1
Walter Alworthy slouched in his seat and watched the huge clouds form. The windshield was still clear but the darkness of evening crept over the buildings, like a plague stepping across the mountains. The volume control on the radio was turned down, the drone of the dispatcher and the crackle of the static lost in the rush of the traffic. The cruiser, white with the big golden shield on the side, was obvious, almost blatant, sitting by the curb. And Walt knew it. He often waited on the downtown streets since he had had enough seniority to pretty much choose his own patrol area. It was simple really; there was very little to do on the downtown beat and Walt liked it that way. After all, twenty years on the force and he had covered his share of robberies, done his share of aggravated shooting. He was even tired of the simple things, writing traffic tickets, investigating accidents, speaking at schools and inspecting safety patrols.2
Those twenty years were his passport to a future of ease, each shot that had been meant for him he felt earned him a month of no concerns. He watched the people pass the car, sensed and smiled at their furtive glances, and knew that each was expressing the guilt for every wrong committed over the space of a lifetime. And Walt returned smile for smile, his own suggestive and knowing, as the great mind readers of history must have stared at those before them. He watched the cars slow as they passed the cruiser and again sensed the reflex of their action.3
He watched four youths on the corner lounging in the shade of a truck parked by the curb. The sight struck a familiar note deep within his brain, a remembrance of a time when he had been proud of his vigor and youth, had indeed been anxious for a chance to use his gun. The report of that weapon had made him tingle, each shot a mainliner, ripping through his veins like lightning through a hot summer sky. He could feel his eyes burning, his hand trembling with excitement yet steady at the critical moment of the squeeze.4
He remembered the first man he had killed, and the last, and all those in between. There had been some in the war, righteous deaths as were all the rest in those later years. He had seen the angry faces in mobs, full of hatred and even despair, like a circus animal, free in an unfamiliar territory, unsure, yet strong and brutal, fighting for something vague, something buried within their existence, but something which they didn’t want to lose. He had watched those faces as he pulled the trigger, seen the faces change, fear at first and then a new loathing and, beneath it all, a cunning, and the formation of a new will of survival. But Walt only smiled, hoping for a pretext to empty his gun into those faces. His aversion shriveled his mind; to him there was nothing more detestable than a mob, a proletariat of unrestrained fervor, this fermented remains of some illusion, a "Raisin in the Sun," destined for abortion from the conception. Walt smiled now, slumped in the cruiser, and wanted to slaughter all mobs, all murderers and thieves . . . and overtime parking violators.5
He had felt like this for years, since before he had been married. Laws were made and were not to be broken. Thus it had been since the Genesis, when from a burning bush came the voice of eternity and from it came ten laws, the first of millions, all of which were destined to be broken. Nothing angered Walt more than to hear the hackneyed phrase, "Laws are made to be broken." It is an eternal and abject saying, detailing the lawbreaker’s disdain for order, the desire of each man to return to his aboriginal home, that place from whence he has sprung. And a mob was a howling pack of wolves, a thief or a jackal or hyena. So, he had killed them or prayed that he would have a chance to kill one or all of them. He knew how man feared dying – he had read about it once a long time ago. A police psychiatrist had once told him it was a fear of non-being, but he had never really understood the explanation.6
Walt had never been afraid of dying and was willing to put his life on the line to protect the law-abiding citizens of his area. Now, after some years he was not afraid; to the contrary, he had less fear than ever. Only now there was his wife and little John and Samantha. Some day they would go to school and they would want a daddy and also some of daddy’s money. So, he was content to sit quietly in the cruiser and pass out jaywalking and overtime parking tickets. The chief had even stopped much of his speech making at schools and business organizations, something about nettling a few people. There were always a few busy bodies.7
This had piqued him for he felt that too many people had a tendency these days to mollycoddle criminals. Rehabilitation was a word not in Walt’s vocabulary. He understood only that a man obeyed or disobeyed the law and was to be treated accordingly.8
Thunder sounded overhead and Walt hoped the rain would be light. He hated to have to close the cruiser windows.9
Author notes
Part 3 of the continuing story - another person and view.
Adding your comment: