The Cat Did It

A bushy haired man named Branson was sitting up on his faded couch that proudly wore the scars of a glorified scratching post. Sitting on the other side of his smoke glass end table were two detectives donning drab grey suits. Their badges were the only colorful part of their attire, perched on their belts next to the spare magazine. One of the detectives, who identified herself as Detective Fraser, was rifling through her bag to grab some photos. The other detective, Detective Peck, sat back in his seat and snuck a peek at his coworker's ass. Branson could see the interest, but he never thought a detective would be so unprofessional in his presence. Detective Peck looked back at Branson and winked at him, before sitting forward.

"Mr. Stairfield, we are here to ask you a few questions about your cat," Detective Fraser said, with a stack of photos and drawings in her hand. 

Branson cocked his head. "My cat?"

"Yes, sir. Recently we had a string of vandalisms and robberies where we have caught all the suspects."

"Okay…" Branson said, unsure where they were going with this.

"All of them had the same story. They told us a cat told them to do it."

"They sound crazy."

"We would agree, but they all gave us the same description of the cat," Detective Peck said.

Detective Fraser laid out a few of the photos and drawings, all depicting a black cat with red eyes and fur that stood on end. Branson took a brief glance at them before looking back at Detective Fraser. 

"Your neighbor said you have a black cat," Detective Fraser said. 

"Well, my neighbor is a liar! It shouldn't take a detective to know that. Who told you?"

"Alice Fletcher. Lives a few doors down," Detective Peck said. Both detectives sat at the end of their seats, surprised by Branson's hostility. 

"Alice Fletcher is a loon. And a little…" Branson trailed off, noticing the detectives were starting to take more interest in him. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, I just get worked up when her name comes up. She is always trying to get me in trouble."

"We aren't accusing you of any crimes, Mr. Stairfield. We are simply looking for some cooperation in our case."

"I thought you said you arrested everyone?" 

"We did. The problem is we recently had a murder and the suspect in that case explicitly mentioned a black cat told him to do it," Detective Fraser said, pointing to a picture of the cat. 

Branson looked between the two faces of the detectives. He knew what they were implying and he wasn't having any of it. 

"Do you think I did it? Is that why you're here?" Branson said, standing to his feet.

"We are not saying that sir…"

"You think I dress up as a cat and go brainwash people into committing crimes? You want to see my closet? Come on. I'll show you. No cat suits in there!" Branson almost yelled at them. 

"Please calm down, Mr. Stairfield," Detective Peck said. 

Branson waved his hands around. "Calm down? Why?"

"We just want to see your cat," Detective Fraser said.

"I told you, I don't have one!"

"Then why is your couch all ripped up?" Detective Peck questioned.

"I bought it second hand! Even comes with a permanent cat piss smell. Want a sniff?" Branson said, lifting up the cushion.

"And the litterbox?" Detective Peck asked, pointing to the grey box with kitty litter next to his grungy door.

"Came with the couch. Haven't had time to throw it."

Detective Fraser collected her photos and put them back in her bag. She shoved it into Detective Peck before he could lose his temper. She pulled a card out from her suit pocket. 

"I can see we came at a bad time. If you do see a black cat, please give me a call," she said, placing the card on the table.

Branson watched them both with steely eyes as they left his apartment. The door closed shut and Branson picked up the card on the table. It had her name, badge number and contact information as well as the case number on the back. He walked over to the kitchen and turned on the stovetop, leaving the card on top. 

From behind, a black cat scurried out of an adjacent room and jumped up on the couch. The cat meowed and Branson turned to face the cat. 

"You really fucked up this time," Branson said. The cat responded with a meow. Branson moved over to the window and opened it, letting in the fresh outside air. He looked down at the sidewalk that was three floors below him. The undercover looking police crustier was parked near the curb.

"They are getting too close. You need to fix your mess," Branson said, turning to face the cat. The cat jumped off the couch, ran toward Branson and jumped up on the window sill. It looked back at Branson and meowed one last time to him before jumping to the next window sill.

