The Hitman: Dirty Rotters

by Sean McKenzie

  I followed Sally home.

  I sat numb. I didn’t remember leaving the courthouse. Sally had stopped me in the parking lot and told me I could stay at her house. She said I needed to sleep. I had been up for about thirty hours straight. I agreed with no hesitation. I watched her walk to her white Hummer H3 and get in, back out and wave for me to follow. I got in the black El Camino SS and did so. I didn’t remember turning the key, or putting it in drive, or anything.

  What I did remember was the look in Angelo Garboni’s eyes. The look of an innocent man scared out of his mind. Everything he knew and understood was flipped upside down and pulled inside out. A captured animal. A sheep to slaughter. A simple man whose greatest enjoyment came from collecting empty pop cans, now was locked behind bars with ruthless men who enjoyed cruel and demented acts on the innocent.

  It was all a mistake. Justice was not being served. Not like this.

  How the hell did he get mixed up in a mess like this?

  According to the clock on the Kenwood radio, we were at Sally’s house twenty minutes later. It was nothing like what I had expected. A white picket fence was strung up along the curb guarding two acres of lush green grass beyond. The driveway was long, smooth blacktop. A small cottage sat nestled between towering Elms. Flowerbeds lined the front of the house at either side of the porch. It was an off white color, with light pink shutters, and plenty of windows. It was well taken care of. Sally Rhode surprised me.

  She parked in front of the garage. It was attached. I parked beside her. We got out and she led the way around the house to the front porch and then inside. Hardwood floors and oak paneling. There was a gas fireplace with circular stone hearth a few feet from the door we came in. It had a ‘home’ feel to it. Open floor plan with plenty of natural light. Flowers in vases, pictures on the wall in white frames. A large screen television hung on the wall above the fireplace and the scent of cinnamon filled the air. I told her it was nice. She nodded and told me it was expensive and a lot of work.

  Nothing at all as I had pictured it would be.

  “I’ll get you a drink. Orange juice okay?” Sally said. She walked to the kitchen.

  I slumped on the sofa. It was soft and a shade lighter than pea green and easily the most comfortable thing I have ever rested on. I could see Sally walk into the kitchen, to the stainless refrigerator. Her kitchen table was made out of knotty oak. The grain was very busy and I didn’t care for it, other than the excellent shine. I watched her pour a large glass of orange juice. I could very easily have been watching it all unfold on a television late at night. I still felt numb. None of it seemed to be real.

  “I can’t believe I’m back here,” I said casually.

  Sally came back and handed me the glass, which I took and drank gratefully, realizing then how hungry and thirsty I was, and she sat down in front of me on a chair that looked soft and comfy, large enough for her to sit in and feel swallowed. No easy task.

  “You think he’s innocent.” She stated with no real emotion.

  I nodded. The orange juice was great. My favorite; no pulp. My glass was empty in a second. “He’s not a killer, Sally. I know him. He has the mind of a child. Even physically I don’t think he could manage. I just don’t see how it’s possible.”

  Blank stare. I didn’t know what she was thinking. If she was thinking at all, really. Then she began, leaned forward towards me like she was explaining something important to a kid.

  “He did confess. Witnesses can put him in the area.” She spoke gently. “People with simple minds can still commit heinous crimes, even though they do not always understand what they are doing.”

  “He’s innocent, Sally. Look at him.”

  “We can’t judge someone based on their appearance, Michael. You know that. And a confession to a cold case is hardly something anyone in their right mind is going to toss out simply because of someone’s less than intimidating physical condition.”

  “I don’t care about the law right now, Sally. I’m telling you that there’s no way on this planet that Angelo Garboni killed anyone or anything in his life!”

  “His confession states otherwise.” Her face didn’t change. I was a kid who didn’t understand the facts.

  “I need to talk to him, Sally. You have to get me in to see him.”

  “His lawyer is being very strict on who gets to see him. But I’ll find a way to get you in later today.” She stood. “Listen Michael, I have a guest room all set up. Why don’t you use it. Take a shower. Get some sleep. When I get back later today we can catch up on everything.”

  I didn’t want to wait. But I understood. I must have looked like a train wreck. I stood as well and smiled. “Thanks, Sally. That would be nice.”

  She smiled back. “Help yourself to whatever you need. Get something to eat. Make yourself at home.”

  Genuinely nice. I thanked her again. She looked pleased enough when she walked out the door. I heard her Hummer start up, saw it drive back down the driveway and turn right. I took my jacket off and slumped it over the side of the sofa. I wasn’t feeling well. I needed food and sleep. But I would be forcing myself to do both. So I did.

