Beaten

A Mason Gray Story

by

William C. Markham

© 2018 William C. Markham

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is purely coincindental.

I’ve recently discovered that the creatures of myth and legend are real, even if the stories are twisted, exaggerated reflections of their true nature. But looking back, I’ve always known that monsters walked among us. They are capable of great evil. Greg Helmsworth was one of them. So was Nelson Summers.

Greg moved to town in fourth grade. Up to that point, school had been pretty good. Everyone in my class got along for the most part. We went to each other’s birthday parties, we played nice on the swings, we were all happy-go-lucky little kids. Sure, we had our arguments about whose turn it was to be line leader, or who broke the purple crayon, but they were trifles.

Then Greg showed up with his big head and close-set eyes. One look told me he was going to be trouble.

On his first day at school, he pushed Marcy Heatwole out of the beanbag chair during silent reading time. Things went downhill from there.

He was bigger than the rest of us, having been held back the year before, and he used that to his advantage. He’d shove someone down, or steal the swiss cake roll from their lunch, then stare them down and say, “What are you going to do about it?” And none of us ever had an answer. We lived in fear, and Greg reveled in it.

The teachers knew what was happening in the way that teachers have a sense for that sort of thing. But as dumb as he looked, Greg was smart enough not to get caught. Glares and muttered curses and the “accidental” shove were enough to keep us off kilter until the teachers weren’t watching. And teachers can’t be expected to watch everyone all of the time.

The carefree days of elementary school were gone, taken from us and ground into the mud and ice of the playground like Jimmy Miller’s glasses on a particularly memorable Tuesday afternoon.

I was a pretty average kid back then—four a half feet tall and 65 pounds. Nothing special. And for a while I let Greg run all over me just like everyone else did. And then on a Tuesday in early December, I didn’t.

We were outside for recess. There were patches of hardened snow scattered around, but kids from northern Illinois were used to the cold.

A couple of us had banded together and taken to posting sentries to keep an eye out for Greg. If he came too close, the lookout would signal and we’d scatter as unobtrusively as possible and regroup on the other side of the playground.

We were hanging out on the monkey bars discussing Die Hard. It had come out over the summer, but none of us had seen it in the theater, despite numerous pleas to our parents. Brandon Michaels had a VCR at home and planned to get the tape for his dad for Christmas. The rest of us, of course, would have a sleepover at Brandon’s and watch it then.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jimmy Miller climbing the ladder for the metal slide. Jimmy was a short bespectacled kid with a perpetually runny nose. His parents were divorced and he lived in a trailer with his mom. He was friendly enough, and no one avoided him per se, but no one went out of their way to be his friend either. So he was kind of a lone wolf, although I guess a stray dog would be a more appropriate comparison. It had taken Greg less than three days to single him out as a victim.

Now he stood at the pinnacle of the slide. A boy surveying his domain. Except it wasn’t his. And it was a stupid position to be in because it was smack in the middle of the playground and there was no way Greg wouldn’t see him. The perfect target.

Greg had seen him, of course, and was approaching from the flank. He had a chunk of snow ice that he’d pried loose from one of the mounds clutched tightly in a gloved hand. Slowly, the other boys saw what was about to happen, and we all watched in slack-jawed horror. I doubt any of us paused to consider lending aid at that point. We would become the target then.

So we watched as Greg crept closer, staying out of Jimmy’s line of sight until he was directly beneath the A-frame of the slide. It was the perfect hiding spot. There was no way Jimmy could spot him now. And no way we could warn Jimmy. Greg stood there, relaxed, confident, a smirk on his face.

After two minutes, Jimmy seemed to realize his situation. His expression fell from one of triumph to one of terror and his eyes darted about, searching for his nemesis. Then, seeing him nowhere, Jimmy lowered himself into a sitting position and scooted to the edge of the slide. We could see the relief on his face that Greg wasn’t around, which made our positions even more uncomfortable.

