Merrick

Merrick was up early, the lawn needed trimming and he was fucked if he’d pay

some guy to do a half ass job and bill him for a full day.

Growing up in Brooklyn, he’d never expected to own a home on the island. That

was for rich dudes. After he got invalidated off the force, he’d hooked up with

Moe, used his cop skills to build up their PI agency, enough so he could put down

the deposit on the bar. Moe had helped, then, Moe always did, help that is.

The bar was work, real graft but began to turn a profit and the property became

available on Long Island. His wife, a care worker, persuaded that with their

combined salaries, they could get it.

They did.

Lot’s of sleepless nights over mortgages but finally, they were within five years of

owning outright.

And………………two kids in college.

He stopped the mower, stared at his home, could smell the toast and bacon frying

and thought

‘You did ok Rabbi.’

Merrick didn’t do friends real good, you were a cop, you were too cynical to

believe in it. But first Moe, now this stoner Irish guy.

…………………….who smoked.

Merrick didn’t let on he knew but when your parents died of lung cancer, you

fucking knew.

Ryan was a stand up guy, no doubt, even if half of what he said went over

Merrick’s head. He just liked the guy. He hadn’t told him all of Moe’s

investigation. Still holding some stuff back.

Cos like, you never knew.

Moe had narrowed the search for the child killer to three definite potentials.

Merrick had ruled one out as the guy was doing ten to life in Attica. The

remaining two.

Well, he’d need Ryan’s help in tracking them down and seeing if they were the

skel. He was about to jolt the mower up for the last inning’s when he heard a soul

scrunching scream. Judy!

He ran like a demon to the house, his heart pounding, found her in the hall, her

hands covered in blood, she gasped

‘Upstairs.’

He checked her, it wasn’t her blood. Grabbed his Louisville Slugger from the

hatstand, took the stairs, three a t a time.

The bedroom.

He paused, raised the bat, kicked the door wide open.

Their beloved Labrador, James Dean, was spread on the bed, it’s entrails spilling

out on the carpet, it’s head positioned on the pillow, a note in it’s pathetic mouth,

he snatched it, rage spilling from him, read

…………………….the dog made me do it.