"And none of that loose end bullshit again," Branson called out to the cat that had already sprung to the last set of window sills. The cat landed on a railing which surrounded some green shrubs along the exterior wall.

The two detectives walked out of the building side by side and the cat balanced on the railing near them. It meowed, getting the attention of Detective Peck. He looked right at the cat before he grabbed Detective Fraser's ass. She turned to him and slapped him across the face. The cat meowed again. There was a brief pause where the detectives were either going to tear each other apart or kiss. Unfortunately, it was the former. They both drew their service weapons, but Detective Fraser was not hindered by the bag. Three shots rang out as she shot her partner twice in the chest and once in the head.

People across the street screamed and a car that was driving by screeched its tires, leaving smoke in its wake. The woman looked over to the cat and it meowed one last time. Another shot rang out and Detective Fraser collapsed to the floor over her partner. The cat looked up at Branson, who watched the whole ordeal unfold from the comfort of his window. He looked over to the card that went ablaze. The stovetop coils were red hot and the card shriveled up into nothing more than ash. Branson gave the cat a nod.

"Look what you made me do, Alice. Look what you made me do."

Got To Get To Work

Donavan hung up the corded phone on the wall. "Do you mind if I make another call?"

The guard pushed off the wall he was leaning against. "No more calls. Back to your cell."

Donavan sighed. "I thought so."

Once the guard put his hands on Donavan, it was all over. In a flash, Donavan grabbed the phone and wrapped the cord around the guard's neck. He started clicking away at the buttons, while struggling with the guard. The phone rang, giving Donavan some time to restrain his new friend. He kicked out the guard's feet and pinned him against the wall. 

"Hello, who is this?" a voice asked from the phone.

Donavan pushed the phone to his ear. "Karen, please don't hang up!"

"You have some nerve calling me."

"I know. I know. But listen. I need a pickup."

"You have one. Use your own." 

"No. Like I need you to pick me up."

"Why should I do that?" Karen scoffed.

The guard beat his hands against the wall, making a slapping sound. Donavan could hear keys jingling outside the door.

"I will owe you one."

The line was quiet for a moment. Donavan was unsure if she was thinking or put him on hold. He was more focused on the men pounding on the door. 

"Well?" Donavan asked, unable to conceal his impatience.

"Fine. I need to get my coat and let Mr. Kellogg know where I'm going–"

"No time. Come quickly," Donavan said as the door opened with two guards funneling in. 

"Where are you this time?"

"Jail. The close one." Donavan said and hung up.

The guard wrapped in the phone cord was on the brink of unconsciousness. Two guards came at them with batons at the ready. Donavan dodged one of the swings while taking the other in the shoulder. Lightning shot through his whole arm, but he had no time to dwell on it. With his good hand, he slapped the phone off the hook and into the guard that hit him. That distraction gave Donavan enough time to kick the other guard still standing and make a break for the closing door. Hopping through the narrow opening, he left the guards in his wake. 

His next obstacle was the grey, unloving walls that flanked him as he ran down the hall. He kept his head on a swivel, trying to find a viable way out. At the end of the hall stood an older female officer with her taser drawn. Her uniform fit well, proving not all officers ate donuts all day. There was no running from this one.

"Donavan. Don't make this any harder on me," the officer shouted.

"I have to go to work. My boss will fire me if I'm not there."

The officer closed the distance. Her boots moved across the cement floor with a purpose, spewing authority for all to hear.

"Hands up! If you cooperate I might be able to smooth things over with the warden," the officer said, grabbing her handcuffs. 

"What about my boss?"

"Nothing I can do about that, kiddo."

Donavan looked above his head and saw an exposed ceiling with a wide pipe that lead somewhere. He had heard there was construction being done on the jail, but never figured he would get to see it. Looking back at the officer, he knew what he had to do.

"Don't you do it!" the officer ordered. 

Her order fell on deft ears. Donavan sprung off the walls and up onto the pipe. The officer aimed her taser, but Donavan was quick to hide his body behind the pipe. Not wasting time, Donavan crawled along the pipe into the darkness of the ceiling. He could not see, so he trusted the pipe to guide his way. The pipe led him up to the second floor, which at this point was the roof of the building. Scaffolding and various building supplies surrounded him on the top of the roof. He disembarked the pipe and ran to the edge of the roof. Below him was a faded red pickup truck pulling into the parking lot stall closest to him.

