The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

  “What are you doing, Jobz?” Miller says while firing up the big cruiser engine. “Don’t touch it. You’ll infect it.”

  “Glad to know you care,” I say. “Besides, they cut my hair and now it looks goofy. I have my standards to keep up.”

  “Like mother, like son,” he says.

  “The apple doesn’t fall far,” I say staring out on the lamp lit lot.

  He pulls up to the booth and pays the kid manning it. “I’ll take my receipt, Son,” he says.

  The kid hands it to him with all the enthusiasm of a stone. Shoving the small slip of paper into his pocket, he pulls out onto the road.

  “So, here’s the deal,” he says. “We’ve got our extortionists. No question about that. They are being processed and arraigned as we speak.”

  “The ones who lived,” I say.

  “Yeah,” he says. “That Barter guy is now being sliced and diced down in pathology.”

  “So, you don’t think one of them is Anita Simon’s murderer?” I question.

  He steals a glance at me while driving past the brightly lit eateries and bars that line both sides of the road on our way toward Washington Park.

  “Take a look at the facts,” he says. “Whoever cut up Anita Simon was left-handed. We know that to be the true common denominator.”

  “Kyle is right-handed,” I say. “Brit is left-handed, however. And she’s got a wound on her left hand.”

  “You know what that wound’s from, Jobz?”

  I shake my head.

  “It is indeed a cut, but like I said before, her blood type most definitely never showed up on the knife. So, if she cut herself, it’s probably like you said. She did it cooking you that lamb stew you never ate.”

  “So, where’s that leave us?” I say.

  “It leaves us taking a little nighttime field trip,” he says.

  “Where to, boss man?”

  “The scene of the crime,” he says. “Loudonville Elementary School.”

  Darkness surrounds the school much like it did the night Anita Simon was stabbed to death. We pull up in front of the school’s bus drop-off turnaround. Killing the engine, Miller digs into the glove box for a mini Maglite. We both get out. Approaching the school, I can’t help but notice the stars and stripes that have been flying at half-mast all week, have been taken down for the night. We come to the front door.

  “What do we do now?” I say. “I don’t even have to try it to know it’s locked.”

  “Step aside, Jobz,” Miller says. “Allow the master to do the honors.”

  Reaching into his trench coat pocket, he pulls out a tool that looks like a Swiss Army knife. He hands me the mini Maglite.

  “Shine the light on the lock,” he says.

  I thumb the latex-covered button, and the bright white halogen circle light illuminates the lockset.

  “Hope there ain’t no cops in the area,” I say.

  “Very funny,” he says.

  He picks at the lock for maybe half a minute until we hear a distinct click and a tumbler dropping. Folding the metal pick back into its housing, he returns the tool to his pocket. Taking hold of the old door opener, he pulls the door open, steps inside.

  “No alarm,” I say like a question.

  “Albany CSI reported that the school’s alarm system has been inoperable since the Bush administration. The first Bush, that is.”

  “That’s not right,” I say, entering the school’s vestibule right behind him, the Maglite lighting the way.

  “Most of their CCTV doesn’t work either?”

  “School budgets,” he says, “always running in the red, Loudonville Elementary more so than others what with the extortion racket. Something’s gotta give.”

  “If there had been a working alarm the night of Anita Simon’s murder,” I start.

  “She might still be alive,” he says, finishing my thought for me. “Somebody’s gonna get sued, I can guarantee you that.”

  To our right is the general office. The door is closed and likely locked. To our left is Principal Simon’s office. Several strips of yellow, plastic, Do-Not-Enter-Crime-Scene ribbon are draped across the door frame. Miller pays no attention to the warning and rips it down. Wrapping his hand around the doorknob, he twists it. To my surprise, the door opens.

  “Don’t touch anything,” he says.

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” I assure him.

  We enter the outer office where I first met Billy the morning I originally came to see Anita to grill her about the cafeteria extortion racket which, at the time, I assumed was being spearheaded by a sweet old lady. As I shine the bright light onto adjoining principal’s office, that morning now seems like years ago.

