Killer of Killers

     "I wouldn't call myself a murderer, per se. In fact, I perform a civil service!" Daniel Madison, Danny to friends, fidgeted in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Handcuffs held his arms effectively behind his back, but at least they hadn't chained his feet this time. He really hated getting dragged into police stations, especially when they always ended up dismissing him. "Does anyone ever thank me? No. You'd think someone would at least have the decency to buy me a cup of coffee after killing their psychotic relative, but alas..." Danny leaned forward in his seat, lowering his voice. "These are bad guys, y'know? People cops can't catch, and I help out. Apparently, justice has rules. Someone should probably tell that to crime." Danny sighed in annoyance and fell back against the hard chair, handcuffs chafing his wrists.
     Across the steel table in front of him, Detective Logan Field scowled. A sigh escaped the gruff Mr. Field as he shook his head. "I'm sorry for wasting your time Mr. Madison. Let me get those cuffs of you and you're free to go." Danny grimaced, but said nothing. It was always like this; he'd tell the truth and they'd laugh and let him go. So what if he was only twenty-three? He was the son of one of the greatest assassins to ever live! That being said, if he was ever brought up on murder charges, he would likely be disowned. Behind him, Field undid the cuffs and pulled Danny up. "Thank you for your time."
     A sharp nod and Danny was out of there. It was a twisted kind of world when a murderer could confess but some other schmuck got blamed instead. Even now he could hear her voice in his head: "Remember, sweetie. Always blame someone else."
--
     Field grumbled to himself as he navigated the bullpen to his desk. This guy had been so perfect on paper! He'd been pulled into stations numerous times over the years as a murder suspect, but it was clear now why he'd always walked away. He was a loon, sure, but harmless. Just a kid, really. Now he was back to square one, solving murders of people he didn't feel bad about. The crazy kid had gotten one thing right, these were bad guys. No one would shed any tears over their deaths, not a soul would care they'd perished.
     Detective Nettleson made it Field's job to care. Nettleson always slapped the worst cases on Field's desk. It was a kind of rivalry, only Field didn't participate in it. In the Commissioner's eyes, Field and Nettleson were evenly matched, and Nettleson always tried to get out on top. It was typical of him to stick Field on a crummy case like this - stuck trying to figure out the murderer of murderers.
--
     Once, when Danny was thirteen years old, she'd called him into her room. She was dressed like all of his friends' moms; nice dark slacks, a cozy cashmere sweater in pastel, and silver jewelry. At the private school, this was typical mom wear, but the majority of the time Danny saw her, she was in all black tactical gear. She'd patted the duvet, trying to be welcoming, but the gesture had appeared somewhat sinister... Nevertheless, Danny sat, and she sat with him. Then, she told him a story.
     "Danny. A long time ago, we were revered. See, we were gods on this earth. We held the power of death, and therefore, life." She had sighed dramatically, grabbing Danny's wandering attention. "Listen to me Danny. We ruled the world! Violence was our every breath, and we excelled at it. Before religion, before society and civilization, we were gods. Before humanity forgot it was an animal, they feared the dark. We were the kings on primal thrones, we were the Bogeyman and the Headless Horseman. We were Grendel, the Big Bad Wolf. Before the wonders of electricity, there was only the measly light of fire. It wasn't enough. Each darkened corner, each dark alley was a dwelling for us. We were monsters in the dark. It made us powerful, for the monsters could be anywhere in the daylight. Unfortunately, those days are gone. But one day, Danny, we'll have that world back. I want you to be ready, okay sweetie?" She'd patted the top of his head, like he was a dog, and at the time, he truly was little more than one. He was shooed out of the room after that, back to obscurity in his mother's life. It occurred to him now that maybe being disowned would be a good thing...