The Blues
by Jeff Scott

The police car turned right onto the street, and Dakota followed suit. Dakota Waters was simply driving around without too much of a destination in mind, and had seen a police car. With time to kill and nothing better to do but waste gas, Dakota had decided to follow the patrol car around and see where it went. It was one of those things Dakota always wondered. If you pick a car and follow it forever, where will it lead you? With no where to be, this was a question Dakota chose to put to rest immediately. He had already followed the law man through a series of twists and turns, and the whole experiment had Dakota’s interest piqued.

The police car made an abrupt turn down a dirt road, and as he had been doing for fifteen minutes, Dakota followed. On the first road on the right, the police car did a turnabout, and Dakota did the exact same maneuver. He chuckled. This was fun.

The police car sped down the next road, trying to throw Dakota off the trail. Dakota followed with a grin, massacring the speed limit by about twenty miles an hour, but it didn’t matter… the cop was far ahead of Dakota, and pulling away. Dakota pressed the gas pedal to the floor and listened to his automatic shift, and began to gain on the cop. Minutes later, the cop came to a stop sign at a busy intersection and had no choice but to obey. Dakota was grinning ear to ear by now. The police car pulled into traffic, and the gap was big enough for Dakota to follow. The law man was obviously getting irritated. He pulled into a gas station, and got out of the car. Nearly hysterical, Dakota pulled in as well.

“What’s your deal, son? You’ve been following me for quite a spell.” The cop was not tall or short, with dark hair, dark eyes, and an olive complexion. He maintained an athletic build, and spoke to Dakota with a fierce countenance.

“I don’t see what the problem is, sir. I’ve just been driving around and trying to clear my head.” Dakota kept a straight face.

“I’d like to see your license and registration, please.” The policeman was irate.

“Why?” Dakota asked, a real smart aleck.

“Just let me see your license and registration.” The fire in the law man’s eyes could not be overruled, and Dakota pulled out his license and handed it to the cop.

“Dakota Waters, eh? Nineteen years old? Well, Mr. Waters, if you want to live to see twenty, I’d advise you find a different route to drive.” The cop had an air of instability about him, but his words were icy and commanded respect.

“That sounds like a threat, officer.” Dakota grinned impishly as he taunted the law man.

The officer did not dignify Dakota with a verbal response. Instead he threw Dakota’s license on the ground, spat, and sauntered back to his cruiser. Dakota picked up his license and replaced it in his wallet. Damn, this was fun.

The police cruiser pulled out, and Dakota considered for a moment. Grinning like a maniac, Dakota again followed the law enforcement officer. Dakota was certifiably giddy. He couldn‘t remember the last time he‘d had so much fun. He’d have to do this again sometime.

The cruiser did not drive erratically at all once Dakota was behind it again. It turned onto a back road, and obeyed every single traffic law conceivable, with no rash movements whatsoever. He drove for miles into the countryside, Dakota tailgating him all the way. Soon the police cruiser pulled off to the side of the road. Dakota, still enjoying this way more than he should have been, pulled over right behind the cop car. Harassment was so fun.

Dakota stepped out of his car before the officer did. Leaning against the side of his vehicle he waited, and before long the officer emerged from his vehicle as well. This time the officer didn’t talk. He merely pulled a .36 caliber revolver from a hidden holster in his boot (that was registered to a man doing five years on cocaine charges) and planted a bullet between Dakota’s eyes.

Dakota had no time to react. His body fell limp to the ground limp, and he was dead before he had time to complete a thought.

The officer walked over to the warm body, and carefully removed the wallet from his back pocket. The officer calmly replaced his untraceable weapon in his holster, and put Dakota’s wallet in his own back pocket. He had some time to kill, so he looked in the open door of Dakota’s blue Lumina. There was an opened Sprite with only a few sips gone from it, and the officer grabbed it with a smile. He planted himself on the hood of Dakota’s car. The officer knew there would be no traffic on this road, and so he drank leisurely, enjoying the taste of the bubbles moving across his tongue. When he was finished, he threw the bottle into the woods. It just so happened he had pulled off near a spot where, years ago, garbage had been frequently dumped. The bottle would never be connected to him.

After waiting for a half hour or so, the cop grew tired of waiting. He walked over to his cruiser, and delicately reached for the radio. He pressed the button, and spoke.

“It looks like we have a homicide on the Green Road,” the officer said. “It seems that some teenager pissed the wrong person off.”

 

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