  “Give me the flashlight, Jobz,” Miller demands.

  I hand it over. He shines the light on the Anita’s desk. It’s still covered with files and stacks of papers. Her laptop has no doubt been confiscated by the APD forensics team. He shines the light onto the back wall. He then turns and focuses the circle of light on the copy machine to our right.

  “She would have been standing here when she was stabbed in the gut,” he says. I can tell by the way his eyes glow in the darkness that he’s recreating the events of the night Anita was murdered . . . recreating the events, detail for detail, in his never still brain. Movement for movement. Like a choreographer creating a macabre dance routine. He then turns the light onto the floor space between the copier and the desk.

  “A stunned Anita would have taken a few steps back,” the old homicide detective says, talking more to himself than to me. “It’s possible she didn’t even feel the initial wounds, they would have been inflicted so rapidly.” He makes a stabbing motion with his left hand. “Then, while she was standing there stunned and perfectly still, the killer would have gone in for the coup de grâce. He would have seen that exposed neck of hers . . . maybe a neck he would have loved to kiss, but that was entirely off limits to him. He would have focused in on her smooth skin, and he wouldn’t have felt lust or love. Not anymore. Now, all he would have been feeling is anger and rage. If he can’t have her for his own, he wants her dead. He wants to see her bleed.”

  Miller makes a few more, rapid-fire stabbing motions like he’s planting and replanting a long knife blade into Anita Simon’s neck. It dawns on me that what started out as an almost laughable case of a gentle old lunchroom lady stealing the kid’s food money has progressed into a dark tale of murder in the first and, judging from the way Miller is recounting it, possibly a case of sexual lust gone all too wrong.

  “The shock of the blade severing her esophagus and carotid artery would have been too much,” Miller says. “She would have immediately started drowning in her own blood. Consciousness would have been lost within seconds. She collapsed, and she died within a minute of those final blows.” He cocks his head over his shoulder. “At least, that’s the way I see it.”

  The place goes silent for a beat or two. Almost too silent. Creepy, dark silent like in a nightmare. I feel something then. Behind me. Or did I hear something? My gut reaction is to turn quick, shine the light into the outer room. That’s when I catch a glimpse of a shadowy figure about-facing and running away.

  ***

  Miller pulls his service weapon. “Go!” he barks.

  I don’t have a gun, but I know he needs me to light the way for him. Whoever was sneaking up on us is now making his way into the depths of the elementary school. The trembling light shining on his back, I see him sprint into the corridor that adjoins the vestibule. He’s going so fast; he nearly trips over his own two feet.

  “You!” Miller shouts. “Stop! This is the police! Stop where you are!”

  But the man—if it is a man—goes right, entering another hallway. I do my best to keep up with him, shining the light on his back so Miller doesn’t lose sight of him. When Miller fires a warning shot into the ceiling, it nearly sends my pulsing heart through my rib cage.

  The running man drops to the floor. He covers his head
with his arms and hands.

  “Don’t shoot me!” he screams. “Don’t shoot!”

  His voice isn’t exactly manly. It cracks, going from high pitched to low pitched. Miller jogs to the man while I hold the light on them both.

  “Hands behind your back,” Miller insists, holstering his weapon while taking a knee and grabbing hold of the man’s wrists. “You’re trespassing on school property. You’re also breaking and entering.”

  So are we, but we’re the cops . . .

  Miller reaches into his trench coat pocket, comes back out with one of those long plastic flex cuffs that look like garbage bag ties on steroids. He applies them tightly to the man’s wrists, and then pulls him up, first onto his knees and then onto his feet. I can’t help but notice the thick Band Aide applied to the palm on the man’s left hand. Standing beside Miller, who is just a hair short of six feet, the man doesn’t look so big. In fact, he doesn’t fit the bill as a mature man at all, but more like a boy.

  I shift the light to get a better look at his face. He squints his eyes.

  “Can you not shine that light in my eyes, Mr. Jobz?” he says.

  Billy Anthos.

  Miller calls in a squad of APD uniforms to escort the kid to the Central Avenue precinct for processing, questioning, and what’s being called a fast-tracked arraignment.

