“Here lies Lucinda Patricia Arquette Anderson,” spoke the priest at the funeral. “He was brutally stabbed in the throat, nearly decapitated, by sadistic killer that’s still on the loose and terrorizing Los Angeles as we speak.”
Stacy Anderson was weeping in front of his casket. Her two children, Brutus and Laquisha, were also in attendance.
“Your husband was a good man Mrs. Anderson,” I told her.
“He spoke very highly of you,” she said as she wiped away the tears. “He hoped that someday you two could run a train on me. He wanted you to take me from behind while he sat in the shadows and masturbated. I’m gonna miss him.”
She broke down in tears again.
“If you or your family ever need anything,” I said. “Just give me a call.”
As I walking back to my car, the LAPD Chief came up and decked me in the face.
“You got my best officer killed,” he said. “If the mayor didn’t think so highly of you, I’d take you up to the hills and bury you alive!”
I got up and wiped the blood from my nose. “Chief,” I said. “I had a major breakthrough on this case. Give me another week and I’ll have this killer in custody.”
The Chief grabbed me by the coat and pushed me against the car. “One more week,” he said. “If this son of a bitch is not dead or behind bars, you’re gonna have a bigger problem than some serial killer.”
Officer Maxwell pulled the Chief off of me and cooled him down. I lit up a cigarette.
“We found another body. Up in Melrose,” Maxwell said to me.
“What’s the plan now?”
“I’m going after him.”
“What’s his name?”
Maxwell nodded. “Let me know if you need my assistance.”
I flicked away my cigarette and nodded back. “I’ll let you know.”
I drove down to Long Beach at night, past the doppers, pimps, and prostitutes. “If only I could bust all of you,” I said to myself
I pulled up to the strip club. “Where can I find Charles,” I asked the bartender.
“Who’s asking,” the man replied.
I grabbed him by the wife beater and flashed my badge. “LAPD,” I said.
“He’s in the VIP room.”
And there was Charles getting a lap dance. I shoved a hundred dollar bill in the stripper’s underwear and told her to beat it. I sat down next to him.
“Sorry man,” Charles said. “If you’re looking to buy, I ain’t selling.”
I pressed my 357 up to his rib cage.
“I ain’t buying,” I replied. “I’m taking. You’re coming with me.”
He raised his hands. “What’s this about?”
“Sgt. LP Anderson.”
He lowered his hands and began to laugh. “I read about him in the papers. Sorry to hear about your loss, copper.”
“I’m gonna bust ya”
“For what? You can’t link me to his death.”
The bartender quietly snuck around the corner. I caught him out of the corner of my eye before he fired his shotgun. I fell to the ground and pumped three bullets into his chest. Charles escaped.
Strippers and patrons scattered out of the bar when the shots rang. I fired another shot into Charles’ rear windshield as he sped away in his 97 Cutlass.
I pursued him in my Chevy SSR. I was able to easily overtake him as I fired a round into his front passenger tire. Sparks flew as he drifted back and forth across the road before crashing into a guardrail.
His car teetered over the edge of a cliff overlooking the beach. The morning sun was starting to rise. I walked over to the car.
“Help me man,” he yelped. Charles was trying not to disturb the balance of the vehicle.
I stood there and glared.
“You can’t let me die! You’re a cop!”
I kicked the side of the vehicle and it went careening down to the rocky beach below.
Then it inexplicably exploded.