Through the Eyes of Madness—Part Nine
By: David K. Montoya

It was still dark outside when Grayson's cellphone rang, shrilling in the large bedroom, startling him awake. In his doze, he dreamed of a perfect and happy existence. A life where he never fell victim to drugs and alcohol, a reality where his accident never happened.

That was until the phone call came in, and for a brief moment pondered whether to ignore it. He was wrapped around his wife, comfortable, cozy and welcomed. The device danced across his chest of drawers, as the young detective slid his arm from under his mate's body.

"Noo," Grayson whined.

"You know you need to answer it, babe," his wife said in a semi conscious state herself. Grayson groan as he sat up on the side of the bed, and orientated himself to reality, before he snatched the phone up, and did not bother checking—he already knew who it was: "Yeah? Grayson."

His eyes wandered aimlessly as the voice on the other end of the call told him about a body found at a local biker bar. He locked on to the rain as it fell outside his bedroom window and watched as it crashed into the glass. There was a sense of familiarity to everything in that moment. Then he realized what it was, which caused his thoughts to travel back to the night he and Betty had last spent together. It was much like tonight, dark, cold, yet, inviting.

He tried to convince himself that it was more than physical attraction, Betty was quite intelligent and it was try that the two had had many in depth conversations. But, when it came down to it, Grayson knew better than that. He wanted to get her into bed the moment they first met back when he first arrived at the police precinct. It wasn't long after that, that he begin to meet up with Betty for steamy and passionate rendezvouses.

It always appeared to be raining, when they would meet up. There was something about having sex in the moonlight while it rained that always appealed to Grayson, perhaps it reminded him of all of those Film Noir movies he watched as a child. Even as a kid, he always picked up on how sexy the setting was; perhaps that was why he liked the city so well.

Lost momentarily in his own head, but reality returned to him as he heard, "Detective?"

"Huh? What? Sorry, I was writing this shit down," Grayson said as he continued to be fixed on the falling rain and thinking about his lover.

"How about you go get you a cup of java, and I'll text you the address of the crime scene," the voice on the other line offered.

"Oh. Okay. Thank you," Grayson said with a yawn.

"No problem detective, I understand it's three thirty in the morning."

"Hey," Grayson stammered as the first bit of thought came to him. "Hey, do you know if Detective Dean Tidwell was notified already?"

The was no immediate answer, Grayson only heard fingers that clanked against a keyboard. Eventually after a few moments he heard, "Yes. Detective Tidwell was notified as well by dispatch twenty–two."

"Too bad. I was gonna say let the old fart sleep. Okay thank you." Grayson said. Without giving enough time to respond, he ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed. His eyes fell onto Lisa as she slept, and was instantly cascaded with guilt.

Lisa was a good and supportive wife, and a loving mother. His thoughts rambled to the past, as he talked her into dating him. Guilt was replaced with shame, he knew she did not deserve the life Grayson pulled her into, but most importantly, he realized that he did not deserve her.


The Gray–Eyed man stood a distance away from the action. Normally, he would simply allowed for someone else to discover the victim, but for some reason he decided to phone it in himself. He was quite amused with himself, as he played the concerned bystander—he even threw his voice to add to his charade.

He was entertained while he watched the officers go about the crime scene, and even let out a chuckle then Forensics attempted to lift a fingerprint from the door handle of the car. The Gray–Eyed man, knew that he wiped everything down, and what he missed would have been washed away by the weather.

Better than reality television, the Killer thought to himself while he watched a cop lose his breakfast after viewing the dead body for the first time. Must be a rookie, she was still too fresh to start to smell already.

The Gray–Eyed man watched with his arms crossed and leaned up against a brick wall, while a few detectives harassed a biker who said that the victim come into the bar alone. Even from where he stood, the man heard the detectives screaming, "Admit it!"

The biker appeared as though he had the ability to eat those two detectives alive, but surprisingly, begin balling like a five–year–old who skinned their knee and proclaimed that he was innocent. The two went in like sharks to blood in the water and berated him until the biker was consumed with tears.

Eventually, while he lied in a pool of self perturbation, the two detectives decided to arrest and handcuffed the biker. Again, The Gray–Eyed man watched in amusement as the two men struggled to drag him to the back of the police cruiser, not because the man put up any sort of fight, but rather simply because of the sheer size of him.

Once they had the biker stuffed inside the cop car, the fatter detective was rewarded with his hard work as the rookie officer from earlier expelled more of his morning meal all over very expensive looking loafers. The real murderer chuckled to himself, and decided to abandon the area before some of the smart ones decided to expand their search toward where he was.


