He knew the area well. It was only about twenty minutes from the hospital give or take the traffic he thought to himself as he pressed the down button to the elevator. With a ding, the door opened and Tommy stepped inside. A handful of other people, mostly visitors piled in with him as he pressed the ground floor button.

The killer acted nonchalant as the elevator plummeted. He couldn’t help noticing a woman staring at him, though. Tommy worried as he fidgeted with the keys in his pocket. He thought she recognized the nametag as she pointed to him, “Are you bleeding?” she asked.

With a grin and a sigh he answered, “No. That’s someone else’s,” and then the door opened.

It didn’t take him long to find Ken’s car. Pressing the button on the remote key Tommy walked through the employee parking lot until he saw the flashing lights of freedom beckon to him. It was a red Pontiac G-6 and as he opened the door and sat down he noticed a rainbow air-freshener hanging from the rear view mirror.

“Well isn’t that sweet,” he said mockingly, throwing it out the window as he peeled away. It took him exactly thirty five minutes to find Swifts brick ranch from the moment he left the parking lot. To his jubilance the Detective was not home. He had stopped at the bar to have a few drinks before staggering out to his car and driving home.

At 11:46 pm the swerving Detectives Trailblazer pulled into the driveway. He somehow managed to pour himself out of the vehicle only to be struck in the back of the head by a tire iron Tommy had pulled from the Pontiac’s trunk.

By three in the morning, Detective Mike Swift was awaking to the sound of poring cement. He was nestled and wired to the inner steel support bars of a pylon. The bars and Swift had been lowered into a mold and standing above them was the ominous Cleaver.

“Salutations, Detective,” the killer chuckled as he pressed the stop button of his remote control. The Detective struggled as his eyes raced wide and wild. Gradually the cement stopped flowing, globs continuing to fall as Swift stood neck deep in concrete.

“What?” Swift screamed. “What do you want?”

“What do I want? What do I want! I want my son back, Swift,” he yelled waving the remote at him as he spoke, his voice echoing through the industrial cement yard. “But I can’t have that.”

“I didn’t kill your son. I swear it,” Swift pleaded.

“But you know who I’m talking about right? You know Pete Aritano!” he bellowed.

“Yes. Yes.”

“Pete Aritano Sarcozi?”

“Yes,” Swift repeated. “They thought we could flush out Sarcozi by getting to his family,” he admitted. “No one had ever seen Sarcozi, but information about his son had leaked.”

“So you shot Pete?”

“Ye-yeah I shot him,” the Detective stuttered as a realization flooded his thoughts. It was as if a levy had broken in his mind, “you!”

“Yes Detective. Allow me to introduce myself,” he said with a callous look, pressing the start button as he spoke. “My name is Thomas Carlos Sarcozi and you can take comfort in knowing that you will be giving your fellow officers support for generations,” he continued, his eyes piercing as the cement pored over Swift’s mouth. “…for this pylon will be going into the parking ramp of the new police station downtown.”

Swift’s eyes screamed in silent desperation as the gray fluid sloshed over. A smile chiseled onto Sarcozi’s face as the final tuft of hair slipped under the quick set. “No need to thank me Detective,” he jested. “We’ll just call this my way of doing you a solid.”