Chapter 20: “An Unlikely Surprise”
The clock struck 1:30 am on Michael’s grandfather clock; Serena was worried about her lover. After the meeting with Don Felice ended, the crew quietly stepped outside the building, now more concerned about the future of the Santerini family’s survival. To make things worse, they couldn’t make a move unless the Don said so.
“For now let’s just go home and get some rest; this has been one messed up night for us all. We should starting planning a solution tomorrow morning to handle this problem,” said Jackie.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Michael.
“What do you mean Mike, isn’t any time as good as the next?” said Sal curiously.
“My mother’s sick in the hospital, and I promised I would visit her tomorrow,” said Michael. Of course, no one knew that Michael’s mother had died a month before of cancer.
“Okay, you visit your mother, and we’ll call you in the evening,” said Jackie.
“Hey who died and left you boss!” snapped an annoyed Sal.
“Sal, shut the fuck up! With all the shit that you put us through, you’re lucky enough the Don didn’t let one of us castrate you for your fuckups!” yelled Jackie, pissed off.
“Fuck you! You fatherless half-Irish bastard!”
BAAAAM! Jackie slugged Sal in face and Sal’s big fat ass met the concrete pavement in less than a minute. “Never say that again!” Jackie ordered, angry as hell. Sal looked at Jackie as he sat up, wiping the blood from his lip, surprised at what had happened. Jackie helped him up. “Sorry Sal, sorry,” Jackie muttered as he hopped into his car, looking nervous and fearful for what he’d just done. Sal was amazed. Jackie sped off.
“What the hell was that all about?” said Anthony, shocked.
“Jackie’s dad left him and his mother when he was three. He hates his father, but I think he hates it more because he never had a father; that’s why he always looks up to me as a big brother,” said Michael.
“My fucking ass! The kid fucking disrespects me like this, a made man!” bitched Sal.
“Sal, shut up. You got what you deserved. See you tomorrow night,” said Michael coldly as he walked up the street. About a mile from home it hit him like a whirlwind. His stomach shrank, his eyes burned red and his fangs began to protrude. He threw up the blood that Serena had given him to drink as it did not agree with his system. Michael then realized he had not feed enough and with no criminal victim in sight it was awfully tempting to drain anyone walking down the street of his or her life force. He knew he wasn’t a vampire like Serena; he knew that inside his vampiric soul something darker and deadlier called. As he started to run through the streets he began to hear voices: “Take them, kill them, take them.” Michael shook these voices out of his mind, then lost his balance and fell on the street. “What’s happening to me?” Michael whispered. On a dark corner further up the street he managed to find a pet store that was closed for the night. His hunger was now growing insatiable as he drew closer to the entrance of the pet shop. A professional hit man, Michael knew to never leave evidence of his identity at the scene of any crime, and he picked the lock on the door wearing gloves he always carried in his pocket.
As he entered the pet shop the place was quiet and peaceful with the sound of little grunts and snores that came from the animals in their cages and pens. Michael loved animals and doing this felt awful, but he would rather take the life of an innocent animal than an innocent human. Michael began to focus his vampiric mental energy through the entire shop. To be merciful he put the animals into a deep sleep; this way, it would be painless and quiet. As all the animals were in a catatonic sleep, he drained them of their life as he walked over to each one quietly. When he was finished, the corpses of dogs, cats, birds, and even the fish in their aquariums were left dead white, like statues. With his stamina fully restored, he switched the lock back in place with his lock pick on the pet shop door and walked the rest of the way home. It was 3:00 am when he silently opened the door to his apartment. Serena ran to him and kissed and hugged him. She looked disappointed and asked him with those eyes of hers “Where have you been?”
Michael, reading her body language, responded; “Baby, it’s been a hell of a night.” The two undressed and lay down.
“So tell me where you want to go someday to get away,” said Michael teasing.
“Paris,” spoke Serena softly.
“We will babe, we will someday,” assured Michael, whispering into her ear, and with a kiss of affection the two fell asleep.
