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Philip K. Dick, �Valis�

Started February 26 � Finished February 27, 2004; 242 pages. Posted 25 March 2004

[Ed. Note: The killer of Mia Zapata, a friend of mine, was found guilty today. I wrote this story shortly after the killer was captured.]

FINDING JESUS

I�m gonna kill him.

Jack flinched when the thought easily slipped into his mind two days earlier. Now it felt comfortable, more like a statement of fact. Still, he could feel his palms sweating from the balmy Florida weather inside his gloves. Thoughts of murder raced through his head and he had to force his body to disobey the sense of urgency he felt. He concentrated on his foot, mentally taking the weight off the gas pedal.

I�m gonna kill him. I�m going to walk up to the front porch, plain as day. I�ll knock on the door and when he answers, I�ll shove him inside. Then I�m going to shoot him right between his fucking eyes.

A police siren screamed behind him, jarring him from his thoughts. Panic overwhelmed him. They can�t know! Not yet! They can�t possibly know! Jack frantically looked into his mirror and saw his partners waving and laughing.

The cruiser picked up speed and passed on the right, swerving in front of him, then slowing. Marcus opened his window and tossed his coffee out of the car in a hook shot, the cup flying wildly in the wind and hitting his front grill. Brown liquid shot over the hood, landing in small droplets across his windshield. His partners jerked quickly to the right, bolting toward the off-ramp as they sped away. Jack turned his wipers on, spreading the coffee in small streaks. He had seen streaks like that before.

They looked like blood.

***

Jack looked at the body lying in the alley. She lay on her back with arms outstretched, palms flat against the ground, feet crossed at the ankles. Crucified on the concrete in some filthy alley in Seattle. Even with the poor light of the rising sun, he could see the red welts crisscrossed around her neck. Forensics would state the obvious tonight. Rape victim. Multiple contusions. Signs of struggle. Death by asphyxiation. Weapon used: drawstrings from her hooded sweatshirt.

Jack was supposed to be helping with cordoning the area from the onlookers that would soon be out in force. All he could do was stare at her body. Her face. Those angry red welts. And the blood. There seemed to be too much blood � so much that he scanned the torso for knife or bullet wounds he knew weren�t there. The blood that collected under her hips told where the wound really was. Jack bit his lip fiercely as he tried to avoid staring at the dark red pool.

A hand landed hard on his shoulder, jolting Jack from his thoughts. He turned to see his captain staring at him.

�They I.D. the body?�

�Yeah,� Jack said heavily. �That�s Mia Zapata.�

***

Jack found his hand drifting to the switch that would start the siren blaring, but changed his mind. No need to attract attention. There�s plenty of time. He saw his off-ramp ahead and signaled, even though there was no traffic. He knew the Miami-Dade area well. He ought to � he patrolled it for the last ten years. He found the street and stopped around the corner. Sitting in his car, Jack began to work the possible scenarios out in his mind.

I was questioning the suspect, who soon became agitated and irrational. The suspect leapt from his seat, running into the kitchen. I followed, and was attacked by the suspect who was now wielding a large knife. Jack twisted the handle of his knife in his gloved palm.

I shouted a warning as I entered the kitchen area, but was immediately attacked by the suspect. I fired two shots in rapid succession in self-defense, meaning to wound him. I aimed for his arm, and my first shot appeared to throw the suspect backward. The second round struck the suspect in the head.

It could work. It would work. Of course, there would be questions about why he was there, and why he failed to wait for backup. I was on patrol nearby, and responded when the call came over the radio. The suspect was observed leaving the scene. I was merely questioning him, awaiting backup, when he went on the offensive.

He had seen it work several times before. Never with him of course, but he knew how Internal Affairs would handle a case like this. Now he just needed to wait for the APB.

He sat back in his seat, feeling the heat in the car. I should have parked under a tree. After all, it�s not the heat that kills you - it�s the humidity.

***

Jack and Mia strolled across the Seattle campus, enjoying a rare day of sunshine in April. Jack wanted to hold her hand, but resisted; Mia wasn�t the hand holding type. She didn�t need to be. The affection she had for people radiated from her personality. It was this affection that made Jack feel like they were a couple, even though they were nothing more than close friends � fuck-buddies, as Mia liked to say.

