by N. M. Brown
They crept up the stairs, hearing the hallow thumps from above until the top level greeted them with two doors. One was open to revile a dimly lit, neglected bathroom while the other was closed. Standing either side, McQueen and Ramirez signalled one another. “Kendrick Maddock, this is the Police. We would like to ask you a few questions.” McQueen called out.
If you listened, you could have heard a penny drop. McQueen shared a singled look with Ramirez when a sudden clatter of noise radiated from the closed room. A quick twist to the door knob, McQueen and Ramirez were inside, watching the tail end of an ugly shirt fly into an adjoining room. McQueen almost stumbled at the smell, but quickly caught himself, making a fast pace behind Ramirez. “Freeze.” His partner cried, “Put your hands up.”
But the guy was half hanging out the window; one foot inside, the other reaching for the ledge that hung over the front of the shop. No weapon in sight, Ramirez grabbed the guy, yanking him hard back into the room.
“Hay! Get off me.” The man cried, wiggling on the floor as he scooted himself backwards until he bumped into an unmade bed. The guy was as greasy as his flat and if the pizza boxes were any indication, he was greasy on the inside too. He had a receding, hair line and heavy body, filling out his clothes. It wasn’t fat, though he was well on his way with his bulbous beer gut. Stained corduroy trousers and an ugly red and white striped shirt over an off-white tank top; he looked the poster boy for couch potato. In fact, the more McQueen looked, he started to doubt this was their guy either.
“Don’t move.” McQueen ordered, training his gun on the centre of his chest.
Immediately the guy stilled, flinging his hands in the air. “Alright, am still, am still.” Ramirez pulled him off the floor and slapped some cuffs on him. “Hay? What is this? What is this? I said I was still?” Ignoring his cries, he was pulled back into the first room and pushed on to the couch. Hands behind his back and his legs wildly kicking in the air, slumped to his side, he looked rather pathetic.
“Why did you try to flee Mr. Maddock?”
“I didn’t run.” He sniffed, “I always sit on da ledge to enjoy a cigarette. My landlady don’t allow me to smoke in ‘ere.” His accent was thick and dripped with a cockney twang. McQueen gazed around the small, ugly room spotting a number of discarded butts. By the smell, McQueen guess he’d didn’t always smoke outside.
“Why don’t I believe you Mr. Maddock?” McQueen stood over him, and while he had Mr. Maddocks attention, Ramirez examined the room. “Luckily for you, we’re not here on the request of your Landlady.”
The man shifted, looking McQueen up and down. “Ay, why you ‘ere then? Waking a man up from his rest? You got no right to be in ‘ere.” He challenged.
McQueen bit back a sigh. “Mr. Maddock, we’re investigating a series of murders. We would like to ask you a few questions.”
“I an’t answering no questions. Get ou’ ‘ere.” His teeth whistled. His eyes widened a fraction but remained on McQueen. “You an’t got no right, you ‘ear. No right. I want to see a warrant.” He started to yell louder, his body bouncing on the couch.
Glancing quickly over his shoulder, McQueen looked to see where Ramirez had gone which had made the guy so twitchy. After all they had seen, finding a stash of weed seemed so juvenile. Yet as McQueen turned to see his partner opening what looked to be an in-build entertainment cabinet, he caught sudden movement out the corner of his eyes. The only thing that saved him was the fact he hadn’t folded his arms, much like he’d seen Hale do from time to time. Hands free, he raised his arm in time to block the knife that was swinging down towards his throat.
At his grunt of pain, Ramirez was moving towards them, but everything was moving so fast McQueen could barely register it all. He was falling backwards towards the horrid, cheap coffee table made of fake wood and plastic. It was the only thing that would break his fall if it didn’t break him first. If his arms loosened a fraction in their descent, the tip of the knife, which had already slashed his forearm, would no doubt fall into his chest. Maddock was smiling with a crazy glee on his face. He had one hand free; his chubby fingers wrapped around the knife, while his other hand glinted with Ramirez’s cuffs. McQueen grabbed for the loose cuff and pulled hard, yanking Maddock’s hand making it slip from his chest. They hit the table with a crash and the knife plunged into the table top not two inches from McQueen’s head. An even louder bang bounced around the tiny room as Ramirez let off a shot, hitting the suspect in the shoulder drawing out a scream.
