The Time Killer

One

                                                                                                      August 20, 2020

                                                                                                     Lexington, KY USA

      Murder makes me smile. Where there is murder, there is job security.

      My name is Seth McCoy. I’m a homicide detective for Lexington, Kentucky. This is horse country, and that was one reason I moved here. I grew up on ranch in Texas that was taken by the bank due to both my Dad’s medical bills and my gambling Uncle Phil.

      Dad died of brain cancer before he could see me enter the academy, but he’s with me every day. I usually work alone, my last partner said I had ‘people issues.’ At least my last earth partner. Technically, I hate stupid people. That’s why I work in homicide. The dead are much better company than the living.

      Captain Russel, and by extension the governor, have asked me to give as much information as I can to assist the other detectives who have not studied the cases as deeply as I have. The following is a report of my investigation, as well as any other information you might need.

      My real partner’s name is Ian Chandler, or at least that was the name he gave me. Out of all I saw him do, the name sounds too ordinary. Ian never told me his name even though I was his partner for a long time.

      One of my curses was I am terrible with names. I remember faces forever, but names are my nemesis. So I nickname folks. I always called Ian ‘Chan-Man.’ It amused him much as the same way a cat will stare into nothing amuses its owner.

      The bullet I caught ended our official detective life with Lex PD, and relegated me to filling time in a life that spent upwards of 20 hours a days working. It didn’t sever my spine, but it‘s laying between my L2 and L3 and my ass feels like its stuck inside a ringing bell. It makes it very, very difficult to walk. Impossible to work.

      I’m not sure where to start this. In the beginning isn’t that how these things start?            

      I had been in Kentucky for roughly a decade, and had just made detective.

      By this time I had saved a little and had given Mags a little brother. A two year old that I named Spence.  

      I had made no real changes to my life since moving to the Bluegrass State. I woke up in the mornings and rode either Mags or Spence. This was my time with dad. On this morning rides, we discussed everything from girls to money to politics to God. ‘Everybody should drag their ass outta bed in the mornin’ and hope on a horse,’ he would say. ‘Anybody who is a witness to His mornin majesty can never vote Democrat.’ This was one of his typical discussions. When I was a kid, I listened to his arguments but did not agree with them. Now that I’m older and have seen as much as I have, I’m not sure what I believe.

      However there was a lot that he told me that I have used many times. Dad was a Mr. Fix-it and kept everything on the farm running, from the machinery to the stuff inside the house. I’ve used baling wire in everything from my dishwasher to my rifle magazine, thanks to dad.

      It was at this time of day I did my best thinking. However, this morning I had a lot to think about. Last night, Chad and Pam had been killed. When I got off work, I had driven their car to Cincinnati and caught a concert. I didn’t get back until around 2 a.m.

      I normally wouldn’t have went out on a Tuesday, but I had taken the next day off as it was my birthday.

      I saw the flashing lights before I left Interstate 75, but I didn’t realize they were at the farm until I turned off Main Street, you can see the farm from the road then. Well, normally you can. Last night all I saw was lights.

      The first person I saw was Captain Jenkins. He was running up to the car before I stopped.

      “McCoy,” he grabbed my shoulders. “You can’t go any farther. This is a crime scene.”

      I stopped, hoping I had misheard him. “What happened?”

      “The Willis’ have been shot.”

      I waited for the rest. Waited for him to tell me they would survive.

      “You should go up,” he suggested, pointing at the stable, “let us handle it.”

      “Are they  . . .dead?”

      He hand tightened on my right shoulder.

      I had my answer.

      I hung my head hoping I wouldn’t start crying until I was alone.

      Jenkins escorted me to the stable. I have no idea if he talked or if he did, what he said.

      Once upstairs, I grabbed an unopened bottle of Maker’s.

      I sat on the floor, and drank and drank.

      At first I thought Ian was an apparition. I was well inside my second bottle of Maker’s Mark, my favorite bourbon.

      One minute I was alone, the next I wasn’t.

      “Mr. McCoy.”

      “I’m only called Mister by child support people,” I slurred.

      “What should I call you Mr. McCoy.”

      “My friends call me Seth. But I ain’t got no friends.”

      “My brother killed the Willis.”

      I looked at him. “I’ve had hallucinations while drinking, but none that confessed to murder.”

      It was here he told me his story. He and his brother were Domi-iums. His brother had stolen a time machine and was killing in different times.

      I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Do I talk to a hallucination? Which one makes me crazier? Talking to it or ignoring it?

      He handed me a small device, no larger than a cell phone. “The name of this will be unpronounceable in your tongue,” he told me. “Suffice it to say it is a video receiver.”

      Ian waited until I could focus on the device. On my third attempt I was able to take it from his hand.

      “I need what my people call a keeper of the story.”

      “Like a, um, what-a-ya-call-it, reporter?”

      “The keeper is a dignified position. It is given to the most honorable. The ones who are able to notice and remember the smallest details.”

      “I ain’t no skirt,” I had initially told him.

      “You are also no English major. Nor are you atune to the more sensitivities of others. However, I have watched you. You have maintained an 83% average of truthfulness in your day to day dealings.”

      “83%?”

      “The average for the apes is between 47 and 75%. I believe I can trust you.”

      I dropped the video device in my shirt pocket and took another drink.

      When I looked back up, he was gone.