Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  “What did I tell you Pop? Forget that you didn’t listen this morning, please listen to me now. Don’t, for Nadine’s sake, give this dude a bunch of shit. Here, you’ll need this.”

  Shifting his attention to Roy, Vassily saw him dig into the breast pocket of his sport coat. Voice low and sharp, Vassily said, “Stop. Get your fuckin mitt out of your jacket. You want this asshole to blow us both away?”

  Roy’s eyes widened, and Vassily felt the red creep up from his neck, turn his ears crimson, and finally flush his stubbled scalp pink, as the cop’s voice floated through the window, “Best listen to your bro here bud. Put your hands up on the dash, where this ‘asshole’ can see them.”

  Roy said, “Sure officer, sorry bout that, I was just going for the registration.”

  The cop’s sidearm remained holstered, but his hand was conspicuous, resting on the pistol’s butt. He said, “We’ve got time for that in a minute, first let’s find out a little about your shit talking pal here. You, with the colorful vocabulary, where do you keep your drivers license?”

  Composure regained, Vassily said, “Wallet, hip pocket. Hey, I’m sorry about the ‘asshole’ thing.”

  “Maybe you are, I don’t know. I do know you will be, once I’m finished writing.”

  “What? I was four miles over the limit? That’s not even keeping up with the flow of traffic. You gonna write me for going too slow?”

  “No sir, you’ve been doing just fine on the freeway.”

  “So? What’s the problem?”

  “I was behind you on the on ramp. You were doing 113 when you made your merge onto the freeway.”

  Vassily grinned, “No shit. Didn’t realize. I do know, once I was on, I kept to the legal limit. Another thing, far as I remember wasn’t no speed limit posted on that ramp.”

  The cop laughed, “Trust me.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a limit, and it’s not a hundred and thirteen miles an hour. Now, slowly, let me take a look at your license.”

  Without remark, Vassily removed the license, passed it to the cop. The cop’s eyes made the trip from Vassily to the license and back, twice. Hanging on to the document, staring at Vassily, the cop said, “Hair brown. Well, in the picture you have hair, and it appears to be brown. But, in the flesh, what you’ve got is stubble and it’s mostly white.”

  “Yeah, well. Father Time kicks everybody’s ass.”

  The cop, enjoying his moment, said, “According to this you’re fifty-four. Fifty-four? Hell, Father Time must have taken a special interest in your ass kicking, he sure did a number on you.”

  Keeping his silence, Vassily looked the cop up and down, grinned. Unperturbed, the cop went on, “Eyes, brown. Brown?”

  “That ain’t changed.”

  Returning Vassily’s grin, the cop said, “Why don’t you let me see for myself. Take off your shades.”

  Tossing his sunglasses on the dash, Vassily leveled his focus on the cop. Turning on some mad dog, just a tad, doesn’t want the boy to shit his britches, Vassily’s eyes met the cop’s. The cop, while not exactly melting into a puddle at the side of the Vette, did pause, clear his throat, and lick his lips once, before regaining most of his poise, if not all of his attitude.

  Bending over, face thrust close to Vassily’s, the cop checked his eyes, and, Vassily knew, his breath for alcohol. Satisfied, he straightened and said, “Brown. Real dark brown though, almost black.”

  Slipping his shades back on, Vassily said, “Someone once told me they darken according to my mood.”

  “That a fact? Well, assuming this picture was taken in better days, I guess it’s you alright. Now, Mr. Kozok, if your partner would get the vehicle’s registration for me, I’ll just run a warrants check on you and the car, write your citation, then you can be on your way.”

  Roy passed the registration to Vassily. Vassily handed it to the cop. Looking at both documents, then bending down to look in at Roy, the cop frowned, said, “Kozok. Kozok. Why is that familiar? I know either of you guys? Should I.?”

  Vassily answered, “You don’t know me, no reason you should. You may know of my boy here, used to race stock cars, back when they ran them at Riverside.”

  Shaking the registration, the cop addressed Roy, “This you? You William?”

  “Uh-uh. William’s my brother. I’m Roy. When I was still racing it was ‘Rapid Roy,’ maybe you heard of ‘Rapid Roy’ Kozok?”

