Detective Preston Emery stood quizzically gazing into the toilet bowl, pants bunched like hand-cuffs around his ankles, pondering. He had been routinely bleeding into the toilet for nearly three years now. Seeing as he is, in his own words, not a sodomite, he was rather profoundly alarmed when he first discovered this phenomenon upon standing after a particularly painful posterior purge one evening— the toilet-water resembling a Shirley Temple if the grenadine had been added a drop at a time and hadn't been stirred. In the intervening years he had entertained all manner of flighty notions regarding its cause: from ascending colon cancer to swallowed razor-blades or finger-nails, from semi-conscious beet consumption to randomly rupturing vital organs. He never consulted a physician regarding this matter, as he presumed the doctor would believe him to be engaged in homoerotic activity— and that simply would not do. Furthermore, if it was indeed indicative of a larger problem, he would rather not know. Denial was more comfortable than having to cope with the knowledge that something was wrong with you.
In point of fact, Emery suffers from an anal fissure; an unnatural tear in the anal skin likely resultant of his attempts to regulate his own bowel movements. Emery's regimented existence rarely afforded him the luxury of an unscheduled intestinal elimination (shit to the layman), thus he felt he should attempt to coerce his body to acclimate to a routine by violently clinching his rectum whenever he felt the urge to purge out of cycle. This act of forcibly holding the feces in his intestines to facilitate the fluidity of his schedule eventually stretched the anal mucosa beyond its capability, causing a tear that would bleed violently following particularly hearty stools.
Not being profoundly knowledgeable on the subject of hemorrhoids, he was certainly at a loss for an explanation of why he was continually concocting a Bloody Mary in his porcelain distillery. However, with time one can easily acclimate to anything. As such, Emery was not staring into the bowl in another vain attempt at puzzling out the source of his bloody emission this evening. Tonight he was simply stricken with an unrelenting sense of foreboding. For reasons unknown he was dismayed by the call that had interrupted his allocated bathroom time: a request for his assistance investigating an assault perpitrated by a drug-addled prostitute on a young male resident of Chester Mulligan's "roach motel" in Carver park. The young man was in critical condition and in transit to Saint Theresa's while the woman was being held for questioning.
The lion's share of his trepidation eminated from Emery's hatred for that psychotropic sanctuary-- it was like an ant farm of pharmaceutical freaks nurturing their habits for the sake of an unnamed queen. As such, it was a hot-bed for criminal activity regardless of the legality of the drugs being consumed there. In fact, it was nearly routine for most beat-cops to make at least one pass by the place during their shifts. Something was bound to be rotten at the "High-Tower" on any given evening. Not more than three days ago an elderly female occupant of the building had hurled a feces-filled waterjug at a fellow inhabitant, presumably in reaction to his attempted intrusion into her room. The next evening a couch, completely engulfed in flame, had been hurled from a second-story stair-well out onto a fire-escape scaffold and into the street. Luckily enough, the windows in most rooms at the place were too small to fit anything of considerable mass through. Otherwise, flaming furniture of all shapes and sizes would be randomly expelled from the building without fail. As such, when Emery had the misfortune of being assigned an investigation within the harrowed halls of that disreputable dump he felt his insides begin fighting to get outside.
Perhaps his mood was also compounded by the fact that there is something unnerving about seeing his blood constantly co-mingling with his body's waste. Emery felt like a car leaking oil... he was certain that he was always on the verge of a break-down. Needless to say, a feeling of vulnerability is not the bedrock of solid detective work. Thus, his concentration was suffering from his constant worry-- and this in turn caused further physical deterioration. Hitching his britches, Emery made his best resolution to flush his fears along with the other worthless shit swirling in the toilet and exited the rest-room.
The hallways of precinct five were teeming with activity-- which was not entirely unheard of at 2:30 A.M, but it was certainly not a typical occurrence. Emery was not fond of crowds, which was why he requested the night-shift position in the first place. The trade-off for the accommodation of his social anxiety was that the bulk of the city's heinous crimes took place at night-- which put Emery waist-deep in detritus for the better portion of his career. In light of this fact, avoiding perpetually focusing on the morbid aspects of his existence was always a challenge.
Emery strode into his office and quickly, yet discreetly, eased the door closed on the chaos outside. Enclosed in his haven he slank around his desk and delicately eased himself into his faux-leather office chair as though he were climbing into a bath of unknown temperature. When he was able to join padding to posterior without any stabbing anal-pain, his muscles began to slacken slightly. When his gaze finally fell onto his desk, he noticed two of his pens and a stapler were ajar and that his phone had been shifted at least three inches away from its designated resting place. At the sight of this Emery burst up out of his chair and lurched to open the office door.
Performing a Kramer slide into the hallway (which caused a slightly irritating rectal itch) Emery bellowed like a bleating bull to no-one in particular, "How many times do I have to tell you guys NOT TO TOUCH MY DESK!!!!"
Several beat-cops were shocked out of their trance-like report-typing to throw a doe-eyed stare at Emery, while other officers around the office froze in mid-stride. Lieutenant Jensen, (the portly, shorn-scalped watch commander for the evening) struggled to bite back a laugh at the front desk. The scene was punctuated by the sound of a coffee mug shattering in the background somewhere, and shortly thereafter the general ruckus resumed. Emery strode angrily back into his office, oblivious to the chaffing such a stride caused, and slammed the door upon entry.
After acquiring a steno-pad (and re-adjusting the contents of his desk) Emery gathered up his briefcase and overcoat, then shuffled out of his office. He checked the lock on the door several times before vacating the premesis (seeing as he had to prevent the heathens from tampering with his arrangements), turning the knob with considerable force at various speeds to ensure it was tamper-proof. When he felt assured that the security of his office was ensured, Emery started on his arduous trek to his refurbished classic 1998 Buick Century waiting in the motor-pool. As he returned to his office door to verify that it was locked a paltry two times before actually leaving the corridor, it appeared to be the start of a very productive evening.
PHASE TWO BEGINS
15 years ago
