The Beast of 1977 (Book 1)

Chapter 33

Captain Brickman's disposition was both low key and solemn as he stacked a series of papers all in a row while sitting quietly at his desk.

From left to right, reports of the incident from the night before, along with a prostitution ring that was busted up around three a.m. were all gathered into his stiff hands and neatly placed to the side.

Staying busy was never a challenge for the besieged man; it was a natural way of life. But that morning lay heavy and hard upon him, like carrying a three hundred pound man on top of his shoulders for hours.

Purposely, he had managed to keep away from Linus so far that morning, even though seven o' clock hadn't even arrived yet. There was so much he wanted to say to his colleague and friend, but it wasn't the right time, not with the investigation underway. Instead, he chose to keep to himself, secluded to the safe confines of his office.

Every so often he would answer his phone to take angry complaints from those who found wrong with the police department, or he would come out to ask for another cup of coffee from one of the female officers, but all in all, the unobtrusive man remained stationery and out of the way.

A sudden knock at the door startled the captain to where he lost complete track of the filing detail that he was right in the middle of. ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

Exasperated, he dropped the papers that were in his hands and looked up to see a silhouette stand on the other end of the stained glass door.

"Come in." He gently grimaced.

From behind the door appeared Fitzpatrick, who himself looked as if he hadn't slept a wink in two nights.

"Uh, sir, Mr. Mercer is here." Alan unenthusiastically stated.

Without saying a word, the captain groaned, gathered his papers and raised himself up and out of his creaky old wooden chair. The man sailed past Alan on his way out of his office and through the main work area where phones were ringing off the hook every other second and officers were handing him the proverbial stare downs.

"He's downstairs in interrogation." Alan said while following right in behind Brickman.

Without stopping, Brickman replied, "I'm fully aware of where the gentleman is, Detective."

Both men carried on down the steps that led to the interrogation room. The captain was already an over boiling pot of unhinged nerves, having someone biting at his heels, at that time in the morning no less, only infused the man with even more ire.

Once they reached the correct floor Alan hurriedly and boldly stepped in front of Brickman and remarked, "Sir, any word on—

"Don't start with me, Fitz." The captain cantankerously ordered.

"Captain, he's up there with O'Dea." Alan pressed on. "You know just as well as I do that guy is gonna grill him like a criminal."

"What do you want me to do?" Brickman shrugged. "Run upstairs, grab Linus and jump out the window with the man?"

"No...but if we could just get the D.A. on the phone, then—

"Look, I know O'Dea is a fucking prick of a guy. I also know that just a few doors down I have to explain to a father why his son was shot in cold blood last night."

Alan glanced behind him before slipping his hands inside his pants pockets and sighing, "You should see this Mercer fellow. He looks like he's about to go nuts at any moment. Officer Washington is right around the corner if you need any assistance."

The captain stared strangely back at Fitzpatrick as though he had lost his mental faculties before saying in a grunt, "Look, I've been up since nine last night. I'm high on Sanka, nicotine and cold medicine. Now, if I were you I wouldn't be concerned about my well-being as you are, because the question of why you left your piece in the trunk of that cruiser is gonna come up before the day is done, Detective. So what I suggest you do is head back upstairs, grab a cup of coffee and calm the fuck down. The day is just starting."

And with that the captain sidestepped Alan on his way past the interrogation room and directly to a tall, black officer who was standing against the wall like an on duty soldier.

The captain stopped, looked up at the officer and simply said, "Washington, we need you outside on crowd control."

Without blinking, the officer looked down at the captain and respectfully replied, "Yes, sir."

The captain stood and watched as the towering officer marched down the empty hallway before turning around and stepping just ten feet back to the interrogation room. With an overwhelming sense of trepidation, the captain approached the door and paused. Through the blurry glass he could see Mercer's large profile seated at the table.

Despite the fact that the early morning was already chock full of unbridled controversy and pain stricken calamity, Brickman had a pre-planned statement stored away in the furthest recesses of his brain, ready to send out at a moment's notice.

