July 2nd, 2024
3:15 PM
Looking over the interior of this place, I get the feeling their reputation is earned. Next to me I have Mr. and Mrs. Browne looking as worried as can be. We’ve yet to be called in to meet a detective, and the officers at the front are behaving worse than nurses twerking for tik-tok in front of a waiting room full of cancer patients.
They keep laughing and whooping at pictures on their phones, as if there aren’t citizens to talk to, and from hearing the exchanges I’m almost certain it’s about nudes of women or something like it. One couldn’t help but wonder what the fuck their taxes are going towards if this is the state of the police department.
To my right, Mrs. Browne is holding her cellphone in her hands, clutching at it as if Bishop is going to call her back at any moment and explain what the fuck was going through his head before he left.
Of course, that’s not going to happen. Knowing him he’s off grid by now. The idea of isolating himself is one he constantly fulfils above everything else, and scampering off into obscurity is one of the few things I know he’s good at.
… I want to punch him.
To the surprise of all three of us, a fat man finally calls us into his office. We’ve only been waiting 5 and a half hours. In front of the desk, Mrs. Browne is already recounting what happened. How her son cut all contact with them and how he’s now missing.
“Please! You have to find him. He’s not equipped to go off on his own like this! He’ll get himself hurt!” she pleads with the man, but as I look at his expression it becomes clear he couldn’t give a fuck.
Not even taking notes, he sits with his arms crossed in an aloof demeanour. “I see, I see… but it hasn’t even been 48 hours, has it? And how old did you say he was?” the detective asks her.
Mrs. Browne looks shocked, but she answers anyway. “He’s 20 years old. Look, the sooner there’s a search the better the chance of finding my son! Please-“
Abruptly, he cuts her off with a hand in the air while frowning. “Whoa! Look, lady. Maybe he’s just being a little rebel. Besides, he’s old enough to take care of himself at that age, isn’t he? Why don’t you wait a few days, maybe a week, and then come back and ask for help?”
There was nothing I could see on the news that could have prepared me for what I was seeing in front of me. Was this piece of shit serious? Telling a mother to wait a week for her son to officially become a potential casualty?
The look on Mrs. Browne’s face was sheer disbelief. I couldn’t catch a glimpse of Mr. Browne before his fist cracked down on the wooden desk in front of us. “Are you fucking serious? Our son is missing and you’re telling us to wait? What the fuck did they teach you at the academy?”
The question probably wasn’t going to lead to anything constructive, but it was valid. Mr. Browne was angry, and here we had a man in uniform who wasn’t worth the shit he flushed down the toilet in the morning.
“… Excuse me? Who do you think you are? We have many other cases keeping us busy, alright? You’re not the only ones who need help.”
I’ve observed many useless, worthless men in my young life. Sometimes guys would behave like douchebags because they thought it made them look cool or thought girls would find it impressive how expensive the car their parents bought them was, but the scum in front of us had the balls to try and garner sympathy from the parents of someone missing.
Before we got here I had a subtle feeling that nothing would come of it, but Bishop’s mother wanted to try all the same. I didn’t want to be the one to deflate her hopes, but it was inevitable with these swine in uniform.
It looked like we were going to have to take matters into our own hands.
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Nothing came of talking to the police, and we found ourselves in front of the station worse off than when we came in. Mrs. Browne was sobbing into her hands. Mr. Browne was clenching his fists and seemed to be holding back a snarl.
I wanted to say something, but I came up blank at trying to find something appropriate to share. Trying to make them feel better didn’t seem like it was going to go very well. Too many words had been spoken when there needed to be action.
Then I realized something. I had seen the face of Bishop’s Uber driver. It was very brief, but I was confident in my memory. He was a brown-skinned middle-aged man. Maybe middle-eastern. The make of his car was still vivid in my memory, too.
“I may have an idea.” I started, trying to get Mrs. Browne’s attention. She slowly looked up from her hands at me. “The morning Bishop left I saw his driver. I think that may be worth looking into. With any luck, we could get an idea of where he was dropped off and go from there.”
Mr. Browne first looked at me, then stepped forward to make a suggestion of his own. “That’s not a bad idea, but maybe it’s time to hire a PI. Cordelia, thank you for your help. We’re grateful for it, believe me.” he said, his wife sharing a shaky nod before hugging her husband.
That was a solid idea. In a city like Seattle personal investigators are very useful depending on what you needed them to look into. My aunt was a cheating slut who rode the cock carousel, but her husband had enough of the right evidence to avoid paying alimony thanks to one of them.
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll look on my end, and you’ll look on yours. Don’t worry Mr. and Mrs. Browne. We’ll find Bishop. I won’t give up on him.”
Mrs. Browne took my hand in hers and gently squeezed. As far as I knew, it was already too late for Bishop and maybe he was lying dead in a ditch somewhere, but I had to put myself forward after everything that’s happened… because I felt guilty. Like I had caused the heartache in these people’s lives. It was tearing me apart.
“Thank you, dear…” she sobbed.
***
July 2nd, 2024
6:29 PM
Back at the college cafeteria, I had been looking for Uber drivers on my cellphone local to the area, but it looked like it was going to take a while. It didn’t help my friends were constantly urging me to forget about it. I wanted to tell them off, but that wouldn’t help. It was hard to be someone who cared, especially when it came to caring for someone who didn’t care about themselves.
“Why are you so serious lately, Cordie?” Jordan asks me. She’s one of my better friends, but like everyone else was trying to get me to give up on Bishop.
I gave her a wan smile before going back to my cellphone. I was thinking about just calling drivers and chance I get the one Bishop left with. Although… that could get to be pretty expensive after a short amount of time.
“Andrew was looking for you earlier. Said he wanted us to go hang out later today.”
I hadn’t spoken to him since Bishop left. Part of me wanted to never speak to him again. I knew they had good intentions, and that the sight of me worried and toiling like I was set them on edge. Normally I would be yapping away and talking my head off, but lately that hadn’t been the vibe I gave off.
I was more serious. More sensitive. Cracking jokes and laughing my troubles away wasn’t enough anymore. And still, a part of me truly felt like forgetting about it all and just accepting the fact that I couldn’t help Bishop. The part of me that was realistic.
Then, there was the part of me that knew I would regret it deeply if I didn’t try. I had to give it my best shot now, or I would keep feeling guilty. When I looked at Bishop the day he came out of his room, I liked the sight of him. Like a deer in headlights, my group jeered at him and made him feel smaller.
The sight of the 4ft something ‘man’ cowering in fear, all alone and hopeless to stand up for himself brought me a sense of superiority. Something close to ecstasy through domination. What the fuck was wrong with me? Was that who I was? A fucking predator? Some sick bitch who got off on humiliating someone who couldn’t protect themselves?
“You know… I think he has a thing for you.” Jordan told me, trying to get me to snap out of my guilty state. At that, I couldn’t help myself. I had to respond. “Well, you can tell Andrew to go fuck himself. I’ve dealt with enough dickheads for one day.”
Jordan looked taken aback. She wasn’t used to seeing me snap at anyone like that, and I could tell my relationship with several other people would soon sour just as easily. I was a social person, someone who enjoyed the company of others, but now I was pushing them away.
I had plenty of reasons to hate Bishop, but now I was beginning to hate myself. If I didn’t find him in time and the worst should happen, I knew what it would mean. I wouldn’t be able to go back to being a bubbly idiot who laughed at unfunny jokes. There would be a barb digging into me that made it impossible. The best I could hope for was to pretend everything was fine.
All the while knowing I was the one who caused him to flee. Knowing I was the one who had encouraged him to fucking kill himself…