Page 22 of Darkness

Will would have argued for helping anyone in need. Damn. Why couldn’t death have taken Morrisey, a poor excuse for a man, leaving Will, the better man, alive?

Morrisey dozed off on the couch amid names, dates, and speculation.

Women and men filled his living room, most he’d seen in pictures—Jessa’s friends. Helena stood in the corner, Johnny by her side. “Help us,” she said. “No one else can.”

Morrisey lay paralyzed, powerless to do anything.

“You need to help them,” Craig said, sinking to the floor beside Morrisey’s head, perfect and whole again.

“Craig!” Morrisey tried to sit up and take Craig into his arms. As he watched, unable to move, bruises appeared on Craig’s face. Blood dripped from his nose.

“No!” The more Morrisey struggled, the more he panicked, the more he couldn’t move.

The landline rang.

Will answered.

Chapter Nine

Morrisey sat outside the captain’s office, tuning out the shouts and making a somewhat half-hearted effort not to eavesdrop. Kind of a losing proposition, given the sheer volume. There had to be a ton of weird shit happening right now for the boss’s shouting to provide a calming sense of normalcy. People with changing faces and tails, disappearing people, gut-shot men who managed to beat the shit out of him.

Victims haunting his dreams. The only visitors he’d had all year.

The door opened, and two officers shot out—the same ones who’d laughed in the hospital. Yeah, about time they got their comeuppance. Gaskins’s shouting was not a good sign for the captain's mood, either. Time to put on a cop face. Given a choice, Morrisey would rather face the Uber driver with a tail than deal with one of Gaskins’s bad days.

He’d been on the receiving end of the yelling too many times to count. He’d also occasionally benefitted from kind words, though always with the same growly delivery. Raising his head in defiance, he braced himself for whatever might come, and strode into the office with a shitload of false bravado—the only kind available these days. “You wanted to see me?”

Gaskins stared at Morrisey for a prolonged moment, blank cop-face armed and dangerous. “Have a seat.” Thank God his face didn’t change.

Morrisey sat. Hopefully, the humming air conditioner drowned out his audible gulp.

Gaskins assumed his usual position with his arms resting on the desk, rolled sleeves exposing his tightly corded forearms. The sun shining through the window didn’t dispel the sense of gloom in the office. The perfect setting to discuss homicides. "I am completely clueless about what to do about you, Detective James." The use of Detective James sent Morrisey on high alert. Regardless of what the captain called him, nothing good would come, based on Gaskins's scowl.

Dare Morrisey ask? “What now?”

Gaskins leaned back in his chair, resting his laced fingers on the early stages of a gut. “Nothing you’ve done. Or should I say, nothing more you’ve done? Your attack caught some attention from the FBI.”

“FBI? A local crime shouldn’t involve them.” Unless they knew things Morrisey didn’t.

“It’s not you, per se.” Gaskins brushed his head with his hand. As often as he repeated the gesture, it was amazing he still had a head full of hair. “You know your reliable witness at the scene was an FBI agent, correct?”

“FBI?” Holy shit. “Why were they watching me?” Paranoid? Maybe. Morrisey considered a list of potential offenses that might earn attention from the feds.

“They weren’t. Just a matter of wrong place, right time. Anyway, given the witness’s account, backed up by forensics, you’re certain to be cleared of any wrongdoing.” Gaskins shrugged one meaty shoulder. “But, you know, procedures.”

If Morrisey hadn’t been so preoccupied with the possibility of losing his mind, he might’ve spared some anxiety for the internal investigation of a cop shooting a suspect.

“Also, you have an appointment with them in…”—Gaskins lifted his wrist, putting his watch mere inches from his nose—“…two hours. Downtown. They’d like to speak with you.”

“About what?” Feds were the last thing Morrisey needed, especially when his sanity hung by a thread and gale force winds gathered on the horizon.

“They want to hear firsthand what happened since one of their own was involved, and they already have his report. They want to fill in any gaps.”

“Can’t they come here?” How many times must Morrisey tell the story—and be laughed at? At least here would offer a slight home-field advantage, though being interviewed by the feds wouldn’t discourage the laughter.

“No. They want you there.” Gaskins gave a piercing stare, conveying more danger than verbal communication ever could. “Play nice. Make us look like team players and don’t be late. I expect a full report on your return. When you get there, ask for Agent Austen.”

No avoiding the unexpected meeting then. Morrisey rose to leave.

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