by Ben Nardolilli

The cop was a friend of my mother’s. She was busy upstairs when he knocked on our door.  As soon as I saw him, I froze. Even if I didn’t recognize him, I would’ve been nervous. Uniforms plus firearms rarely equal a good time. For most people, anyway. I don’t care if they can coordinate different shades of blue and wear a special hat. How can anyone feel normal while walking around with a gun? A weapon does something to a person and the people around them.

I would’ve asked him for a warrant, but my mother said to let him in. She was yelling at the top of the stairs and I obliged her.

“Hello Officer Sullivan,” I said as I opened the door. I hoped more of the nicety would get lost in the sound of the knob turning and the hinges moving.

“Hey, is your mother home?”

“Yes. She is.”

I didn’t have to get her. The woman arrived on her own accord without me saying anything. She didn’t bother taking her curlers out either.

“Hello again, Evelyn,” the cop said. “I won’t be long. Just making the rounds to tell everybody about the work going on at McGuirk Park.”

“What work?” I asked him. Since he said he wouldn’t be long, I wanted to hold him to that promise.

“They’re digging up the pipeline under the field. Just letting you know so you’re prepared for road closures. We’ll be setting up a perimeter. Oh, and if you smell anything suspicious, to let us know.”

“Oh.” My mother smiled. “Will you be there?”

He smiled too. I winced.

“Maybe a little bit.”

At this point, I realized he was talking about McGuirk Park. I clearly heard the officer say the name of the place at first. As soon as he said field though, I confused it for work on Lynch Field. Being that it was McGuirk Park, there was something I needed him to clarify.

“Didn’t…didn’t they already put the pipe in? Why do they have to disturb everything all over again, including what I assume are places that weren’t dug up last time?”

“You’re right.” My mother was backing me up. “You all already put the pipe in there.” She looked at me. “You were really worried about it then too. Oh, Officer, he was so worried.”

“I was worried about a spill. Still am.”

“You are both right. But apparently they made a mistake.”

“Who?”

The officer frowned at me. “The pipe people.”

“What did they do?” I realized my voice was too loud. I apologized. “Sorry. Gas pipes make me nervous. Anything could go wrong and…kaboom!”

Officer Sullivan nodded. He put his hand out. Not for me to shake, but for a demonstration. “They put it in at this angle.” He then bent his wrist slightly. “It was supposed to be at this one.”

“Fascinating,” my mother said. Anything a man in uniform says to her is fascinating. Officer Sullivan might as well have been reading a takeout menu from the diner to her. Sullivan asked if we had any further questions and we both shook our heads. He left and my mother spoke to me.

“Why are you so scared? The stove runs on gas. I don’t see you jump every time I use it. Or you use it. However rare that may be.”

“You’re right, mother,” I said as a I closed the door.                       

***

The next morning, I left to jog. On the way out, my mother reminded me not to lose my glasses. Once again, I reminded her that was a while ago. I learned my lesson. At this point, the exchange was as much a part of my morning rituals as the jog. It was getting warmer, and I started sweating on the way to McGuirk Park. A month before, I would’ve stayed dry until reaching the main field. Maybe I’d even get halfway through it until I could feel pit stains. When I got to McGuirk Park, I saw machines moving dirt around. They were loud and made it too dusty to keep running.

I walked along the perimeter and took note of how fast the process was going. The crews were starting at the northern end of the troublesome segment of pipeline. That brough me some relief. There was time. It wasn’t clear for what, exactly. But when I did get a plan, there would be time. I walked past the crews and when I reached the other side of the park, I picked up my pace again. My route took me through the woods, to the boulevard, and past the diner. I was hungry, but too filthy to go in at this point. 

A week later, after defending myself about my glasses, I went jogging again. My route covered the same ground. I wanted to see if the men and the machines had made any progress. It was just a week, but you never know. Most of the workers were still digging away at the northern end. No surprises there. However, another group had begun to dig at the southern end too. It made no sense why they were leapfrogging over the middle. Surely there was plenty of dirt there that had to be moved first.