He slid down the warped, frozen sheet of steel. Before Jimmy’s feet hit the ground, Greg stepped out and planted himself three feet back from the end of the slide and hefted his weapon.

Jimmy landed, stood up, and was about to take off, but Greg’s voice froze him in place.

“This is my slide,” he said, his words thick and bovine—like he’d been forming them on his tongue for the last two minutes.

All color drained from Jimmy’s face as he slowly turned around stammering, “I...I’m sorry.”

Greg didn’t wait for him to finish. He launched the dripping chunk of ice at Jimmy’s face from five feet away. Jimmy didn’t even have time to throw his arms up. The projectile hit him dead on center, smack in the nose. His glasses flew off and landed several feet away. Blood streamed. Jimmy screamed and collapsed to the ground.

Greg stalked off, then paused as he caught sight of the glasses lying just ahead of him. He smiled and stepped over to them. He looked down, then looked back at Jimmy who was still writhing on the ground. “Hey,” he grunted. He stood there until he had Jimmy’s attention then placed his foot on the glasses and shifted his weight. They crunched. Jimmy flinched.

“Oops,” said Greg as a wicked grin spread across his face and he turned to go.

Something in me snapped then. Seeing Jimmy lying there, blood and snot and tears smearing together in a hot mess, his eyes showing fear and hatred and shame was too much. Someone had to do something, and in that moment I knew it was going to be me.

I sprinted across the playground, legs pumping hard. My eyes were locked on Greg’s form, which was moving slowly and easily away from the scene of the crime. Within seconds I was hurtling past Jimmy, lowering my shoulder, spearing into Greg at full speed, my arms wrapping around him and driving him to the ground.

The fall knocked the wind from both of us and we rolled apart, gasping. I scrambled to my feet and Greg did the same. He glared at me, shocked into silence.

I’d never been in a fight before. I had no idea how it worked. It seemed Greg didn’t either. We stood still, staring at each other. I’d seen plenty of action movies, but my dad always told me real life wasn’t like that. Fighting wasn’t about flashy, showy moves and dancing around each other. It was about fast, efficient blows that dealt the most damage in the least amount of time. I’d never seen my old man get into a fight either, but he was always giving me advice about “real life.” Apparently, no one had ever shared that tidbit with Greg. He started to puff out his chest, to posture, angling for intimidation again. I didn’t let him.

I balled up my fist and drove it straight into his nose. It hurt like hell. I didn’t realize punching someone with your fist felt like that. But it hurt him worse. Blood poured from his nose and tears welled in his eyes.

“That’s for Jimmy,” I told him.

In my naivete, I thought the fight was over. I was wrong.

Greg swung, but it was poorly aimed and I leaned back and half turned, and the blow caught me on the shoulder. It hurt, but not terribly. All it really did was piss me off. Since my hand still hurt, I didn’t want to punch him again. Instead, I kicked him in the balls as hard as I could.

Then the fight was over. He crumpled to the ground and puked all over himself. So I walked away. It had all happened so fast that a crowd hadn’t had time to form, but my friends were walking toward me from the monkey bars, mouths agape.

In the aftermath, I assumed I’d be in big trouble, maybe get suspended, but no one ever said anything to me about the incident. Apparently, the teachers hadn’t seen anything. After all, they can’t be expected to watch everyone all of the time.

My parents never mentioned it. Although, in hindsight, I think my dad looked at me a little differently, with a little more pride. And that Christmas, I didn’t have to go to Brandon’s. Under the tree was a brand new VCR and a copy of Die Hard.

That incident replayed over and over in my head the day I sat in the courtroom as the judge made a statement in the case of The People v. Nelson Summers.

I was dressed in my police blues, perched on the edge of a wooden bench, sweating despite the blasting AC. The trial wasn’t going well. All the pieces were there, but the defense had ripped them to shreds, getting one thing after another thrown out on technicalities.

