Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  “I worked a case, attempted suicide. Guy used a .22 FMJ solid point. Put the barrel to the side of his head, pulled the trigger. Slug went in one side, out the other. Straight through. Now, if he’d used a hi-vel hollow point, like the Widowmaker does, well, that slug probably would’ve stayed in there, mushed his brain for him, and killed him. As it was, dude lived. Last I heard the poor slob is still in a coma.”

  “Our Widowmaker, male or female, knows what they’re doing. None of the victims has survived the shots, .22 or not.”

  Animated, Butch said, “Exactly. That’s what I mean, about the Widowmaker being a guy. He’s confident enough to get up close and personal with his vics. Calm enough to rely on well placed shots from an underpowered weapon. It’s a guy, a tough capable guy, cause he knows if something goes wrong he’ll be able to handle it.”

  “How about a woman with a back-up?”

  “You mean she’d have a guy as a partner?”

  “Damn Butch, I never realized what a chauvinist you are. Women don’t need men to back them up in any and every endeavor, you know.”

  “You’re the one said a back-up.”

  “As in weapon, not accomplice. You know, another piece. Maybe a .38, or a nine. Something she could use if she failed with the .22.”

  Butch grinned, “That could work. Still, she’d have to be super tough and capable. Know any gals like that?”

  “Me.”

  “Granted, that’s a given. OK, present company excluded, name just one.”

  “Nadine Kozok.”

  “Shit.”

  “What do you mean, ‘shit?’ This type of kill would be a piece of cake for someone like her. All that violent talent, not to mention her experience. Girl got one hell of an early start.”

  “Sheba, I didn’t mean, ‘shit’ as in ‘no way.’ I meant it as in ‘holy shit.’ You’ve ruined my day here. You saying I could be promoting, and pinning a medal on, the Widowmaker?”

  “Not at all. Just putting out the thought that considering a woman as a Widowmaker suspect wouldn’t be unreasonable.”

  Agitated, Butch said, “Hey, hold that thought. Why couldn’t Kozok be the one?”

  “Damn, Butch. Are you serious? What happened to trusting your own judgment, and using my reaction as a litmus test?”

  “Am I serious? I’m the guy who, in less than half an hour, will be giving a speech extolling the virtues of Nadine Kozok, awarding her a medal for valor, promoting her to Detective, and handing her a gold shield. Hell, if she’s the Widowmaker and I rewarded her that way, she might as well shoot me in the fucking head too. Make me as dead as my career would be.”

  Deadpan, Sheba said, “Too late to back out now. You’ve got to go through with it.”

  “Easy for you to say. I know the idea is far fetched, but, it’s still within the realm of possibility. I’m serious, we’ve got to look at her as a suspect. At least till we can check her out more thoroughly.”

  Sheba grinned, “Been there done that.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying we’d better get inside, get ready for your big moment. Don’t sweat it, you can reward, and award, Kozok to your heart’s content. She’s clean.”

  “What makes you think she’s clean.”

  “I don’t ‘think’ she’s clean, she is clean.”

  “You’ve already checked her out?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why?”

  “After you called me about her, I watched the tape a few times. I was intrigued by the idea of having her work for me. So, naturally, I pulled all her files. When I came to what happened in Blyth twenty-five years ago, it set me to thinking. I mean, there are similarities.”

  Butch frowned, “For sure. Victim was a wife-beater. Weapon was a .22, shot placement was similar.”

  “So, I came up with a neat little hypothetical, Nadine Kozok as Widowmaker. It was easy to come up with, but, it was easy to bury too. I pulled the records on any of the nights where there was a Widowmaker kill and Kozok was working. She was logged in on seven of them, full shifts more than covering the estimated time of death.”

  “Great. I should have known, trusted my instincts. I like her. Hey, what about the other three killings?”

  Sheba grinned, “What about your instincts? I thought you liked her.”

  “The other three kills?”

  “Unaccounted for on two of them. Third one, rock solid, dead bang, alibi.”

  “Must be good, what is it.”

  “She was in Vegas. Sat ringside, watching her brother, ‘Bad’ Bill, fight Glen Maxon for the light-heavyweight title. It was on HBO, I came up with a tape, camera was focused on her side of the ring for most of the bout. She was there the whole time. You can’t miss her, she’s a striking woman.”

