Chapter Two

Slamming the door didn’t fucking relieve enough stress. Nor did the second time. Or third. Morrisey drew the line at five when busybody Mrs. Christy next door usually resorted to calling the landlord.

Not that the landlord did much, having a strong instinct for self-preservation. The bad-tempered old bastard mostly grumbled under his breath and threatened to call the law.

Morrisey was the law. Also, one hell of a lot more bad-tempered.

The precinct’s assigned counselor suggested throwing soft things like stress balls or pillows. Bullshit. Not the same satisfaction as a slamming door or breaking glass, as the shards from a picture frame littering the floor could attest.

Sometimes, even driving a car through a building wouldn’t help. Which had only happened once. And had also been considered an accident. Morrisey still wasn’t sure about the accident part. He’d been behind the wheel during a high-speed chase.

But smashing inanimate objects relieved stress.

He ripped off his tie and jacket, flinging them down to the floor. No one was left to complain about his sloppy ways but him, and he didn’t rightly give a shit. The clothes joined various piles of jeans, T-shirts, underwear, and beer cans.

Cleaning wouldn’t happen today. Tomorrow didn’t look promising, either. It hadn’t been a good month.

Or a good life.

Three empty liquor bottles had long ago become one with the coffee table, lined up by quality, along with a partial bottle of dubious rotgut likely effective as paint thinner. The top-shelf shit died a brutal death a week ago. The mostly full bottle of rotgut would have to do. Morrisey dropped onto the couch—the only piece of furniture not covered by debris—and lifted the bottle. A quick perusal of the general area showed not a glass in sight. Not an intact one, anyway.

Hell, the bottle was glass. Close enough.

He’d left the lid off at some point, making the booze more accessible. The bottle rim kissed his lips, the only kiss he’d had in far too long. He tipped the bottle upward for the sweet relief of alcohol-induced oblivion.

The whiskey scorched going down, but not hot enough to burn out the memories or ease the heartache.

Linda Murphy had stood with her three kids at Will’s graveside. The look she’d given Morrisey might’ve been an accusing one, but he couldn’t be sure. Too many deaths. Too many causes for mourning.

Only May, and already he’d attended three funerals of cops he actually knew, not counting the two from other precincts he’d only met in passing. He’d still attended to show support for the families left behind.

Mainly because the captain suggested he do so.

Strongly suggested.

Today? Fuck. Today, Morrisey buried his partner, the man he’d depended on for six years to have his back. Will, of bright smiles, lousy coffee, and even worse Dad jokes. Unlike the others, he hadn’t died during a drug bust, traffic stop, or being shot during a robbery.

Will gave in to despair. His own damned bullet. His own damned gun.

His own damned choice.

Morrisey should have been the one to make a premature exit, with a life in shambles and little to live for. Suicide should be reserved for grouchy old detectives who’d seen too much and done even more. Not a young guy like Will Murphy, who was married with kids, in line for a promotion, and whose number of commendations rivaled Morrisey’s reprimands.

Not enough alcohol anywhere to wash away the reason. A homicide call, which, sad to say, had become pretty routine. Until they’d seen the bodies.

The cop retching into the bushes at their arrival had been their first clue.

Three adults slaughtered. One with seventeen stab wounds. Who the fuck stabbed someone seventeen times? No leads. Somewhere in the city, the monster or monsters responsible slipped free to kill again. Monsters smart enough to cover their tracks.

No fingerprints, not even on the bloody doorknob. No eyewitnesses either, just the poor woman who’d arrived late and spared herself.

Physically, anyway.

Thank God the child victims woke up and didn’t remember anything. They’d been spared seeing the horrors but still lost their mothers.

Morrisey raised the bottle. The current incarnation of Agnes sat in her place of honor in his shoulder holster, his constant companion when the world lost its mind and crime rose through the roof. He removed the .38, testing the familiar weight in his hand.

He and his sidearms had fought the good fight together for over twenty years, taking down criminals and defending the helpless.

Taken lives when necessary.

Morrisey stared out the living room window at the setting sun, clutching the bottle in one hand, Agnes in the other. Families gathered around dinner tables or in front of televisions all over the city. Not him. Damned if he felt like eating or watching mindless entertainment. The evening news certainly held no interest. Much more bad news and the last life Agnes took might be Morrisey’s own.

He placed the gun on the couch beside him and swept his hand across his face, feeling the ever-present stubble, then pressed his fingers to his burning eyes. The whiff of metal and gunpowder clung to his skin. His imagination? Or an invitation? Every day he survived counted as a win. Maybe.

