Prefect
Its warm and humid, screws with steel. Screws with targets. Time to go, go money, why waste it on a room? A shitty one at that. A prefect of the French Police. Not quite as just as his generous appearance seems. I fire the sedan, drive to the station. My contact leads me in, I just robbed a very convenient store. Cuffs tie me down, he leads me straight to the solitary cells. Left me a uniform too. I change, step lightly from the cell, head straight for the door. Catcalls from the inmates fall on deaf ears. So did the muffled scream of the guard. But that doesn't matter, his ears are deaf now too. To the left, up the stairs, another left, into the bathroom, How do I look? French enough? Fix the line, He's in his office, he needs my report on the string of recent murders. I can smell the burnt sting of coffee through my nose, taste it with my tongue. I load the gun still in the leather, pass another officer of truth. See his watery blue eyes. Weakness. He eyes me curiously as I brush shoulders with the detective. I return a sociable grin. As close upon the threshold I steal the scent of unknown depths from beneath the hardwood door. I pull the pistol from the smooth leather, silenced as the night, and reach for the brass knob. I slide the door open and relieve 3 lead slugs. The throat, the heart, the brain. His brains splatter against the window, completing the abstraction with his heart. The hole excretes a trickle of blood, and I wipe it off. It tastes good. Officer Jean Paul, I tell the investigators. Fifth at the scene, exemplary veteran for over 9 years of the 2nd Prefecture. I slide behind the wheel of the rental, massage the fake leather that stretches across the surface. I start the small engine and drive to the tram, a 2-way ticket on the blue line to nowhere. Prefect.