Jon Jordan‘s favorite writers include Frank Bill, Chris Offutt, John Sandford, Anthony Neil Smith, Kent Haruf, Chuck Palahniuk and Jordan Harper. He lives and writes in Saint Paul, MN. To find more of his writing visit jonjordanwrites.substack.com.
Flashing lights in my rear-view mirror. I pulled the car over, lifted the Ruger from my purse and held it low. My plane will board in forty-five minutes.
Last year four hundred and seventy-two cops were killed in the line of duty. Look it up. In the same time period, twice as many cops killed themselves.
Sergeant Atkins. Twenty-seven citizen complaints and five suspensions. Last year, while off duty, he drove drunk through a red light and t-boned a car driven by Michael Rivera. Michael’s son, riding in the back seat, was killed. Sergeant Atkins went to rehab but kept his job.
I found Sergeant Atkins at his favorite bar. It took many drinks to get him to leave with me. He was fall-down drunk when we arrived at his apartment.
“Let’s take a shower,” I whispered.
I helped him out of his clothes, pushed him into the bathtub and slit his wrists.
I used his thumb to open his smart phone, typed a suicide note and texted it to “Mommy”. First stop done and already not sure if I’d make my flight.
Officer Steve Jablowski. School resource officer who coerced troubled high school girls to blow or fuck him. One recorded him on her iPhone. He resigned from the police department, and no criminal charges were brought. Tonight he’s working as the night security officer at a high rise downtown.
I took the elevator to the top floor of the high rise and walked up the stairs to the rooftop access. Opening the door to the roof sounded the alarm. I stood by the edge waiting for him to show. I had estimated five minutes for him to respond. It took him seven.
“You’re not supposed to be up here,” he called walking toward me. “What are you doing?”
I held up my phone. “Good reception,” I said. “Texting.”
His phone pinged. “All set,” I said.
He looked at me confused. He lifted his phone and looked at the message. It was an image of a high school sophomore fellating him.
“You bitch,” he said, angry. “I was going to let you off with a warning, but now I’m going to have you arrested.”
“Come and get me you piece of shit,” I said.
Officer, I mean, Security Guard Steve rushed towards me. I sidestepped and gave him a push. He plunged face first off the roof. The building was thirty-seven stories tall. His fall to the ground lasted roughly the same amount of time as his last ejaculation.
I rode the elevator down and exited the building. Second stop done. Still behind schedule.
Officer Taves liked to beat his wife. Police had been called the times her screams were heard by the neighbors. She never pressed charges. She never left. His last beating put me in the hospital. I told the doctor I was in a car accident.
I rested my left hand on the steering wheel and watched the officer approach in my side view mirror.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” he asked. The voice was familiar. I looked at the nameplate on his uniform. Officer Taves. My husband. Speeding through his patrol area paid off.
“Hello, dear,” I said with a smile and making eye contact.
“Jeanie?” he asked. “Who’s car is this? What are you doing out this time of night?”
“I have a surprise for you,” I said. He crouched down so his face was level with mine.
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “What’s that?”
“I’m late to catch a flight,” I said. “I’m leaving you.”
“What?” he asked. He paused. He was surprised. I held his gaze, letting him know I was serious.
“Jeanie,” he said. “Come on, we can talk about this.”
“I’m done talking,” I said. I lifted the Ruger with my right hand and fired point blank into his face.
Officer Taves fell back landing face-up on the pavement. I twisted in my seat and fired two more shots into his head. Rolled up my window and put the car in gear. With a little luck and a delay, I might make my flight.
~ fin ~
Jon Jordan‘s favorite writers include Frank Bill, Chris Offutt, John Sandford, Anthony Neil Smith, Kent Haruf, Chuck Palahniuk and Jordan Harper. He lives and writes in Saint Paul, MN. To find more of his writing visit jonjordanwrites.substack.com.
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