Donavan took a few steps back before running toward the edge. He leaped off the roof and bounced off the top of the hood. Donavan felt a crack in his back followed by a sudden shriek that dwarfed the sound of metal being pushed in by his weight. He crawled to his feet and entered the passenger's side of the vehicle, much to the shock of the woman in the truck.

"Donavan, what the hell was that!" Karen said.

"Drive please."

"You said you needed to be picked up. Not a getaway driver."

Donavan buckled his seatbelt. "Please, let's go."

The alarms outside sounded and Karen peeled out of there. They traveled down a few winding streets until they arrived at their destination, Hardford General. The four story building was an eyesore. Concrete walls painted to look like natural wood. After years of weathering, it looked more like smeared diarrhea.

Karen threw the vehicle into park, causing both of them to lurch forward. "Are you going to tell me why you got arrested?"

"Nope," he said, pulling on the handle.

Donavan pushed against the door, but it would not budge. He pulled the silver rod to unlock the door, but it went back down again with a clunk. Donavan looked over to see Karen holding down the lock button.

"I'm not letting you leave until you tell me," Karen said.

"I'm not good at following 'lawful' orders. Is that enough for you?" Donavan said, rolling down the window.

"No, it's not. You need to tell me what happened."

Donavan didn't wait to hear her reply, crawling out the window of her truck. He slapped the ground with his hands and feet before taking off like a sprinter into the building. Karen shook her head.

"This better be a good favor," Karen said.

Donavan kicked in the door to the third floor conference room where Mr. Kellogg was moments from smashing his laptop into the conference room table. The charging cable was still plugged in, running above his head, where he froze in place. 

"Donavan? Thank God you're here! Where have you been?" Mr. Kellogg asked, lowering his laptop.

"I was–”

"Doesn't matter. Maybe I can still salvage this. How do I login to this conference call?" Mr. Kellogg said, opening his laptop. 

Donavan walked around the table and instructed him how to login. It was as simple as clicking the link, entering his name, and clicking connect. Mr. Kellogg gave a toothy smile at his screen, hearing people on the other end.

"Do you have the presentation?" Mr. Kellogg asked, covering his webcam.

"It is in your email."

"Pull it up for me," Mr. Kellogg said, pushing the laptop toward him. 

Donavan clicked through Mr. Kellogg's email until he found it in the deleted folder. He pulled up the presentation and minimized it so Mr. Kellogg could still see the people on the screen. 

"You're good to go." Donavan slid the laptop back to him. 

"Good job, Donavan. We might just save this company yet."

"What did you say Mr. Kellogg?" a voice said from the laptop.

"Nothing, Mr. Terrance. I was just speaking to my best employee, Donavan Santelli. He worked so hard on this proposal. I think you will like it,” Mr. Kellogg said, giving Donavan a thumbs up. 

Donavan breathed an air of relief that his boss's anger was gone. It was also the first time his boss gave him a compliment. After all these years working for him, his luck was starting to turn around. That was until the door opened again. Standing in the doorway was Karen and the female officer. 

"One moment,” Mr. Kellogg said, putting his hand over the webcam again. "Can I help you, officer?"

"No. I'm here for Donavan Santelli. Put your hands behind your back. You are under arrest," the officer said. 

"Really? At my place of work?" Donavan said.

"You left me no choice. Hands behind your back," the officer said. 

Donavan obeyed her commands and she slapped the cuffs on him. He looked at his boss who was shaking his head at him. His future at the company went from one of promise to one of poverty.

"What is going on? Is someone being arrested?" the same voice asked from the laptop.

"Oh no. Just people playing a video outside the room." Mr. Kellogg responded. "Karen, can you close the door."

The officer led him out of the room, while Karen closed the door behind them.

"Don't worry, I will talk with Mr. Kellogg," Karen said.

"Thanks Karen. I appreciate it,” Donavan said.