  Sally had plenty of food. What I saw in the freezer left no reason to believe she was any sort of vegetarian. I was too tired to cook, so I ate two bowls of cereal and then went into the guest room, rolled back the quilted blanket with a black and white checkered pattern, laid down and got comfy. The guest bedroom was spotless as well. Not a trace of dust anywhere. The blankets and pillow cases smelled freshly washed. It occurred to me that she had went to the store and cleaned her house spotless because I was going to be there. I was asleep five seconds later.

  I awoke in the middle of the afternoon to a ray of sunlight creeping in through the red curtains right into my eyes, with Pamela’s face fading into the brightness. It hurt like I was losing her all over again. It hurt because I knew they were going to pin an innocent man with her murder. It hurt that justice was not going to be served.

  I could feel myself growing angrier. I had waited a long time for justice and this wasn’t how it should be happening. Angelo Garboni was the wrong man and I couldn’t sit back and let this happen to him. My stomach began to churn with anxiety. I was at the threshold of a bad idea. But I knew the way the system worked, and I knew no one else was going to step in and do the right thing. Sally had been right about how it all would unfold. The more I thought about it, the hotter I felt. I realized then that my hands were clenched into the blankets like an eagle’s claw and my eyebrows were slanted down to my nose.

  I stopped myself short of entertaining the dark clouds of ideas storming my mind then, and I sat upright and forced myself to think on something else. I put aside my anger and my lust for vengeance. I would talk to Angelo and find out what really happened. I would get him to admit that it all was a mistake. They would have to let him go then. They would have to continue to search for the real killer.

  The tall grandfather clock facing me said it was nearly six o’clock. I got out of bed and listened to the silence engulfing the house. I figured Sally was still out, maybe at work, maybe in a field bench-pressing a tractor. I stepped out of the guest room to an empty house.

  On the kitchen table there was a box. It had my name on it. I opened it. Inside there was a note, a pair of dark jeans, a pair of white socks, a black T-shirt, and a pair of boxer-briefs. All my size. The note said for me to shower and change. She had guessed at the sizes and based on my appearance she had picked out similar clothes. I was impressed.

  After I showered and changed into the new clothes, I heard the Hummer pull into the driveway and park beside the house again. Sally was home. I left her spotless bathroom to greet her at the door. She entered wearing dark jeans and a grey sweatshirt. She stopped just inside the door, staring at me. She smiled slightly.

  “I took a guess on what you would like. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No. Not at all. Everything fit. Thank you.” I sat on the sofa.


  “Want a beer?”

  “I don’t drink anymore.”

  She took her shoes off, went to the kitchen and brought back a beer, sat down next to me this time and took a long pull from the glass bottle. There was the Sally I had been expecting.

  “I know this whole case is very sensitive. I remember all the time we spent looking for Pamela together.” She paused in reflection. “But I do have to warn you, the word is that this will be an open and closed case. The district attorney is going to be moving ahead quickly. The press is already having a field day. It’s a circus. Do not read the newspaper.”

  “She’s dead, right?” I forced the words out.

  Sally nodded. “Do you want details?”

  “No. I don’t think I could handle it.” I tried not to think about her dead. “What else can you tell me?”

  “Only that Angelo Garboni was found in the van with five bodies inside it. He confessed right away to killing all those women. He’ll stand trial, soon I imagine, and be sentenced to life without parole. No bond. Lawyer wants no visitors either.”

  I leaned towards her and looked her dead in the eyes. “I am going to see him.”

  “I know. I have it set up already. Frank’s on duty until eight.” She guzzled the rest of her beer and set the bottle down gently next to the sofa, then stared back at me. “Do me a favor though. Don’t get your hopes up. The last time I saw you, you were a complete mess. Understandable. But I don’t want to see you going down that road. I know that look in your eyes. I see it every day. And every one of them will tell you that it’s not worth it.”

  “Let’s go.”

  We sat in silence.

  The Hummer H3 was a smooth ride, sitting high off the ground. It made me realize how low the El Camino sat. I liked the view up here better. I felt like I was in an army tank. I thought that maybe someday I would get something big and gaudy like this.

  We were at the police station by 6:30 p.m. I followed Sally closely, getting strange looks from everyone we met and passed bye. Mostly Russians. Most said something in passing, but Sally wasn’t a woman known for a big conversation. Which at the moment I was grateful for.