  “Yeah she is, and now that we can definitely rule her out as the Widowmaker, I like her more than ever.”

  “Fine. I’m anxious to meet her, get together and start briefing her on the case. By the way, you promised me another detective, one I can pair with Kozok. A vet, someone who can educate her, not some undercover vice plainclothes cop who’s still wet behind the ears.”

  “That I did, but you have no idea how hard it is to free up manpower for something as esoteric as your task force.”

  Sheba laughed, “My task force? It was your idea.”

  “Hey, the mayor, city council members were all on my back. But believe me, I want to see this thing cleared too. It makes us all look bad. Hell, it’s been going on for four years.”

  “Five. Five, and our boy, or girl, averages about two corpses a year. The Widowmaker is a prolific little psycho.”

  Tapping Sheba’s shoulder, Butch said, “Which should make him easier to bring down.”

  Jabbing Butch’s shoulder back, Sheba said, “Really? Just so you’re clear on what’s with the rank and file, Chief, my so called ‘task force’ consists of two teams of detectives, and, whenever we’re overwhelmed with scut-work, the help of a part time civilian clerk. Once in awhile you loosen up a couple of patrol guys to help us out with some of the leg work. Get real Butch, you know three times the personnel would still be inadequate on a case like this.”

  “Look, you’re right. Your task force is more window dressing than anything. It’s feel good bullshit for the mayor and the council. This way they can say they’re doing something, and still not turn loose with the bucks to form a truly effective unit. Hell Sheba, don’t think there aren’t times, many of them, that I don’t feel rotten about saddling you with this thing.”

  “Don’t loose any sleep over it. I’m not complaining, just telling it like it is. Understaffed or not, I plan on taking the Widowmaker down. May take awhile, but he’ll screw up somewhere down the line. I’ll be there, me and my minuscule task force.”

  “Remember, as of next week your manpower increases by a third. You’ll have your new team, Kozok and Vancetti.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said you’ll have your new team.”

  “You said Vancetti. Would that be Vancetti as in ‘Johnny Vance’ Vancetti?”

  “That’s him.”

  “He’s a hundred years old. He’s gotta be ready to pull the plug.”

  Butch snorted, “Vancetti is fifty-eight, same as me, and yes, he will be retiring next year. You said you wanted a vet.”

  “A vet not a relic.”

  “Johnny Vance was the best homicide detective I ever saw.”

  “Emphasis on was. Butch the man is a throwback. Back to the bad old days when homicide dicks wore fedoras, chainsmoked Chesterfields, and carried spring-loaded saps in their hip pockets.”

  “He’s on his way out, he’s mellowed.”

  “He could mellow tenfold, he’d still be a prick.”

  “Lots of animosity there Sheba. Do I detect a little history?”

  “Detect nothing. You know as well as I do, years ago when I was coming up, Vancetti refused to partner with me.”

  “Really? M
aybe that was my gain, seeing as I had no objection to partnering with you. You turned out to be the best partner I ever had. Did you ever find out what Vancetti’s problem was?”

  Putting a finger to her chin, Sheba rolled her eyes, said, “Hmm. Let me see. Could have been that I’m black. Could have been that I’m a woman. Hey, I’ll bet it was both. What do you think, Chief?”

  “Johnny Vance has had his share of black partners. Matter of fact, he was best man at Art Logan’s wedding. I know, I was there myself.”

  “How nice. Well then, could it be that our ‘Mr. Wonderful’ is a misogynist bastard?”

  “Maybe, he is twice divorced that I know of, and you aren’t the only female officer he has refused to partner with. So, I guess misogynist could apply in Vancetti’s case.”

  “So what the hell makes you think he’ll agree to partner with Nadine Kozok?”

  “He already has.”

  “Details Butch. This calls for details.”

  “You were right. I called him in, told him what was up. He flat refused to be Kozok’s partner. I told him he had no choice.”

  Sheba shook her head, “That was it? You told him he had no choice, and he caved? Just like that?”

  “Not exactly. Johnny Vance said, he’d always have a choice. Said, if I was issuing him an ultimatum, he would pull the plug, right there. Said, he already had his thirty in, and I could go fuck myself.”