An hour later the phone on Michael’s nightstand rang. Serena raised it to her ear and said, “Hello,” half awake.
“It’s Paulie, put Michael on pronto!”
Serena handed her lover the phone and lay back down.
“Paulie?” said Michael groggily.
“Yeah, listen up, two of our influential clients at Royal Dragon and Czar’s just got whacked!” said Paulie.
“What, when!” asked Michael, awake now. “Did they say who did it?”
“No, the news just said they were taken out clean,” replied Paulie.
“Should I take care of it?”
“No, you’re needed on solving this other dilemma with Franco’s weapons. We got some other guys handling this one; just thought though you might want to know. Stay in touch with me kid,” said Paulie as he hung up the phone.
“Shit,” said Michael as he sat up in bed.
“What’s wrong love?” asked Serena.
“Nothing baby, just some bad news from the office,” Michael replied as he kissed her on the forehead and lay back down to sleep.
Part Four: “COP’S INTUITION”
Chapter 21: Just a hunch
The sunrise touched the sleepless city of sin with a shimmering golden shine. It looked to be a pleasant day for the common couple cruising the city highlights.
But downtown, on the corner of the 34th Precinct, death and murder were just another day at the office. Two large feet stepped onto the sidewalk from an unmarked car. The feet belonged to a behemoth of a middle-aged man dressed in greasy, stained brown pants, and a long brown leather coat with slick black shoes. He also wore a fedora and a badge on a shirt so tight that it seemed the buttons would pop off at any minute. This specimen of law enforcement was Lieutenant Frank Watson. He walked over to a murder scene on the corner where the CSI team was bagging the body of a guy with gunshot wounds in his chest and head, and a second body with punctures on the neck and chest. The second body was so pale it looked like it was carved from marble. Frank lit up his morning cigarette with a look of disgust and frustration and approached his partner, who had just arrived on the scene.
“Well look at this, another fine mess to deal with. Just the perfect thing I need to start another day,” complained Watson.
“I’d figure after seeing so many bodies like this you were beginning to wear down a little,” said his partner.
“Please Jack, don’t insult me. Shit, three murders at the Royal Dragon and one at Czar’s last night and now this. Sorry piece of shit this town has become,” said Watson, pissed.
“So what do we got here Frank?” asked Jack. “Standard gun shot wounds to the chest and head on this guy here and one that I think you should look at. It looks like to me this guy took a stabbing to the neck and chest. He was probably held at knife point and then robbed and killed,” said Watson confidently.
“I don’t think so Frank,” replied Jack, getting a closer look at the wounds in the body. “I used to work as a coroner in the morgue years ago. I’ve seen many stab and gun shot wounds before, but this isn’t one of those.”
“What do you mean?”
“These four punctures look like they came from an ice pick, not a knife; just look at these jagged indentations here on the main artery,” said Jack, examining the body. Jack was a tough old Irish cop, he was the yin and Frank was the yang of their duo. Jack wore a grey trench coat and suit pants with black tie and white dres
s shirt; he was a respectful cop that stood for the law all the time. “Probably just another way to take out the garbage; another Scarfo family special, I presume,” said Frank.
“Well?” said Jack.
“I wouldn’t think too much about it. We’ll call the boys from forensics to send the meat truck down here, they will take the stiffs to the coroner’s office and we’ll get a full report after the autopsy.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Ballistics will match the bullet shells to the casing book they have, and they’ll give us the report later,” said Jack.
“Anyway, the police commissioner wants to see us later to report in, but first let’s head to the funeral. They’ll probably have good food for breakfast after the service,” said Watson.
“Is all you can think about is your stomach? How can you want to eat anything after seeing that?” The two hopped into Frank’s squad car to proceed to Saint Mark’s abbey for Fitzgerald and Scalipelli’s service.