“Don’t move. Get down on the ground” He ordered as Maddock rolled on the floor, rising to one knee.
McQueen still hadn’t processed everything that had happened, but he was quickly drawing his gun anyway. Ignoring the burning pain that rippled down his arm, McQueen took aim, “Don’t move Maddock’s. Be a smart man today.” McQueen’s breathing was laboured and something sharp was digging into his back, but he thanked and thanked again whichever guardian angel was looking after him. He watched as the muscles tensed in Maddock’s body, each one testing its own strength. “Lie on the ground Maddock.” He warned again.
Maddock paused, eyes flicking from one gun to the other; calculating. Breathing heavily, he hissed through his teeth, clutching his wounded arm. McQueen watched as the cogs turned in Maddock’s brain and he saw the moment a decision was made. Raising one bloody palm in the air, Maddock, slowly lowered himself to the floor and placed both hands on his back. Swiftly, Ramirez re-cuffed Maddock and was surprisingly gentle about the wounded shoulder. It was as Ramirez tightened the handcuffs that Benny burst through the door, gun raised.
“Everybody freeze!” he yelled swinging his gun left and right like a circus booth game. If Benny had to actually take aim and fire, he’d miss, without a doubt. McQueen wondered how many impractical cop films Benny watched in his spare time.
“Stand down Officer Rocher.” he said, slowly rising to his feet feeling every crick in his back. It was going to start tomorrow. “Everything is under control.” Benny took the situation in again for a few more seconds before he deemed it safe to put away his gun. It grated McQueen a little that the man didn’t trust his word and clearly didn’t trust him as a superior officer, but you had to pick your battles. He let it slide as he turned to face the built-in entertainment cabinet. More important things demanded his attention.
“Holy shit.” Benny whispered behind him as McQueen took in the scene.
There were dozens of photographs of Mr. Farrows and Dwight. Some were of them individually: such as when Mr. Farrows was leaving work or the house. Others were of Dwight, stood on a street corner in booty shorts and a flashy silver top. Some were through windows, a car perhaps, while others were between bush leaves. McQueen took note of the ones where Dwight and Mr. Farrow were in the older gentleman’s car, there were several and the time difference was only shown in the different clothes Dwight wore. Sometimes it was a red top, or the silver one again, or black. Maddock must have spent weeks watching the two. Weeks upon weeks stalking them, getting to know their patterns. There was no way Maddock had spent this long hunting the pair and not gotten this information to Mrs. Farrows.
However, what drew more curses from Benny’s lips was the tightly wrapped plastic sheet stuffed in the base of the cabinet. What was remarkable about the plastic? The unmistakable image of a hand, dead and half rotting, squashed against the clear sheet.
“Anything to say Mr. Maddock?” McQueen asked, turning back round feeling a rush of delight as he took in their hit man.
All previous bewilderment had flown from Maddock’s face and a cold smile twisted his lips instead. “Couldn’t possibly say Sir. But if I had to take a guess, I’d say poor Mr. Maddock took a tumble in the shower and was unable to get back up.” The cockney accent was gone, and an indistinguishable voice took its place. It was so basic and plain, words like: ordinary, normal, vague came to mind. A person of little importance, not seen, heard or remembered. An ideal type of hit man; one that could get in and out
without so much of a ripple, or if they were seen, sent the police off in the wrong direction.
Fake Maddock rolled on his keens and a long line of spit dripped from his mouth as two soggy pieces of cardboard fell to the carpet. His previous long cheek bones hollowed and the fat from around his face just dropped off. Quickly following his paper cheeks were a decent pair of yellow, ageddenturesdropped,making way for pristine, pearly whites. McQueen would have bet money that if fake Maddock’s hands were free, he’d pop out a crisp pair of contact lenses to,
“Get him out of here.” McQueen ordered Ramirez who dragged the man out, his cold smile still on his lips. “And photograph him. I want his face well documented.”