"Keep moving," the officer ordered.

Donavan was led out of the building and to the officer's squad car. She opened the backdoor. "Watch your head."

"Screw you, Malory!" Donavan said. 

The officer slammed his head into the top of the doorframe and pushed his body inside. She leaned over him, close enough to smell the syrup on her breath. 

"You will not disrespect me again. You call me Officer Santelli when I'm on duty. You understand?"

Donavan winced in pain. "Yeah I got it. God Mom!"

"You're lucky I was the one who arrested you."

"Why? So you can have the privilege of putting us both in jail? Maybe we can share the same cell."

"You are not your father!"

"From where I'm sitting, I might as well be,” Donavan said.

"When we get back to the jail, you don't say anything. You have no idea what kind of favors I had to pull to let your last stunt go unnoticed."

"And the charge against me?"

"Defense attorney's love when an officer screws up her paperwork. You'll be fine assuming you don't do anything stupid."

The officer closed the door and walked around to the driver's side door. She held the handle and took a deep breath. "The things I do for my kids."

The Gun Did It

The detective was sitting at the table, head concealed by the folder that was inches from his face. His eyes scanned through the report, looking for more information on his suspect. A dim light shined from above while his fellow officers snickered behind the glass observation window.

"Alright Mr. Glock, where were you on the night of the fifteenth?" Detective Ruso asked.

Mr. Glock said nothing. The room was quiet like no one was there.

"Mr. Glock, you are the prime suspect in my murder investigation. You might want to start talking," he said, still transfixed by the report.

More silence followed. On the other side of the glass window, his fellow officers were in an uproar. 

"Okay Mr. Glock, according to this report you shot the victim three times. What do you have to say for yourself?" Detective Ruso asked, still not looking up.

No response.

"This is no time to be quiet. They are going to give you the chair for this. If you confess now, I can put a good word in with the DA's office."

The officers in the other room were in stitches, jumping around and pounding on the glass. Detective Ruso looked over to the window and shook his head disapprovingly. He didn't know what was going on in the other room, but he knew it was far from professional.

"I'm sorry Mr. Glock. Please don't pay any attention to the window over…" he said, stopping once he looked up from the report. 

Laying on the table was a Glock 17 with two googly eyes on the front that rocked back and forth. It even still had the evidence tag on it. 

"You've got to be shitting me," he said, turning to the window. "Really guys?"

The officers laughed and pointed at him. Although Detective Ruso could not see them, he knew they were laughing at him. He went over and picked up the gun. The gun spun around in his hand, googly eyes dancing around and cocked itself.

"I ain't going back to evidence," Mr. Glock said and shot a round through Detective Ruso's eye. 

Detective Ruso tossed Mr. Glock in the air and fell to the ground holding his eye. The other officers scrambled out of the observation room to get to Detective Ruso. Mr. Glock landed on the table and faced the door that swung open.

"You'll never take me alive!" Mr. Glock shot.

The officers filed in, guns drawn. Bullets flew in both directions. Ear splitting bangs echoed in the room. An officer fell to the ground. Then another. One officer dove low toward the table. Mr. Glock leaned over the edge, smoke sizzling off the barrel.

"Nice try,” Mr. Glock said, pointing at the helpless officer. Mr. Glock made a click sound. The officer sighed. Mr. Glock jumped off the table toward one of the downed officers. The officer scrambled to his knees and tackled Mr. Glock. 

"Let me go!" Mr. Glock said, squirming in the officer's grip, trying to point the hot barrel toward the officer's exposed skin.

The officer dismantled Mr. Glock, separating the slide from the frame. Mr. Glock screamed as the officer removed the spring and dumped the barrel from the frame. More officers rushed in to help their downed comrades. Mr. Glock's anger turned to grief. He was never going to be whole again and after this was surely going to be brought to The Grinder.

If only he kept his cool and didn't run off with the wrong crowd. He could have been an officer's gun. Protected by the law. Serving his purpose with dignity. What he would give to take it all back. To make the right decision all those years ago. But it was too late and he had to deal with the consequences. May The Forge have mercy upon his soul.