  I felt small and vulnerable. The place had a helpless feeling to it. We rounded a corner and headed for a set of double doors. Well-guarded. Well-locked. Cameras were visible everywhere. Through the doors the jail began. Once past those doors, chances were you were never getting back out.

  Sally stopped at the doors and looked dead into a camera just above her head. A second later the doors opened with a thunderous boom as the locks released and there stood the biggest man I had ever saw. He was black, well over six feet, and about two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. His biceps were nearly ripping through the threads on his blue uniform. His neck alone was like a tree trunk. His hands were massive with brat-like fingers shuffling a tiny set of keys back onto his belt. He had no gun like the other guards. He did have a baton though, which in his case probably worked just as well.

  Sally introduced us. “Frank Beull this is Michael Lynch.”

  Frank extended his right hand and it swallowed mine. I felt like my hand was an infant’s. “Frank, nice to meet you.”

  Frank said nothing. He wore a hard look. I guessed it came with the uniform. He turned to Sally and gave a half-nod before venturing past the doors, motioning with his head for me to follow. I looked at Sally, but her eyes said she was staying behind. I didn’t waste time then. Frank was already moving away.

  “Remember what I said,” Sally said.

  The door slid shut, locking instantly with a loud click that seemed to echo through the corridor. Frank began walking forward, I joined at his side, slightly a step behind. The corridor held doors to either side, narrow and locked. The walls were brick, painted white. The floor was concrete. Ahead of us was a room, guarded and presumably locked from within. It had large windows that were in all probability bullet proof. I could see a few more armed guards inside. Some were looking at monitors. Others were looking at me. I looked away.

  Frank made a gesture to one of the guards inside the control room and down the hall to the right we went, heading for a single door. Once we were there, the lock released, the door opened and we went through. It closed and locked again the second I was past. All done by computers, I knew.

  This part of the jail had cells with barred walls instead of a single door. I could see right into the cells and look at the inmates. Most were lying around doing nothing. Some were exercising. I saw one reading a book. But each time they looked up to see me, I quickly looked away. It was an odd feeling. I felt guilty for being a free man.

  “You a cop?” Frank asked.

  “No.”

  “You look like a cop to me.” Frank gave me a look. “Why not be a cop?”

  “I don’t make good decisions and I’m not that smart.” I really wasn’t. Or tough. Or orderly. Or brave. Or a bunch of things that I’d rather not tell the giant.

  Frank said nothing. He gave me the once over look, then a smirk like he was thinking how easy it would be to snap me in half. We continued on quietly then.

  Frank turned to the left at a cell door and waited. A moment later the lock clicked and the door was opened. Frank stepped aside and there I saw my old friend, clinging to the shadows of the bottom bunk, sitting with his knees against his chest and his arms wrapped about them. An innocent man draped in a guilty orange jumpsuit.

  “You got ten minutes,” Frank said. His voice was like a volcano’s eruption.

  I stepped inside. Angelo squirmed back, tight to the wall. He buried his face into his arms. He was shivering with fear.

  “Angelo, it’s me. It’s Michael. Look.” I stayed back at the end of the bed. I didn’t want to scare him further. “I’m your friend, Angelo.”

  Angelo’s head slowly lifted. His eyes found mine. For a moment nothing happened. I wasn’t sure he even recognized me. Then all of a sudden his mouth began shooting.

  “Michael is my friend. Best friend. Gives me all his finds. Buys me hotdogs sometimes. Sometimes pop.”

  I moved in closer, slowly. “Yeah, it’s me. It’s Michael.”

  “No finds in here. Walls only. Bars too. Cold bars. Not like bars with music. There’s no music here.”

  “Angelo, listen to me, I am here to help you.” I stayed a few feet away, squatting down so I wasn’t higher than he was. “But I need your help first.”

  Angelo unwrapped himself and sat closer. “I can help. I can help my friend. You said me and you were friends. I can help friends.”

  “Yes you can, Angelo.” I smiled to him. “Do you know why you are here?”

  His smile disappeared. He looked down to the cement floor. “Bad things happened. Real bad. People got hurt. Girls did. Pretty girls.”

  “Can you tell me how they got hurt?”

  “I can’t say. I can’t talk. My other friend says no talking. But it was bad. There was blood. Lotta blood.”

  “Is your other friend a cop? Or does he wear a nice suit?”

  “Oh no. Notta cop. Talks to cops. They listen. They listen to him. He’s nice. He has fancy pants and shirts.”

