Vigilante cop, p.1
Vigilante Cop, page 1
Vigilante Cop
Jack Spade Origin Story
Dylan Rust
Join the mailing list for exclusive content
Sign up to the mailing list for access to free books and to stay in touch with Dylan!
SIGN UP NOW
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
1
His left eye popped out of his head.
Not fully.
But enough that it was noticeable.
Father Loki Svensson’s couldn’t stop looking at it. He was on his ass, dressed in his cassock, the long, ankle length garment that Catholic priests wear. His rosary was in his hand. He was clenching it so tight he was bleeding.
What had he just done?
The eye was drying out. The sclera, the white part, was brownish. He wanted to touch to it. He wanted to push the eye back into place, but he knew that would do nothing. The eye was popped out for a reason. Pushing it back into place wouldn’t put air back in the man’s lungs, wouldn’t bring him back to life.
Father Svensson’s hands shook, his heart pounded. It was a feeling of exhilaration and dread. He’d just condemned his soul to an eternity of hellfire, but he’d purged the Earth of a bad man. A very bad man. He would have to accept the consequences.
The dead man’s neck was dotted with tiny pinpoint red marks where Svensson’s hands had been. The dots created a petechial hemorrhage, a clear sign that the man had been strangled. Svensson wiped his hands on his cassock. They dripped with sweat. Not from him, but from the victim.
Svensson pushed himself up from the church floor. He dropped his rosary.
It fell to the ground. The blood that had coated it from his hand blotted the floor of the church.
He turned around and faced Sister Martha. She’d been standing there, hovering over the body, watching him.
Father Svensson lowered his head.
He admitted what he had done to Sister Martha.
Thirty minutes prior, all Father Svensson could think about was how cold it had been in the church lately. Sister Martha must have cranked the AC. He’d told her not to do that. But she didn’t listen to him. That’d been their relationship for over thirty years. They were like an old married couple. No sex. No communication. Just the bitter acceptance that they had to do what they had to do.
He was considering putting a plastic cage and lock over the church’s thermostat when a man walked into the confessional booth. It startled him. The man flopped onto the confessional bench. It made a loud noise.
Father Svensson took a deep breath. Relaxed. He recited in his head a quick passage from Psalms. The one he liked. “I keep my eyes always on the lord. With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.” It was Psalm 16:8.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been ten years since my last confession and I accuse myself of the following sins…” The penitent man stopped, gulped. His voice high, strained. He was holding something back.
Father Svensson dipped his head and peered through the distorted confessional screen that separated both men in the booth. Based on what he was able to see, the man was no older than twenty-five.
“Continue, my child. Tell me your sins.”
The young man rubbed his nose. Damp with snot. He sobbed. “I’m sorry, Father. I can’t. I…” He opened the curtain and began to walk out. The light from the nave shone through the screen. Father Svensson saw what was happening. He saw the young man leave. He called to him before he fully left the booth.
“You came here to seek forgiveness. This is a holy place. God will forgive. God will grant your atonement. God always forgives, my son. Tell me what it is you’ve done wrong. Redeem yourself.”
The man was half out of the booth. He gulped and sat back down, closed the curtain. He lifted his hand and touched the confessional screen. “If only… Her… His…Them… I…”
“If only what? Tell me, son. Who do you speak of?”
The bells of the church rang. Their full sound reverberated through the small booth. Father Svensson felt them in his chest. The penitent man tried to speak again, but stopped. Only vowels came out.
“Tell me what brought you here. I can forgive you.” Svensson’s voice was urgent.
The young man took a deep breath and, as he exhaled, the smell of whiskey crept through the confessional screen. The young man was drunk.
“I’ve sinned,” he said. “I’ve murdered. I’ve killed innocent…” He couldn’t finish. He burped.
“Tell me your sins, my son,” Father Svensson said. “Be specific. It’s my duty to protect your soul. I am obliged to maintain secrecy about anything a penitent confesses. Only myself and God will know your sins. The Sacrament of Penance is holy. Please. Seek your salvation. Tell me what it is you’ve done. You can tell me everything. Eternity is at stake.” His voice was stern, fair, and just.
The man’s hand touched the confessional screen once more.
“Children.”
“What?”
Father Svensson’s voice rose an octave as he asked the question.
The man sniffed. His fingers still clasped to the screen of the confessional booth. He pulled his hand away from the screen and wiped his nose and said, “Children.”
“I… I don’t understand.”
The penitent man grew impatient and said once more, “Children. I killed children. I murdered them.”
Svensson shifted in his seat. He felt uneasy. He’d never heard a man confess murder before, let alone the murder of children. He could feel his pulse in his chest.
“I…” Father Svensson said. His voice quivered. “I’m sorry, my son. Tell me again what it is you are confessing.” Surely, the young man misspoke, he thought. Not children. Not murder. It couldn’t be.