  “Excuse me Butch, but that doesn’t sound like a ‘yes’ to me.”

  “That came after.”

  “After.”

  “After I had him watch the tape.”

  “The tape. The Nadine Kozok tape?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So, you had him watch the tape. Then what?”

  “He asked to see it again.”

  “And?”

  “He watched it over. After I stopped it, Johnny Vance stood up, pointed at the TV screen, said, ‘Her, I’ll partner with.’ ”

  Chapter Ten

  Nadine took two blows and a bite to the nose before she opened her eyes. As expected, there was a pair of unblinking golden eyes staring into her mismatched ones. Puddin’, her calico cat was demanding breakfast. The blows had been light swats, delivered with claws retracted. The bite, a gentle nibble, another part of what constituted their daily wake-up ritual.

  Puddin’s early morning punctuality had rendered Nadine’s alarm clock obsolete. It might be 4:25 or 4:30, but never later than 4:35, when the cat would land on the bed. After walking up Nadine’s leg and across her belly, Puddin’ would hunker-down on Nadine’s chest. Nose to nose with her no longer sleeping, but faking it, mistress, Puddin’ would start to purr. Occasionally, Nadine would feign a snore or two in response.

  Puddin’ played the game with limited patience and when, after a couple of minutes of steady purring, Nadine failed to react she would begin her assault on Nadine’s nose. Two swats, one bite. Two swats, one bite. Over and again, until her mistress reluctantly acknowledged her presence.

  The past week had seen a sleight alteration in the daily rite, with Nadine’s chin replacing her nose as Puddin’s target. Either Puddin’ recognized the protective nature of the aluminum splint on Nadine’s nose, or she just didn’t trust the damn thing enough to place her mouth on it. In any event, the splint had come off yesterday, and Puddin’ was free to direct her attacks on their customary target. This, she did with relish.

  Yawning, Nadine said, “Enough. You break this nose, and you’re out of here. Two broken noses in less than six months, I don’t need a third. I suffered more the second time, getting it fixed, than I did when it was originally broken. So, lighten up Pud.”

  Seeing the green LED display on her bedside digital reading 4:27, Nadine said, “Little early today. Anything special planed? None of my business? Don’t bet your tail on it furball. I’m a detective, it’s all my business. Don’t believe me? Well, check this out.”

  Stretching her arm to the nightstand, Nadine’s fingers made their way across the tabletop, where they made contact with her new leather badge case. Flipping the case open, she held it up to Puddin, said, “Now what do you have to say? Talk to your attorney? I should have known. Smart ass. C’mon, get off of me and I’ll feed you some breakfast. Deal?”

  Sipping her first cup of coffee, watching Puddin crunch her Meow Mix, Nadine wondered: Is she becoming a cliché? Spiraling downward to spinsterhood? Are there still spinsters in this bizarre new millennium? If so, perhaps she epitomizes them, could someday qualify as their poster child. Of course she could. Nadine Kozok, old-maid for the new millennium. She’s perfect. Past thirty, waking up alone in bed, sorry Puddin, and most likely she’ll be sleeping alone again tonight.

  Now, here she sat, awaiting the dawn, drinking coffee and talking to a cat. Talking to a cat who is, pointedly, ignoring her. Well, what did she expect, conversation? If she wanted conversation she’d have to seek out the company of her own species, something she’d been reluctant to do since her brutal encounter with Chuey Medina. Morose, she’d found herself avoiding even her own family, supportive though they were. That had been a mistake.

  The error of shirking her family had been brought home earlier this week at the ceremony honoring her. Of course they’d all attended; Vassily, typically gruff, yet unable to conceal his pride in her accomplishments, or the sheer joy she brought to his life. Roy, highly respected in his own world; a world populated by powerful machines and those who drove them, yet eager to resume his role of the younger sibling still in awe of his older sister. Then there was Bill.

  Bill, enigma to all, yet soul-mate to Nadine. Brother/guru, yet quick to recognize her status as an equal, and never showing the slightest hesitation in granting it. Bill, the tender melancholy of his core shrouded and well protected by a diamond-hard pragmatism. A gentle soul thriving in a most brutal profession. Bill saw the world as it was, knew how to cope, and willingly passed on many of his coping techniques to Nadine.

