Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries

by Brian Bradford

  “This way Mayor Brown!” A volunteer said and then led his honor down a hallway to the showers. The mayor saluted firemen as he passed. He heard someone say, “somebody better tell the captain Mayor Brown is in here”.

  It was in the locker room where Mayor Brown used his cell phone. He called Fats Harrington. He answered on the second ring. “What’s this I hear about the fundraiser? What’s going on?”

  “Some disrespectful detective just came in here accusing me of killing Six Hands Johnson?”

  “What?!”

  “Tell this fool I don’t know anything about that and I was sitting in your office when it happened!”

  “Slow down. What’s the name of the detective?”

  “Brooks. Branson Brooks,” Fats said.

  “Ok, I’ll put in a call.”

  * * * * *

  Deputy Chief Alfred Gillespie was at the DC Medical Examiner’s office when Mayor Brown called him. He was leaning against a freezer watching a pathologist put a brain on a scale when the phone rang. He sighed on cue and pulled it from his waist clip. When he saw “Mayor’s Office” he straightened. He answered, “Mayor Brown”.

  “‘Mayor Brown’ my ass. Why are your detectives harassing my friends?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor. I...I don’t follow…” Gillespie turned to leave the room. The doors opened electronically when he got close.

  “I just got a call from a friend, a guy who is a big wig in this town,” Mayor Brown said. Gillespie stopped to think. He looked down at the thick booties on his shoes. “Fats Harrington said your detectives are sitting in his nightclub insulting him instead of trying to find the hoodlum who shot Six Hands Johnson.”

  “Oh, I apologize, sir,” Gillespie started. “They were supposed to be getting background information…” He started walking again. He was talking with his hands.

  “On what?”

  “People who were close to the victim are…”

  “You mean people who didn’t like the victim? Are you serious? If you think he killed someone you need an arrest warrant. Otherwise, it's harassment. You need to be at the scene…”

  “Sir, detectives are going door-to-door and officers are canvassing the surrounding neighborhood…”

  “You’re going to be going door-to-door selling vacuum cleaners if I get another call from Fats Harrington,” the mayor said.

  “I understand…” Gillespie was walking down the hallway. He passed the chapel. A family was sitting in the pews of the small church sobbing with the chaplin.

  “You don’t have cameras? Snitches? Forensics?”

  “Detectives thought, since Mr. Harrington knew the decedent…”

  “I knew him too! You gon’ interrogate me, too?!”“

  “No, sir”. Gillespie ducked into a viewing room and closed the door so no one would hear the mayor screaming through his cell phone. There was a small window on the wall. An autopsy was being performed in the adjacent room.

  “The man is not a common citizen you can just run up on and say anything you like. He’s a major asset to this city! I rely on him to make things happen for the people. You understand me?”

  “I know that’s your friend, Mr. Mayor but…”

  “When there’s violence in the streets and we need a midnight basketball league Fats Harrington pays for it. When senior citizens need more vans and the budget is allocated Fats Harrington buys vans, or when some single mom needs glasses for her kids…”

  “I understand, sir.” Gillespie looks through the window. Pathologists are consulting. One uses an x-ray to show the trajectory a bullet took through the body’s brain. He points to a line that goes from the left temple to the top of the right side of the head. He then uses his fingers to make a gun and sympolizes a suicide shot.

  “Don’t go into that club again without a search warrant,” Mayor Brown screamed.

  “Yes sir”.

  *****

  Massacre never wanted Terrance to do Fats’s dirty work for him. Terrance was more eager to commit a crime than he was dedicated to planning the crime. He was prolific but he got caught more often than not. Point blank sloppy. Plus, he was a part of a rapper’s entourage. It should have been beneath him to do the bidding of a local club owner.

  Massacre wasn’t just some random kid making YouTube videos; but he was the reigning king of hip-hop. The record labels had largely stayed away from DC rappers for a quarter century, but Massacre was an instant star on the radio and social media. He rapped with and was photographed courtside with all of the famous young models and singers. He starred in two movies and wrote a book. His concerts sold out arenas in a matter of minutes because his debut album, I’ll kill You and Yo Momma was a chart-topper.