“Are you dense, Father? I am a fucking killer.” The man was angry. “I have killed dozens of kids. Sacrificed them. Cut them up. Burned their bones. Turned them to ash. All because of some…” He stopped. He burped. “Look, I just want forgiveness. I told them that I was done with all that shit. I want forgiveness. Tell me… How many prayers? How many!?”
Father Svensson dipped his head. Memories. Feelings. Things he’d buried deep. Things he’d long forgotten. His hands clenched. His throat grew tight. He couldn’t breathe.
“This little girl,” the man said, “was maybe seven. Maybe eight. I don’t know. They all look the same at that age. Anyway, she looked in my eyes and when I looked back I saw my reflection in them. She had big eyes. Gorgeous eyes. Green. Sweet thing. She called for her mama when they started. That hit me. That’s what I used to call my mom. She wasn’t supposed to be talking. We drug them, you see. We make sure they feel no pain, but she was different.” He burped. “I just want forgiveness. I want out. I want a clean slate. You know, her cries, they burned something in my head, something I can’t remove. The boys were pissed…” He stopped. “I shouldn’t be saying this. I shouldn’t be here. I’m drunk.”
The whiskey was wearing off. He was sobering up.
“No,” Father Svensson said. His mind tormented by thoughts and feelings he couldn’t control. “Children,” he said. He swallowed. His mouth was dry. “Plural?”
“I’m sorry, Father. I should know better.” The man opened the curtain of the confessional booth. He was half out when Father Svensson spoke again.
“How many?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m drunk. Goodbye.”
Svensson wanted answers. His voice grew angry, loud. His fist slammed against the confessional booth’s walls. “Tell me!”
“I’m sorry, father,” the man said. “I should not have come here.”
Father Svensson wasn’t a man of violence.
He was prone to the odd dark thought here and there, but who wasn’t in the church. He did what he always did when he had dark thoughts. He recited Psalm 4:4 in his head. ‘Don’t sin by letting anger control you. Think about it overnight and remain silent.’
He repeated it in his head.
The man could tell that the priest was disturbed by his confession. He said, “I lied, Father. Forget everything I said. I’m drunk. I’m a sad man looking to piss off bored priests. Ignore what I said.”
Father Svensson said, “You are lying.”
The man got out of the booth. He’d awoken something in the priest, something he couldn’t quell. He needed a drink. He was too sober. His mind too clear. He’d laugh about it later.
Svensson thought of his past, of the pain he’d taught himself to forget.
He got out of the booth.
The man turned around, noticing. He was four feet away. He was a short man and wore a tight colorful shirt and had slicked back long hair. Gold earrings in each ear. He wore purple, fitted pants.
“What the hell? Are you supposed to leave the booth?” the man asked.
Svensson needed water. He needed to calm down. He needed to get away. He scoured his mind for a verse, for a passage, for something that would lead him from the path of darkness he knew was about to beseech his mind and take control. “Stop…” h
“What?” The man was confused.
Svensson stumbled toward the man. Thoughts of blood overwhelmed his mind. The man had rattled him, unsettled something he thought he had control of.
The man stood still. Waited and watched with curiosity as the priest approached.
Svensson mumbled something that sounded like a biblical verse. He grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and tackled him to the ground.
“What the fuck!?” The man said, trying to kick the priest off.
Svensson had let years of servitude make him plump. He weighed well over two hundred and fifty pounds. He wasn’t easy to push off. He was a fat man.
“Get off me!”
“Your sins can’t be forgiven. Your sins can’t be forgiven.” Svensson frothed at the mouth. He placed his hands over the man’s neck. Squeezed. He didn’t let go until the man stopped moving. Until his left eye had popped out.
How long had it been? How long had he been choking him?
Svensson let go of the man’s neck. He pulled his arm back and slid on to the floor. His hands resting on his big belly.
He cried.
He stood up.
He turned around.
Sister Martha was there.
Svensson fell to his knees. He pulled his hands up to pray.
“Father?” Sister Martha asked. “What happened? What is this?”
Father Svensson responded slowly. His soul was lost. He would need to accept that. “I killed this man.”
Sister Martha squealed in horror.
“Call the police,” Father Svensson said. “Tell them what I have done.”
“What?”
“I’m going to pray. I’m going to pray until they come to take me away.”
He closed his eyes.
He’d face his judgement, head on. Eternal hellfire. But first, a prison cell.
2
Jack Spade looked at his watch. He was early. He didn’t like being late. He pulled his 1969 GT Mustang into Saint Clementine’s Elementary and turned off its engine. He got out of the car and straightened his black leather jacket to hide the gun he had holstered underneath. His Smith & Wesson Model 5906. He pulled out his wayfarer style sunglasses and put them on. He rested against his car and waited.
He looked at the old, grey brick of the school. The big arches over each door bore the schools motto: Truth - Justice - Freedom. He pulled out a cigarette. Lit it. He took a long a drag. Felt the nicotine hit his lungs. He exhaled. He was trying to quit, but he hadn’t been doing a good job.
