Wednesday, 6 February 2008
THE TRIGGER TALE...part three
“You know it is absurd my young man. The cops are killing us off - the innocent people. They scream ‘to protect and to serve’ but all they do is to extort and to murder,” the pathologist said taking his glasses off as he wiped his face. “As you can see, I live in the world of deaths. Almost every death I have looked into bore the signature of a cop.” Ozi adjusted himself in his seat. He did not bargain for the confession of a distraught pathologist but he had better listen carefully.
“Forgive my outburst,” the pathologist said apologetically.
“That’s all right. I share your anxiety. You’re not alone,” he assured.
“From my thorough analysis, the suspect’s primary cause of death was gunshot and physical assault,” the doctor began to explain the content of the autopsy report.
“Who could have done that?” he asked the pathologist.
“His body was soiled with blood, gunshot injury on the left wrist entry and outlet with fracture of the wrist bone,” he explained. “Another gunshot injury at right upper abdomen with exit wound at left shoulder. Internal examinations revealed trajectory wound through the liver, lungs, trachea and cervical bones. Stab wound on the right shoulders.”
“The Trigger! An innocent soul sacrificed again!”
“What? What trigger?” the doctor asked him.
He thanked the doctor profusely, promising to keep in touch as he tucked a copy of the autopsy report in his breast pocket; he paused as he stepped outside of the hospital’s premises and dialed a number.
“TCP on the line”, a deadpan voice came up.
“I just called to ask about the suspect. How is he doing now?”
“You journalist! You’re like dogs always wanting a chunk of the meat,” the voice at the other end retorted.
“What chunk of meat are you referring to sir? The one you deposited at the City Hospital, today?” anger and disdain rising in his voice.
“What do you mean young man?” the deadpan voice suddenly mellowed.
“I am not asking for a chunk of meat. I am not a dog. All I have asked for is a piece of information,” he fumed. “Sleep well!”
Now, stuck in his chair, he thought rather than wishing the man with the deadpan voice a good night sleep he could have done that to himself because to him the man did not deserve a moment’s sleep. He had blood on his hands. He had murdered sleep. But if man must catch a thief he must not go a-slumbering too. Ozi had become a watchman – he was a watchdog. Funki’s call interrupted his thoughts.
“Men, what are you up to? Why did it take you ages to pick my call!”
“Funki, tell me you won’t be coming to my end tonight. It is late already. We’ll see tomorrow.”
“Howdy pal? I’ll come this night. I promised Atiko I’ll bring her to your end. Who’s certain about tomorrow? Let’s see the end of today first,” Funki argued.
“You mean Atiko, our great reporter from National Crusader, is coming with you? I can’t wait to host her. I thought it was going to be a long night. Now, I say it’s going to be the longest night ever!”
“I have a lot to gist you about. We’re getting married. I proposed to her.”
“Oh dear, save your breath and credit when you arrive you’ll give me the whole gist. I can’t wait to hear it all.”
“Drive carefully. Beware of the policemen on the road!” Ozi warned and ended the call.