�My God, Jack. I can�t believe you�re actually thinking about going through with this!�

�You�re going to give me shit about my career choice? This coming from a girl who�s just joined a band named after a Monty Python sketch? Besides, I come from a long line of cops. My dad was a cop. My uncle is a cop. My sister�s a cop...�

�Your sister is a meter maid.�

�Meter maids are cops.�

�Well,� she said, smiling coyly, �I think you�d be a cute meter maid.�

�You just want a break on those tickets.�

�That�s true. But I also don�t want to worry about you, Jack. I won�t go into the typical punk diatribe about cops being bad, but I think some are. Plus, there�s all the violence you�re exposed to. I mean, what if you were attacked? Not to demean your manliness, but I don�t see you as the truncheon-wielding, riot-geared, Rodney King-beating type.�

Jack sat down on the lawn, watching the passing students. �Meter maids are more likely to be attacked than anyone else on the force,� he said.

�Well,� she smirked, �I didn�t say I wanted you to be a meter maid. I just said you�d look cute. Especially with those shorts they all wear.�

He wanted to kiss her, but knew there was no point. They had debated his joining the police department since he sprung the idea on her three weeks ago, sometimes fiercely. Now that the paperwork was signed off (which he did surreptitiously while she was taking a midterm), he would be moving to the police academy, located at the other end of the state. It would be unlikely they would see each other for at least two years.

It�s not that he wanted to become a cop, but he didn�t know what else to do with his life. College had become a joke � an exercise of left-leaning liberal propaganda masquerading as academia. Jack weighed his options during his junior year � he had no direction, no skills, no talent, and no passion for anything being offered at the university.

�Hey Mia, sing that song again,� Jack said, more to break the silence than anything else.

�What song?�

�You know what song,� he said. �Don�t make me beg. The way this band of yours is progressing, I�ll never get the chance to see you sing live on stage.�

�You just wait,� Mia said, shooting out her lower lip. Standing in front of him, she cradled an imaginary microphone stand. Slowly, softly, mournfully, she began to sing, with Jack as her only audience.

Mia hadn�t fared much better in terms of schooling, yet her personality made her numerous friends across campus and in the artsy sections of Seattle. Jack had been at the drunken dorm party when she suddenly burst out singing in the middle of the hallway for no apparent reason. With her eyes closed and her hips swaying soulfully, she belted out the words to Bessie Smith�s �Graveyard Blues.�

�Had a dream last night, that I was dead. Had a dream last night that I was dead. Evil spirits all around my bed...�

The entire party stopped to watch her as she sang. She was powerful and sexy, yet ethereal. Jack, along with 15 or more witnesses, both male and female, fell in love with Mia Zapata that night.

Jack listened to her sing now, mentally begging her to plead with him to stay in the city. Mia instead leaned forward, kissing his cheek as she finished the song. Then, as if reaffirming the nature of relationship, she playfully slapped him in the same spot. He bolted after her, chasing her all the way back to the philosophy department.

***

Jack jumped at the sudden quick rap at his window. His knife dropped quickly to the floorboard of his cruiser. Lance, his sometime-partner, was grinning toothily at him though his window, holding two cups of coffee and motioning for him to open the door. Jack rolled his window down instead.

Lance was a newbie, a freshman, a rookie, but he was a nice kid. Born and bred in Florida, he was one of the few who hadn�t transferred here. His entire family, three generations worth, were all located in Miami-Dade. Unlike most of the other cops, Lance was one of the few who didn�t spawn from a long line of police officers. Jack had met Lance�s family, and it seemed like most of them made their living from Jerry Springer appearances. When the reports came from Florida of people getting confused over the last election, bets circulated around the station that every one of those suspect ballots had Lance�s last name on them. But he was a good cop, and Jack liked him.

�Hey Jack! You here for that guy who killed that girl in Seattle?�

�That�s right,� Jack said evenly.

�How�d you know about that? Top brass said in the meeting this morning that they were gonna keep it real quiet until he got collared. They said they may not even use the radio.�

�Just bad luck, I guess.�

�Welp, the rest of the guys should be here in about ten minutes. My god, it�s too early to arrest anybody! I just finished a call up the street, so I figured I�d help. Hell, they did a biography on Unsolved Mysteries on this girl a while back. We might be on the tee-vee! Ain�t that a kick?�

�Haven�t thought about that, Lance, I just want to catch the bad guy.�

�Hey, you transferred here from Seattle. You know the girl he killed?�

�The girl?� Jack said cautiously. �No. Rape victim, wasn�t it? Laid out like Christ on the cross?�

�Yeah. She was in a band. Kinda good too. My little brother has an album by her. They called themselves �The Gits.� Her last name was Zapata, like that revolutionary fella in Mexico.� He pronounced the last word Meh-he-ko. Jack felt sick to his stomach.

�Hey Lance, where�s your cruiser?�

�Parked up by the house.�

�Jesus fucking Christ!� Jack screamed, �Move that vehicle before he sees it!�

Lance looked hurt, as he always did when anybody yelled at him, but quickly moved to collect his car. Jack settled into his seat again.