The school’s bells rang.
He stamped the cigarette out with his foot and waited for the crowd of eager, desperate kids to disperse. Once there was only a couple of kids left, he made his way up to the front entrance and walked inside.
The halls were quiet.
A custodial staff member walked out of a storage room. He dragged his mop and bucket behind him. The halls were a mess. Spilt soda cans, smooshed chocolate, and flattened gum littered the floors. Jack nodded at the worker as he made his way to the principal’s office. The custodial worker, an old man, thin hair and a white goatee, nodded back.
Jack admired men like him. They worked hard and got little respect for what they did. Without them the accrued shit of disobedient, disrespectful students and teachers would turn the building into a trash heap. Men like him didn’t get enough credit. They took care of the shit, the dirt, the scum. It kind of reminded him of the work he did. His work wasn’t that different.
Jack knocked on the school office’s front door. An old lady called him in. She was sat behind a large desk. She was so tiny that all Jack could see were her eyes and forehead and curly red hair. She asked him to sit down. He obliged. She then turned away from him and resumed clicked away at her keyboard, typing with one finger at a time.
Five minuted passed.
Jack watched the hands of the clock on the wall tick and tock. He had just over an hour and a half. Not a lot of time to get from New Jersey to Brooklyn. His shift started in less than two hours.
The door to the principals office opened.
Jack got up. Straightened his jacket once more. Hiding the Smith & Wesson Model 5906 underneath. He didn’t want to alarm anyone.
“She’s in here,” principal McTurnish said. He was upset. His voice low and disappointed.
Jack walked inside the office.
There she was.
His niece.
Emma.
Her head was hung low and her eyes were red. She’d been crying. He already knew she was upset. He could tell by the sound of her voice on the phone when she’d called him and told him to come to her school and pick her up.
He sat down beside her. She didn’t look at him.
“You’re the father?” Principal McTurnish asked Jack.
Emma hadn’t told him that she didn’t have a father. She hadn’t told him that she contacted her uncle and not her mother. Jack glanced at his niece. He arched his eyebrow. She noticed. He looked back at the principal. “I’m her uncle,” he said. “Her father passed away years ago. Her mother is working right now. That’s why I’m here.”
“I see.”
McTurnish grabbed a pen. He scribbled something down on a piece of paper. He spoke while he wrote. He didn’t look at Jack. “Your niece got into a bit of trouble this afternoon?”
“She did?”
“Yes. A fair bit of trouble. Isn’t that right, Emma?”
“I have to get to work,” Jack said. “Mind if we get to the point?”
Principal McTurnish wore thick brimmed, black glasses. They hung low on his nose. He looked over the brim. He gave Jack a disappointed look. “I don’t think you’re appreciating the severity of the situation. This is important. What is it you do? What could be more important than this?”
“I’m a detective for the NYPD.”
The condescending principal lifted his head. He looked at Jack. “Oh,” he said, surprised. “I was expecting…”
Jack interrupted him and said, “you were expecting what? You expected me to a bum? A laborer? Working nine-to-five shifts down at the steel plant? Even if I was, why would that matter. Just get to the damn point.”
“Fine,” McTurnish said. “Your niece was found holding this.” He lifted up a small plastic bag. Inside were small tablets. Drugs. Ecstacy.
Jack rubbed his brow. He turned to his niece once more. He waited for her to lift her head. “Emma?” he said. “Where did you get that?”
“I’ve been asking her all afternoon,” McTurnish said. “She won’t budge.”
Jack turned to McTurnish and gave him a look that said shut the fuck up. He turned back to Emma and said once more, “Where did you get that?”
Emma looked at her uncle. Tears pooled in her eyes. “I can’t tell you.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t.”
“Possessing drugs like that can get you expelled,” McTurnish said. “You’ll end up in juvie if you don’t tell us the truth.”
Jack rolled his eyes. He really wished the poindexter would shut the fuck up.
“If I tell you, it’ll be social suicide,” Emma said.
So that was what it was all about, Jack thought. Emma was worried about her friends. She was trying to protect them. She was worried about becoming a social pariah, losing her standing with the cool kids.
Jack changed his tone. He knew what social status meant to a fourteen-year old girl. It was everything. He’d find another angle, another way to break the spell. “Okay,” he said. “Don’t tell me. Take the fall. Get expelled. In three months, those kids won’t even know you’re gone. Is that worth it, Em?”
She looked up at her uncle and cried.
“Your tears won’t get you out of this,” he said. “What’s going on? This isn’t like you.”
“Okay,” she said. “Billy Costigan. It was him. He brought the bag in. It was during lunch. A fight broke out between him and Max Telper. Billy couldn’t be found with the drugs. He couldn’t. He’s a good guy. Trust me. His dad is important. He said he was just holding on to the bag for his older brother.”