I broke from following my previous route and jogged towards the new worksite.  In addition to the machines there were a couple of police cars. They were still and their sirens weren’t in use. Officer Sullivan saw me. As soon as I saw him, I blurted out a question about the gas. I wanted to look curious yet normal. Were they going to be turning it off for the neighborhood any time soon? He shook his head.

“No. Not that I’ve heard.”

“A lot of you guys are here. Are you part of the crew now?”

“No,” he smiled. “Just…doing some supervision. It’s a security concern.”

 “Ah. I better get going, huh?”

“Might as well. They’re digging up some pretty unhealthy stuff here.”

After struggling to get a night’s sleep, I got up and jogged past the park again. The police cars were there. The machines brought out to do the digging were gone. I didn’t linger and kept jogging. Since it was early, it was cooler. I was not too sweaty for the diner. I ate a light breakfast and jogged back home until I got a cramp. At night, I went back out. There was no exchange with my mother about eyewear. She was already asleep watching the TV.

There was no jogging this time either. Just a walk. I went up to the construction site at McGuirk Park and was nearly blinded by bright lights shining around the edges of the pit. There were shadows moving in between them. I couldn’t tell if the belonged to animals, machines, or people. Voices suggested the last option. I got behind a bush and tried to decipher the talk. Soon as I got comfortable, the chatter stopped. Everybody got in their cars, drove off, and suddenly the park was dark. I remained squatting in case they came back. When it seemed, they were gone for good, I went over to the pit.

Some police tape hung around the hole. Even though it was yellow, you could hardly see it at night. But the tape was easy to get around. Not by crawling on the ground, just saying low. I looked over the edge and I saw what I’d come for. My old glasses. The lenses were caked with dirt but not scratched. I guess I could’ve worn them again if I washed them. I thought about how to get into the hole to grab them. The gap was deeper than me and I couldn’t use my hands to get out. The sides didn’t look firm enough to support me if I tried.

A flash of light bounced off a clear patch on one of the lenses. It was tiny but noticeable. I turned around and saw the cars from earlier were back. I darted over to a bush and tried not to breathe loudly. Along the way I cursed myself. But quietly too. My one chance to get the glasses back and I blew it. Under the shade, I thought about what to do. I could go back home and wait until morning in order to get a better view of the pit. It would’ve to be at the absolute crack of dawn then, before the police or the crews came back again.

“Ugh, it never gets any easier for me.” The voice sounded familiar. It was Officer Sullivan.

“I guess it shouldn’t. Right?” one of the other officers said.

“Right. Is he ready?”

“Yeah, he’s in the back of that car.”

“Bring him out. Let’s take him down memory lane.”

I heard rustling. Doors opening and closing. A figure came into the car lights. He was handcuffed and in an orange jumpsuit. Officer Sullivan led him to the edge of the pit and pointed down below.

“You recognize her?”

He took a moment. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. Picked her up by the interchange.”

“The one in Penopolis?” Another officer asked.

“Yeah. That was it. I used uh, what’d you all call it in court? A legislature.”

“Ligature,” Sullivan corrected him.

I recognized the man they were interrogating. It was Donald Lee Otis. The Freeway Freak. The Highway Executioner. The Deadly Fox. I never liked that last one name. All foxes are deadly. I guess it was an allusion to his red goatee. One of the officers put a ladder down into the pit. A ladder! I realized I should’ve brought one earlier. If I came back, I vowed it would be with a ladder. The officer went into the hole and turned on his flashlight. I could see the light bouncing around the rim above him.

Sullivan nudged him towards the pit. “Get another look.”

“Yeah. Must’ve picked her up at the interchange. Wanted a ride. Can’t remember where to. Maybe it was a concert.”

“Okay,” Sullivan said. “Take him back to the car.  I told the diner he’s coming. They’ve decided to oblige us.”

