Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  “Son, you don’t need no fucking scrapbook. Every engine, every car, every custom scooter you’ve ever built or had a part in, those are your scrapbooks. Shit, that big 113 incher you built for me? Roy, the fucking thing is an asskicker, a trip and a half to ride, and a joy to behold. A work of art. My old panhead? Ain’t nobody could keep that old girl purring along like you have over the years. You’ve got a gift son, and you’ve put it to good use. Your brother, he’s only got a talent for kicking the shit out of people. You, you create works not only of function, but of beauty as well. I’m proud of you, always have been.”

  “Hey, Pop. You boozing?”

  “A tad. Why?”

  “This ain’t exactly your usual line of conversation with me.”

  “Maybe it should’ve been, Roy. Maybe it should have been. While we’re at it, if you’ve ever felt I had you taking a back seat to Bill, you were mistaken. You’re my son. You’re in my heart, and you don’t take a backseat to anyone. Not Bill, not Nadine, not anybody. I love you Roy, remember that.”

  “Sure, Pop. Love you too.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Those girls, Moira and Lois? Give ‘em a kiss and a squeeze for me.”

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Nadine was halfway through her second viewing of the video Vassily had left, when her cell rang. Hoping it was Vassily, she grabbed the phone with one hand, brushed the tears from her cheeks with the other. Struggling to keep her voice level, she answered, “Pop?”

  Strained and anguished as it was, Nadine nonetheless recognized Vance’s voice, “Uh-uh. It’s Vance. I don’t know how to say this, but I just got this call from Vassily, said he’s on the Desmond, said he’s jumping off. Now.”

  “Did I hear you right? My dad called you, said he’s jumping off the Desmond bridge?”

  “Yeah. Said he’s the Widowmaker, said he left me an evidence package, then he said he was gonna end it all by leaping off the fucking bridge.”

  Nadine was through the door and running for the street as she spoke, “I’m on my way. I’ll be there, ten minutes, tops. Where are you?”

  “Ocean and Pine. Three minutes away. I didn’t call this in, figured I’d let you make the decision.”

  Sliding into her Explorer, cranking the engine, Nadine said, “No. Just us. Maybe he’s having a last cigarette, a drink, reminiscing. If we get there in time we might have a shot at talking him down. If he sees a bunch of flashing light-bars hit that bridge, he’s gone.”

  Vance said, “Right. Just you and me. OK, I’m driving through downtown, approaching the bridge. He said to look for his bike, that it would mark the spot.”

  “You’re coming from Long Beach, he left from here, Wilmington. Means he came from the other direction. He’s on the other side of the road. Don’t fly by, miss him. I’m hanging up. I’m gonna be hauling ass, and I want both hands on the wheel. See you in a few.”

  A few minutes of navigating the deserted early AM streets and Nadine hit Ocean. Hanging a right, heading toward the port, she replayed Vassily’s video in her mind. He’d sat there, calm, in his battered recliner, looking more wistful than distressed.

  Yes, he was the Widowmaker. Correction, he’d been the Widowmaker. Been the Widowmaker right up until he’d popped that last .22 cap in Cuchillo Medina’s psychotic brain. Maybe Nadine could see it clear to forgive him for that one. Whatever, Vassily couldn’t summon up iota of remorse for Cuchillo, didn’t waste anytime trying either.

  When it came right down to it, he’d never lost any sleep over the other shitbags either. Violent men, eager to unleash their sadistic brand of mayhem on those incapable of offering any resistance, succumbing to a predator with far sharper fangs than their own. Irony, its own justice. Fuck ‘em.

  He had been sorry about Ralph. Sorry that he hadn’t done the motherfucker sooner. Sooner meaning before Ralph slaughtered Tessa. Not that he was kidding himself, he’d been the catalyst. His lust for his wife’s sister, his disregard for June, the woman who’d done nothing but love, and honor him, had been the fateful spark that ignited a fearsome blaze of death and destruction. Destruction culminating with the abandoning of his own five year old daughter, smoking gun in hand. Remorse? Yeah, he didn’t have to work on it there, twenty-five years, he’d worn it like a shroud.

