More police
officers commit suicide than are killed in the line of duty.
Police
officer suicides are three times that of the general population.
It
is also believed that the true number of police officer suicides is
nearly double the statistics we have, and are covered up for insurance,
family and departmental reasons by their fellow officers.
X
X X
Marty
mulled over cop/suicide stats as he looked down at his twin brother,
Meyer, lying there in his full-dress blues. The mortician had done stellar
work.
The
brothers looked the way one would expect twins separated at birth and
raised apart to look, like distant but instantly identifiable relatives,
not raised in the same household as Meyer and Marty were.
In
fact, Marty was half convinced they only looked similar in each other’s
presence.
He
was also half sure Meyer was faking his own death.
Well,
not really, but he kept staring at Meyer’s face, waiting for him
to redden, a clenched laugh snorting through his nose, that unspoken
“Gotcha” hanging in the air as tears of laughter streamed
down his face.
Not
this time.
The
M.E. had ruled the death an accident. It had cost Marty a grand, but
he got the preliminary scene report. An accident? Who accidentally shoots
themselves while cleaning a gun? In the temple. Point blank range.
Meyer’s
widow walked in, all black, veil, Kleenex box and showy tears. She wouldn’t
look in Marty’s direction, hadn’t since she dumped him for
Meyer years ago, right after he’d failed the psyche test and Meyer
passed, getting to join the force.
Another
thousand got Marty motive. Cancer, terminal and not covered by Meyer’s
insurance.
An
“accident” so the bitch could get the insurance money. Marty
smiled to himself. He would’ve made a good detective.
He
bent down close to his brother.
“You’ve
gotten everything you’ve ever wanted while I sat on the sideline,”
he whispered.
He
kissed him full on the lips.
“Not
the time.”
X
X X
The
body was buried and the tears were dried.
Marty
waited two days. He took a cab got out a few blocks away, and backtracked
to the cemetery.
He
dug up Meyer and switched clothes with him. He rolled in the dirt and
scratched at the coffin lid and tipped the tombstone.
He
lit the body on fire.
As
oranges and yellows flames bounced around like fiery angel and smoke
twisted and moved through the air like lost spirits, he could imagine
the body as his, feeling a small sadness watching his life go to ash.
But
it was never really his life anyway. It was like an unused spare life
for his brother, the leftovers, whatever Meyer didn’t want or already
had.
Now,
he could be his own man.
There
was one problem left: His unremarkable Marty face, far from the seasoned
Meyer one.
From
the backpack he took out razor blades, scissors, hair dye, a claw hammer,
a mirror and a bottle of rye.
He
looked at Marty in the mirror and wondered if he could do it, knowing
if he couldn’t, the rest wouldn’t matter.
He
took a deep breath.
He
could do it. That’s what the rye was for.
Meyer
loved rye.
After
he had cut and dyed his hair from a premature gray to a rich brown,
and he had was drunk enough, he went after the face with controlled
chaos. He made cuts where Meyer had scars. He broke his nose with a
downward right swing of the hammer and blood poured from it just as
tears did from his squinted eyes.
The
pain left him in a wave, as he passed out.
He
dreamed silent, frantic dreams.
X
X X
The
lawyer and the widow sat across from each other, smiling and making
pleasant conversation. The paperwork was almost finished.
She
was about to sign when they heard the secretary scream and Meyer burst
trough the door, swollen and bloody, his tattered cloths covered in
dirt.
The
lawyer stared at him, mouth agape.
The
widow dropped the pen she was holding.
Meyer
said something like “Gotcha” under his breath.
