FictionPress.com - let the words flow| FictionPress.com - let the words flow |
| Home Just In Communities Forums Beta Readers Dictionary Search | Login Register Extras |
Dedicated to Prisoner-11 for your awesome review! Thank you!!
Ten Years Later
Chapter One
“Kingsley, Cassidy.”
Slam.
The manila envelope embedded itself in the already-congested wooden desk. Miscellaneous papers cascaded away from the intruder; the tall man behind the desk had to stoop quickly to prevent them from coming into contact with the oily wooden floor. He straightened up, spine popping, and considered glaring at the man in front of him.
Instead, he shook his head at the envelope. Obviously full, the envelope’s edges were frayed from the strain of containing all of the files it did… and from constant contact with too many professional fingers. He sighed, heavily.
“Yeah, Cassidy,” he mumbled, more to himself than the other man. “This is the part I like best.”
The psychiatrist in front of him ignored the blatant sarcasm and took a seat in the wooden chair in front of the desk. He steepled his clean hands in front of him in a sad mimicry of the archetype of his profession. His voice was as smooth as his fingers.
“I’m afraid we must talk about him, Mr. Aguilar.”
The chief of police kept his face frozen in an expression of vague displeasure, though his quick mind was already ruthlessly mocking the doctor. You and your worthless euphemisms. For a moment he considered firing the siquiatro feo, but thought better of it. After Cassidy’s evaluation, they’d be done with him. Cassidy’s evaluation was always the last… and always the worst. He could always request a different doctor next time, anyway.
“Fine. Shoot.”
The psychiatrist’s mouth turned upwards into a tight, thin, mirthless smile. He leaned over and picked up the manila envelope, but didn’t open it. Instead he turned it around and around in his too-soft hands, brushing the bold label with his square-cut fingernails. Kingsley, Cassidy orbited the simple gold band on the doctor’s ring finger. Aguilar felt overcome with the desire to snatch it from him. Before he could seriously entertain the idea, however, the envelope ceased its revolutions and the doctor looked up.
“Cassidy Kingsley, age twenty-two. He retains no contact with his immediate family and has no significant other. He spoke of no friends when we talked. In fact, he hasn’t really had any social contact in the two years that you’ve had the pleasure of his company. I see that the evaluators before me have made many similar notes, so I’ll just summarize the rest for you.”
The doctor settled back comfortably in his chair, crossing his ankle over his knee. His movements reminded Aguilar of the smugness of a cat, or of a petty politician who’d suddenly gained the upper hand. The eerily smooth voice broke his thoughts.
“Officer Kingsley is astonishingly aloof for such a young man. His social interaction is stunted. He does not properly express his emotions when he expresses them at all. These few behavioral patterns are just the tip of the iceberg, Chief, and yet they infer so much. While these behaviors do not suggest a mental disorder such as autism or schizophrenia, I, like all of the psychiatrists that came before me in this case, believe that you have a time bomb on your hands.”
Aguilar sighed heavily and raised his hand. He’d heard enough. He’d heard it all before.
“Thank you, Dr. Roby, I’ll stop you there.”
The doctor shook his head.
“Mr. Aguilar, as the Chief of Police of this department, I’d hoped that you would be more receptive to our evaluation of Officer Kingsley –”
“Cassidy is not a threat to the integrity of our department nor to the safety of the public. I hope you realize that if he ever became a problem that he would be dismissed immediately. We have no record of anything but perfect behavior from him. I am very satisfied with his performance, regardless of any social or mental disorders you might think he has.”
Dr. Roby tried to break in again, but Aguilar had had enough. He stood and walked quickly to the door of his office, and held it open in dismissal. The psychiatrist sighed and stood, leaving the manila envelope on the chair behind him. The walk back to the front desk was silent. The doctor took his leave, and Aguilar was glad to see him go. He stood at the double doors of the station for a moment, watching the silver Mercedes worm its way out of the parking lot, then started back to his office. Something caught his eye, however, and he stopped.
The large plaque containing the pictures of every officer in the station gleamed above the front desk. The receptionist looked up inquisitively as he stepped around the wooden barrier and up to the frame. He skimmed the top row of pictures. Cannes, Davidson, Johannson… Kingsley.
The young man in the picture wasn’t scowling, per se. His expression was simply set in a way that reminded Aguilar strongly of a stone statue’s. Aguilar reached out and traced the photo thoughtfully. The expression didn’t change, not that he expected it to. In his two years of employment at the West St. Paul Police Department, Cassidy Kingsley’s expression had never wavered, not even after witnessing his first death, not even when rescuing that five year old girl from a rapist last month.
The perky voice of the receptionist broke into his thoughts.
“Too bad he doesn’t smile more, huh? He’d be real handsome. Still is, in fact.” She giggled to herself and continued stuffing the pile of envelopes in front of her.
Aguilar rolled his eyes and turned back to the picture.
Even the oddly-colored eyes in the photograph betrayed no sign of life. Aguilar shook his head. Yes, Cassidy’s coloring was what Shirley had been talking about when she had called him handsome. Personally, Aguilar was often disturbed by the color of Cassidy’s eyes, and by the extent that they matched his hair color. The hue was nearly impossible to describe; to his surprise, he’d often found himself trying to put a name to it. He’d eventually settled on calling it ‘honey-colored’, though it was an extremely effeminate and oddly restrictive term to use.
“Shirley,” he said suddenly, startling the receptionist. “Shirley, what would you call this color?”
“Which?” she demanded, craning her head to see what he was pointing at.
“Cassidy’s hair. Or his eyes. Hair and eyes, big difference, they’re the same color.”
“Isn’t that weird? Hmm…” she leaned back in the swivel chair, thinking. “I’d say… butterscotch. Or honey. We could just call him a blonde and get it over with, though.”
Aguilar laughed, and, inspired, Shirley pressed on.
“Sure wish he’d smile, though. Maybe you could give him an award or something to try to make him show those teeth.”
“Already tried it,” he grumbled gloomily. The darkened eyes burned back out at him. He walked away, glancing over his shoulder at Shirley as he left the room. She was now studying the plaque with renewed interest. He shook his head.
Shirley was a temp hired from the Woodbury Police Department when they were shorthanded a year ago. She was overly flirtatious at the best of times, but she got her jobs done quickly and effectively, and he’d seen no need to let her go, even when more qualified individuals surfaced. It was another staffing decision few police chiefs would have made, but then again, he was no ordinary chief. He tended to see the best in people, even when they were…
Cassidy Kingsley.
A silver car burst over the pavement rise and rocketed past, shaking the patrol car in its wake. The red numbers flashed excitedly. Cassidy’s expression did not change. Calmly, he shifted the car into ‘drive’ and burst out onto the highway.
Red brake lights impeded his vision; all around him, drivers exercised newfound caution. His left hand found the intended switch, and red and blue lights flooded the highway. The silver car appeared on the horizon. He accelerated swiftly, reaching for the intercom.
