Laughter in Bigtown

Slaughter. That was the word for it. Massacre? Too foreign and unwieldy. Devastation, too melodramatic and apersonal. Murder, singular and quite everyday to most who cared. Butchery, too trite. Annihilation, incorrect on the face. Carnage, too imprecise. Slaying, too hard to talk about around the holidays, where visions of a team of reindeer pranced into everyone's heads. Slaughter.

My partner searched my intent face, as much a sucker for the drama as the people who followed the news. "You decided on a name for this new butcher yet?"

"The Southside Slaughterer."

"God you're awful. Pratt'll eat it right up." He threw me a grin and I heard a chuckle as he rose from his crouch. "If you don't have much left to do, I'll tell the chief we can wrap it up and let Forensics back into the scene."

"Good plan." Douglas was an excellent cop, way better than most of the rookies assigned to drive me around. Bigtown was where they sent them for training, because this place was the most sensitive about the… nuances of the case.

You had to follow more than just the facts in the Big’s city. You make it out of Bigtown, you're good enough any force would be happy to have you.

You get to stay in Bigtown if somebody hates you. Or if you are an ambitious little snot trying to claw your way up out of the gutters. Your career ends in one of two ways then: You crack and turn dirty and wind up in a body bag, or you get hired to secure some hot VIP ticket like private security for some Big that Regional wants to cozy up to.

As much as I liked Douglas, I was shanking him on the reviews. He was good, and I didn't want this city to murder him. Maybe he'd understand afterwards.

"Greener pastures." It was a whisper, a dream too far gone for me now, but he might get it. To actually do some good in the world. People might actually like him someday. Have a family, get a nice girl and have some kids. The dream.

I snapped another picture of reality; the floodlights casting the smeared red leading to the chalk line in a crystallized, lurid shine like a dark but beckoning gemstone. The other two bodies were on the other two walls, all away from the big warehouse door.

Third case, three bodies. Gotta say the math was looking like a lot of bodies at this rate, but the Captain was chewing a new Cuban right before the first one, which meant I didn't have to worry. In these arranged cases I could let out a bit of the artist in me. Lurid headlines, big press, lots of attention. Detailed reports, sparkling public attention.

I met Douglas at the car, plugging the camera in and working with my photos. Light correction, shading. Make the red stand out and blur the body a bit so it'd be front page material. These two would be small ones for the full article, where the spread would link. Discarded two because other officers were awkwardly visible. The car stopped and I left the zone, then saw where we were. "You son of a bitch."

"You love me." Douglas laughed. "Pickup for Jack Douglas, should be tabbed with the North Force."

The speaker buzzed back: "Pickup at the second window, thank you for your patronage, officer."

"Jackass." I didn't mean to say it out loud, but I didn't care that it came out. He only smirked. Damn. Hot coffee and dippers tasted good, every time. "It's just shy of ninety-six-even, we should pick some up for Cap at least."

"Good call. Give you time to send in the raws and float your mods by him too." He parked the car and left me to my cinnamon-and-coffee den. By the time the attendant wheeled out the cart and had it stowed, I was working at a happy clip. On arrival at the office, the story was done with some blanks for key bits that I'd need to reference other officers' official reports for, and I preferred to use my desk to finish the work on the photos and layout. As always, Douglas took the boxes and coffee into Mess while I walked Cap's drink and a napkinful of dippers straight to him.

"I just called Susan, she said you'd picked up a load already. Whose idea was it?" He reached for the offering with eager, sausagey fingers. "You or Douglas?"

"Me." Not really a lie. "Want to see the prelim sir?"

He waved the door shut. "Scene must've been clean for you to get that much done already."

"I'm the best, you know that." He snorted as I threw the report up on his wall. "Unless there's bigger news, I was prepping a top-line spread." He grunted, eyes scanning, waving it up and down.

"Looks pretty good to me. Keep at it. Think you can beat the presses?"

"I can, but I'll owe Pratt my teeth to get it approved in time." I stood to leave.

"Good work Goldie. Work through the morning, then head home to prep for arm decorating duty tomorrow at eighty-half, and come dressed to kill. Regional's coming to meet a bunch of highbrows and wants us to sparkle like little blue diamonds. City’s finest and all that." He sighed deeply, eyes softening as they wandered into the distant and more civilized past. The glory days he’d watched fall.

I coughed to avoid the reminisce. "Civvies or dress blues?"

"Civvies. Lipstick and heels. You'll be in at the party the whole time, barring a revolution." I didn't swear out loud, but he knew my reaction as I stood. He barked out a little laugh and started in on his food.

"Yes sir." I could already see my desk vandalized by glossies of me all dressed up and acting womanly for the big bosses.

Murder pornographer and propagandist by day, arm candy and heroic media role model by night. They didn’t just demand you do your job and keep society running. They didn’t want things to go smoothly, to oversee a bunch of cogs in a great machine. They wanted power, like ancient kings. Like Dracula or Genghis Khan might’ve had.

Far worse crimes were committed at midday in this city than in the dead of night. They wanted power over you, to have you dance like a puppet to their satisfaction.

Maybe that’s why I felt I had a chance in Bigtown. Not only could I hear their laughter in my head, I was good with my punchlines.

As I returned to my desk and stared at the title I had picked out, it occurred to me that the laughter I resented was just one letter different than the slaughter that paid my rent.