“Grandpa, what was the most interesting case you worked?”

The old man in the rocking chair chuckled and lit his cigarette. A plume of blue-tinted smoke filled the air and his eyes grew distant. “I was a detective, back in ‘63,” confessed the old man. “Times were different back then, for better and worse. Matthew Harmen was a suspected serial rapist.”

Grandpa took another drag on the cigarette and closed his eyes. “This bastard preyed on women for what we assumed was the better part of five years. Sometimes you come across a face that you know is pure evil. You don’t know how you know it but something in your gut just won’t let up, like trying to go to sleep with a big spider in your room.”

“Was he ever caught?”

The elder’s eyes froze. “I’ll get to that.” Ash fell onto his shirt. “Evidence was always circumstantial. Victims of that particular crime don’t always want to testify and relive the trauma. For me, there was enough to be certain but not enough to convict.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“I had his address memorized,” Grandpa continued, “from staking out his joint so many times. On my day off, I waited in my car, parked on his street. Sometimes you’ve got to do something you know is wrong because inaction would hurt more people. When I knew none of my colleagues were watching the house, I made my move. I, uh, taught him a lesson. He never hurt anyone else after that night.”

Scenes of frontier justice from old westerns I used to watch played in my mind. I pictured grandpa pistol-whipping the perp and saying something cool as the man spit blood and teeth onto the floor. Not content to leave it at that, I pressed for details. “What did you do to him?”

With a shaky hand, Grandpa pointed to a locked trunk at the other end of the room. It was an old dusty thing from the ‘60s that had stacks of magazines on top of it. From his pocket, the old man held a key. Removing the clutter, I turned the lock. I didn’t know what to expect. There wasn’t any foul smell, so I ruled out there being a body.

“You could say,” said Grandpa, “I got to the heart of the matter.” Under blankets I found a large jar. Floating in it was a preserved heart. I leapt back and covered my mouth. Grandpa was standing right behind me as I turned. “Sometimes, doing bad things helps others. Sometimes doing them lets others keep their hands clean. Sometimes...you need a reminder of why you did those things.”