Behind the Horned Mask
A Novel by Jeff Vrolyks
Copyright 2013 Jeff Vrolyks
Let me begin by stating that I am not a writer—a conclusion you’d have arrived at on your own soon enough. I know no tricks of narrative nor do I have an extensive vocabulary, but I do know an editor (wink). I once lost a spelling bee trying to spell vakation. Writing isn’t my thing. Policing is. But when Norrah and I debated which of us should put this thing into words, her persistency in it being me won her the day. We haven’t put much thought into what might become of these pages, if anything, but we both agreed the events of late needed to be put on paper, and we’ll let fate or destiny take it from there. I should add that I have spoken with a couple others, and they agreed to write some things regarding this ordeal as well. To what extent I’m unsure of at this moment. So it looks like this is going to be a collective effort. I have the honor of leading off. And probably wrapping it up.
You probably don’t know me, so let me introduce myself as Jay Davis. Having been in the Marines before becoming a cop, I have long been accustomed to being called Davis, not Jay. Cops and military folks insist on calling people by their surnames, and I’d love to know why. For a while they were calling me J.D., but it didn’t stick, didn’t grow legs. Norrah calls me Jay unless she’s feeling particularly feisty or when I’ve gotten into some kind of shit.
If within the last year you’ve watched the news or listened to the radio, or have friends to chew the shit with about current events, you know who my girlfriend Norrah is. Norrah Petersen with an E, she’s Danish. She’s the one who’s given interview after interview on any number of news channels, news magazines, newspapers. I’d bet dollars to donuts that most of you have made up your minds that Norrah is a lunatic. Or insane—I’m not sure if the two are the same thing. How could someone so sane-looking and pretty be so batty? I can tell you sincerely that she is completely sane, and has never told a lie that I know of. Everything you’ve heard her say is the truth. What was alleged to have happened at her house indeed happened. I was there that day, was one of the first cops to arrive on scene. That was the day I met Norrah. It was that first week of the news-frenzy that Norrah and I began dating. Well, I say dating but it wasn’t dating. As you can imagine dating wasn’t something she was suitable to engage herself in during that time, but we were something. Come to think of it, maybe we were nothing more than new friends, but we had a kind of intuition that hinted that we had found someone more than a friend, it just needed time to blossom, and blossom it did. Did I mention that I’m not a writer? I apologize in advance for running off on various tangents during the narrative, I don’t know any better. I’m also ruthlessly apologetic. I learned that trick back when I was a teenager working some customer service gig at Sears: apologize and apologize often, it works.