flashquake Fiction

TO PROTECT AND SERVE
by Patti Weisgerber

It was a party for one gone wrong. At one end of the balcony stood a half-drained vodka bottle, the fruit-infused type popular as a shot. Next to it, a single glass smeared at the rim with a pinkish lipstick. There were no other glasses, no chairs, no music. He measured the distance to the other end. Four quick steps brought him to the edge. Without touching the rail, he looked six floors below to where his partner's flashlight provided enough illumination to distinguish shapes in the dark. It was a fucking mess.

The deceased was a twenty-three year old female — not much older than his own daughter, Bethany — with the same long, blond hair, the same athletic, tanned legs. Only these legs were contorted from colliding with concrete and the hair was matted with cerebral fluid and blood. In nearly three decades, he'd never heaved at a scene, but this time, well, he didn't want to stay with the body, wait for the coroner. Instead, he'd gone upstairs with the building manager to secure the apartment.

It was pretty typical for a kid just out of college — a studio filled with crap: assemble-yourself-furniture, a few antiques, hippie Indian fabrics and artsy posters of silent movies starring actors no one remembered. It only took moments to inspect the place. No prescription medicine, no narcotics, nothing. Clean. Not much to see.

Except the countless photographs. Perfect pictures of sunny days, birthday parties and proms, of boyfriends, girlfriends and parents all hamming it up for the camera were as abundant as the yellow stickies that plastered his desk back at the precinct. A large one, fleetingly familiar, of college students in graduation robes spraying champagne stood out. The background was a "Class of" banner and she was its foreground — smiling, happy, beautiful. With gloved hands, he touched the photo. Her final portrait by the ME wouldn't be so pretty; there'd be no smile to hide behind now. Death, if nothing else, was honest and those closest to her were about to discover the distance that life had hidden.

Dammit. He hated suicide cases — at least homicides had answers — and another scenario played out in his mind. What if she'd lost her balance, just tripped at the wrong moment instead. It wasn't an unknown occurrence. No witnesses had been awake to make a decisive statement, there were no handprints and unlike other jumpers, this one hadn't taken off her shoes. Only the scribble on the backside of the liquor receipt indicated suicide. It simply said, "Forgive me."

He looked at the pictures again and then at her note. She would be forgiven. But, he doubted if those other photogenic faces would forgive themselves. More likely, they would blame themselves. They would cry and grieve and her pain would perpetuate. Worst of all, it would survive — in them. She wouldn't have wanted that, hadn't considered that. He knew. Someone who drank fruit-flavored alcohol wasn't into suffering.

He folded her last words very neatly into a tiny square and pushed them deep inside his trouser pocket. For safekeeping. Later, he'd toss them out the car window on his ride home, maybe near a church or a park, somewhere nice. Someplace she would have liked. First, though, he had a report to write, one about a tragic accident — one that wasn't anyone's fault. Then he would finish his shift. Then he could go home.

Copyright 2003 by Patti Weisgerber

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