Reflection

S.W. Morse © 2001

Detective James Conrad brushed aside the bright yellow police tape and strolled into the dank apartment. He scanned the bustling living room for his partner, Richard, who had already spotted James and was motioning him over to the couch.

Glass shards littered the soiled carpet in every direction and made the floor shine like sunlight striking a river. He stepped over a large, brownish stain on the carpet at the foot of the tattered couch and stood next to Richard.

"What have we got today, Rich?"

"One less freak in the world and two mysteries solved." Richard replied and belched. The forensics technician dusting for fingerprints at the northeast window regarded Richard's bad mannerisms with a disdainful glance. Richard ripped off another one and smiled.

"Who's the freak and what two mysteries?"

Richard flipped through his notebook. "Daniel Keats, age twenty, single, no living relatives." He put the notebook back inside his suit pocket. "Mr. Keats, decided to off himself this morning but kindly left a little memento. A video confession."

"Was this then."

"You got it. Mr. Keats used a .22 to the chest. Must have laid there quite a while by the looks of his
mess."

"Should have used something bigger. Damn that had to hurt."

"I don't think this guy had much going on upstairs. You'll see what I mean when you watch the tape."

"You've seen it already?"

"Partially, the lab boys already ran the camera. Besides, what else would I be doing at six in the morning but watching some guy dump his guts on the living room floor? What took you so long?"

"Let's just say I spent last night doing some undercover work."

"Ah the life of a bachelor."

"I'd trade it all right now for a wife to love and two point three kids to raise."

"What a load of shit."

Both men laughed.

Before them stood an old console television, its imitation wood scraped and chipped. To the right, an 8mm camcorder rested motionless atop a black tripod. The camcorder lens aimed directly at a four-foot antique oval mirror encased in a three-legged
swiveling oak frame. From their position next to the couch they were able to view the television and have a unobstructed view into the mirror.

"What's with all the broken glass?"

"Not glass, mirrors. The guy must have busted every one in the house, except for this one of course." He raised his hand to James, "Ah, ah, don't ask me why."

"What'd the guy do? Waste himself in front of the mirror?"

"You'll see, partner." Richard answered. He scooped up the multi-unit remote and keyed on the television and camcorder. "We left the tape in but rewound it to the beginning. " He pressed the play button and settled in next to James.

Daniel Keats' haggard face filled the screen. It drifted in and out of focus for a moment and then settled into a firm image. Seeming pleased, he sat down on the very couch where James and Richard now stood beside.

Keats' hair dangled like an oily, black mop that brushed his bony shoulders. The slogan, 'Body Bag' wavered across his brown pullover shirt, which swam over his small frame His eyes darted constantly between the camera and slightly to his right and
forward. James followed the direction and saw his own reflection in the mirror. There seemed to be a few moments of hesitation and then finally Keats spoke.

"Uh, I don't know who's gonna see this tape, probably the cops. Hey man, it don't matter none cause I got something to say and the cops will see it later anyway so screw it." Keats squirmed nervously in the couch and kept glancing at the mirror.

Then he faced the camera again and gawked into it for a great while as if he'd forgotten what he as doing. His unwashed face stared dumbly at the detectives amid a forest of ripe zits. Eventually he regained some composure and spoke.

"I did it man. I did it." Once again he glanced at the out-of-scene mirror. "Those girls over at Connors University. I killed them. Only I didn't use a knife like the TV said, man. It was an exacto blade."

James looked at his partner with his mouth slightly ajar. Richard stared back and shrugged, "Like I said, two mysteries solved."

"But," Keats continued. "I didn't want to man, cause you know, it's not my thing right? He told me to." Keats stared in the direction of the mirror. "Yeah, that's right, I'm telling them right now and you can't stop me."

"Who is he talking to?" James asked.

"Beats me but it looks like he's talking to the mirror."

Keats spoke up again. "I never would've done it if he didn't talk so much. You know, things like, hey Danny boy those girls want you man. Go on don't be afraid. I'll take care of everything. Come on Danny boy. Just do it. Do it. Do it, do it, do it, do it, do it. That's how it is man, all the time with the voice.

"Look, I'm real sorry about those girls. All I wanted was to touch them, you know. That's all. I swear. It was him. It's always him cause he never goes away. He's always there looking at me.looking like me. It's not right. He doesn't act like he's supposed to." He suddenly broke off from his rambling confession and wrapped his hands around his ears. Keats began chanting, "No, no, shut up man, shut up."

Suddenly he exploded towards the unseen mirror, "Shut up man! I told you I ain't listening no more. You can kiss my sorry butt, Smilin' Jack."

Keats reached behind his back and withdrew a .22 Browning semi-auto. He turned the weapon over in his grimy hands and placed the barrel against his chest.

"What a moron." Richard stated.

"Crazy as a June bug is how my Dad would put it. I wonder what pushed him over the edge?"

Richard didn't answer. Instead, Keats spoke again.

"Don't look at him. He'll own you if you do."

A loud crack sprang from the television as Daniel Keats pulled the trigger. He closed his eyes and slumped forward. As he fell from the couch he bumped into the tripod and knocked the camcorder up where it continued filming water-stained ceiling paint.

Richard stopped the camcorder and put down the remote. "Like I said, one less freak."

James and Richard stood and crunched across broken glass as they headed toward the still opened doorway. The forensics team had already wrapped up which left them alone. They stood in the doorway. James withdrew a cigarette pack from his jacket and handed one to Richard.

"I wonder what was going on in his mind?"

"Who cares? We got a killer and the good taxpayers are saved thousands in legal expenses."

James exhaled blue, smoky tendrils from his nostrils. "Yeah, I get your meaning, but..."

"But do I wonder what makes 'em that way? I used to but there got to be too many of 'em. Now I just don't care."

"Still, I wonder what that crack was about not to look at him. Who was he talking about and why was he looking in the mirror?"

"I don't know and I don't care." Richard said and tossed his used cigarette into some scrawny juniper bushes lining the house.

"Ready to roll?"

James did not answer. His face was scrunched in an expression of deep thought. Then he asked, "Did anyone move the camcorder?"

"Nope, we locked it in place just the way we found it. We used our own cables from the camcorder to the
VCR to play the tape. Why?"

"The ceiling!" James said and dashed into the house.

"What are you talking about?" Richard called after James. When no answer came he followed his partner back to the couch. James was already beginning to playback the tape.

"Crap. How many times have I got to watch this trash?"

"Look, Rich. When Keats fell over he knocked the camcorder and it was filming the ceiling."

"Yeah, so."

"When I got here the camcorder was facing the mirror, not the ceiling."

"Maybe the landlord nudged it after he found Keats."

"Could be but we got to check it anyway."

"Whatever."

The two men sat quietly as the tape reached the last viewed point and continued on. After a few minutes, Richard grabbed the remote and fast-forwarded. "If we got to watch this, at least we can speed it up."

Moments later, James called out, "There."

Richard immediately hit the play button.

"The camcorder must've fallen there on its own weight." James said.

Even as he said it, both men watched the scene change as the camcorder began sliding down gravity's inevitable pull toward the mirror and the detached, laughing face it displayed hovering above Keats' crumpled body.

James stammered. "It's me."

"What, are you crazy? That's me."

The End