time I see one of them now. Maybe I am getting used to them, or maybe my heart is just too exhausted to beat that hard.
I have been covered in an uncomfortable clammy film since I woke up. My nice white dress shirt is starting to show sweat stains. I sit at my desk all day with all those kids standing around the bull pen, sweating bullets. To distract myself, I read through the remainder of vandalism reports. I found some promising ones this time. One report noted a Catholic church that’d had their holy water filled with red dye, making it look like blood. Another described a Baptist church that had had “why is he always white” spray-painted under a statue of Jesus on the cross. It’s possibly this last act of vandalism was committed by an adolescent, possibly a minority, who was mad that Jesus, is always shown as a white man, when he probably looked more like an Arab. Or maybe not. My money's on it being either Lee or James , with their love of pranks and hate of the “God of the prey.”
I had one of the patrol officers drive me to the church that received the holy blood treatment a few months ago. The officer was starting his portal for the day and he didn’ t mind taking me. I think he was happy to have someone to talk to and I learned some new information about the Charlesville college basketball team and their chances of “going all the way.” The visit, however, was not so informative. The priest claimed to have been helping someone with a problem and had forgotten to lock up when he went up to the rectory. The water had been red by the time he went to open the church the next morning. With his bloodshot eyes and strong smell of whisky, I suspect he was drinking or sleeping it off when the vandals struck.
I took a taxi back to the cop shop. After I finish this entry, I plan to head home and try to eat something.
April 9, 2001 from work computer
I failed to sleep last night, but at least I was able to eat. When I tried to go to bed, Eric and Lauren Dokes, the first victim, were standing beside my bed. Joe Smith stood inside my couch, so sleeping there was out of the question. While in bed, I could always see one of them no matter what position I tried to fall asleep in. I just couldn’ t close my eyes. I was certain that if I did, they would touch me and that would send me into madness.
Every time one of the kids shows up, my body reacts the same way it does when a rabid dog has me cornered. They can’ t be real. Ghosts are said to be seen by most people, but nobody in the Bullpen has reacted yet to little dead kids popping up. They must be only in my mind. Some screws are loose or something. However, my body won’ t believe me when I tell it they can’ t hurt me.
The kids held guard duty over my bed for hours until. Finally I gave up and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. The kitchen was completely free of phantoms or hallucinations, and I remained there for the rest of the night. I made a large meal with hamburgers and some cheap noodles. In the bathroom, Michele Hardy was standing in the sink. I did my business covered in a layer of sweat while staring at a spot on the floor two feet away. For a moment, my disobedient eyes still wandered over to the dead girl.
After two and a half days, I finally ate something, but still haven’ t slept in thirty-two hours. I requested tomorrow off to recover some sleep, either at my apartment or a hotel somewhere. The day off will also help me prepare for the shit storm that always blows in after another dead kid is found. Only two days until I have failed again. Knowing that I failed them is worse than the victim’s parents, always crying and demanding justice. If I can close this case and give the victims and their families justice, I can die knowing my life meant
I have been covered in an uncomfortable clammy film since I woke up. My nice white dress shirt is starting to show sweat stains. I sit at my desk all day with all those kids standing around the bull pen, sweating bullets. To distract myself, I read through the remainder of vandalism reports. I found some promising ones this time. One report noted a Catholic church that’d had their holy water filled with red dye, making it look like blood. Another described a Baptist church that had had “why is he always white” spray-painted under a statue of Jesus on the cross. It’s possibly this last act of vandalism was committed by an adolescent, possibly a minority, who was mad that Jesus, is always shown as a white man, when he probably looked more like an Arab. Or maybe not. My money's on it being either Lee or James , with their love of pranks and hate of the “God of the prey.”
I had one of the patrol officers drive me to the church that received the holy blood treatment a few months ago. The officer was starting his portal for the day and he didn’ t mind taking me. I think he was happy to have someone to talk to and I learned some new information about the Charlesville college basketball team and their chances of “going all the way.” The visit, however, was not so informative. The priest claimed to have been helping someone with a problem and had forgotten to lock up when he went up to the rectory. The water had been red by the time he went to open the church the next morning. With his bloodshot eyes and strong smell of whisky, I suspect he was drinking or sleeping it off when the vandals struck.
I took a taxi back to the cop shop. After I finish this entry, I plan to head home and try to eat something.
April 9, 2001 from work computer
I failed to sleep last night, but at least I was able to eat. When I tried to go to bed, Eric and Lauren Dokes, the first victim, were standing beside my bed. Joe Smith stood inside my couch, so sleeping there was out of the question. While in bed, I could always see one of them no matter what position I tried to fall asleep in. I just couldn’ t close my eyes. I was certain that if I did, they would touch me and that would send me into madness.
Every time one of the kids shows up, my body reacts the same way it does when a rabid dog has me cornered. They can’ t be real. Ghosts are said to be seen by most people, but nobody in the Bullpen has reacted yet to little dead kids popping up. They must be only in my mind. Some screws are loose or something. However, my body won’ t believe me when I tell it they can’ t hurt me.
The kids held guard duty over my bed for hours until. Finally I gave up and went into the kitchen to make some coffee. The kitchen was completely free of phantoms or hallucinations, and I remained there for the rest of the night. I made a large meal with hamburgers and some cheap noodles. In the bathroom, Michele Hardy was standing in the sink. I did my business covered in a layer of sweat while staring at a spot on the floor two feet away. For a moment, my disobedient eyes still wandered over to the dead girl.
After two and a half days, I finally ate something, but still haven’ t slept in thirty-two hours. I requested tomorrow off to recover some sleep, either at my apartment or a hotel somewhere. The day off will also help me prepare for the shit storm that always blows in after another dead kid is found. Only two days until I have failed again. Knowing that I failed them is worse than the victim’s parents, always crying and demanding justice. If I can close this case and give the victims and their families justice, I can die knowing my life meant
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