  A muscular frame and chip tooth grin made his gangster shtick believable. As his moniker suggests, he claimed to have particular prowess executing murders. Massacre also rapped about home invasions, kingpin drug deals, and street pimping. In real life, he had never sold drugs or women, nor had he ever killed anyone who wasn’t on a video game.

  Massacre’s female fans adored him. Teenagers wanted to be him. Hollywood was sending him scripts. Corporations wanted him to endorse everything from urban sneakers to laptops. Every media outlet wanted to do an interview. Party promoters paid him five thousand dollars just to do a walk-through at a club. He charged $50,000 to perform at university homecomings. He had a bodyguard, a personal assistant, a manager, a lawyer, an accountant, a booking agent, a cook and a driver.

  Terrance was just a hanger-on. Terrance and Massacre had been friends from the diapers but Terrance was a parasite professionally. Having an ex-con as a best friend gave Massacre more street credentials, so he let Terrance roll to a couple of shows but he never gave him a salary.

  Massacre noticed that his new circle of friends made Terrance feel awkward. His new business associates, managers, and advisors all had college degrees and were assets to his career behind the scenes. They all had some professional skill that Massacre valued. His friend was broke, feeling ostracized, and insecure about his future role in the entourage. Massacre knew Terrance was desperate to do something to prove his worth.

  Massacre had purchased a home in Atlanta and was putting distance between the streets, and old friends with each business decision. One guy from the streets that found a way to stay valuable to Massacre was Fats. They were tight because Fats helped him when he was a struggling, no-name local emcee. Fats paid for his street team. The street team would go around giving out free Massacre CDs at the high schools and T-shirts to the local college kids. Fats paid a couple people to add Massacre on the playlists of the HBCUS. Fats arranged for Massacre to get an interview on 106 & Park and a profile in XXL magazine. He knew all of the club owners and promoters so he was able to get Massacre shows at Mansion in Miami, Club Opera in Atlanta, the Congress Theater in Chicago and the El Rey Theatre in LA. Fats also paid deejays in each city to play Massacre’s music and give away tickets to his shows. It wasn’t long before Massacre had a major record deal and Fats took a small percentage in cash.

  As Massacre became an international superstar, he stayed in close contact with Fats. Massacre took two days off of his nationwide tour to come home and shoot a video for his next single. It was on that set that Fats visited and told Massacre about Blinds and Puerto Rico.

  In a trailer, waiting to shoot the next scene, Fats told Massacre the whole story. Terrance was on the couch playing a video game. He overheard the story and offered to take care of Fats’s dilemma. As absurd as it seemed, Massacre knew his friend was stupid enough to be serious. Fats might have taken him as jesting at first, but before long, the two had agreed and shook hands on a deal. Massacre would later scold Terrance for offering to do the job for such a paltry sum. “You make us all look like crackheads,” he screamed. Nonetheless, Terrance was commissioned to kill Blinds for five thousand dollars.

  For two weeks, Terrence's appearances around the entourage became sparse as he started stalking his target day
and night. Massacre was happy Terrance wasn’t around much, but he also worried about what he was up to. One night at a recording session, he asked Terrance when and where he planned to do his thing.

  Terrance smiled as he lit a blunt, “Dat nigga got a curfew. Ev’ry night he goes to the liquor store to buy his lottery ticket before goin in the house.” Massacre was impressed with Terrance’s diligence.

  “It’s a Chinese joint on Saratoga Avenue. They got double doors and Ima catch ‘em in between the doors. No security camera in that spot.” Terrance blew out a cloud of weed smoke. Since there were a lot of people in the studio that night, Massacre suspended the talk until they were alone.

  Massacre planned to offer Terrance twice the bounty to call off the attack. He just needed to sit down with him and have the talk. Unfortunately, Massacre had non-stop interviews, photo shoots. The subject came up while Terrance was driving his boss to a warehouse for the first day of a video shoot.

  “Ay, what's up wit’ that thing Fats wants?” Massacre asked.

  “Ah, I’ma do it soon,” Terrance answered. He squirmed in his seat and continued, “What? You think I’m taking too long?”