  “No, never followed motor sports myself.”

  Vassily said, “How about boxing? Ever watch the fights?”

  “Sometimes. I’m not a big fan. They got something good on cable, I’ll watch it. Maxon, he’s a piece of work. If Maxon’s fighting, I’ll watch.”

  Vassily said, “Maxon huh? You catch his last fight? That would be the one he got knocked on his ass, three times. You see that one?”

  The cop straightened, looked at the registration, laughed, said, “Shit, William Kozok. Your son is ‘Bad Bill’?”

  “Damn straight. ‘Bad Bill’ is my boy, this Vette was his ride, and now he gave it to my other boy, Roy here. Bill got him a Viper now.”

  Shaking his head, the cop said, “Well, I’ve got to say, your son sure earns his money Mr. Kozok. Works hard, every round, for every penny. I respect that.”

  Vassily grinned, “I’ll pass that on to him. He’ll dig it.”

  “Great. Hold on, I’ll be right back with your ticket, won’t take but a minute.”

  “Ticket? I thought maybe you could overlook my little indiscretion back there on the ramp. Maybe let me off with a warning. You know, out of respect for Bill?”

  “No. I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, I’m an asshole. Remember?”

  Vassily picked up on the slight tremor, generated by Roy’s subdued laughter, running through the Vette, but didn’t comment. Instead, eyes on the mirror, he watched the cop walk back to his bike. Thinking the cop had proved him right, guy was an asshole, Vassily suddenly perked up when the cop slapped his ticket book against his thigh, spun around, and began fast-walking back to the Vette.

  Vassily said, “Shit!”

  Putting a hand on his father’s shoulder, Roy said, “C’mon Pop. Be cool. We can still make Nadine’s ceremony on time. Just chill.”

  “Hey, I’m cool, but our buddy’s on his way back, looking agitated too.”

  “Maybe he changed his mind.”

  “Sure, and they’re gonna give you a medal at Nadine’s ceremony because you taught her to drive.”

  Roy said, “First good idea you’ve had today.”

  Hearing the cops boots crunch to a halt, Vassily turned to face the man. Grinning, holding up Vassily’s paperwork, the cop said, “Man, I’m not thinking too straight today. First question I should have asked you.”

  Vassily’s eyebrows arched, “Yeah?”

  “Your name, Kozok. I don’t know how she spells it, but there’s a policewoman on the Long Beach force name of Nadine Kozok. Girl’s a real piece of work, took down a carjacker single-handed. Turned out the dude was a real badass, shot a couple of SDPD officers down San Diego way. Now, this Nadine, she any relation?”

  “You bet your ass she is. Nadine’s my daughter.”

  The cop laughed, “Damn. That girl deserves a medal.”

  “Which is just what they’re fixing to give her,” Vassily tapped his watch, “in less than half an hour. Why don’t you get that ticket wrote up, and maybe I can still get there in time to see my girl get that medal.”

  “Ticket? For Nadine Kozok’s dad? Not gonna happen. Where’s the ceremony being held?”

  “Queen Mary.”

  “The Queen Mary? Hell, you’re not gonna make it.”

  Vassily frowned, “Hey, I got a shot if I don’t waste any more time yappin’ with you.”

  “In this traffic? Without speeding? No way. Only shot you’ve got is with me.”

  “The hell you talking about?”

  “You’re gettin
g a police escort, all the way to the Queen’s berth. While I get my bike, you switch seats with your son there. No offense, but I’ll feel a lot safer with ‘Rapid Roy,’ the stock car boy, riding my tail through traffic.”

  Already climbing out his door, Vassily said, “None taken. Roy! You heard the man, get over here and get ready to haul ass.”

  #

  Fingertips gently stroking Bill’s neck, Carol leaned her head out the Viper’s window, taking in the Queen Mary’s full length. Sighing, she said, “I know she’s not as big, or as tricked out, as today’s oceanliners, but she has a certain majesty, a dignity, the new ones just don’t possess.”

  Bill laughed, “Shit. You sound like Vassily.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Vassily’s ongoing theme: ‘older is better.’”