Looking back at the dead body, McQueen sighed. Now they were up to five dead and one hospitalized.
✽ ✽ ✽
Within forty minutes McQueen had the entire Tech Team out above the pizza shop covering every inch of Maddock’s apartment. The real Maddock was taken away on a gurney and evidence of his murder would likely go to another detective team. There was too much on McQueen and Hales current plate. Besides, it would be an open and closed case.
As for the photo’s they werecatalogued and stored to be used as evidence against Mrs. Farrow’s defence. Here was the hit man she’d hired, here was her husband in the cross-hairs. Unfortunately, there were no dates on the film and the SD cards they had found were wiped clean making the evidence a little shakier, but it would hold.
Fake Maddock, as McQueen was calling him, clearly wasn’t a completely useless hit man and the more the team looked, the less McQueen thought he was useless. His ever-changing feature didn’t change his fingerprints, but he’d burnt them off so to ID him was hard. There were no personal items and even his stash of weaponry was just a knife and a set of lock picks, both coincidentally hidden in the couch. They’d take DNA and other samples back at the station to see if anything popped up, but so far, the only thing they had connecting him to the hanging murders were photos.
McQueen was leafing through some of them, when Benny strode over, hiking his belt up and puffing out his chest. “Well, not bad for a mornings work,” Benny surveyed the scene. “The big boss will be pleased we’ve caught this psycho.”
McQueen gritted his teeth. “So far, that psycho has only taken pictures of the victims and only the first two victims at that. If he did kill Mr. Farrows and Dwight, then we will need more evidence. We need to link him to the recent murders if we want justice for the couple and Lizzy.”
Benny frowned as McQueen pissed on his parade. “Justice? You’re living with your head in the clouds. We caught the guy. He was hired to kill the two cocksuckers and he got the job done. He’ll go down for it. It’s not hard to figure.”
“And the other’s?” McQueen asked. In Benny’s perfect little box he was creating, it seemed the other murders didn’t happen.
“What about them?” McQueen waited a beat before he realized Benny was being serious. So, instead of mincing him through the wringer, he counted to ten and simply nodded to Benny, giving him the satisfaction of being ‘right’. It didn’t matter to Benny that there were no images of the recent couple that they had yet to identify. It didn’t matter to him that the tech team had yet to find any evidence of dogs in the apartment, or ropes or chains, or even that the guy had been inside Cardinal House. They had a thin paper trail and a name which belonged to a dead guy and a flimsy connection at best. The hit-man had posed a Maddock, keeping up appearances; even checking the guys’ emails. He’d even had his ‘hit-calls’ send to the café so he could pick them up any time. But there was no sign of their second victims.
Benny was happy to have won this round though, and walk away, probably to boast about how he took the hit-man down singlehandedly. McQueen wasn’t exaggerating either. He’d already started to hear the rumour circulate.
Rubbing his temples, McQueen felt his body twitch as a shadow fell over him and the table. “Two. Come to bring me some news I hope?”
Two looked grim. “So far, no. The photos are the only evidence; we’ve checked all the cupboards and normal hiding spots. We’re moving onto inside vents and under the carpet now. Otherwise, it’s just the photos. We can’t even find the camera and printer he used to get these photos.” He huffed, annoyed.
McQueen nodded, sucking in a breath. “Probably did it at the Cyber Café. I just pray we can nail this guy. Hale is breathing down my neck and I could really use a win right now.”
“Yer right-…” Two let out a strangled cough which drew McQueen's attention back. “I’d heard you were, um-… in hot water.” The kid was fiddling with his camera, changing the setting but not before McQueen caught him glance at some fellow officers in the room. When McQueen looked over he was greeted with more turning heads and avoided eye contact. “Something about a witness?” Two asked in a nonchalant way. It was anything but nonchalant.
