WRITTEN IN BLOOD
"Love a duck." She chewed her lip. "Why can't Judge Highley live in a condo on Main Street?"
Chief Hardcastle's floating scowl made navigation difficult. His disappointed glare pierced the windshield, his voice seeming to boom through the radio: "You're not a good cop."
Okay, those might not have been his words verbatim, but the message was clear: Alex Dalkowski, silly girl, had let her glass-ceiling aspirations and her wandering heart cloud her judgment. If only she had a penis. Not really, but: she could have been a "good cop" if she had a penis.
But the truth never needed a badge and a gun. And dicks be damned; what's tougher than bleeding for five days a month? Alex intended to leapfrog Law and head straight for Order. It took some digging through the departmental intranet—thank God Hardcastle hadn't yet thought to revoke her IT credentials—but after sifting through mountains of old departmental newsletters, she'd finally found it: the Judge's address. He could grant her a temporary PI license. And, if Alex could be persuasive enough, maybe Highley would even bench rule on the Irregulars.
Alex's father had always said, "never drive angry." Good advice. Especially when there's a dust-slick layer of snow on the road. But the tireless pursuit of justice in the face of ignorance? A little anger is exactly the get-up-and-go truth needs, baby.
Alex slammed the breaks. She wrenched the wheel toward a small bridge over the drainage ditch. Her Camry bucked and skidded. A darkened blur of trees and sky zoetroped around her. Alex clamped her eyes shut, expecting death, but the Camry slowed to a stop without the slightest bump. Alex pried her eyes open to see a gravel driveway stretch before her. A rust-and red painted shamble of a mailbox announced "1782 County Road 42."
Head still swimming from the spin, heart pounding, Alex let out a heavy breath. "Thank goodness."
Alex nudged the gas down the uneven gravel drive. Even at a Daytona-esque 10 miles-per-hour, ice-sheathed potholes gnashed wheels, chewed shocks and shat axel joints. Each dip hit with a sound like plastic snapped in two. When Alex wrenched the wheel left, intending to park in a small clearing ahead, the Camry only slightly veered. Alex turned the wheel the other way. Nothing. It was like giving orders to her teenage cousin.
"Oh pet a kitten." She threw the Camry into park, half in the clearing, half on the gravel drive. "This is the last thing I need right now. I am not wearing the shoes for this."
Swiping Sheila's envelope and Harris' notes, Alex stepped out into what felt like Narnia. In the summer, with the lawn mowed, the Judge's yard probably echoed Eden. An acre pond shimmered at right, fenced by naked cattails praying for Spring's return.
The Judge's faux-homestead, maroon bricks and rough-hewn timbers lurked between the trees. Vines wrapped it footer to soffit. Weeds choked its shrubby landscaping. The slate roof crept with moss, shingles missing. A light flickered from deep within the home, casting spare rays out onto the yard. Alex stepped to the door and knocked.
"Hello? I'm sorry I know it's late but it's Sergeant Detective Dalkowski, your honor. It's about the Irregulars case! I know it sounds crazy, but I think I can prove they're innocent. I promise I'll only be a moment."
Silence. Cold wind whistled in Alex's ears, cut through her coat. She hugged herself tight against the chill and knocked again.
"Crud buckets I'm about to wake up the angriest judge in the county. He's going to stomp to the door and he's going to yell. Crud, crud." Alex cleared her throat and again yelled. "Judge Highley! Sebastian! I promise I'll be brief. It's Alex Dalkowski, your honor!"
"Office." A voice echoed through the home, reaching Alex like a whisper. "Please come in. Door's open. I'm in the office, Dalkowski."
Inside, a single bar of greasy light cut the darkness. A hallway like a cave's mouth opened ahead. A living room sat in cobwebs to the left, two sofas and a plush chair worshipping a big-screen TV. To the right, separated by a half wall, a dining room table overflowed with newspapers and junk mail. A Formica kitchen straight out of a 1975 episode of The Price is Right sat beyond.
"Okay, Judge," Alex said, "Again, I'm so sorry for coming so late. I wouldn't if it wasn't super important."
Alex put on her phone light and stepped into the hall-cave. She followed as it turned and jogged right. The furthest door stood open, warm with yellow light. Jitters shook Alex's legs with each step. Why did the Judge live in such a creepy old house? Hundreds of small picture frames lined the hall, each glinting her phone's light like a hundred blinking eyes.
Alex swung her phone to the closest picture frame. A woman, her ridiculously large breasts set to fall out of a too-small bikini, screamed through the glass, uvula like a punching bag. A wild-haired maniac stalked behind her, a knife yearning to the girl's swan throat. Above this near-murder read the title: "Written in Blood: Tales of Horror, Mystery and Spine-Chilling SUSPENSE!" A small box set in the upper right indicated 'The Admiral, Editor. Issue 127.'
Alex nearly fell over. Her fingers trembled and fumbled her phone. She'd seen that name. That exact name. She pulled up her case photos started swiping. Where she'd seen that name? She stopped at a screenshot of Kavi's spreadsheet. Alex pinched and zoomed in, holding her breath as if underwater.
"Written in Blood Magazine – no physical address – Editor: The Admiral (real name unknown) – Called on Wednesday," read Kavi's note, "Received automated message: magazine folded over lack of funding.
She looked up, turned her flashlight to the thousand eyes glinting along the hallway. Picture frames imprisoned men writhing in electric chairs, loincloth bimbos running in terror, women frozen in oncoming headlights—the blood always suggested and the breasts no smaller than 34C. Whispering penitence to Gloria Steinem, Alex continued. A palpable buzz prickled the back of her neck. Her shoulders tensed. She reached to her hip, habit, but felt only air. Damn, damn!
A massive walnut desk hugged the right-hand wall of the Judge’s office. Framed documents and pictures hung above. Law licenses. Civic awards. A chaise lounged under the picture window ahead. To Alex's right, a folding-door closet separated desk and door. Pieces of the puzzle came together in Alex's head. Ideas without words. Strength rushed into her limbs. Neon strings vibrated through the dark, played their secret chord.
But no Judge. Alex darted into the room, checking the lines of sight, the closet, the corner behind the door. Nothing. She crept to the desk.
A massive typewriter dominated the surface, lit from above by the craning neck of a lone lamp. A battery pack of some sort powered both. A pair of gloves sat just beyond, black leather almost perfectly camouflaged by the darkness. The breath caught in Alex's chest. The typewriter, gray and bulky with curves like an old sports car, called to her.
Alex thrust her hand into her coat, pulled out Sheila's envelope. The address was typewritten. The song in her head played louder, clearer. The cup of each 'e' on the address was chipped. Alex rushed forward and—hands fumbling like a teenage lover—groped the typewriter for a switch. One word from this machine would set the Irregulars free. Would return her badge. Alex craned her neck, fingers desperate for a switch. She felt only smooth metal.
"The switch is on the left, love." A sandy voice whispered behind her. Alex swiveled to the sound but never saw Highley's face. Pressure pushed hard on her left temple and iron shot onto the base of her tongue. Following a brilliant flickering of stars, Alex slipped under the velvet covers of darkness.
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