  Massacre heard the defensive tone and quickly tried to calm Terrance’s insecurities. “Nah, nah, you know, that’s not something you rush in to.”

  “Yea, well, I gotta do it soon.”

  “Fats pressuring you?”

  “Nah, but you know, the boy might snitch if I don’t get him outta here soon.”.

  “Lemme ask you something…if you get caught, what happens witchu and Fats? I mean, then he’ll be tryna to knock you off before you snitch on him, right?”

  “Aw, I ain’t worried bout that,” Terrance laughed. “Fats know I ain’t no rat. Plus, I ain’t gon get caught.”

  “How long you known Fats?” Massacre asked. Terrance didn’t answer because he understood the point. He didn’t know Fats. “Blinds has known the nigga forever and Fats wants you to kill him.”

  “I aint a snitch though,” Terrance answered.

  “You think Fats is gonna take that chance?” Massacre asked. Terrance looked out of the window. “Or you think he’s gonna send some goons into your cell while you’re sleeping?”

  “Ay, you know I don’t plan on getting caught, right?” Terrance said.

  “Who does?”

  “I got this.”

  “Just think about it, man. You ain’t even gotta do this. Let that nigga handle his own problems,” Massacre said. At this moment, he wished he had spent more one-on-one time with his friend recently.

  “We made a deal, man. I told him I’d handle that for him, so I gotta be a man of my word.”

  “And do Life for another nigga’s business? For five thousand dollars?” Massacre asked. “T, that’s gym --shoe money.”

  “Er’body ain’t rich like you,” Terrance said. “I ain’t your manager, or your accountant, or no shit like that. I gotta get some bread, too.”

  “You don’t owe him nothin’. What’s he gon do, sue you for breach of contract?”

  “Errybody’ll be calling me a bitch if I don’t do this,” Terrance said. “I ain’t a rap gangster. I’m real about mine.” That insult ended the conversation. Not another word. Ten minutes later they arrived at a production lot. Terrance’s phone rang. “That’s Fats right there,” he said.

  Terrance answered the cell phone and chose the speaker option. “Yea,” he answered.

  “Hey, Terrance?” Fats said. Massacre noticed his friend’s pride deflate a bit.

  “Yeah, dis T. What’s up?”

  “Ay, you still gon do that thing for me?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I got you, champ,” Terrance answered.

  “Good, cause I don’t want him to talk, you know,” Fats said.

  “Right,” Terrance said. He pulled up to the studio entrance and sat with the car idling. Massacre didn’t get out.

  “When you think you’ll get that done?” Fats asked.

  Terrance and Massacre looked at each other. “Probably tomorrow night,” Terrance said. “I can get him when he goes to play his numbers.”

  “I got a better idea,” Fats said. Massacre started shaking his head. “I can get him sitting down, with his glasses off in a place no one will recognize you.”

  “Where’s that? I never seen the nigga without his glasses.”

  “The barbershop.”

  “The barbershop?” Terrance asked.

  “Yeah, don’t worry about it being too communal. I’ll take care of that.”

  “Say what?”

  “What?”

  “You said something about communion…”

  “Communal, crowded, don’t worry abo…never mind. Just be ready tomorrow.”

  “Aiight,” Terrence agreed. They hung up.

  “Don’t do it,” Massacre said.

  “Piece of cake, man. What can go wrong?” he smiled.

  Chapter 8: Pressure

  Saturday, 1pm

  A iden’s phone vibrated in his pocket. When he pulled it out he saw his ex-wife's name. He put it back in his pocket.

  Aiden ruined his marriage. He gave her every excuse a woman needs to leave and then blamed her. He doubted anyone could love him unconditionally, so he tested that until someone treated her better. He vowed if he ever got the opportunity again, he’d be a better husband.

  When she left him, Aiden felt like he had wasted the best ten years of his life and walked away with no money, property, or respect. But the marriage did produce two children and a dog. Aiden walked away with Caleb, Caden and Frito. Caleb was a senior in high school and his brother was a freshman at Morehouse. Frito was a seven-year-old akita who hated visitors.