“Were these glasses hers?” The officer in the pit asked Donald.

“Yeah. Yeah. She was wearing them.”

“You had a type, huh?” The officer joked.

Donald didn’t answer. He could’ve said yes. He had a type but no method. That was what the news said, followed by the courts. Then by all the books and TV movies that came after the verdict. It was Otis’ undoing. Once it was established he liked young blondes who lived, worked, or hitchhiked all along the interstate, the police could set up an operation to trap him. Having a method and no type is better. You just have to make sure the method is not a ritual. That makes it too specific and easy to trace. Also, the method shouldn’t involve any firearms. Too noisy. Also, too easy to trace.

The police continued to talk amongst themselves and fill out paperwork. I remembered the diner and slowly got out from my hiding place. A mix of walking and jogging took me there. When I arrived, I was sweaty. Nobody inside cared. I ordered a slice of pie at the counter and went into the men’s room to clean up. There were no paper towels, only an air dryer. The nozzle was too hot to help me. I went into a stall to dab myself all over with toilet paper instead. It was flimsy and little white pieces kept getting stuck to my skin.

I was still in the stall, making myself dry and clean when the door opened. Normally, I wouldn’t have paid much attention. But it was hard to ignore the sounds of chains filling the men’s room. Through the gap in the stall, I saw him. Donald. He was at the urinal. Unguarded. The police certainly had faith in this man. I thought maybe I could too. After all, I wasn’t his type. I flushed my toilet paper and left the stall. Donald seemed startled by me. I liked that. While making use of the sink, I smiled at him. He smiled back. His goatee was gray. I wondered what he could tell, just by looking at me. My face. My eyes. Did he know?

I spoke to him after turning on the air dryer for my hands. “You’re Donald Lee Otis.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For using my whole Christian name.”

“They transferring you?”

 “Nah.” He finished at the urinal. “Identification.”

 “Oh.”

 “Yep.”

“Why would you tell them you did it?”

He arranged himself and turned to face me. “Why not?”

I stood in place.  “Well, what if you didn’t do it?”

He grinned. I could tell he liked that I didn’t flinch. “Who’s going to tell them?”

“True.” I felt a little foolish. Was I really going to give the Freeway Freak a lecture about honesty? “You get a little vacation, I guess.”

“Yep. Fresh air and fresh coffee.”

“Air maybe, but not the coffee. Not here. Not at this hour.”

We both had a chuckle and I left the men’s room. A guard at the door thought I was Donald and was surprised to see me. I told him that Donald would be coming out shortly. Also, that he needed to look around before letting a suspect into any space. He probably didn’t appreciate that advice. No matter, there was pie waiting for me at my table and Donald Lee Otis had coffee waiting for him at his. I sat down and started to eat. Donald came out and the other officers escorted the Fox over to his seat. Once he sat down, they stood over his booth. It was another one in a string of islands of captivity between the diner and his cell.

No wonder they caught him, I thought. It was more than just the lack of a method. He had the wrong motive. He wanted to be known. That was why he was out here at night. The coffee and the field trip were a bonus. What really mattered to Donald was a chance to get his name in the papers all over again. I don’t think he had a desire to get caught, but notoriety makes it happen eventually. You get one headline and you’re hungry for another. You get it and then you want the front page. After that, it’s all downhill. You take more risks. You stop hiding your work. You leave more of yourself out as a result.

Poor Donald. I could see that he still didn’t understand this is why he was in chains, and I could eat my pie and leave. Despite his body count, and assuming it was all true minus one, he was an amateur at heart. These things aren’t supposed to be done for recognition. They’re supposed to be done for a feeling of relief. Vast, vast, relief. 

Ben Nardolilli is currently an MFA candidate at Long Island University. His work has appeared in Red Fez, One Ghana One Voice, Caper Literary Journal, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Grey Sparrow Journal, and THEMA. His chapbook Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained, has been published by Folded Word Press. Follow his publishing journey at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com.