  “Don’t be so quick to knock it. In many ways he’s right. Think of our present time, then think back. Back to a slower, saner era. Back to the days when this old girl was the queen of the seas. Imagine it, us together, strolling the decks, a thousand miles from land.”

  “Uh-uh. Not for me.”

  “C’mon, where’s your sense of romance, adventure?”

  “You must’ve forgotten, you made me sit through ‘Titanic,’ twice.”

  “You loved it.”

  “Maybe so, maybe no, but that ending, well, it definitely puts ocean voyages off of my ‘things to do list.’”

  Carol laughed. Bill shrugged, “What?”

  “Boy do I have a movie for you. It’s called ‘Open Water.’ Baby you are gonna love it.”

  “I’ll bet. What do you say we head on in? Be a little early, instead of late.”

  “Fine. Give me a sec, let me check my messages. That way I can leave my phone off the whole time we’re in there.”

  Contemplating a life without his ring wars, and the grueling preparation required to carry him through those battles, Bill scanned the parking lot. On their arrival the lot had been thick with the blue uniformed presence of LBPD officers. Now, less than fifteen minutes later, the number of visible cops had been reduced to perhaps a half dozen. Thinking they’d better get moving, Bill’s ears picked up the wail of a rapidly approaching siren.

  Probably the, never subtle, mayor opting for his usual flamboyance. Craning his neck to see if he can spot the source of the howling siren, Bill didn’t see Carol snap her phone shut. Giving his shoulder a nudge, she said, “Let’s go. What a racket. Hey, want to bet it’s our illustrious mayor making an entrance?”

  Exiting the Viper, Bill said, “Shit. I only wish it was.”

  Carole, shutting her door, said “What?”

  Moving around to her side of the Viper, Bill placed his arm around Carole’s shoulder. Turning her, he pointed to the lots nearest entrance. “Check it out.”

  Swinging into the lot was a motorcycle mounted CHP officer, closely followed by a 2002 Corvette, the Vette’s candy-apple red metalflake a brilliant fire-burst in the afternoon sun.

  Looping her arm around Bill’s waist, smiling, Carol said, “Hmm. Looks a lot like your old Vette. What do we have here?”

  “What we’ve got here is Vassily and Roy.”

  “Vassily, Roy, and a cop.”

  “And a cop. Right.”

  “That good, or bad?”

  Bill shrugged, “Who knows. One thing though.”

  “Yes?”

  “Till we find out, better put your lawyer face on.”

  Chapter Nine

  Much as Butch Ritter liked Sheba Johnstone, he always felt a bit off center, tilted, in her presence. Her presence. Part of the problem, Detective Sheba Johnstone had more presence than any one human being should have. When Sheba entered a room, heads turned. Stayed turned. Conversations stopped. Stopped, were slow to resume, and were held in a lower tone when they did.

  A lot of this had to do with Sheba’s bearing: Regal. Some of it with her sincerity: Palpable. Some with her humor: Infectious. Some with her size: Ample.

  Even when in the process of manipulating Sheba, Butch was troubled by the nagging feeling that it was he who was being manipulated. Today the Mona Lisa smile on her broad, brown, face gave credence to his suspicion that he was being played, and Sheba was the player.

  Meeting her eyes, Butch said, “Look, are you sure this is what you want?”

  “Butch, you ever see a time I didn’t know what I wanted?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “But me no buts, Butch. I know what I want. I want Nadine Kozok. I also know that I’ll get her. Know how I know?”

  “Don’t be getting ahead of yourself here. What makes you think I’ll go along?”

  “Because, it’s what you want too. You’ve been setting me up.”

  Butch said, “Where do you get that from?”

  “C’mon Butch, just because you’re going to be rubbing elbows with all the politicians today doesn’t mean you have to go all mealy-mouthed on me. You’ve been nudging me in Kozok’s direction for a month.”

  “Way I remember it, you called me first.”

  “True, I opened the door. But, you sailed through it. You may think you’re subtle, but here’s a little flash for you, you’re not.”

  “I’m that obvious?”