The rain receded and Tidwell arrived before his partner. His bones popped and ached once he stood from his '89 Buick LeSabre, Dean appeared to not pleased—it was Saturday, after all. He dumped his old hat atop his head and moved over to where the others were.

Once Tidwell stood with the others, he noticed a strong and soured acidity smell. Finally, he demanded to know, "Who in God's name puked on the damned crime scene?!"

"It was Parker, Detective," a officer answered as he approached Dean.

"Who?" Tidwell asked.

"Oh, him," the officer said and pointed in the direction of the kid who threw up earlier. "He's a rookie. Fresh out of the academy First week on the job."

Tidwell sighed to himself.

"Bloody freakin' hell, dude," Tidwell said in an almost sympathetic tone. "I thought you had to do some time on the beat before you can join Homicide?"

The officer glanced at the rookie and cracked a smile in amusement: "It's the Captain's nephew. He kinda got the push to the front of the line."

"Jesus, man," Tidwell grunted. "Did no one even consider that he contaminated the entire bloody crime scene?"

Tidwell walked away from the officer, when he saw Copeland's car pull up: "Excuse me, I have to go tell him that he was pulled out away from his family at three in the morning for no good reason, because a freakin' rookie puked all over the damned place."

Tidwell saw Grayson's face through the driver's side window, he appeared tired and in a weakened state. Perhaps five or ten pounds lighter than just two weeks ago, the old detective knew the game his younger partner secretly played. It only seemed like yesterday that Dean cavorted those same games himself, which was perhaps why he had married so many times.

Tidwell met Grayson as he got out of his car, "Hey Gray, bad news partner."

"Oh, what's that?" Grayson asked, in a groggy voice. Tidwell leaned in slightly as the younger detective spoke, it wasn't enough to be noticed, but close enough to smell any alcohol on his breath. He was relieved that there was so signs of him drinking again.

"Some rookie puked all over the God forsaken scene," Tidwell explained, and noted just how exhausted Grayson appeared.

"Shit. Really?" He asked.

"Yep. Screwed the whole thing, before we even got started."

"So what? Do we go back home," Grayson asked with a yawn.

"It is Saturday, partner," Tidwell said. "Go be with your boy, he—they, your family miss you."

As if on cue, it begin to drizzle. Tidwell sighed and looked up into the sky and looked back at his partner and shrugged.

"What are you going to do," Grayson asked as he got back inside his car.

"Gray, I'm an old fart. I'm gonna take some meds and sleep until it's time to go back to work," Tidwell joked. "Now, get out of here. If I need something I'll text or something."

"Wait. You know how to text," Grayson asked with a laugh.

"Ha. Ha. Now get out of here," Tidwell said and then closed the car door once Grayson's leg was completely inside. He stood in silence as his partner pulled away, Dean had wanted him to spend the day with his family, but something told him better.


Grayson was a few miles away from the crime scene when he pulled over, then reached into his pocket and removed his cellphone. The detective held the device in his fingers for several moments, and weighed his options. I tried to not think of her, but there was something inside that called for her. Finally, he gave in to his desires and dialed in a familiar number.

Grayson switched it to speaker phone, and listened patiently as it rung. Finally, a soft and sleepy voice of his mistress answered, "Hello?"

"Hey there." He responded.

"Well, hello."

"I want to see you," Grayson said with authority in his voice.


For the first time in quite some time, sunlight beamed in through the stained glass windows of the Saint Xenia Cathedral. Mother Abigail scurried down the aisle to the front of the church, where she found Father O'Neil at the altar as he recited his morning prayers. Without hesitation she held a white envelope in front of the priest's face and shook it until he looked up from his Rosary.

"It's from the adoption agency," Mother Abigail said excitedly while she handed the envelope over to the father. "Open it. Open it."

Father O'Neil chuckled in amusement at his longtime friend's excitement. Calmly he tore opened a side of the envelope and removed the folded piece of paper that was inside. He put on a pair of reading glasses and inspected the letter, after he was finished, the priest refolded the paper and placed it back inside the container.

"Well?" Mother Abigail asked with wide eyes.

"Oh, it was the adoption agency." He said.

"I know who it was! What did they say?"

"Well, the letter said that normally it is forbidden to release information about people who adopt children from their agency," Father O'Neil said with a somber tone.

"Oh," Mother Abigail responded as the excitement drained from her body.

He looked at the nun with no visible hope in his eyes and said, "Because I was a minor and I was forced to give my son up for adoption, that my request would be forward to a supervisor for consideration."

"We will pray for favor," Abigail said with a hint of excitement back in her voice.

"No. We will pray that the Lord's will be done," the Priest said earnestly. "If he wants me to find my son, then he'll open the opens to make it possible."

To be continued…


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