Not much time now. There isn�t going to be an APB, but the plan will still work. Lance will stay outside if I tell him to, and he�ll back me up. I just need to wait a bit longer, for propriety�s sake. And then it will all be over.

***

Jack had transferred out of Seattle immediately after Mia�s death. Florida seemed the best place to go � it was the farthest away, both eastern and southern, that he could get. He used an excuse of wanting to look after an ailing grandfather that he didn�t have, and for whatever reason, it worked. He cut himself off from the public, spending all his time at work. When he wasn�t at work, he went to police functions. When there weren�t official functions, he hung out with the few unmarried cops on the force. He wouldn�t talk about his past. When pressed, he just said Seattle had shitty weather and a bunch of hippies. He�d rather deal with the retired and the obscenely rich. That satisfied most people.

Several of his partners, people like Marcus, liked to call him �The Boy Scout.� Since he arrived here, he had only pulled his firearm three times, and had only discharged it on one of those occasions � and that had been in the air. He found if he treated people with respect, and even more importantly, as equals, even the most volatile situations could be defused. There were times when dealing with the arrogant drunk, or the occasional Al Pacino wanna-be gangster, that he felt like saying to hell with diplomacy and cracking a skull or two. But he never gave in to that urge, more out of respect for a promise he had made than out of control of his temper. He had been here for ten years, and while he wouldn�t be honest to say he hadn�t thought about Mia, she was fading from his mind. And then came the call.

�Jack? This is Philip, from Seattle Forensics. I haven�t talked to you since college. How is Florida?�

His sleepiness instantly wore away. �Why are you calling me at home?� he asked.

�Because I got something,� Philip answered. �And I wanted to tell you first, because I know you knew her. And in case you didn�t know, I knew her as well.�

�Knew who?�

�Mia Zapata, you dumb fuck.� Philip�s voice was a jumble between jubilant and terrified. �And if you�ve forgotten, then never mind.�

Jack flinched at Mia�s name. �I haven�t forgotten,� he said steadily.

�Good, because ten years ago, I took samples of saliva off of her breasts. I want to make sure you understand this � I took saliva off of her breasts � and I saved it. And every year, on the anniversary of her death, I check for DNA matches. And I...�

Philip paused for an eternity.

�And I... Got a match.�

�Philip,� Jack said slowly and deliberately, �why are you telling me this?�

�Because the perp lives in your district.�

***

The code came over the radio after all. This place would soon be swarming with cops. Jack plucked the knife from the floorboard and stuck it inside the arm of his windbreaker, zipping it closed. It was now or never. Stepping out of the car, he could see Lance from across the street, still apparently sulking over the tongue-lashing. Jack crossed the road quickly and leaned close to Lance�s open window, one hand clamped over his forearm to conceal the foreign bulge.

�Lance, they�re coming. You heard it. I think we should guard the perimeter. I�m worried that he might have seen you.�

Lance looked doubtful, staring into Jack�s eyes. Finally, he spoke. �What you plan on doing, Jack?�

�We have to guard the house, Lance. You take the back door. I�ll take the front.�

�But the call said we all move at once...�

�Dispatch didn�t know you parked a marked cruiser in front of his fucking bay window, did they? All we�re doing is sealing the exits. Shut off your radio and proceed to the back of the house.�

�What are you gonna do, Jack?�

�I�m going to squat in those bushes, and wait for ten or fifteen other cops who were smart enough to wear vests to show up.�

Lance studied Jack carefully. �No...� he said tentatively. �No, I don�t think that�s what you plan on doing at all.� Lance continued to measure Jack�s steady gaze. �You look different Jack. I don�t know what�s different, but you ain�t here to catch the bad guy.� He paused, swallowing hard. �We�re the good guys, Jack. He�s the bad guy. I heard about cops that�re bad, but you ain�t like that. There�s a line. We gonna just wait here for back-up.�

�Lance, what the fuck are you talking about?� Jack opened the door to the cruiser as he talked. �We have to guard the doors. I don�t have time to fucking debate with you. You jeopardized this collar by parking your fucking car in front of his house, now go and block the exit!�

Lance stayed in his seat, looking up at his fellow officer. �Jack, I can�t stop you, and I won�t say nothing. But you just can�t.�

It was Jack�s turn to look unsure and he found he could no longer meet the gaze of his sometimes-partner. He turned, staring off at the house on the corner, but not seeing it at all. Lance stepped tentatively out of his cruiser.

�Jack,� Lance said softly, putting his hand on Jack�s shoulder. �You can�t.�

Jack spun around quickly. �Get to the back of the house!� he said, hissing.

Lance turned and trotted slowly toward the backyard, giving a furtive glance over his shoulder as he went. Jack looked at his watch. I have at least eight minutes. Plenty of time. He turned toward the perp�s house, avoiding the front window.