  His salvation had been June. June, who had seen it in her heart to forgive him. Helped him to reclaim Nadine. June who had been the core, the heart, of something good and pure rising from the ruins, a family. A true family, June, Vassily, Bill, Roy, and Nadine.

  Little Nadie, abandoned as a child, then years later, Nadine, betrayed as a woman. Betrayed as an officer of the law. Betrayed by her father in the past, betrayed by her father in the present. Nadine, sworn to uphold the law, her father bearing proud witness on the day she’d taken that oath, Nadine, further betrayed when that father had donned the mantle of the Widowmaker, becoming a law unto himself. Vassily saw this as his true sin. A sin so grave, that for its architect there could be no redemption.

  The why of it? For twenty years the predator had lain dormant. Sedated by the love and the strength of June. When she died, she’d left an emptiness inside of Vassily. A space where the beast could stretch and flex its atrophied limbs, extend its long retracted talons. Once animated, the creature’s will ceased to languish, grew strong, replaced the will of its host. Vassily drank, brooded endlessly, remembered the long ago release his spirit had garnered on eliminating Ralph. Why not find another Ralph? And another, another, and yet another?

  Vassily didn’t know if there was salvation in confession, but confessing was what he was doing. Clearing the air with Nadine, providing evidence on another tape recorded for Vance. Was he redeemed? He doubted it. But, he’d have his answer before the sun came up, and Nadine would be forever free of the pain brought on by his dark impulses. He asked her to remember the love, only the love.

  The flashing red of Vance’s tail-lights was blurred by Nadine’s tears as she tapped her brakes, eased in behind the Ford, and shut down. Taking a deep breath, she wiped her eyes, looked across the 3 AM desolation of the bridge’s empty roadway. Vassily’s panhead caught her attention as she exited the Explorer. Making her way across two lanes, a divider, and two lanes more, Nadine stood next to her father’s bike. The exhaust pipes were cold to her touch, but the engine still radiated token heat. The machine had been sitting awhile. God, how she hated the fucking thing.

  Twice in her life she’d heard whatever demon resided within the chopper’s soulless steel, riff an angst-laden blues through twin pipes of hot, blue, chrome. Twenty-five years ago the harsh lament had punctuated Vassily’s flight, enveloping little Nadie as she sat, left in the lurch. Tonight, an encore, same old travlin’ blues reminding Nadine of her early abandonment, and introducing this, Vassily’s final desertion.

  Would that she could embody her fury, transfer her rage into sinew, her pain into bone. She’d snap the chain, that wedded the devil-machine to the guard-rail, like a thread. Lift the panhead high, and heave it after its perpetually fugitive rider. Let Vassily forever battle Neptune for the right to ride, to run eternally away.

  Vance’s voice made it through the pounding in her ears. “Hey, you OK?”

  Jesus. She couldn’t let this get to her. Not this bad, not this fast. If she didn’t get a grip, hang tough, she’d be following Vassily off the bridge. Feeling Vance’s hand on her shoulder, she turned, met his eyes and said, “No, I’m not. But, I’ll make it. What have you got?”

  “Obviously, the bike. Right where he said it would be. Vassily? I’m sorry, he’s gone. I’ve been looking, that abutment, that’s where he went off. Left his smokes, lighter, and an empty half-pint on it. Marking the spot, kind of a courtesy, I guess.”

  “How fucking sweet of him.”

  “Easy, hon.” Vance took her elbow, led her to the abutment, pointed with the beam of his Maglite. “Look down here, it’s a clear shot, all the way to the water. Nothing he
could have got hung up on. No ledges, beams or cables. He went off here? Not a thing to stop him, till he hit the water. He told me on the phone, it was what he wanted.”

  “True to form. Vassily always did what he wanted.”

  Vance shifted the flashlight’s beam, over past the motorcycle, rested it on a small videocam duct-taped to a girder. “There’s the camera. He told me he was recording the jump. Hell, the man was cool. Shit. Considering what was going down, stone-cold is more like it.”

  “The Iceman.”

  “What?”

  Nadine frowned, “Vassily’s old nickname. Part of a morbid history lesson he laid on me tonight, before he came here.”

  “Yeah? Tell you what, for now, let’s leave the past where it belongs. Vassily’s gone partner, I got to call this in. We’ve waited long enough.”