  “You thinking what I’m thinking, Miller?” I say while the cops place Billy in the backseat of the cruiser, close the door behind him.

  “That missing link in Anita Simon’s murder,” he says. “Something tells me we got a DNA match.”

  I find myself shaking my head.

  “Kid’s life hasn’t even begun yet.”

  “It’s over now. Over before it begins, Jobz.”

  “Here I thought he just had a crush on Principal Simon.”

  “Crushes are what we had when we were kids. It’s an entirely different world we’re living in now. Social media, instant porn, the dark web. Who knows what the kid has stored on his computer.”

  “We going to find out?” I ask.

  “Hop in the cruiser,” he says. “Show me where Billy Anthos lives.”

  ***

  I escort Miller to Billy’s house just a half mile away from the school on Upper Loudon. He doesn’t pull into the driveway, but instead backs into it, as if we might require a quick getaway. He gives me a look.

  “I’ll do the talking,” he says.

  “Promise?” I say.

  We get out, make our way to the front door. He rings the doorbell. It doesn’t work. I recall the interior of the rundown house. The pizza boxes and beer cans strewn about. Holes punched in the couch. The faded, worn carpeting. It’s not a home that one might refer to as Home Sweet Home. Miller pounds his fist on the wood door. We wait. Nothing. He pounds again. Nothing. He pounds yet again.

  “Just a minute!” barks a sleepy, deep voice. “I’m coming already.”

  “Must be the man of the house,” I say.

  Mr. Anthos looks through the glass pane embedded in the door. It’s a round, gruff face covered in salt and pepper stubble. The white light from an exterior mounted porch light makes his skin look pale. His eyes are bloodshot and tired. He looks angry, like he was happily sleeping off a bender and we disturbed him.

  “Who the fuck are you?” he says through the glass.

  Miller reaches into his trench coat, pulls out his badge, presses it against the glass.

  “APD,” he says sternly. “Open up, Mr. Anthos.”

  “What’s this about?” he asks. “It’s freaking late.”

  “It’s about your son, Billy,” Miller says.

  “Billy’s in bed,” Anthos says.

  “No, he’s not,” Miller says.

  “Just a minute,” Anthos says, as he steps away from the door, presumably to make a check on Billy’s bedroom.

  “Why does this never get any easier?” Miller grouses while we wait.

  “Maybe we’re just getting older,” I say.

  “True that,” he says.

  Anthos returns. He unlocks the door, opens it. He’s wearing nothing but a wife-beater t-shirt, a pair of old boxers, and wool socks. His beer belly is protruding against the tight t-shirt. It looks like he swallowed a basketball.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asks, genuine concern, if not fear, in his voice.

  “Billy was arrested for breaking and entering into Loudonville Elementary School a little more than an hour ago,” Miller says. “But that’s not the worst of it.”

  Anthos’s eyes go squinty, his brow furrows. I can smell the booze on his breath.

  “Wait just a minute,” he says. Then, his eyes on me. “Who’s the little guy?”

  . . . The little guy. I’m five feet seven . . .

  “This is my associate,” Miller says. “Steve Jobz. He’s a private detective who also works for the State Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency. My name’s Miller. Nick Miller.”

  “My unemployment insurance ran out a long time ago,” he says. “So, what the fuck?”

  “I’m working with the APD on other business, Mr. Anthos. What did you say your first name was again?”

  “I didn’t say,” he barks. “It’s Nick, just like yourself, but it’s still Mister to you. And what business are you talking about?”

  “Murder,” I inform him.

  “Murder,” he says like a question.

  “That’s right, Mr. Anthos,” Miller confirms. “We have reason to believe your son, Billy, is responsible for the murder of Loudonville School Principal, Anita Simon.”

  His face goes even paler. He also staggers a bit, like his world, as sorry as it is, has just been rocked.

  “My son would never do such a thing,” he says. “He wouldn’t know how to.”

  “That will be for his lawyer to prove,” Miller says. “Now, we’d like to take a look around.”

