Officer Brock Slattery groaned as his alarm went off, a thin slit of sunshine glaring through his makeshift blinds. Another night of horrible dreams. He rolled over and bashed a meaty fist on the clock. Slattery never hit snooze. Years of training as a boxer had instilled military-like discipline.
He sat up in the lumpy bed, took a deep breath, and eased his aching bones upward. After stumbling back from the bathroom, he started his morning routine. Fifty pushups, twenty five deep knee bends, twenty chin-ups, repeated twice. A chalky tasting protein shake, following by a tall jug of water. Then into his stained sweats and out for a five mile jog in the damp, garbage-strewn morning streets.
Slattery got into a rhythm one and half miles in. Even though his knees were creaking and he felt like shit, he continued on undeterred. He’d been blessed with great natural strength and cursed with a very high tolerance to pain. He could drive himself well beyond the limits of the average person, only realizing the damage to himself and others after the fact.
During his amateur boxing career, Brock “The Beast” Slattery wasn’t known for great footwork, quick hands, or any form of defense. His strategy was simple. He beat his opponents into submission while absorbing punches like a sponge. Eventually their hope would disappear as they realized he wasn’t letting up, his sledgehammer blows coming at them incessantly. In a way, most of his boxing matches reminded him of his childhood, full of relentless beatings from his father.
Several times he’d finished fights with a broken hand, never feeling the pain. Eventually his brawler style wrecked his body and he couldn’t compete with younger, faster opponents. A friend mentioned the city was hiring cops en masse due to a personnel shortage. He applied and was immediately put into training. His aggression and toughness endeared him to the old school ex-military instructors and he was quickly deployed to patrol the inner city streets.
Within months Officer Slattery made a reputation as a mean, sadistic, crooked cop. He saw the badge and gun as tools to take and do whatever he wanted with impunity. He was smart enough to make peace with the various neighborhood bosses, occasionally enforcing on their behalf, for a price of course. He made just enough arrests and intimidated enough citizens to keep word from reaching the precinct. There were rumors, but no one ever cared to investigate.
As Slattery finished his jog, he strolled past a local junkie, still nodding off from the last high. He didn’t care what the junkies did, as long as they didn’t get in his way. If he stumbled into one in the midst of a mugging, he might bust them up a bit, but nothing serious. He didn’t want to catch any diseases from those filthy scum.
“Hey Paco, wipe your puke up you fucking vagrant.”
“Okay Officer Slattery, sorry about that.”
The junkies, like most of the neighborhood, feared Slattery, having been witness to his brutality on numerous occasions. Slattery went back up to his apartment. He would spend most of the day playing chess against old timers in the park then take a nap before his 6pm shift start.
It was going to rain this evening and Slattery was dreading it. He hated leaving his car or walking the beat in the rain. He preferred shooting the shit in the squad car with his partner, Lane Richards, or hunkering down in the local diner.
There had been a spate of break-ins lately. His commander thought it was just junkies but Slattery knew better. Word on the street was an organized group of recent African immigrants. He didn’t care which African country, they were all the same to him. Slattery wasn’t racist — he hated everyone equally.
Roll call was the usual garbage. Slattery’s mind wandered to who he wanted to rough up this shift. He had to collect his weekly “donation” from the Korean convenience store and a few other businesses. He was hoping there were no break-ins tonight. An easy shift would be nice, although busting some skulls was always a bonus.
Officer Brock Slattery and Officer Lane Richards drove into the evening light. After collecting his donations from a couple local businesses and dropping a package for Fat Frank, the sun was almost down. A few traffic stops, a jaywalking stop to harass a pretty woman and her ugly date, Brock let Officer Richards do all the talking, while he sat in the car waiting. it was looking like a boring shift so far. The rain came down in a steady rhythm, looking like it would last most of the night.
Then around 11 p.m. the call came through for a break-in in progress. They raced over without lights or siren, Slattery always preferring to take criminals by surprise. The caller had been visiting her neighbor across the hallway when she heard her door being cracked open. Looking through the peephole, she could see several masked men entering her apartment.
“Please hurry up, they’re in there now!” she whispered desperately.
The emergency operator assured her help was on the way. “Ma’am, we have officers a few blocks away. Stay in the apartment and try to describe what you see.”
“I think there are four or five of them. They’re wearing masks, one has a crowbar. I don’t know why they would break-in to my place.” Her boyfriend was out working, he was an established drug dealer but the operator didn’t need to know that.
“Caller says there are multiple parties, four or five males, possibly armed. Please wait for backup.”
Those words were music to Officer Slattery. He loved being outnumbered, another reason to use excessive force. Slattery and Richards sprinted up six flights of stairs to the dark, grimy hallway. They could hear a ruckus down the hall, muffled voices and items crashing around. In this neighborhood, residents kept to themselves when they heard noises.
Slattery drew his gun and whispered “Cover me Lane.” “Don’t you want to wait for backup?” Richards protested, but he knew better. Slattery didn’t care for backup. They crept along the hallway to the busted door. The perps weren’t speaking English. Slattery knew it would be easier to excuse shooting them. “They didn’t respond to my commands” he’d say.
Officer Slattery took and deep breath and peeked around the doorway. One man stood with his back to the door, while two others rummaged through a drawer, chattering back and forth. Where were the fourth or fifth men? Just as he wondered, another man came out of the bedroom holding a large duffel bag. His eyes locked on Slattery and his mouth opened to say something.
Brock tightened his finger on the trigger. Was this going to turn into a shootout?
(read pt 2 of i see dead people)