***

�Jack, it�s so good to see you! And you�re not even acting like a Nazi! I�m impressed!�

�Nazi training comes right before graduation,� Jack replied, tipping his police cap sarcastically.

�So,� Mia said, eyes wide in mock horror, �are you here to bust up our show? Put an end to our commie propaganda?�

�Wouldn�t dream of it. Your lyrics are so inane, they�re causing recruitment to go up!�

�Oh, so you�re here to bust our fans?�

�I�m off duty. I just wore the outfit to put a scare into the crowd. Besides, all these burnouts will be on the street tomorrow, so we�ll bust them then.�

Mia stopped short. �That�s not funny. �

�Jesus,� Jack said, �I was kidding!�

�No, you weren�t, Jack. I don�t want you to be jaded. Remember that these kids are the same as you and I were back at school. Just because they didn�t have the luck or the drive that we had, it doesn�t make them bad.�

�Mia,� Jack said, �I�m not jaded.�

Mia looked at him closely. �Okay, Jack. I believe you. But I never want to hear about you crossing the line. Promise me.�

�Okay, jeez, I try to give you a nice surprise...�

She kissed him quick on the mouth, then looked at him again. �Promise me,� she said, looking square into his eyes.

�Mia, I promise you, I will never cross the line.�

***

Jack slid into a cluster of bushes next to the front porch and crouched low. The sudden shift in position dug the blade into his arm, and he could feel the first trickle of blood. Gun in one hand, he opened his jacket to reach for his concealed knife. Mia, he thought, I�m sorry.

The front door opened slowly. An older man clad in a bathrobe wandered off the front porch, bending over with an effort to pick up his morning paper. Jack watched from his hiding spot. He matched the mug shot Philip had faxed him, right down to the bald head and deep-set eyes. The suspect coughed long and hard, finally spitting what sounded like a pound�s worth of phlegm into the lawn. The man turned, shuffling back to the front door, not noticing the police officer submerged between his bushes. Jack burst out from behind, throwing both of them inside the house, slamming the door with his heel as they passed. He leapt to his feet, gun in hand.

�Don�t fucking move, you piece of shit!� Jack yelled, aiming his gun. �Hands over your head!�

�Hey man, what is this? What you doing? Stop pointing that thing at me!�

�Shut the fuck up!� Jack said, grabbing the man�s shoulder and marching him forward at gunpoint. The forced procession stopped at the back of the house.

�Turn around!�

The man did as he was told, visibly shaken. Jack moved closer, slowly, step by step; he aimed the barrel of his gun directly between the suspect�s eyes. �So, you like to rape and kill girls, huh? And you get a kick by positioning them like they�re crucified when you�re done?�

�Man, I never raped nobody...�

�Mia Zapata!� Jack screamed, pushing the muzzle against the bald man�s forehead. �Say her name!�

But the man didn�t say her name; he understood that he mustn�t say her name. �I never raped nobody,� he said again.

�Yeah? That pregnant lady you assaulted a month ago? That was a felony. They took your DNA, remember that? And while you spent all that time positioning Mia�s body, you forgot to wipe away your fucking spit! Now. Say. Her. Name!�

Jack stared and saw the first signs of realization cross the man�s face. That was enough for him. Almost.

Four hard raps pounded against the front door. A muffled voice boomed from outside: �Sheriff�s Department! We have a warrant! Open the door or we�ll break it down!� Jack was distracted for a half a second.

That was enough. The suspect bolted into the side room, slamming the door behind him. Jack followed, breaking the door off the hinges with his shoulder as he plowed into the frame. He turned to see the man coming at him with a knife, arm upraised. The blade plunged into his forearm, striking the metal of his concealed weapon. Jack shoved forward, and his attacker flew across the room onto his back.

He steadied his aim, pointing his gun right between the eyes, relishing the terrified look in the man�s face. He put pressure on his trigger.

�Say her name.� Jack whispered.

He could see Lance looking in the back window, eyes wide with horror. Jack kept his eyes steady, not acknowledging his sometimes-partner, though he could still see his face, no matter how hard he concentrated on the suspect. Lance finally turned away. Jack swallowed hard, his throat dry and hot.

Cops appeared from every direction, all shouting and waving their guns. The suspect, already crouched in a near-fetal position, lay quickly on the linoleum floor, lacing his fingers behind his head. Jack stood above him, gun still drawn and pointed, chest heaving. Over the noise, Lance could hear Jack speaking.

�Jesus Mezquia, you are under arrest for the murder of Mia Zapata. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law...�

Lance was the only one who noticed the tears on Jack�s cheeks as he recited the words.


Rating: Worth used.

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