Summers sat next to his lawyer, a smug look on his face. He was a psychopath who’d murdered two NYU girls for no other reason than they were wearing white after labor day. He told me as much in the interrogation room after I caught him. It was all part of his confession. None of which was admissible because it was coerced. Which was bullshit. The cameras clearly showed that I never hit the guy, but the defense argued there had been physical abuse during the arrest, which there might have been, and there was an implied threat of future violence if he didn’t confess, which there wasn’t. But the judge didn’t like my attitude and I had enough complaints on my record that he sided with the defense and tossed the confession.

The current hearing was in response to the murder weapon also getting tossed. It was determined that I had not identified myself as a police detective prior to entering Summers’s apartment, which I hadn’t because he wouldn’t have let me in if I had. Normally that isn’t an issue if you already have a warrant, but I didn’t, so it was. Therefore any and all evidence found as a result of the illegal search was disallowed. Which included the murder weapon.

Without the confession and the weapon, the defense filed a motion to dismiss the charges due to a lack of compelling evidence.

“In the eyes of this court,” the judge was saying, “despite the findings of the grand jury, there is insufficient evidence at the present time to warrant prosecution. The charges against Mr. Summers are dismissed.”

A groan rippled through those in attendance and the judge smacked his gavel. I gritted my teeth and got to my feet. I avoided making eye contact with anyone. I could already feel the assistant DA’s accusatory glare from across the room. This was my fault, it said. You’re the reason this one got away.

I wasn’t the first person out the door, but I was at the front of the pack. Sticking around seemed like a bad idea, so I went back to the station and buried myself in paperwork. Sometimes the justice system seemed completely backward. Criminals were always given the benefit of the doubt, which to me didn’t do enough to discourage criminal behavior. I believed it was my job to keep the public safe and the severity of certain crimes warranted the disregard of certain rights in order to apprehend the perpetrator. Evidence was evidence. It shouldn’t matter how it was obtained and long as it wasn’t planted.

No one spoke to me the rest of the day. I guess they could taste the bitterness emanating from my cubicle and figure it was best not to poke the bear. When the shift change rolled around, I hustled out to the street.

I needed to blow off some steam so I went to Richard’s. It’s a well-known Near North

cop bar and was my usual off-duty drinking establishment at the time.

There weren’t many people in the place when I got there, but it would fill up fast. Other cops getting off shift would show up in about twenty minutes. So I got an early start on the night’s drinking.

Gin was and still is my beverage of choice. I was three deep by the time my partner, Jack, got there. He came straight over and sat down on the stool next to me.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Peachy,” I said.

He grunted and ordered a beer.

We sat in silence for a while and eventually some of the other guys and a couple of girls from the station stopped in. Each of them clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Tough break” or some similar sentiment and then wandered to another table. Eventually, the alcohol kicked in and my mind lightened a little and I started bitching about the legal code and how it kept us from doing good work. Jack nodded and grunted when and where he was supposed to. Since I was talking, some of the other guys joined in the conversation—commiserating over pinches gone bad, or a perp cut loose on a technicality, or worse, a plea bargain.

An hour and two more drinks later, things were looking up. I was feeling better; not good, but better.

And then Nelson Summers walked through the door.

Most everyone ignored him. They hadn’t been at the trial. Maybe they’d seen his picture in the paper like two million other people, but they hadn’t been in the courtroom and had his face burned into their memory. They hadn’t dreamt about him. I had.

He sauntered further in like he belonged, like he was meeting old friends for the umpteenth time. Then someone recognized him. A young cop with an eye for faces. He stood up and eyeballed Summers hard. Summers ignored him. He’d seen me and was trying to get closer.

Jack saw Summers too, and got to his feet and blocked his path.

Summers walked right up to him, not giving him more than a glance. His eyes danced this way and that, soaking in the details of the bar.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jack told him.

Summers smiled. “It’s a free country,” he said. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Greg Helmsworth’s smug face flashed through my mind. I pictured him crunching down on Jimmy’s glasses with that wicked grin on his face. Summers was far worse than that. His weapon wasn’t a simple chunk of snow and ice, but a five inch Schrade skinning knife. His offence was not a simple blow to the face, but the soulless act of slicing two creamy white throats from ear to ear so deeply that their heads nearly fell off when the EMTs placed their bodies on the gurneys.