Inside the church abbey the dull and melancholy sounds of the old brass pipe organ sung a sad hymn as the procession of Las Vegas’ finest entered the church, shaking hands and passing out hellos. Father Paul Sullivan, a handsome middle-aged priest, approached the pulpit to speak a few words. “Dearly beloved family members and friends, we gather here today on this day to remember and honor the lives of two great officers, Larry Fitzgerald and Joseph Scalipelli. These two officers fought valiantly to save the lives of the people coming home on the interstate a week ago when a shoot-out occurred on the highway that caused them to lose their lives in an accident caused by violence. It is sad for us to lose these two men, men of honor who showed their duty to their community and to their loved ones. Tragedy seems to be a daily occurrence today now that murder has become so common. It is such a sad thing to see that human life has grown cheap in our fair city, a city that was once a family city, now gone down hill. However, through all of this we still stand vigilant in the face of our God who is with us each and every day. Let us pray for these two souls who have left this world to be with our God through his Son our Lord Jesus Christ. Our Father who art in Heaven….”
As Father Paul continued the service, Jack and Frank sat in the back row of the church, talking about the families of the deceased men.
“Damn shame about what happened to those two guys. They were just kids, rookies. They both just got married a few months ago. Their wives must being going out of their minds with grief,” said Frank sadly.
“Good lord, we have to do something about this; every day things are getting worse; we lost nine men last week,” said Jack.
“Too many guys are taking bribes and not standing up for the ones who are clean.”
“The department is going to hell.”
An hour had passed and the service came to an end. “Come on; let’s go give our condolences to the widows,” said Jack, just as Father Paul finished speaking.
Jack and Frank walked up the aisle with the other officers to give their sympathy to the widows. Frank first spoke to Marsha, the widow of Fitzgerald. After hugging her and the other widow, he told them, “Don’t cry too hard, we’ll get the bastards who did this. Justice will be served, I’ll see to it.”
The two widows nodded sadly as the family members of both slain officers proceeded to carry the caskets to the graveyard outside. Once the service was over the two officers headed to the station to report to Commissioner Hamilton.
Back at police headquarters, Commissioner Sarah Brooke Hamilton sat in her cluttered office, her desk stacked to the sky with homicide and drug raid reports. The one window in her office was cracked and a dead plant sat on the grimy windowsill. The commissioner was a young and beautiful woman of 33. She had long black curly hair and wore a beige long coat and dress pants; she had beautiful legs, blue eyes, a cute nose, and lovely red lips. Upon the death of her father, the former commissioner, she had been voted into office.
Frustrated and upset, she called in Frank Watson and Jack Harris.
“Harris, Watson get in here.”
“Easy Commissioner, down girl,” joked Frank.
“Don’t patronize me Frank. What do you have on those two corpses from midtown on the Thirty-fourth?” Commissioner Hamilton barked.
“We just got the autopsy report back from the morgue. One of the deceased has been identified as Louis Scarfo, cousin of mob boss Franco Scarfo, and the other is a John Doe; one with gunshot wounds, the other with ice pick and broken bottle wounds to the chest. John Doe’s wallet was missing and the carved symbol was carved into the flesh of his back. Nobody can decipher it. It’s probably a calling card of the killer or killers, but we just don’t know. If this is another mob hit, it’s not a typical one.”
“That’s great; we’ll have the evidence department do a cross check reference on the symbol to match it to any criminal tattoos or markings in our files. We should come up with something,” said the Commissioner. “Anyway we just got a report from uptown. There were 12 more homicides in a high class apartment, an uptown penthouse owned by one Franco Scarfo and another report of a robbery of half a million dollars from the Las Vegas First National Bank.”
“Shit!” Frank whistled.
“Shit is right; whoever killed those twelve was fast and quick, messy but quick. Shards of explosives were found, Uzi Mac 10 shell casings and a whole bunch of dead bodies piled up nicely, not to mention a safe that was cracked open. The thief left a few dollar bills and jewels still laying around.”
“Any clue as to the perps?”
“They dusted the bills and jewels for prints, but no luck, just a bit of gasoline residue but not much to go on.”