McQueen stiffened. Something was up. Looking back at Two there was a soft blush on his cheeks. “Two?” He said in a low tone. “What’s going on?”
Two pulled a wobbly smile. “I- uh, I just realized I didn’t get the right angle on this shot. I should re-do it.” But before he could run off, McQueen caught him under the arm and not so gently dragged him away from prying ears and eyes.
“Spill.” He ordered. They’d ended up at the top of the stairs, the damp bathroom at their back and the faint smell of urine swept past now and then.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Pathetic evasions, McQueen thought. But he also had to remind himself this wasn’t an investigation; this was a friend.
“What is it Two?” McQueen pushed again.
“Nothing, really. It’s just a silly-game.” McQueen bristled at ‘game’ and Two saw. “No, no, not game. Just a… bit of harmless fun. But I really can’t tell you. There is this thing where we don’t tell certain members of the department.” McQueen just waited, using his height to his advantage. “Really I can’t tell you. It’s nothing … bad. We just don’t tell Hale. You know how he is, and you being his partner…” Two clutched his camera tighter to his chest.
“Tell me Two.”
“It’s just a department pool. A small thing really. It’s just when a case is getting too many suspects, the guys like to guess who they think did it. You know?” Two babbled. McQueen suddenly realized how close he was stood to Two. The poor kid had his back pressed to the dirty sink and McQueen was close enough he could smell the minty freshness.
McQueen blinked. “A pool? Like gambling?” McQueen almost laughed. He’d thought it would have been a lot worse than that. His reputation had been soured in the last day and if any other rubbish was going around the rumour-mill that was false… He couldn’t afford to lose his job over that. He could see why they might be weary of Hale though. He’d never allow this. Yet something snagged his brain. “What do you mean ‘too many suspects?”
Two was breathing slightly easier but at McQueen's question, his eyes widened, and his lips formed a perfect ‘o’. “You mean- no one told you?”
“Told me what Two?” McQueen felt his stomach drop.
“Well… um, Hale got confirmation for a warrant late last night to search Cardinal House and question all the staff. During the questioning, they came across suspicious activity. One of the bar tenders said she saw someone spiking people’s drinks and saw her spike the drinks of the latest victims.”
“Who…?” McQueen asked but somehow, he could already guess.
“Ms. Headly. Hale charged her this morning.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Stepping out of the interrogation room after making sure fake Maddock was nice and comfy, McQueen wasn’t surprised the station floor was so quiet. Everyone was holding their breaths as they pretend not to see him or see the anger that lurked in his eyes. He kept his chin high and body relaxed. He wouldn’t snap at people as they whispered behind his back, nor the smug look Benny’s pals gave him. Hale was his partner and therefore there was an explanation for this
. There was no way he’d make an arrest on such an important case without his partner, no matter how pissed he was. Otherwise, that was just petty. McQueen knew Hale was better than that… he hoped.
After leaving the crime scene in the capable hands of Ramirez and the so-so hands of Benny, McQueen escorted Fake-Maddock back to the station and locked his safely in an Interrogation room. He’d even put a man on both sides of the door. Nothing drew out a cops’ ego than the word ‘hit man’ and ‘does not escape’. Being badass enough to guard a hit man always rubbed peoples’ ego’s the right way.
McQueen had wanted to storm into Hale’s interrogation room and demand some answers, but that would do him little good. He needed to wait and be calm. Instead he grabbed the nearest no-named officer who walked by and demanded an up-to-date copy of the charges laid against Echo. Then he would wait. Or at least he thought he would, but after reading, and re-reading the charges, McQueen knew he couldn’t. Again, the same no-name Officer was sent on an errand, this time, to get Hale.
It took less than five minutes before Hale walked out. At least that was a good sign. If his boss was really pissed with him, he’d have made McQueen sit out here rejected. Spying him across the station, Hale walked towards him. “I assume you are aware now that we’ve made an arrest? This is what you’re summoning me for?” Hale stated but went on no further.