His sweaty right hand twisted the cold doorknob, beyond the door sat Mr. Mercer with his hands folded and his eyes closed to the world. The second Brickman shut the door behind him Mercer opened his

red, sullen eyes and pointed them directly down at the brown table before him.

The captain could hear the protesters outside the window behind Mercer yell and chant for justice and an end to police brutality. They had been out there for the past two hours, and their incessant pleas were increasing as the morning tarried on.

"Uh, Mr. Mercer, my name is Captain Roy Brickman. Good morning." Brickman modestly broadcasted before sitting himself down on the other side of the table from Mercer.

Mercer's brooding face never parted from the table. It almost appeared as if he were either far away in another world or just studying the wood grain beneath his fingers.

"Sir, I, uh...I don't quite know what to say at this point." Brickman discreetly stammered as though he were trying to cough. "At this very moment, the department is conducting an extensive investigation into Detective Bruin's actions from last night. All we know for now is that Detective Bruin made his way over to see your son and bring him here for more questioning. And then, according to Bruin, everything after that went...black."

The more Brickman spoke the more he had hoped that Mercer would at least make eye to eye contact with him. But no matter how diligently the captain explained the situation, Mercer's face remained perfectly reserved.

"As of now, Detective Bruin is indefinitely suspended, without pay. Now, Mr. Mercer, we need to know—

At that very instant, a slight grunt cooed from out of Mercer's throat before he slowly uttered, "Captain, can you imagine what it's like to look down upon your son and see his entire body opened up with bullets?" The man remarked without taking his eyes off the table still.

Brickman lunged forward a few inches in order to gain a more precise detail of the man's face and speech that he wanted so much to come to life.

"Something was wrong with my boy." Mercer continued on. "The young man I saw last night wasn't mine. The devil got to him, and I couldn't see it. The good Lord tried to warn me. He tried to open my eyes, but I was too blind. Rather than turning him over to Jesus, I sent my own son to a psychiatrist. A witch doctor," he bitterly snarled.

"Mr. Mercer, you say that you saw Isaac last night before he went over to his fiancée's house. What sort of condition was he in?"

"He wasn't well." Mercer sulked. "I've lived a bad life, Captain. I hurt a lot of people before God saved me. I figure this is Satan's way of getting back at me."

Captain Brickman leaned back in his chair while continually observing the misfortunate individual that sat across from him. The pre-planned words that he had stored away had all but been deleted; there was absolutely nothing else in the world that he could have said at that point that would have made any coherent sense to the father.

There were so many more questions that he wanted to ask the man pertaining to Isaac. Inquiries into the young man's personal life that only he could possibly be able to answer, but Mercer's face told the grim story of a man that was standing patiently at the throne of purgatory.

Just then, what resembled a whimper at first glance turned into something completely unexpected to Brickman. A compassionate smile came across Mercer's face at that second as he balled up his fists.

"Mr. Mercer, are you okay?" Brickman squared his eyes at the man.

It took a moment or two before Mercer eventually replied, "I remember when Isaac was little. That boy sure loved him some comic books. His mama didn't want for him to read them, but, every so often I

would sneak one or two along his way. I knew I shouldn't have, but he was just a little guy. Little boys like those things I guess. Well, one day, I think he was about seven or eight, that little rascal tied one of his mama's red table clothes around his neck and jumped right off the back steps. He ended up landing on both knees. He cried and cried. I told him that if he kept on crying then his mother would find out that he was reading comics. Sure enough, that boy quit crying right then and there."

Brickman sat and envisioned a younger Isaac doing exactly what his father so fondly recalled him doing, leaping into the air and attempting to fly like a bird. For a very brief moment, Roy found himself smirking.

"It always seemed as though Isaac wasn't happy with who he was. He was always trying to be someone or something else. I remember, right before his mama went home to be with the Lord, she told him, 'Never change. Always stay the same good boy you are.'

The grin that was on Mercer's face suddenly vanished right before he deeply exhaled and got up from the table.

From his chair he moseyed over to the window that overlooked Downtown Cypress and folded his hands behind his back.

From where Brickman was seated he could see nothing but clouds outside, even though Mr. Mercer could see so much more beyond what his own eyes would allow him to view.