Victims

by L. A. Wilson, Jr.

  This day had been painful for Ellis, but not all that helpful. He gave Rachel Fisher his card and insisted that she keep him informed of her whereabouts. He didn't believe that she remained a high priority on anyone's hit list mainly because they didn’t know who she was. A lot of people probably thought that this was over, but he couldn't be sure. Anyway, once he churned the waters old priorities could become new again.

  Ellis was being forced to see his dead friend as a suspect, but Jake Boney and his elite clientele were far from off the hook. He was losing count of the people who might want to see Holly Fisher dead, but only the police would want to kill John Thomas and only if he had the goods on them and the ability to make them stick.

  ◊◊◊

  "You believe her?" Joanna asked after Ellis told her what Rachel had said.

  "She's got no reason to lie. She wasn't looking to be found. She believes her life is in danger."

  "I guess I'm not as shocked as I thought I would be," she added.

  Her face was hard now. Ellis surmised that she had probably cried as much as she was going to at this point. Women knew when something wasn't right in their marriages. Like many unions, John and Joanna’s had projected a happy façade. The trick she probably failed to master was recognizing reality before becoming its victim.

  "Thank you for being so candid with me, Ellis."

  "It wasn't anything that came easily," he confessed.

  "I know. That's why I'm so grateful."

  She embraced him warmly. It lingered until he stepped away from her, and he quickly dismissed its significance. Joanna was lonely. Everybody supports you immediately after a tragedy, but during the weeks and months that follow friends gradually disappear. There would be no one to comfort her on those long empty days and nights when everyone else returned to their regular lives. He forced himself to think about John. Like most men, he had a problem with friendships with women. Such friendships always had a smoldering underlying potential to evolve into something else. John and Joanna had always been his best friends, and here he was letting a casual embrace uncover the most irrational of thoughts.

  John could have had the same sorts of thoughts during a casual encounter with Holly Fisher, only he gave them legs and feet and ran away with them. He forced himself to stop thinking about it and went home where he was both grateful and supposed to be.

  ◊◊◊

  Home. Maxine and his children rejuvenated Ellis especially on days like this one. Maxine took no pleasure in being right about John Thomas' indiscretion. The seemingly perpetual sibling rivalry between his teenaged children kept him grounded while Maxine's arms remained his sanctuary. The electronic sound of his phone disrupted his sanctuary.

  It was one of Boney's phones. It could only mean trouble.

  "Rachel. Is something wrong?"

  The responding male voice initially startled him until he recognized its source.

  "No, Detective Carver," Jake Boney replied. "It's an old friend, not a new friend."

  "What do you want?" Ellis asked impatiently. He resented having his life constantly interrupted.

  "I want to offer you something of value in the hope it will benefit both of us."

  "I'm listening."

  "I need to have you resolve your problem, and that should also help me resolve mine."

  "You and your Middle Eastern friends are at the top of my list of potential perps, Boney. So tell me how you propose to solve my problem."

  "Ellis. Ellis. My people had nothing to do with your friend's death. These guys are too rich to be embarrassed, and that's all this would have amounted to if your friend had incriminated my business with his departmental problems. If John Thomas had exposed my business, the worse that would have happened is that they would have identified someone else to provide them with what they wanted."

  "So that brings us back to you."

  "You know me, Ellis. I'm not a killer. I've been to jail. It's not something I want to do again. I want this to go away, so we can all resume our normal lives. So let me see if I can help you."

  "I'm still listening."

  "Where was your Officer Thomas killed?"

  "Cascade Road, shopping center parking lot."

  "What was he doing there?" Boney continued.

  "What does this have to do with anything? He had stopped at a grocery store to get a couple of food items--probably something on a honey-do list."

  "My friends are very rich, Ellis. If they wanted a policeman killed, do you think they would have picked such a public place? As for me, anything happening to John Thomas would obviously lead back to me. Now, Ellis, what was John Thomas' last call?"

  "His last call? I don't get it. He had finished his calls. He was off-duty and on his way home.”

  "His last call, Detective Carver. They keep records of that sort of thing don't they?"

  "What are you getting at?"

  "You know, I wanted to be a policeman when I was a kid, Ellis, but you are one. Do your job."

  Jake Boney hung up abruptly leaving Ellis wondering about what he had just heard. Was Boney covering his ass or offering him something important.

  "What's wrong, baby?" Maxine asked.

  "Nothing," he replied. "I'm just thinking about something."

  ◊◊◊

  Ellis Carver knew everybody in the APD. He knew their wives, their children, their lovers and their secrets. That was the advantage of being a veteran of the force. That allowed him to command answers to unofficial questions that he shouldn’t have asked.

  Albert Williams was a veteran too. He was a police dispatcher with limited ambition who had made a career of that relatively low level job. He also considered Ellis Carver his friend.

  "You don't look so sick to me," Albert observed.

  "Well, if you had a medical degree, Albert, you wouldn't be in here making chump change," Ellis deadpanned. "I need some help. I want to see your dispatch records. What was the last call John Thomas responded to on April twenty-first."

  "The day he was killed?" Albert asked.

  "Yeah."