  “Go ahead, call it in.”

  “You want to split? Get out of here? This place is gonna be a madhouse, why put yourself through that shit.”

  “I’ll stay.”

  Vance shook his head, “May not be the best thing. He’s the Widowmaker, you’re on the Widowmaker task-force, you’re his daughter. Now you’re on the scene here? Doesn’t look good. It’s a career breaker.”

  “You shitting me? Career breaker? If you think I’ve got a career left after this, then you’re senile. If you think I still want this job after tonight, you’re worse than senile, you’re insane. I’m out. Vassily may have been the Widowmaker, but that will never change the fact that he was my father. Make the call Vance, I’m staying.”

  Vance made the call, lit a cigarette, looked at Nadine. A statue sculpted in contradiction, Nadine appeared brittle, but far from fragile. Knowing how inept he was in these situations, Vance, wisely, said nothing. Side-stepping closer to Nadine, he looped one long arm around her shoulders, gently drew her to him. Her cheek found his chest, and they stood, a motionless montage, in the mist. He never felt her sobbing, but, in time, her tears soaked through his shirt.

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Vassily Kozok looked at the camera, scowled, then flexing his legs, dipped slightly at the knees, and made his leap into eternity.

  “No. No. No fucking way!” Sheba Johnstone stopped the tape, glared at Butch Ritter, turned her head to give Vance some too, then said, “I do not buy this. Not for one minute. This reeks.”

  Butch shifted his bulk, pausing until his chair’s springs ended their audible protest, said, “What’s not to buy, Sheba? Vassily Kozok was the Widowmaker. He confessed. Overcome by remorse, he took his life. That’s it. Tidy. I just love tidy, Sheba.”

  “I don’t mind tidy myself. But, too tidy? Too tidy burns my ass”

  Vance smiled, “Take a raging inferno to burn your ass Sheba.”

  “Vance, you wasn’t an old man, I’d take that black-jack of yours, straighten out your nose once and for all.”

  Butch’s voice went down an octave in pitch, up a few decibels in volume, “Hey, you two can engage in your odd little ritual of courtship on your own time. I’m busy man, and I’m only taking this time as a courtesy to you Sheba, because you have some doubts. Doubts, which so far seem insubstantial to me. Now, if you’ve got something tangible to give me, this is the time. If not, I’m closing this case out, as planned.”

  Sheba said, “Give you something tangible? Seems like you need something tangible, I mean since you’re the one that’s closing the case. In a big hurry too.”

  Vance snorted, “Big hurry? Case has been on the books for six years. Some fucking hurry.”

  “You serious, Sheba?” Ritter said. “You don’t believe Vassily Kozok was the Widowmaker?”

  “I’m inclined to think that he was, but I’m still not sold one hundred percent. I mean the guy confessed, but . . .”

  “But, shit.” Vance leaned forward, softened his tone. “C’mon Sheba, forget the confession, concentrate on the gun. Davis .22 derringer, in Vassily’s safe-deposit box. Ballistics confirm it, that weapon was used in all fourteen kills: From Bertram Tier to Cuchillo Medina. Tangible? It don’t get any more tangible than that.”

  “He’s right.” Butch said. “But, I also give a lot of weight to Vassily’s confession videos, both the one he left for Vance and the one he gave to Nadine. Guy, had no reason to lie.”

  Sheba raised an eyebrow, “Could be he was protecting someone.”

  Exasperated, Butch waved his arms, “Shit. Who? We’ve been through this before. Nadine? You cleared her personally, before I even promoted her. The sons? If I remember correctly, their whereabouts were pretty well accounted for on a lot of the kills.”

  “Not all of them.”

  Butch sighed, “Well, I’m sure I can’t account for my whereabouts on some of them either. Does that make me a suspect too? Don’t turn into a conspiracy-theory nut-case on me Sheba. Vassily was our guy. Period.”

  “Alright. Vassily Kozok is the Widowmaker. I’ll concede that much.”

  “Concede?” Vance shook his head. “We have the weapon, turned over by him. We have two video-taped confessions. Last but not least, we have a handwritten, chronological, list of each of his kills. A deeply detailed list: How he chose each victim, how he stalked them, and how he snuffed them. So far, the ones we’ve checked out are on the money. Hell, Sheba, you ain’t conceding a thing, you’re just accepting reality.”