Morrisey shook the far too empty bottle. He’d have to make a liquor store run tomorrow and pay cash. No deliveries or credit card receipts or anything to draw attention. Keep the evidence left behind to a minimum. If he’d been caught on security cameras, oh well. Who could argue he hadn”t gone there for professional reasons?

His pickled liver might tell the story one day. He’d stopped listing organ donor on his driver’s license years ago. Nothing worth saving after so much booze. It wasn”t like anyone who”d known him for longer than ten minutes didn”t suspect his plans to drink himself to death if a bullet didn”t get him first, although he attempted to hide his bad habits from coworkers. Provided that he kept his record clean, he kept his job, the only thing he managed to hold on to.

The sun settled behind the horizon, plunging the room into darkness that streetlights outside barely chased back. Still, Morrisey sat and drank. Fuckity-fuck! He fished a crushed pack and lighter from beneath the couch cushions, shook a slightly deformed cigarette out, and fired up, frustration washing out of him along with the first puff. Will wasn’t around to nag about health or drop not-so-gentle reminders about the department’s upcoming annual physical.

What did Morrisey care now?

He lit a new cigarette with the dying butt of the first, curling the smoke in his mouth before exhaling in a noisy breath.

Tomorrow, he would need to check in with the captain to officially return from leave. What the hell time was it? He crawled across the floor to his discarded jacket and retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. Two fucking a.m. A responsible man would go to bed or would have hours ago.

No one ever accused Morrisey of being a responsible man.

He fixed his bleary gaze on the landline phone gathering dust on the end table. Who the hell kept a landline these days?

Morrisey got the landline simply because it was bundled with his internet and cable services. Only one living person had the number. No wait. Will was gone.

The damned thing hadn’t rung in ages. One by one, everyone Morrisey gave the number to died. He should disconnect the phone and not risk dooming anyone else.

A single item on a lengthy to-do list.

Coulda, shoulda, woulda rattled around his brain. The dam couldn’t hold forever. A tear slipped free of his control. Then another. Then another, followed by a choking sob. He dropped his cigarette butt into a handy beer bottle, buried his face in his hands, and let the pain out in a single wail.

Why? Why? Why? Everyone he ever cared about left him. His shoulders shook, the wracking sobs escaping. Let the old busybody next door call the landlord. Hell, let her call the cops. No one Morrisey knew would come once they heard the address.

He’d run out of shits to give long ago.

Will had been hurting. Obviously so. Maybe Morrisey should have taken him out for a drink, dinner, or… something. But no. He’d sent the man home to his family.

Will should have fucking gone.

He collapsed onto the floor. A good enough place to spend the night. He’d spent them worse places. Images came to mind: Will laughing, Will arguing over who got the lunch tab, eventually agreeing that, because of his marital and parental obligations, Morrisey could better afford the bill.

The images shifted. Another smiling face, this one staring at Morrisey with adoration before moving near enough to kiss. Someone who”d known all of Morrisey”s bad habits and loved him anyway. Morrisey had seen that face smiling, laughing, scowling, crying, angry, happy… So many emotions over seven years, as he and Craig went from two guys meeting by chance at a softball game to dating to living together to falling in love…

To a note left on the counter that cut deeper than a knife.

Even in the darkness, Morrisey automatically sought out perhaps the most detailed portrait he’d ever painted: Craig seated on the couch, attention fixed on the guitar in his lap. He’d been playing Procol Harum’s A Whiter Shade of Pale when Morrisey took the photo he’d painted from.

He shut his eyes, visualizing the concentration on Craig’s face, scrunched brow, pursed lips. Then he’d looked up and smiled.

And filled Morrisey’s heart to bursting.

The last time he’d seen that sweet face three years ago… ashen, cold, bruised nearly beyond recognition, its formerly expressive features forever at rest. The man on the slab had the same sandy blond hair, though gauntness had hollowed the cheeks. What the hell had Craig been through since their last time together? He’d been dead too long to allow Morrisey to distinguish impressions through touch.

Besides, Morrisey’s own overwrought emotions got in the way.

Someone else he couldn’t save. Seeing the truth with his eyes wasn’t enough evidence for Morrisey to disconnect the phone. No, provided that he kept service on, the phone might ring someday, and a sweet voice would tell him he’d dreamed the whole thing, that Craig would be home after work, and did Morrisey want him to bring home Chinese food?

“Good night, Will. Good night, Craig,” Morrisey whispered into the darkness.

The phone rang and rang In Morrisey’s troubled dreams, but he couldn’t rise to answer.