“You want us to check it out?” asked Frank.
“Yes, you might find something,” said the Commissioner.
Just as the two detectives were preparing to head out, a strange report came on the TV.
“This is Mike Lee with a bizarre story that might just leave you afraid, very afraid. At the corner of Otis Way and Devonshire, a local pet shop owner faced a horrible discovery at his shop this morning when he found all of his animals dead in the store. Perhaps the oddest part of this story is that the animals all had died in exactly the same way; drained of their blood. Foul play is suspected.”
“But no one knows for sure,” interjected Frank Watson over the TV.
“And now our main story; a rise in crime and violence on the streets with a string of grizzly murders has plagued the Otis Way area, each victim drained of large amounts of blood, and drug pushers found murdered in alleyways. Even more disturbing is that the police have not been able to solve these crimes, but sources tell us that police homicide divisions have been working around the clock to find clues. We will have more details on these stories and will bring you any new information that surfaces. This is Mike Lee reporting for Channel 8 News. Back to you in the newsroom, Todd.”
Upon hearing this, the Commissioner gathered all the men and women in blue to the squad room. “All right everyone, listen up. We’re getting increased reports from our homicide division and narcotics. Both departments will be now be working together to combat the killings and the increase of illegal drugs in the worst parts of town. Now get on it and let’s go nail us some bad guys.”
After dismissing the officers from the squad room she called over Jack and Frank. “You heard it boys, get down to the Otis Way area and get this case solved. It’s making the department look bad.”
“You got it, Commissioner baby,” smirked Frank. “Cute. Now go, and don’t come back until you bring some evidence. Go kick ass.”
Frank and Jack headed out of the station.
Chapter 22: “Clue Connecting”
Jack and Frank arrived at the Otis Way area in 10 minutes. With forensics on site combing the area for clues, Jack and Frank went to take a look inside the pet shop and Franco Scarfo’s penthouse, as it was close by. The first thing they noticed was skid marks on the sidewalk and alleyway, with indentations in some mud of the tracks. Jack took a s
hot of the scene with his camera while Frank walked up to the door of Franco Scarfo’s penthouse, at least, what was left of it.
Sonny Scarfo and his insurance agent were surveying the damage to the building when Frank Watson walked in to scope out the flat. The place looked like it had been blown up, with bullet holes and large burn marks in the wooden floor and tattered curtains cut to pieces from the gunfire. The apartment itself smelled of sulfur. While surveying the room, Frank tried to link the murders to the other victims he had seen earlier that morning.
After the insurance agent left, Sonny noticed that Watson was still in the room upstairs. He was pissed about a fat boy cop snooping around his side of town. “Hello officer fuck face, what do you want here? You got no warrant!”
“I’m making it my business. Look here, asshole.” With the warrant in his hand, Frank pushed Sonny against the wall with his big hands, scaring Sonny shitless with a loud crack against the brick wall. “Alright listen, you little fat bald headed mother fucker, I don’t want to hear your shit, I don’t want to even hear you breathe, all I want to know is who did this!” Watson demanded.
“Why don’t you eat a doughnut and get the fuck out of here. It’s a federal offense to commit an act of brutality to a man who is unarmed,” sneered Sonny.
“I don’t follow the rules and neither do you, you fucking gangster.”
“Piss off, pig.”
“That’s it, let’s take a trip,” said Frank, blowing his lid as he pulled Sonny to the window, halfway holding him out the window six stories from the ground, holding his gun to the back to Sonny’s head.
Sonny was petrified. “Hey! Hey! What are you doing!”
“You want to give me some answers now asshole, or do I have send you on a one way ticket to the pavement?”
“Okay! Okay! I’ll talk I’ll talk! Just don’t let me fall,” screamed Sonny.
“That’s better guinea,” said Frank.
“My boss got robbed a few nights ago. We were having a business dinner with some building contractors at 9 pm when some asshole breaks in and shoots up the place,” said Sonny.
The Damascus Chronicles Page 7