The Problem Maker

The Problem maker

By Mordecai J Banda

And there he was: the first criminal in fifteen years. There was blood on his hands, an empty look in his eyes. The man was remarkably common looking; brown hair, brown eyes, grey clothes. Except for the fact that he had apparently done the most unthinkable thing of the decade: the taking of a human life.
Officer Patrick Malone 53rd Precinct had almost begun his daily afternoon jog when he had received the most absurd call from his cranial implant.
A man had tonelessly explained that there had been a murder in the suburbs, at a certain sector in a certain place: Officer Malone hadn’t really paid attention to the details. Since he had expected nothing more than. It hadn’t really mattered to him anyway. Whence the phone call disconnected he had already presumed that the man who had made it was insane to some extent, and that the Live handcuffs he always carried would suffice, as usual in this peaceful world. Even stun batons were out of production.
When Officer Malone stepped onto the porch, the door beeped and slid open. The house computers across the world had long ago been set to receptive towards any guests. After all, not a single drop of violence or conflict had ever emerged. And it would stay that way... right?

Wrong.

And that simple word nullified Officer Patrick Malone’s worldviews and his tired, monotonous mind saw past the grey curtain that hid the long lost emotions of shock and horror. Patrick suddenly wished he had the most loathed instrument of the world at that moment: A gun.

The murderer looked at Malone with his eyes of dull curiosity, he was rubbing his red hands together with a disturbing swishing sound, and he flashed shark teeth and cocked his head.
“Hey there, mate, guess it’s you who sees the first murder, right?” he chuckled.
Patrick Malone was still shocked and dumbfounded. He forgot to call for backup and absently slipped out his handcuffs. Part of his mind still thought of a simple thoughtless and automatic procedure where he walked in, cuffed the madman and ended the matter. The other part of him was still assessing the situation, almost relishing the newfound feelings within his brain. The murderer stepped out of view from the frame of the door, and emerged again with a knife in his hands. Officer Malone stared at the reddened object almost accusingly. The murderer smiled and stepped on the porch, placing himself a few metres away from Malone and away from the doorframe. The door slid shut behind him. The murderer looked Malone in the eye:
“When I cut you, you tell me plain and simple, what you feel. And after that, you’re going to let me go, because I already know your answer.”
Patrick suddenly felt his pulse quicken, his heart boomed in his ears and his stomach tensed. Adrenaline flooded him and took him and his body quite by surprise: He didn’t have many reasons to fear these days.
The murderer took one. Two steps forward. The knife vibrated, gleamed red-hot and the man reached forward to poke him.
But a part of Patrick’s mind corrected the words. It wasn’t called poke: it was stab. And it wasn’t a simple, innocent reach forward: it was a lunge. Patrick gasped and stepped sideways, and the knife slid [slashed. Patrick corrected.] Across his waist, and he felt it. The pain and the cold feeling in his veins, and the anger. Patrick looked down at the side of his waist with wide eyes. He looked up at the smug look of the killer, and he roared as the feeling engulfed him. He clenched his right fist, fondly remembering the old reflex like a lost dream, swung it upwards and into the chin of the murderer, who lost his smile for the second of connection between the fist and the chin. The murderer fell over backwards, and Malone roared again. He looked at the blood seeping from the thin knife wound, and whimpered as the fury deflated from him. He shook his head, cuffed the felon, and took him to the station.

The shock that Patrick had felt earlier at the fact of murder seemed lesser than that of the men and women within the police station. When they heard his explanation for the cuffed and bloody killer and his own waist wound, they almost simultaneously stared with silent dread, and shuddered with fear. One or two fainted: the rest sealed the station tightly and told the authority in charge of the 53rd precinct. Patrick was dimly aware of the fact that people eyed him personally as well with raw fear or even disgust, and Patrick could almost hear their flabbergasted thoughts: What the hell am I seeing here? This must be some very sick joke... No way... Holy...
When Patrick explained what had happened in detail, the whole station collectively fell silent. They couldn’t believe that someone had been killed. Murdered.
There wasn’t even a homicide department within the 53rd. Actually most of the world didn't have one. The ones that did were purely superficial and nothing more in the slightest. No one suggested looking in the house for the body. They were all scared.

The murderer was left in a dusty interrogation room. Patrick was in the outer shell of the room. He looked through the one-way glass at the man sitting on the table. The murderer rubbed his dark red hands -with some restriction from his handcuffs- and watched the clotted blood crumble onto the table surface with detachment. Patrick was in a daze: unsure whether this was happening. He was saved from his thoughts when his implant prompted him to answer a secure call. Frowning with surprise, Patrick answered the call:
“Officer Patrick Malone?” The voice was filtered; encrypted... Fake.

“Yes, sir?”

“Your the one with the... killing case?” The voice asked almost timidly.

“Yes, I found a murder case, but I didn’t actually see-”

“Its been... proved. By a recon unit.” Patrick could swear he heard a sob.
Patrick waited for clarification, and then asked,

“What do I do sir. What the heck is the procedure?”

There was an age long pause, and then the sir answered.
“I hereby grant you full authority over this... m-m... killer suspect and you may do what you wish. Do whatever you wish with utmost confidentiality.”

Patrick suddenly realised that this authority, whoever it was, wanted to wipe his hands clean of the matter. The big wig was freaked.

“Sir? Should I execute him?” Patrick tried.

The call disconnected two seconds after that question. It only proved Patrick’s theory: No one knew what to do. He looked at the criminal, and then walked out through a metal door. Patrick almost immediately noticed that the hallway was empty. He was not surprised. Patrick went back into the room, suddenly fearful. He looked through the one-way glass, and stepped into the inner room. He looked across at this amazing man who had defied all principles and the global mindset, and had reached out and killed a fellow human being. Patrick looked at this monster with disgust. He suddenly knew that he loathed him, and then he realised the mess that had been dumped on him. The whole police station would obviously refuse knowledge of this murder case. They would leave him to take the fall. Because even when there was peace, there was selfishness. Officer Patrick Malone would obviously lose all his known prestige if he revealed that a murder had occurred. Precinct 53 would be blamed. The city would be blamed, and then the country. Global suspicion would spread across the Earth like a septic stink cloud.
“So they dumped me on you? Do whatever you like with me?” The murderer spoke. Patrick looked up at this man. He became aware that he had sat down across him and had been in deep thought this whole time.

“You know what's good for this world, officer.” Patrick looked at the man. He looked calculating... serious.

“Who are you?” The million dollar question.

“I’m John Smith. I’m Adam. I’m Man, I’m Murder. I’m The Want of The World”

“Who?” Oh, his insane, alright.

“I’m the solution to this dead world. I’m the bad truth. I’m the one to bring this planet back to the days of lesson. I’m the problem maker.” The man recited while looking up at the lamps, and then he cackled and smiled at Patrick.
“What do you mean?” Patrick asked.
The man stretched out his cuffed hands. A small diode flashed red on the links, indicating an imminent stun if he moved more.
Patrick looked at the handcuffs, and with his left hand he absently felt the first unhealed and human inflicted scar. He remembered the intense feelings he
had felt, and he considered the world as a whole, and as mad as it seemed, this man suddenly made perfect, understandable sense. Then he considered the peace. The blissful nothingness. Love was too simple; fun was simpler and not so unique. Lessons were learnt the easy way. Officers were commended for saving cats. There was nothing to talk about, and in that nothing was boredom, pure and simple. Patrick made his decision.
“I get it.” Patrick Malone said, feeling good. About to do bad.
He whipped out his keys, and set the murderer free.