  “Fuck you,” the beer-bellied man says.

  “Look, Mr. Anthos,” Miller goes on. “You can either let us make a check now, or a team of APD and Albany CSI will have their warrant within the next hour and invade your home with a hell of a lot more noise, lights, and local media eye-catching attention than we will. At least this way things are more private and quieter, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He bites down on the inside of his bottom lip like he wants to tear us to shreds. In a way, I can’t blame him. What kind of father wants to be confronted with the news that his son, his only son, is a quite possibly, a murderer. He steps aside.

  “Just make it quick,” he says.

  “In the meantime, Mr. Anthos,” I volunteer, “I’d get dressed. You’re going to be needed at the APD very soon. Your son is still a minor and he will require the presence of a legal guardian in the making of some crucial decisions, not to mention filling out paperwork. And considering his mother is presently incarcerated in county lock-up, you’re it.”

  I didn’t even bother telling him he’ll also be questioned about his knowledge, or lack thereof, regarding his ex-wife’s extortion racket.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, little man,” he says, walking away from us. “Just do your shit and get the hell out.”

  “Nice guy,” I say to Miller.

  “Maybe he was a nice guy once upon a time.”

  ***

  We head straight to Billy’s bedroom, the ground zero of the troubled kid’s life. Before we start looking at the place, Miller pulls out his phone. He thumbs out a text and sends it, then starts taking photos of the place. It’s a messy space and smells stuffy . . . as if the kid feels the need to keep the single, double-hung window closed even in the warm weather.

  The walls are covered in posters of Goth bands, mostly. Dudes in long, scraggily jet-black hair, playing guitars on stage, adoring fans screaming and reaching for them. The bed is unmade. The mattress is bare, like the sheet that once covered it didn’t just get soiled, but instead disintegrated. A dresser of drawers takes up most of the wall to my left. It’s set beside a closet door. />
  “We looking for anything in particular, Miller?” I ask.

  “A murder weapon would be nice,” he says. “Something with both Anita’s and Billy’s blood on it. You really gotta ask the question, Jobz?”

  “I guess I just wanted to clarify,” I say. “You know, for the sake of expediency.”

  Miller squats down onto his knee, then drops onto his chest to get a look under the bed.

  “Not much under here but dust bunnies,” he says.

  He stands. Meanwhile, I open the top dresser drawer. Just a bunch of socks, underwear, and t-shirts.

  “You see a computer anywhere?” Miller goes on. “An iPad or a tablet? Anything like that? We can manage to grab a computer and a murder weapon, we hit the jackpot.”

  I start on the second drawer, and then the third. Just a bunch of ratty clothing tossed unceremoniously inside. Closing the drawer, I make a quick three-sixty-five of the room on the balls of my feet.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Check the closet,” he commands while feeling between the mattress and the boxed spring. “There’s got to be something somewhere that will indicate without a doubt Billy had a very unhealthy obsession with Anita Simon.”

  I open the closet door, almost apprehensively, like I might find a decapitated head inside. Word around law enforcement circles is that when Jeffrey Dahmer’s childhood home was searched after he was busted for mutilating and cannibalizing several young men, FBI uncovered a completely decomposed human head inside a cardboard box. While I’m convinced Billy is in deep trouble, I’m not so sure he qualifies as a cannibal. Not yet, anyway.

  A single bulb hangs from the ceiling. I pull on the small chain to turn the light on. The narrow space lights up in a harsh white glow. Clothes hang from the metal closet rod. A good portion of those clothes no longer fit the teenage Billy. It’s like his mother, Kyle, insisted on keeping everything he wore from birth all the way to puberty. The floor is covered in sneakers and shoes. Again, many of the pairs no longer fit him. Taking a knee, I shove the shoes aside and feel along the floor for a secret panel or loose floorboard that might house evidence of Billy’s obsession. Pictures or drawings of his principal, maybe. But the floor seems pretty solid. As I stand, I check the closet walls. I also gaze up at the ceiling. The plaster looks entirely unmolested and intact. I turn off the light, close the door.