  His lawyer.

  “But you can talk to me, right? He didn’t say you couldn’t talk to your friend.” I pressed on. I didn’t want him to think too much on it. “So tell me what happened to those girls.”

  “Very bad things.”

  “Did you see what happened to them? Or did someone tell you what happened to them?”

  Angelo stared at me like he didn’t understand. He said nothing.

  “Angelo, do you know why you are in here? This is jail. This is where all the bad people go. And right now it looks like you are one of the bad people.”

  His head shook. “No, I not bad. Only bad things happen to girls.”

  “Did you hurt the girls?”

  He gave me a look then, like a spark of light in the dark, like it was finally making sense to him. “I saw the van. The girls were
in the back. They were hurt bad. I saw them. Real bad. Not like movies. Not fake blood. The guy told me they were,” he paused to spell it out slowly, “d-e-a-d.”

  “Who told you?”

  “I never hurt. I go in the van. The cops find me. They take me here. The girls don’t come here. Not hurt like that.” He looked sad. “Hurt like d-e-a-d.”

  “Who told you?”

  Angelo was getting worked up now. I was pressing him hard. But I knew he had the answers. He was rocking back and forth. His fingers were rubbing his thumbs like he was trying to remove sticky dough. He was thinking back. He was trying so hard to remember.

  “What did he look like?”

  “Tall. Very tall. Very long hair. He showed me. He talked to me. He wanted to be my friend. He tell me stay in the van. Stay with the girls. My friend calls cops. My friend say I help him. I’m good friend.”

  “Angelo, he is not your friend. I think he told the cops that you hurt the girls.”

  Angelo laughed. “Cops all day. Walk by. Look in. No talking. Walking slow. Not fast like me. They don’t find cans. No pop in here. Only milk. No hotdogs.”

  “Angelo, the man with the long hair, what is his name?”

  “I eat bologna here. No hotdogs.”

  “I need to find him. I need to talk to him. Maybe me and him can be friends. Maybe we can help our friend Angelo.” I watched him smile. He looked proud to have friends. Too bad one of them didn’t care if he died. “Listen, where can I find him? Where did you see him?”

  “Drives white car. The fast car. Loud. Tires burn smoke!” He loved it. He smiled happily. “Long hair. Maybe he likes cowboy movies. Maybe drinks Coke only. Not green pop. Fancy pop.”

  “Where did you see him? Where was his car?”

  He began rocking gently. He had no idea where he was or how much trouble he was in. He was happy. Happy just to be talking to a friend. One that is going to save his life.

  “He was in the park. By your house. Not your house any more. It’s red now. Strangers live there. They like cats.”

  “What else can you tell me? Did he tell you to confess? Did he tell the cops that you hurt the girls?” I was frantic now. I wanted answers quicker. I wanted Angelo to realize what was happening.

  The cell door opened suddenly. We both turned to look. A big Russian guard said, “No more time for you.”

  Angelo scampered back into the corner, trembling and mumbling something to himself over and over, gone into whatever world he used for an escape. The Russian guard gave me a hard look.

  I stood upright. I knew it was over. Angelo wasn’t going to talk again, but I knew I wasn’t going to have the time for it anyway. “Where’s Frank?”

  The big Russian shook his head. “My time now.”

  He stepped back and motioned for me to exit. I turned back to Angelo and whispered, “I am going to help you, Angelo. I am your friend.”

  I exited, the door locked, the Russian guard led me back out, past the control station, and out through the double doors to where Sally stood waiting. The Russian stared her down hard, then walked back in the corridor and the doors shut tight.

  “Sorry about that,” Sally began, “word got out faster than I had figured.”

  We began walking away, back the way we had come. At no time did I see Frank again. His watch must have expired. The nightshift must have relieved him.

  “Did any of it help?” she asked.

  “Yes and no.”

  We walked the rest of the way through the station in silence. Not only did I feel all eyes were on me, but I felt as if they all were listening. Once we were safely back inside the big Hummer, I told Sally all that Angelo had said.

  “He was framed, Sally. Someone is making him take the fall.”

  “It doesn’t sound good, that’s for sure.” She started the engine and drove us back to her place.

  “The real killer is out there.”

  I kept my attention forward as she turned to look at me. She didn’t believe me. She had protocol to follow. She had years of police force training to help her manage a thought process to eliminate feelings and keep a factual path. In her head, Angelo was guilty because the facts said so.

  Evidence said so.

  He even said so.

  Chapter 8