An Inch from Oblivion

AN INCH FROM OBLIVION SAM POLAKOFFAN INCH FROM OBLIVION Published by Komodo Dragon, LLC Forest Hill, Maryland Copyright ©2023 by Samuel R. Polakoff All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, distributed, or transmitted in any printed or electronic form without the author’s written permission.This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, organizations, events, or locations is purely coincidental. Book design by GKS Creative Cover image used under license from Shutterstock Author photo by Alan Pototsky ISBN (print): 978-1-7338898-4-1 ISBN (e-book): 978-1-7338898-5-8 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023901356 FIRST EDITION Printed in the United States of America www.sampolakoff.comOblivion The state of being unconscious or unaware; the state of being destroyed. —Merriam-Webster PART I CHAP T E R 1At 9:47 p.m., the lonely array of cubicles quietly choked Dave’s senses. Or maybe it was exhaustion. Six hours of overtime drained his reserve. Thelma went home to her husband. Since the divorce from Deb, Dave had nowhere to go after hours except the ruddy one-bedroom apartment he kept above the secondhand furniture store in Patterson Park. The place was a shithole, effectively serving as a temporary rest stop to sleep and shower. All in all, Dave figured it was better to stay at work. Less chance of getting himself in trouble. What were the alternatives? The bar scene annoyed him; he wasn’t a big drinker. Once upon a time, before they shut it down during the COVID-19 pandemic, he would hang out at Poochie’s, the pool hall in Greektown. He liked spending time with his son, Travis, but their schedules never seemed to align. Dave sat back in the creaky old office chair as it groaned under his weight. He stretched skyward and then rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He sorely needed a cup of coffee. Meandering over to the Keurig, Dave chose the bold rainforest blend and hoped it would grant him a second wind. Piping hot coffee in hand, he returned to his desk and viewed the 137 unopened emails. Dave considered deleting most of them without opening, but that would turn up the heat for no reason. Sergeant Cooper, his superior, always told them to view email through the lens that it was the lesser of two evils. Dave hated meetings. Email was at least tolerable. There was always evidence that someone had received and read the information. Dave had mastered the art of physical meeting attendance. Sit straight in the back of the room, stare in the boss’s direction, and let your mind go wherever it wants. He gently chuckled. He was sure he could sleep through a meeting with his eyes open. Dave inhaled and took a sip of the hot beverage. Then the high-pitched tone in his right ear took over. Doc said it was tinnitus triggered by stress, a harmless manifestation of too many hours on the job. They called the condition “ringing in the ears,” but it blared like the noise from TV and radio’s emergency broadcast system. As always, he closed his eyes and let the squealing noise pass. It usually ran its course within thirty seconds. In his present state of exhaustion, it felt like someone jabbed a pen through his eardrum. “Ostrinsky, are you okay?” Dave looked up at the sky-high frame of Sergeant Cooper. In his day, Donald Cooper had been a standout forward at Dunbar High and starred at Georgetown before flaming out in the second season of a brief NBA career. “Don’t I look okay?” “You look like shit. Go home and come back in the afternoon. You’re no good if you’re running on empty.” Dave gave Cooper a mock salute with three fingers. “On my way in a few.” The bright light from the monitor seared into his eyes. The emergency broadcast tone was back. God, this sucks! The tone subsided, and Dave blew through the dozens of emails. Most of it was superfluous: volunteers wanted to speak at a local elementary school, revisions to HR policy, warnings about budget cutbacks, and the latest suggestions on “gentle policing.” After he had deleted the first two dozen messages, he saw something unusual. The subject line read, “Ostrinsky Commendation.” Dave had received commendations in the past. Headquarters consistently communicated along the chain of command. In his case, Sergeant Cooper would be letting him know in person. He thought about chasing Cooper down, but he was tired and wanted to get out of there. Maybe the email was bogus. He couldn’t recall how many warnings they had received from IT about opening suspicious messages. This one had his name in the subject line. It had to be legit. To be sure, Dave checked the sender’s email address. Damned if it wasn’t from the PC’s office. Everything was changing so fast these days; maybe this was something new. Dave opened the email.Detective David Ostrinsky: I am pleased to inform you that you will receive a commendation for achieving the highest arrest/closure ratio for the current calendar year. Click the link below for the details. Yolanda K. Polk Police CommissionerDave laughed out loud. Arrest/closure record? What the fuck was that? Guess I actually slept through the meeting when they announced that one. Commendations didn’t come along often. If they wanted to honor him and send a little recognition his way, who was he to argue? As hard as he worked, he deserved it. Dave clicked on the link for the details of his commendation. The computer screen turned blue and filled with lines of random letters and numbers. Dave’s eyes bulged. A gray sheath swallowed his vision, and his entire body suddenly felt cold and rigid. His upper torso fell forward. When his forehead smacked into the monitor, his vision returned, and the odd sensation in his body subsided. “Ostrinsky, I thought you were going home,” said Sergeant Cooper. “You don’t look well.” Dave