  "I didn't know you were working that case."

  "Just get me the information," Ellis insisted.

  Albert pulled up the logs and carefully scanned through the information until he found the date of interest.

  "1:28 p. m. Child killed at 121 Baker Street, Southeast. Accidental shooting. Unsecured weapon. Live-in boyfriend arrested."

  Ellis threw up his hands in disappointment.

  "What the hell does that have to do with anything? Baker Street. Whose kid was it?"

  He was scraping for straws. Why would Boney think this was of any importance?

  "I don't know," Albert replied. "I don't recall hearing anything memorable about the case."

  "You sure this was his last call?"

  "It was the last one he responded to," Albert answered.

  Ellis looked up expectantly.

  "He got a call at 6:45."

  "6:45?"

  "Yeah, right," Albert replied looking embarrassed. "We just make the calls. We didn't know what had happened."

  "What was the call?"

  "Homicide, 151 Techwood. Some guy named Angelo called it in to 911. Wouldn't give his last name. It should have been John's. We didn't know he had been shot at the time. Of course we didn't get a response, but Tom Marin took it."

  "Really? Just how does that work?"

  "He heard he call. He was in the area."

  "Just happened to be there, huh?"

  "I guess. Him, Cunningham and Parker," Albert explained.

  "Parker and Cunningham too?" Ellis muttered as he drifted toward the door. Marin, Cunningham and Parker, he mused. Three off duty white cops with nothing better to do than to hang out on Techwood after dark.

  "Hey! Where you goin'?" Albert yelled.

  "I need to see somebody who knows what the hell he's talking about," he said.

  ◊◊◊

  There are hundreds of people on the street who live a
life of public anonymity because nobody knows their real names. They are only known by colorful monikers that distinguish and designate.

  Ellis had known Big Smoove for over ten years. He was a thug turned community organizer. Perhaps the gradual ache that creeps into the bones during the late thirties and early forties softens men’s souls. Perhaps the slight slowing of steps that begin with the passage of time creates the realization that considerable will and fortitude is required to compete with sociopathic children. Whatever it was, Big Smoove had become the kind of citizen Ellis could count on.

  "Ain't been no killin' over here, Ellis. We don't put up with that no more. We got Community Watch over here."

  "I didn't think so," Ellis said. “There was a 911 call but no investigation or reports about a killing. So I want to know what really happened. Why was it called in? You know a guy named Angelo?"

  "Maybe. What's his last name?"

  "Don't know. Any chance we can find him?"

  "We'll see, bro," the big man laughed.

  Ellis followed Big Smoove on a walking tour of his streets. Smoove was a six-foot-four inch giant who guided his 300-pound frame through the street like a predator on the hunt, accosting people with baleful stares and demanding information.

  He led Ellis to a basketball court where a pick-up game was in progress and a host of fans cheered on their favorite players.

  "Angelo!" Big Smoove bellowed. "Angelo!"

  No one answered. Several seconds passed before Ellis realized that Smoove probably didn't have a clue who Angelo was or whether he was actually there. All he likely had was the conviction than anybody who was called out by Big Smoove had to have balls of tempered steel to ignore him.

  The voices around the court faded and onlookers began to look around apprehensively. One cluster of men seemed to be murmuring amongst themselves. Finally a reluctant young man made his way forward.

  "Angelo?" Smoove asked.

  "Wh...What you want with me?" The man approached slowly with obvious apprehension.

  "C'mere!" Smoove demanded motioning the man closer. "You Angelo?"

  The man nodded affirmatively, his eyes darting between Smoove and Ellis.

  "This is my friend, Ellis. He wants to talk to you."

  “About what?”

  "You make a 911 call on April twenty-first?"

  Angelo started to back away.

  "Where you goin', slick?" Smoove asked as he blocked his retreat.

  "What about it?" Ellis asked.

  "Is he a cop?" Angelo asked.

  "Don't look at me. Look at him," Smoove said.

  "I want to know about the 911 call," Ellis insisted.

  "Talk to the man," Smoove interjected. "Your ass ain't goin' nowhere until you say something, and it had better be the right something."

  "I did what they told me to do," Angelo confessed.

  "What who told you to do?" Ellis asked.

  "I don't know. Hell, they were cops--three cops. They said if I didn't do it, they were gonna do me."

  "So you made the fake call?"

  "Yeah."

  "There was no shooting."

  He made his denial silently with a nod of his head.

  "Was one of the cops fortyish, sandy hair, touch of gray?"

  "More than a touch," Angelo added.

  "Get outta here," Ellis ordered the man.

  "You get what you wanted?" Big Smoove asked.

  "More or less," Ellis sighed. "I owe you one."

  "Yes you do," Big Smoove laughed. "We'll be talkin'.”

  Ellis dreaded the idea that Big Smoove might ask him for a favor one day, and he would at least have to make an effort to deliver. That was how business was conducted, however, and the taxpayers would just have to understand that.

