearing. "Greg!" he called out to one of the younger officers on the scene who was still looking to make a name for himself by doing all the sucking up he could do. This was Greg's first dose of reality in regards to the potential grimness a police officer has to get used to while on the job.

"Yes sir?" He bellowed out boisterously, unable to contain his excitement of being hand-picked to perform a task at a major crime scene.

"Can you make sure our illustrious Coroner," he removed one of the tightly wound hands from his pocket in order to point and overemphasize who he was indicating, keeping the other fist clenched tightly out of sight, "finds his way back to his car? He's obviously got more important things to do today and we don't want to burden him with doing his job." He refused to look at the coroner while referring to him, as if he wasn't worth the effort of a head tilt or an eye roll.

The coroner humbly smiled and buttoned up his own jacket. "Don't bother," he mumbled, "I'm pretty sure I can remember where I parked it." He looked into the eyes of both men as if he wanted to tell a poorly-timed joke at the expense of both officers, "Gentlemen, have fun," and walked between the two towards the exit and out the door, whistling the theme of Dragnet as he departed.

After a few seconds of incredulous silence, Greg looked back towards Terry. "Sir?" the young officer offered quizzically as if he didn't understand what just transpired and was desperately in need of an answer or at least another errand.

"Nevermind," The elder officers quipped, maintaining his gaze on the door before snapping out of his own daze, looking back at the kid. "Where the hell is my damn forensics team?"

This wasn't the first gruesome crime scene that Terry had been assigned to in his almost 25 year career in law enforcement. Not by a long shot. But, it was true what they said about it never getting any easier. The adult casualties didn't really affect him all that much anymore, especially as most of the stiffs he's lucky enough to deal with essentially brought it upon themselves with a series of stupid mistakes and bad decisions. You the know the type, the ones who no is really gonna miss and, secretly, everyone is breathing a sigh of relief regarding their departure from this planet as they're no longer around to potentially fuck up someone else's life in some way. Sure, everyone now and again you get the unfortunate bastard who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time or was caught in the crosshairs of some other piece of shit, but not very often.

No, he stopped caring about those people a long time ago. He's seen enough assholes walk out in the clear from crimes they had very obviously committed, so he didn't mind the trade-off of one for another, even though that wasn't necessarily how karma worked. But, it was the kids and the animals that always made him question why he was constantly testing the limits of his emotional stability. He always told himself that even if he was able to do his job, it ain't gonna change the truth in that breathing things just don't start magically living again when justice prevails.  The sadness he's felt enduring the pain of the loss of complete strangers reflected upon his life away from the job. He never allowed himself to get close to anyone for that fear of loss. He had a fish once that he neglected and died within a week, but that didn't really count in his mind. After all, it's hard to become attached to something that could exists in a glass of water for it's entire life.

He looked around, surveying the sheer brutality of the scene and suddenly he began to get a little lightheaded. Rubbing his eyes to shake the cobwebs, he sat on the ottoman in the corner of the small room, which happened to be the only piece of furniture in the place that wasn't sodden with flesh or blood. "Nothing ever changes around here," he whispered quietly to no one in particular.

"Sir?" Another of the officers, Thomas, heard Terry mumbling to himself, but couldn't make out specifically what was said.

"I said nothing every changes around here," he snapped out more angrily than he intended.

"No they don't," Thomas responded defensively. "But that doesn't make what we do any less important."

Terry got up, "which is what exactly? What DO we do that's so important?" He pulled out a stale pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket and lit one up. "Do we ever stop this shit from happening or are we just hired to clean up the mess like a goddamn cleaning crew? Seriously, some sick piece of shit goes on his merry way leaving a fucked-up trail of body parts in his path, and our job is to make it all just go away."

"You know that's a bunch of bullshit."

"Do I? Do you?" Terry took a long drag from his smoke and walked to the exit and flicked it out of sight. "I'm tired of this. Of all of this." He walked away to his car ignoring the deafening silence of the other officers starring, intimidated. "I'm going home."

There was nothing particularly peculiar about the crime outside of the obvious atrocities that took place in the small motel room, but it was the straw that absolutely broke the psyche of the law enforcement veteran. He hastily pulled away and drove for what felt like hours but in reality was mere minutes. Pulling his car over into an empty parking lot of a closed down Albertsons, he turned the engine off and sat there with both hands on the steering wheel, the years of enduring the stress of constant violence that had suddenly become acceptable in society paid a hefty price. When he first started out, he was filled was optimism that the world wasn't such an abysmal place and that he could do something to change opinions, or at least life paths. At first he felt pride in his ability to keep the "bad guys" off the street, but as time went on, he realized that the more he put away the more  that kept popping up to the point where all he saw were people up to no good. Suddenly the things that he originally paid little attention to angered him to no end. Jaywalkers, skateboarders, rambunctious kids that looked like they may potentially be up to no good... everywhere he looked he saw evil and threats. He had given up on the idea that good prevailed, that he was making a difference, that the world was still a good place. Frankly he had given up on life.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the old pack of stale cigarettes, laughing because he had quit more times than he could could yet always seemed to have a pack somewhere on him, whether his car or an old piece of clothing. He laughed at how much thought goes into the idea of not smoking yet impulse allows the notion of smoking a simple one. He crumpled up the pack and threw it out the window. That's not how he was going to do it.

He reached inside his jacket again, deeper, and felt for something hard, smooth and cold. He kept his hand gripped around the object until it melded into his hand so that even if he wanted to separate, it was impossible. He pulled it out and examined it, how something so small could hold so much power. He laughed again, but this time out of sadness and put the gun right to his temple.

The police scanner in his car urgently began pleading for any available officers to check in on a 217 just as the bang drowned out the muffled sound of the location.