The rage burst out from where I had beaten it down and locked it up. Someone had to do something, and in that moment I knew that it was going to be me.

I slid off my stool and took two steps so I was directly behind Jack. I placed my hand on his arm and pushed him aside.

I’ve learned a lot about fighting since that first tussle with Greg years ago. What my old man told me turned out to be true. It was about dealing the most damage as quickly as possible, but it was best not to use your hands—too many bones to break. It was better to use elbows, forearms, and boots.

But all the hours of training were hemmed in by the outrage flooding my brain. Some part of me knew it would hurt, but the satisfaction would be worth it. So just like I did with Greg Helmsworth, I launched a jab toward Summers’s face. But this time, I wasn’t aiming for his nose. I was aiming for a spot about eight inches through and behind his nose.

Summers registered the incoming blow six inches before contact, but by that time it was too late to do anything. The average fist moves at one and a half meters per second. I’m a little faster than average. Call it three meters per second, which meant it would take fifteen-hundredths of a second for my fist to make contact. Reaction time—the signal from eyeball to brain and brain to muscle— is twenty-five hundredths of a second. No time to move out of the way.

I felt the crunch of bone and cartilage. His head snapped back as the force of the blow tried to drive through. His eyes glazed over and he toppled backward. One knee locked up and he twisted as he fell so that he landed awkwardly on his arm, his elbow popping out of joint, instead of smacking his head on the unforgiving concrete floor. But it probably saved his life.

I let my momentum carry me forward and past Jack then launched a vicious kick into the killer’s side. Since I hadn’t driven the bridge of his nose into his brain with the first punch, maybe I’d break his ribs and puncture a lung. I’d never killed anyone before, not even in the line of duty. I’d never wanted to kill anyone either. That would blur the line between me and the bad guys too much. But the rage had complete control of me now and what I wanted was to stop this man from ever hurting anyone ever again..

I launched another kick and another. Then hands latched onto me, one pair, then two, and dragged me away. Someone was shouting. Horrible curses were being thrown into the ether. Then I realized it was me.

That sobered me up. Someone shoved me down into a chair hard and I was about to fight back when I realized it was Jack. I looked around the bar. It was dead silent and everyone was staring at me. And why wouldn’t they? As far as most of them knew I had just beaten a man senseless unprovoked.

I sat for a long while, breathing hard. Jack hovered over me, not letting anyone get close. Eventually, the haze of anger subsided and I started to think about what I’d done more rationally. I still wasn’t sorry. He deserved it. He deserved more than what I’d done to him, though I was glad I hadn’t killed him. They say you lose a piece of your humanity when you take a life, even if it was a piece of shit like Summers.

A few minutes later, EMS arrived and hauled Summers off. Then Jack got me to my feet and carted me back to the station.

I didn’t get a pat on the back from the Captain. No “attaboy.” Instead, he wrote me up and filed charges. Assault and battery. Of a murderer, a monster.

I didn’t understand it. The guy was guilty as sin. They should have been giving me a medal. I was sure the parents of those two girls would have bought me dinner.

But no, I was made an example of. I was given a choice: quit or be fired. If I quit, the charges would be dropped. If I stayed, a full investigation would be launched and I would be prosecuted to the fullest extent.

Maybe I should have fought it. Maybe I would’ve won. But I didn’t.

It took a long time before I figured it out. There’s no place on the force for retribution. Vigilante justice can’t be tolerated because it interferes with due process. I get it now. But not then.

I fit better in the civilian world anyway, doing what I do. I still get to help people. I stand up to bullies. I put things right.

But I know what happens when the anger takes control. And there’s always been a well of righteous anger deep down. With recent developments, that well seems to be very, very deep indeed. I’ll have to be very careful. So will the monsters.

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Beaten