  He was beginning to understand how some of this had gone down. Tom Marin and his cronies had gotten a fake 911 report called in. The hit had probably been ordered on John, but something had happened. John was already dead. This story had screwed up his evolving theory that John had been aware of Holly Fisher's manuscript and had taken exception to the murder of his girlfriend, especially since his fellow officers were his prime suspects. With Holly and John out of the way, Stubbs and his hired guns could breathe a sigh of relief. There were things that Stubbs didn't know. There were things that Ellis didn't know just as well. He knew exactly what Stubbs and Marin didn't know, but if Stubbs and Marin didn't kill John, there was another player who he had missed--somebody slicker than all the rest.

  One thing at a time, he thought. Stubbs, Marin and their cronies were his first priority. Even if they didn't kill John, they had intended to, and they likely did kill Holly Fisher. He called Jake Boney's phone. He needed help, and he didn’t care where he got it.

  ◊◊◊

  Maybe it was because of what he knew or maybe it was just the natural state of affairs, but Tom Marin had come to look sleazier and sleazier to him. Ellis hadn't liked him in the first place, but now that he knew what he truly was, he found him even more repulsive. He could have just told his story to internal affairs, but it was too circumstantial. It was also personal because his friend had been a victim. Killing Holly Fisher had set this entire thing in motion, and in his circumspect logic, that made Marin sufficiently guilty to be the recipient of some very personal justice.

  "Hello, Tom."

  Ellis sat on the edge of Tom's desk mainly because he knew it upset his sense of order and pissed him off.

  "Ellis, still on sick leave?" He responded.

  "Yeah, but things are improving. Read any good books lately?"

  Marin looked up suspiciously but didn't respond.

  "You know, I've been reading this book. It's about cops right here in Atlanta," Ellis continued. "They've changed the names, but you can tell who they're talking about. They say Captain Stubbs was getting some free nookie on the side."

  Marin leaned back in his chair and directed a malevolent gaze at Ellis.

  "They say a lot of you guys were doing it," Ellis chuckled. "They didn't call his name, but the guy who was supplying the women was our old friend Jake Boney. You remember him don't you? Escort service to the rich and famous."

  Marin's eyes darted around the office as if to ascertain if anyone else was listening.

  "You know, once they start talking about this book in the papers and on TV, they're gonna do a number on Stubbs and probably anybody who was in it with him."

  "Where is this book you're talking about?" Marin asked in a controlled and deliberate voice.

  "Well, it's not exactly a book," Ellis confessed toying, with Marin as he fed him the bait. "It's a manuscript. But I heard that this publisher saw the first three chapters and went crazy. He just had to see the rest of it."

  "And where's the rest of it?" Marin asked in the same cold and deliberate voice.

  "Oh, Holly Fisher's sister has it."

  Marin's eyes widened abruptly. There was terror in his face. Ellis' instincts had been correct. Marin hadn't known that Holly had a sister.

  "You remember Holly Fisher don't you, Tom. She's the woman you killed so nobody would learn what you and your captain were doing. You took the hard drive and flash drives. You didn't think she would have had a hard copy."

  "You son of a bitch!" Marin growled.

  "Yes, I am," Ellis replied. "Now that you know that, you and your cronies can decide what it’s worth to you for me to keep my mouth shut. I’m a cheap date, Tom. It won’t cost you that much.”

  "You got nothin'!"

  "You're right, but I don't need all that much. Book, newspaper articles, TV Action News. Somebody's gonna have to investigate. Then people are gonna start cutting their losses. The Saudi businessmen have already said they don't want any part of this, so if push comes to shove, they'll throw Boney to the wolves. Now Boney's under the mistaken impression that I won't burn him, but he likes to live well. He'll give you up for the right deal. You know it."

  "Your days are numbered, Ellis. You remember that."
>
  ◊◊◊

  A couple of uneventful days passed, and Ellis was beginning to believe that his presumptions about human nature might have been flawed. Tom Marin, however, rewarded him with a phone call. He wanted to talk again—about money.

  It was nearing midnight, and he had lied to Maxine because she would never believe that he was going to meet someone on business at this hour. He cruised north of the city on interstate 85, uncharacteristically allowing traffic to fly past him as he intentionally stayed within the speed limit. Somebody was going to make a move eventually, and he was trying to create as inviting a situation as possible.

  His cell phone rang, and it was the real Jake Boney.

  "Hey, Ellis. Thanks for the heads-up. I didn't know how seriously to take you, but some armed men tried to break in here tonight."

  "How many?" Ellis asked.

  "Two. Security took them out. The Saudis have their own people. They don't play."

  Ellis kept checking his rear view mirror as Boney continued talking and thanking him.

  "I've got to go, Jake. Something I've got to take care of. I'll come by tomorrow, and we can talk."

  "Okay, Ellis. Thanks again."

  Ellis pulled into the driveway of the modest house on Green Dolphin Street. The lights were off as he had expected. He entered the house with a key and turned on a single light in the living room. He dragged a chair into the adjacent hallway, illuminated by a faint nightlight, and waited in the near-darkness with his pistol in his lap. He decided to give it a couple of hours before calling it a night.

  It was about thirty minutes before he was rewarded with a faint scraping sound near the rear entrance. He didn't move. From his position in the hall he could see the front door, and anyone entering from the rear would have to traverse the hallway to access the rest of the home.