Homicides Don't Happen Here
Rachael
I worked until twelve-thirty gathering evidence, snapping photos, and enduring Jake’s endless bullshit. He acted like the extra work was somehow my fault, grumbling through every patrol and every check-in. And judging by the sorry state of the dead body in the ditch, he might not have been entirely wrong.
Exhaustion drags at me as I slump onto the barstool. I’d parked at my place like always and trudged the block and a half here, only to realize I’ve got barely an hour left to drink before closing. Loraine throws her towel over her shoulder, “You look like shit, and you’re late.” She lights a cigarette despite it being illegal to smoke in public spaces. It hangs out of her mouth, which is slathered in her thick red lipstick. “What are you having? You got some catching up to do.”
“Give me two Caucasians soviets, two shots of cactus juice, and when I’m done, I want a couple of bud heavys and a smoke.” Loraine laughs as she yells my order.
“Two white Russians! And no smokes. You quit, remember? Drunk you will be mad at sober you tomorrow.”
“I’m sober now.” I throw down my debit card onto the counter, and she places two shots in front of me. I slam them down while she turns to place the card behind the bar.
“It’s like that, huh? So it’s true?” Loraine whispers, leaning in as she places one of my drinks down. I take the straw and start chugging it.
“Is what true?” I ask, hoping the rumor mill hasn’t started.
“You know....that you found a dead body.”
“I can’t discuss that, Lorainne. Get Betty and her Reggie two cold smokes, please. I evicted them today.” I nod my head down toward Betty, who is scowling at me at the end of the bar. Her raccoon, Willy, sits on the stool next to her. Loraine drops their beers in front of them, and they nod their head at me.
Just like that, bygones.
“So, it is true....” She gasps, wiping down the bar. “Who is it?”
“I have no idea.” I stare at the bar, remembering how the coroner knelt and eased the woman’s body into a black bag. The sound of the zipper closing made my teeth clench; too familiar. My mind dragged me somewhere I didn’t want to go, back to the stories of my father, to the crimes that had carved his name into nightmares. The way she’d been left in that ditch, discarded like trash, carried his mark. But he was gone.
My chest tightened as the thought clawed its way in—what if this wasn’t random at all? What if someone was copying him, mimicking his cruelty… or worse, what if he had never really been gone?
“Rach....earth to Rachael...girl, can you hear me?” Loraine’s gravelly smoker voice pulls me out of my spiraling.
“Yes, I hear you. What did you say?” I stare at the cigarette in her mouth, feeling the familiar craving trying to take hold.
“Do you think she was a hooker? They used to hitchhike and end up along the highways.” Loraine arches her brow, nodding her head as her cigarette hangs, her eyes squinting from the smoke rising into them.
“Maybe in the seventies, Loraine. Hitchhiking isn’t that common with females anymore.” I stretch in my black T-shirt, pushing my empty plastic cup toward her. Loraine slides another white Russian in front of me, and I start sucking it down.
“Probably a coincidence,” I mumble to myself, pretending to be interested in the sports replay on the small, ancient, square TV above the cooler. Old man Mike sets two shots down in front of me, “On the house.” I raise one at him and throw it back, letting it burn my throat and take my mind off everything else.
The warm buzz starts to roll over my skin. I feel more relaxed as I order some cheese balls and ranch, shoveling them in since I missed my meal working. “LAST CALL!” Loraine shouts.
“Damn it. Line me up some shots, I don’t care what.” I take a swig of my beer as three more shots line up in front of me. I slam them back one after another, chasing away every thought I don’t want. I burp loudly and cover my mouth laughing when Loraine yells, “Earthquake!”
I finish the last shot, blowing out a hot breath and shaking my head when the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. All instinct in me is yelling that there are eyes on me, watching me intently. I turn in my booth and run my eyes over the usual crowd. The spin of the room and my eyes were warring with each other. There’s bout thirty of us. Bikers playing pool, young kids in their twenties who just got off at the plant, regulars playing cards, and old ladies on the touch machines.
No sight of anybody out of the ordinary.
My mind is playing tricks on me because of the traumatic memories that were flared up. I think a therapist at some point in my life said something about that happening. I stand from the bar and chug the rest of my beer. “I’m leaving,” I announce to Loraine.
“Can I go home with you, baby?” An arm around my shoulder has me spinning out from underneath quicker than my brain can handle.
“No, Larry, you have to be less than 60 years of age....maybe....probably.” I smack him on the shoulder as he leaves, laughing, as I pay my tab. I quickly followed behind him, thankfully headed in the opposite direction.
I walked home from the bar, a little tipsy, that feeling increasing the closer I get home. The night air is cool against my skin. Something about the quiet streets made my skin crawl tonight, like someone was following me. I kept glancing over my shoulder, heart picking up pace, though I couldn’t see anyone. That feeling of being watched wouldn’t go away, and it made every step feel heavier.
“I’m just losing my mind… it’s nothing. That body in the ditch on patrol—yeah, that’s what spooked me. That’s all. My imagination’s running away with me.” I tried to force a laugh, but it sounded hollow even to me, and the tight knot in my chest wouldn’t let me forget how shaken I really was.
My hands fumbled clumsily with the key, alcohol making my fingers slippery and uncoordinated. I jabbed at the lock, heart racing, muttering curses under my breath as the key kept catching. Finally, with a sharp twist and a satisfying click, the door swung open. I stumbled inside, leaning against it for a moment, letting out a shaky breath as I slid the deadbolt home. The click of the lock felt like a small, solid victory.
I decide to take a shower and grab a bottle before sitting on the couch in my pajamas, going through my phone to study the pictures I took tonight. I know sober me will probably wonder what drunk me was writing about as I take notes. Luckily, I have deciphered myself many times, but not for something as crazy as this.
Homicides don’t happen here. Which will be my first note, she’s likely not from here.