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Cole’s mind had twisted with blackness in the years of study and apprentice. He had always been one of those that go unnoticed in life, easily fading into lurking shadow or melding into a crowd of onlookers. Before he met Friedrich, he attributed this antiprescence as quiet boyhood demeanor. It was not until the self-titled “Mad German” taught him the trick of self-posturing, or stretching one’s will to include other people’s perceptions as well as his own, that he understood this innate talent was a sign of potential. It was not coincidental that Friedrich walked upon young Cole as he was observing a crime scene, a half-blurred and out of focus mass in the background or the owner of the curiously small sneakers standing near the chalk outline of black and white crime photos, nor was it luck that brought Cole’s attention to Friedrich’s wallet, precariously perched on the hem of his slacks, just begging to be borrowed.What followed after that inevitable meeting on that darkening street where no one, police included, ever saw a young teenager gawking or an older man wearing a full beard and fedora was years of teaching and learning and giving and taking; passing the tradition and knowledge, growing up and growing old, every lesson deliciously evil. Cole soon found out that while most people’s minds averted their owners’ eyes from the sort of people which Cole and his new friend were, some could see quite well. In fact, some made it their business to see, just as Friedrich had made it his business to remain hidden.Cole learned that Friedrich wore his face bearded to hide great and dark tattoos; something which he was assured would come to his own body with time. He would also lose all of his hair at a very early age, for the things he was learning would not come without a price. “In fact,” Friedrich told him during a lesson that first year, “you should feel lucky that your hair is all that you’ll miss. Most people would lose much more, much more indeed.”The things that were spoken, ingested, and comprehended for the next seven years are not to be recounted, for the physical effects of such pedagogy are staggering enough evidence of what opening windows to other worlds, darker worlds, will cause. The only artifact used during this time of torment and teaching was a book along the lines of that written by Abdul Alhazared or coveted by the most menacing of rare-book collectors. This book, owned but not written by Friedrich for most of his life, was no less than bound in human flesh and written in the blood of its believers. This book, which lacks a clever name, or any title at all for that matter, served Friedrich well throughout his wrongly-lengthened life and was, as tradition dictated, passed on to Cole on the eve of Graduation; precisely when Cole ended Friedrich’s Earthly life.He woke to his darkened room once again; increasingly comfortable with the feeling that she was still alive, asleep next to him and purring. He knew he was alone, but found himself still looking over to make sure. Susan’s case was seven days old, and almost dead. He knew she was a junkie, he knew she had been crashing at Ramsey “Rod” Reynolds’ apartment, and he knew that she had somehow fallen from the balcony. Everyone but him knew it was suicide. There was no office pool, no leads worth chasing, not even any idle speculation. Why then was Susan coming to him every night?In his history as a cop, he had become quite well acquainted with his intuition. Once, before he made lieutenant, intuition saved his life. A Monte Carlo had run a red at about 2:00 AM. On his way to the driver’s-side window he caught a glimpse of light through the tinted back windows. He saw the man bent over with a pistol in his hand, coiled up and ready to strike. He ducked fast, and the window blew out. He instinctively jabbed his service-model through the window and pushed one into the backseat-man’s crotch. Both driver and passenger rolled out of the front seat, their hands in the air and their ears bleeding. It was all over in three seconds, but he’d had plenty of time to examine exactly how he caught that glimpse. There were no streetlights near to reflect off the metal of the newly-eunuched .22, nor was there any sort of light in the car, the dash lights only casting a pale green powdering through the now-open door. All three men were screaming and adrenaline reddened the corners of his vision but his mind was still clear. Intuition had shown him something and he was only still alive for listening.So when everyone signed off on Susan Harris’ death as suicide and urged him to do the same, he couldn’t. He visited the scene weekly, went over the autopsy report daily, and dreamt nightly.Cole road the train. Cloaked in this dirty leather jacket and cargo pants, heavy with various items filling even the secret leg pockets, he stood there watching everyone as they tried their hardest not to see him. He found that he could walk quite freely in the city, especially at night. He liked walking amongst the people, feeling their latent rage or staggering indifference arcing around them in invisible bolts of energy that only Cole and few others could actually see. Like when a gunshot goes off and people just walk a little faster, or when someone walks by an alley to find something going horribly wrong, most people put on their own blinders. Cole channeled those arcs, gathering up the city’s negativity and using it to his own agenda. This was his art, and he was very skilled.Sometimes, Cole liked to hang out in those dark alleys, and watch the people as they allowed their eyes to wander then quickly scurry off. He liked to cause accidents, and record everyone’s reaction. One day, while the gray overcast muffled the light and a gentle drizzle slicked the streets, he witnessed a young punk of a kid stab a businessman in the neck, take his very expensive shoes and wallet, then leave. Cole bent down and talked to the businessman while his feet got wet and his life quickly darkened his suit and poured into the alley. His memory had grown beyond that of most other people, which allowed him to store each profile for future use. After years and years of indulgence in the city, he rarely rode the train without finding some poor soul to slide up close to and whisper a dark secret or two. He had done this very thing to the hoodlum who had knifed the businessman. It had been two years, and the hoodlum had graduated from muggings to grand larceny. A seed of memory, germinating in fear and paranoia, quickly sprouts into terror. Cole had put a knife into the punk’s pocket, and very quietly asked him if he ever dreamt of the businessman while the conductor called the next stop. Cole had plenty of time to step away and marvel at the sudden flux of power pouring into him. To Cole, people were rechargeable batteries, wrought by the cows that produce the most milk. The hoodlum would use the knife on his own wrists not five days later.Next
©2002 Brian Miller