  Not only had Bill showed up, but Carol had come with him. Seeing her positive presence in the audience, Nadine’s heart had skipped a beat, began racing. Carol, Bill’s biggest mistake. Not marrying her, but divorcing her. When Nadine had learned of the breakup she’d been stunned. Her initial reaction had quickly turned to fury, a fury she’d willingly launched at Bill. When Bill responded to her tirade with total, if dejected, acquiescence Nadine spared him further punishment. Not only was he suffering enough, but she knew, that due to an overdose of willful pride, Bill’s suffering was only beginning.

  Bill and Carol, giving it another shot. Too much in love to not to be willing to take the risks involved in reconciliation. Nadine raised her coffee cup in Puddin’s direction in a toast, “Here’s to the, with a bit of luck, happy couple. I hope they make it. Because, truly, being alone does tend to grind you down after awhile. I know, it’s fucking killing me.”

  Nadine stood, drained the rest of her coffee, placed the cup in the sink. That’s it. Enough, negativity. No wonder the cat’s ignoring her. Anyone tried to lay that kind of sniveling, whining, self-serving shit on her she’d ignore them too.

  Back in her bedroom, Nadine faced the full length mirror mounted on the door. Pulling off her T-shirt, clad in panties only, she confronted her reflection. Okay bitch, what’s your problem? Look at you; arms, shoulders, abs, buffed! Tits? Nice, little small but that’s OK, less to sag later on. C’mon, turn a little. There ya go. Ass? Legs? Wow! And you were crying? Shame on you.

  Simply put, she was an attractive woman. If not, why would one of Hollywood’s hottest leading men be leaving messages on her machine? Polite, yet persistent, Todd Citron had left a message every week since her release from the hospital. Could they get together? Something casual, coffee? A drink? Or, if she’d rather, perhaps dinner? Place of her choosing, of course. Pico Rivera or Paris. Didn’t matter, up to her. Was he serious? Insane?

  On two occasions she’d almost summoned the courage to find out. Hovering over the phone as he left a message, hand
quivering over the receiver, Nadine had backed down at the last moment. Call him back? No, no way. But maybe next time, next time she would answer the phone. Wasn’t the third time supposed to be a charm?

  She’d told no one about the calls, perhaps she’d confide in Carol. Carol, sophisticated where Nadine was naive, capable in situations where Nadine found herself to be inept. Perhaps a little pep talk and preparation from Carol would serve to whet Nadine’s dull social skills. It was worth a try, besides, they’d always gotten along well. Now decisive; she’d call Carol tonight, Nadine’s mood elevated.

  Moving to her dresser, Nadine retrieved a fresh black sport-bra, and her running shorts. After putting bra and shorts on, she pulled her T-shirt back over her head, finger-combed her thick brown hair and secured it with a head-band. Back at the mirror she checked her ear. Fully healed. Top forth gone, irreplaceable. But, easily hidden by her hair. Face? Nose, fine. Looked just like it used to before Medina smashed it. Cheek, amazing! The doc did a wonderful job. The horrendous gouge replaced by a thin pink scar. The scar promised to be history in less than a year. Thank God for Bill’s help with the doctor.

  Thank God for all of her many blessings. She’s crying? Ingrate. Who just got a medal? A promotion. A gold shield. Who’s a Detective now, after less than six years on the job? Sitting on the edge of her bed Nadine gently kneaded her wounded foot. No pain. She’d been running on it for two weeks now. Her aerobic conditioning maintained by countless hours on her stationary bike, she has had no problem completing her usual seven mile loop, in spite of running time lost due to her foot injury. Quickly, efficiently, she pulled on and laced up her running shoes.

  Back at her dresser, Nadine opened the top drawer, pulled out a small fanny-pack and placed it on the dressertop. Unzipping it, she brought out her Airlite Lady Smith. Weight 11ozs. Barrel 2 inches. The diminutive revolver barely covers the palm of her hand. The perfect hide-out piece, a gift on the day she graduated the academy. Paid for by Bill, the weapon was picked out by Roy. Roy, who’s extensive knowledge of machinery isn’t limited solely to cars and motorcycles.