  Frito was her idea. Aiden did not want to share a home with a dog. She told him he and the dog would become best friends. He was insulted by the notion of being simple enough to befriend a canine. He had no inclination to walk a dog, bathe a dog, talk to a dog or any other chore required for owning an animal.

  She just kept cooing to the boys, “Don’t you boy want a dog? He’d be like a little brother.” They ate it up. One night, the doorbell rang and no one was expecting guests. Aiden frowned as he walked to the door, and peered through the peephole. He didn’t recognize the couple on his porch, but they seemed to be scared and holding a baby. He opened the door to help them.

  What Aiden had first thought was a hungry baby turned out to be furry and had a tail that wrapped around three-hundred-and sixty degrees. It looked like a wolf cub; brown on top and white on the stomach, face and limbs. The man holding her acted as if he had known Aiden forever. “Hey Christopher! How are you?”

  The only people who called him Christopher were his mother and Karen. The man extended his arms and offered the puppy who was wrapped in a green blanket. “Here she is. Here’s Killer.”

  “What? I’m sorry--”

  “No, don’t be. You’re kids were right. Your backyard is perfect for a puppy.” He offered Aiden the dog again.

  “My kids?” Aiden frowned at the man. The couple looked at each other and then back at Aiden.

  “Well yes, Caleb called and said you wanted to buy the puppy we advertised in today’s paper.”

  Aiden was about to slam the door when he heard Karen laughing behind him. He turned and raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t tell them to do that,” she said.

  “Caleb!” he called.

  “How much does the dog cost?”

  “A thousand.”

  “A thousand what?” Aiden asked. Karen walked past him to the door.

  “He’s so cute!” she said. “What’s his name?”

  The lady smiled, leaned foreward at the waist, and whispered like it was a secret, “Killer.”

  “I’m a homicide detective.”

  “Yes, Dad?” Caleb was running down the stairs. When he saw the man holding the dog he turned and tried to run back.

  “Caleb! Did you call someone in the newspaper about a dog?” Aiden asked.

  “Please,
come in,” Karen said.

  Caleb hid behind the bars in the banister. He quietly said, “Yes.”

  The door closed, the door jumped out of the man’s hands - or he threw the dog, depending on who’s telling the story - and ran for the kitchen.

  “I’ll get him,” Aiden said. He followed the puppy to the kitchen. The little dog looked back at him before darting down the basement steps. Aiden chased. The dog ran and hid under a futon. It didn’t take Aiden long to pull him out and carry him back upstairs without a fuss.

  When he got to the living room Karen was thanking the couple and closing the door. The checkbook was in her hand and the boys were smiling.

  “Karen, that was three car notes!” He put the dog down.

  “Come here, Frito,” Caden yelled. The door ran to him and jumped in his arms.

  “He’s perfect,” she said. She smiled and hugged him.

  He didn’t smile or hug back. “Karen, I don’t like dogs.”

  The first day the dog was a member of the family, Aiden forgot about him. He came home from work, went into his mancave to smoke a cigar, and Frito was in his chair taking a nap. This became a routine. If Frito saw Aiden heading for the basement, he’d sprint around him, beat him to the room and sit in the chair. Aiden bought Frito his own chair and put it in the mancave.

  One night, they were sitting in the mancave watching Monday Night Football, when Karen’s parents visited. As soon as her dad entered the room Frito raised his head and frowned. Aiden’s father-in-law started. “Oh, this must be Mr. Frito,” he said. “Did you adopt him from somewhere? Cause you never know who had him before you or what they did to him. That dog probably crazy.” Frito started growling under his breath.

  “No, we didn’t adopt him.”

  “You bought him from Petco?” he said. He was aghast. “They buy from breeders who” Frito was growling out loud and showing all of his teeth.

  “No, the boys found him in the classified ads and we bought him from some White people,” Aiden said. He thought that would be enough for the old man to trust the sellers. But no.

  “So, do he got papers?”

  Frito stood up and started barking like the house was on fire. Caden and Caleb told him to calm down, but he wasn’t hearing it. Frito snarled and barked until Karen’s dad left the mancave and said, “I told you that dog is crazy. Why would you bring a crazy dog in here around my grandson?”