  “You also got your tenses mixed up.” Butch said. “You said, ‘Vassily is the Widowmaker,’ you meant, was.”

  Sheba said “Don’t tell me what I meant. I’m with you now, as far as Vassily being our guy goes. But, the only way I’ll believe that man is dead, is when I see him face up on a slab.”

  Vance pointed at the TV screen, “How many times you watched that tape, seen him jump, with your own eyes?”

  “Dozens. And, you know what? No matter how many times you watch it. Forward, back, or slow motion, there’s one thing you’ll never see.”

  “What?”

  “You never see his feet. Never see his legs, below the knee.”

  “The guy was taping himself, on an auto-timer.” Vance said. “Lined up the shot, set up the camera, taped it in place. I guess for ID purposes, he figured it would be more important to get his head in the picture than to zero in on his feet.”

  “Cute, Vance. You know Vassily was a bunji-jumper?”

  “Seems I’ve heard that somewhere.”

  Sheba grinned, “Well, you heard right. Here’s a little hypothetical for you, boys. Say I want to fake my own suicide. Say I’d like to leave a visual record of my demise. Then, say I’ve been jumping off of high places, safely, for years. Add the Desmond bridge, deserted in the early AM hours, and presto! The perfect bogus suicide.”

  Vance laughed, “All the years I’ve known you, finally, you reveal a sense of humor.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Then you’re ignorant. Bunji-jumpers usually have a support crew.”

  “Watch that ignorant shit, Vance. Vassily had an accomplice, probably all the crew he needed to pull his stunt off.”

  “Who’s this mystery accomplice? Family’s all accounted for.”

  “Who said it had to be family? All he needed was someone haul his gear, help him set up, then pack his shit up, drive him off the bridge.”

  Vance shook his head, “He was on the phone with me, that makes for an awfully tight time element. You know, jumping off the Desmond, it’s over three-hundred feet to the water, that’s a long way down. Take forever for him to get back up. They’d have to pull him up with a winch.”

  “Who’s ignorant now? He wasn’t jumping for thrills, didn’t need a monster cord going way, way, down. Took a short drop, I mean, the minute he jumped he was out of the camera line, then he pulled himself up hand over hand. He certainly was strong enough. Then, toss his gear in a car, hop in himself, gone, baby. Gone.”

  Vance snorted, “You’re dreaming. All that activity, someone would have seen it, even at 3 AM.”

  “Maybe someone did. What we need to do .
. .”

  “Sheba.” Butch waved his hand, stood, began pacing. “You’re doing some bunji-jumping yourself here, and your cord is stretching way too far. You need to get your feet back on solid ground, now.”

  Sheba frowned, “Meaning?”

  Butch stopped pacing, straightened, let his physical presence take over the room, “By decree, mine, the case is closed. No longer open to discussion. We’ve gone over everything, and this thing is cut and dry. Vassily was the Widowmaker. Vassily committed suicide. That’s it.”

  “Whatever happened to democracy, Butch?”

  “This is the LBPD, a para-military organization. Nothing democratic about it.”

  “I could go to the newspapers.”

  “Sheba, you could go to the fucking moon for all the good it would do. What the hell would you tell them? Your hypothetical? Shit, half the tabloid hacks in the county are churning out similar theories by the hour. Goddamned Widowmaker is turning into another D.B. Cooper. Fucker’s always had a strong fan base in this town, because his victims were bad guys. So, you got bunch of loonies, want to believe he’s still alive. But, sensible people, they know better. You, Sheba, I always figured you to be one of the most sensible people in this organization. Show me I wasn’t wrong.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “By forgetting about a case that has been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction but your own.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Why? Because of that chair.” Butch turned, pointed to his desk chair. “It’s empty, Sheba. Six months from now it’s gonna be empty again, and by then I’ll be looking for someone to fill it. I’m going to be mayor, Sheba. I intend to ride the successful resolution of the Widowmaker serial murders right into City Hall. I’ve already got my party’s backing, this thing is a lock, as long as nobody rocks the boat. As mayor, I’m going to want the best, the most sensible person in my department to fill that chair. Are you that person?”