  Sheba laughed, “Only to me, which isn’t too bad, cause I’m perceptive. Remember, I’m the best detective you’ve got. Super-sleuth. It’s why you have me heading the Widowmaker task force. You want me to take the Kozok woman under my wing. I’m willing. Let’s do it. Simple.”

  Leaning back on their bench, looking across the grass to where the Queen Mary’s bulk rose up from the water, Butch sighed, “Simple it’s not. Take this girl past; I mean she was five, shot her father. The guy was an abuser, a wife beater, chronic on both counts, but still. Now, this Widowmaker guy. What does he go around doing? He shoots assholes just like Kozok’s father. Shit, they have a lot in common. Kozok might look at this mutt like he’s some kind of a hero. I’m concerned we may be making a mistake, putting her on this.”

  “I like it when you say ‘we,’ shows you’re not forgetting it was you approached me on this. Look, if you have doubts about putting Kozok on this case, why did you feel me out about it in the first place?”

  “Usually I’d trust my own judgment exclusively. Kozok on the Widowmaker? I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t think of anybody better than you, your reaction, to use as a litmus test.”

  “You may think you’re stroking me here, but you’re not. You’re just telling the truth.”

  “Acknowledged. No stroking, just telling it like it is.”

  “I say it’s a go. Let’s do it. Why do you still have misgivings?”

  “It’s Kozok. I don’t want this fucking case to hit too close to home for her, cause her to come apart at the seams. Unravel.”

  “Butch, how many times have you seen the tape?”

  He shrugged, “Don’t know. Dozens.”

  “Does the woman on that tape look like the type to unravel?”

  “Point taken.”

  “Besides, you interviewed Kozok yourself. From what you told me she came across solid as a rock. Don’t overthink this thing. Besides, that background of hers you’re so concerned about? Butch, that background is exactly what I feel will make her so valuable to us on this case. If she identifies with the Widowmaker, so much the better. Empathy might be what enables her to get inside the killers head, and us, to finally get a leg up on him. Or her.”

  “You still leaving that open? The possibility that our doer is a woman.”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Shaking his head, Butch said, “I don’t know. It’s just that everything about it, well, it’s got ‘guy’ written all over it.”

  “I don’t see that, not at all. No reason a woman can’t be the Widowmaker.”

  “Sheba, these are serial killings. Serial killers are traditionally male.”

  “Aileen Wuornos?”

  “An anomaly. Besides, I read her kills more as robbery-homicides, not tr
ue serials.”

  “That’s your opinion. How about some facts?”

  “OK. Take a look at the victims. Ten guys. At least six of them criminal types, lowlifes with an extensive history of violence. Violence, not only against women, but against other men too, some of it heavy shit, all the way up to attempted murder and manslaughter. How many women will go up against assholes like that, repeatedly?”

  “Butch, the Widowmaker isn’t engaging these mutts in hand to hand combat. He, or she, is sidling up to these guys, putting two into their temple or behind their ear, walking away. Hell, the neatness and efficiency of our perp almost leans toward her being female.”

  “Females aren’t shooters.”

  “C’mon Butch, you’re burying me in generalization here. Women aren’t shooters? The weapon’s a .22, not a .44 mag. A child can handle a .22 handgun. No recoil.”

  “As proven by Nadine as a child. Still, a .22 can be the weapon of choice for a pro.”

  Sheba grinned, “Between us Butch, we’ve got over thirty-five years working homicide, seven of those years as partners. How many pro hits you worked on?”

  “Under a dozen. Maybe ten. So?”

  “Any of ‘em use .22’s?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Of course not. Those folks want to get the job done. They’re not James Bond. Something goes wrong, they want something with some punch to it, in case they have to shoot their way out of a situation. Every pro hit I worked, the weapon was usually a .38, occasionally a .45. Two occasions, a 12 gauge.”

  Butch laughed, “Well, I never did buy that old movie bullshit. You know, shoot a guy in the head with a .22 FMJ solid point it’ll bounce around inside his skull, turn the brain to mush. Shit, full metal jacket solid point just goes right through, like a fucking drill bit.”

  “Is that experience talking?”