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things
Lincoln never knew existed. Apparently one officer who used it told him some
buttons had different flushing functions, but who needed that? Flushing was
flushing, and nobody needs to see how their waste goes through the bowl. D.
looked around like the both of them, but the detective picked off something
that could’ve been a Post-It note. Lincoln wasn’t sure. Could it be another
photograph? He wanted to ask, but maybe D. had found something personal. He
took no glance at the photo, or whatever it was, and kept it in his pocket.
              “Keep
looking,” Lincoln said. “There can be evidence here. We need to search
further.”
              So
they searched, going through corners and hearing through walls for any
activity. There were none. Lincoln attempted to fix his hair, but did nothing
spectacularly new to it. The detective kept himself lean like a slender beast--
Nosferatu, darkened by his mysteriousness.
              “Nothing
here,” D. proclaimed. “Did you try –?”
              A
tremor from outside rambled the walls in terrible wonder. They could have
inspected the outdoor pool from the highest point of the building, but Lincoln
needed to know where that trembling sound came from, and who was doing it.
              “Same
thing happened before,” D. said, “while we were in the living room discussing
the case.”
              So
that’s what it was, Lincoln thought. “Where do you suppose it came from?” he
asked the detective.
              “That’s
what I was asking before, but no one answered.” He moved to the door. “Shall we
see outside?”
              Another
rumbling began its course as if it were watching them all. A Chinese lamp
standing on the silver sink danced along the surface before wobbling over,
tipping into a shattering finale of pieces and a broken light bulb. The three
of them – Lincoln, Big Hands, and D. – witnessed the scene, but of course none
would dare applaud at a dance like that. Dust seethed through the cracks of an
angry mouth that was the ceiling, falling over their heads like dandruff.
Although too hard to see from the tiled floor, sliver fissures spread across
the ceiling, crawling like ants marching with their queen on a mission to
conquer land.
              “Get
out!” ordered Big hands. “Move out, move out!”
              The
bathroom lights blinked shut as they moved their way out the door. Big Hands
and Lincoln were out but when Lincoln searched for the detective, he found that
he still lingered inside. What was the man thinking? He wouldn’t kill himself
for nothing, would he?
              “Detective!”
Lincoln called. “Why are you –?”
              But
the lights came back on. Lincoln saw half the bathroom imploding, a mystical
force pressing down on the foundations of the bathroom, making a crumbled
clutter of broken utilities. The detective was on his knees, inspecting the
tiled floor. Lincoln took no more than a step to get a view of a pile of
photographs, one on top of another. He didn’t have time to find out what the
photographs were but kept ordering D. to get out. As fast as the detective
could muster, he scrambled to get as many pictures as he could into his arms.
He went through the bathroom door and landed in the living room, Lincoln slammed
the door sharper than a kitchen knife on a cutting board.
              “God!”
said Big Hands. “Where are they?”
              All
the officers, and they meant all of them, lay on the ground. Blood filled their
mouths like melted cherry candy. They lay on their stomachs, their backsides
punctured with holes that fit to some kind of blade. The remains of their
screams were etched on their dead faces. One light bulb that was left working
cast sharp and sinister shadows glorifying the horror of the police officers’
corpses. Big Hands’ had miniature earthquakes before him. He