by Rusk, Day
The benefit of being in power for so long was the fact you had the time to really build up those networks. As such, he didn’t have to wait too long for a full description of exactly what had been found in Harry’s house that morning. A detailed breakdown; it wasn’t what he had expected.
Harry’s body had been mutilated. That’s what several of his moles in the police force had reported. Based on what information he got from the four sources his men reached out to, he was able to put together a comprehensive picture of how his men had died. It didn’t make any sense; the method of killing wasn’t anything he recognized; many of the gangs, ethnic or otherwise he had gone up against for control of the city throughout the decades had been vicious, but had never killed like that. This was new.
He knew about the supposed serial killer the newspapers were getting all worked up about; the one who mutilated bodies; he’d glanced over the articles on those two murders; he wasn’t much for reading about killing and death; when he went home at night and wanted to put his feet up and relax, he’d opt for a Stephen King or Elmore Leonard novel; something fictional. Reading about real murders was too much like taking his work home with him. One of his police contacts had suggested Harry’s killer might just be the work of this serial killer and added that if it was this serial killer he was one mean bastard because instead of taking down a couple of suits who’d probably never been in a fight in their life, he had now taken down three killers who knew how to dish out pain and death themselves. Morgan also knew about the murders because the serial killer had done him a big favor; it wasn’t long after Joe Weldon’s body had been found in the trash compactor that the serial killer had struck; the nature of these killings quickly overshadowed Joe’s death, knocking him off the front page of the newspapers. When the second murder was discovered, it all but consigned Joe’s murder to the newspapers equivalent of Siberia; no one cared anymore about the death of a hoodlum, when there was a juicer crime to zero in on.
Could Harry, Lou and Corrigan really just be the victims of a serial killer? he wondered.
It seemed farfetched. Nevertheless, Morgan had his men reach out to his police contacts once more; he wanted everything the police had on the original two homicides. If there was a connection, he wanted to know; he’d start his own investigation, find the killer and dish out his own idea of justice. These informants were also told he wanted updates on everything, even that which they might personally consider insignificant. He lined their pockets to provide him with information, not to think; they obviously weren’t that bright he figured, or why would they get in bed with him?
That same morning word went out on the street that Morgan wanted information regarding the murders of Harry and his men. Anyone who had anything to tell him could count on a future favor; and he always paid his debts. He wanted his men to spread the word that the police were to receive no help whatsoever; anyone with any information was expected to lie to the cops, but report what they knew to him. It was a simple matter in that you could report to him and receive a future favor or talk to the cops and expect to be disciplined by his men for your insolence.
Morgan was not happy, but he was confident; he was sure he could get to the bottom of the matter long before those dimwitted Detectives he’d met. All he had to do was be patient.
Carlos was nervous as hell; he was sitting in a booth at the Raven Club, a social club he had passed by numerous times, but had never entered, and never dreamed of entering. Everyone in that part of town knew it was Morgan’s hangout and office, and unless you belonged there, you stayed away. But he had information.
He’d wrestled with what he knew for most of the morning. Word was spreading quickly on the streets that Morgan wanted information about the events of last night; he had information. He knew the smart thing was to probably just shut up and keep everything to himself, but he had also heard, through some of the guys he worked with, that anyone turning over information to Morgan could expect a favor from him in the future. That was a very tempting proposition. Carlos was pretty much a law-abiding citizen, but he was also smart enough to know the score; he lived in a rough neighborhood; he was raising a family in a rough neighborhood, and was unlikely to escape that neighborhood any time in the near future. The streets were rough and as far as he had seen the police ineffective. Knowing that, he didn’t see the harm in earning some good will with a man like Morgan; he controlled the streets and the thought of someone as powerful as that owing him a favor excited Carlos. He would be seen as a stand-up guy and maybe he and his family would be left alone. He had two daughters who were getting older, and it would be nice to know that Morgan had personally guaranteed their safety from all the lowlifes who might just decide to pray on them. Having considered all this, Carlos decided for the first time ever, to visit the Raven Club on his lunch break.
He sat in the booth nursing a half-empty pint of beer. The club itself was empty, except for a few menacing-looking guys milling about at the end of the bar. Carlos figured they were killers so he tried not to look their way; he focused hard on the table in front of him and his beer. The less eye contact he made in this place the better.
“You got something to say?” asked Morgan as he came out from a back room and approached Carlos in the booth.
Carlos looked up nervously and jerked, almost knocking over his beer. He watched as Morgan Neil – the big man himself – took a seat across from him in the booth. He had the urge to flee but reeled it in.
“I saw you this morning. At the murder house. Harry’s house,” Carlos said, although not as fluently or smoothly as he’d hoped. He was even more nervous now in Morgan’s presence than he had been while waiting for him.
“You know something about it?” asked Morgan. He could see the man was frightened; he liked it that way.
“I don’t know. I think so. I just thought that I should...”
“Time to get to the point, Mr.?”
“Diaz,” said Carlos, “Carlos Diaz, sir.”
“All right, Mr. Diaz,” said Morgan calmly, “I’m here and I’m listening.”
“The killers, there were two of them, a man and a woman,” said Carlos. “They drove a black Honda Civic. At least that’s the car they left in.”
“Have you ever seen them before?” asked Morgan.
“No, no. Just last night.”
“What’d they look like?”
“The woman, she was there longer. She showed up with Harry,” said Carlos. “He’s good with the ladies, always coming home with somebody. Anyway, she had long dark hair, slender, very beautiful; very trashy looking. The man, I didn’t get a clear look at him. He was watching the house for a long time. I thought he might be the police or something like that. He ended up leaving with the woman.”
“Did you get the license plate number?” asked Morgan.
Carlos looked defeated; that probably would have been a good idea.
“Figured not,” said Morgan. “What else?”
“That’s all. That’s all I saw. I...I...I just thought you should know.”
“Have you told this to the cops?”
“I say nothing. I only tell you Mr. Neil.”
Morgan smiled. He loved it when a plan came together.
“And what do you want?” Morgan asked. Everyone wanted something, time to get to the heart of the matter.
“Nothing, Mr. Neil,” said Carlos, “nothing. In our neighborhood we look after our own. We look after our own, not the police. I knew Harry to say ‘Hi’ to him. He was our neighbor. I just thought you should know.”
Morgan smiled. He didn’t exactly buy all that shit, but he had promised a favor for information, so when Carlos was ready to come clean and tell the truth about his motive for talking, he would keep his promise, unless Carlos got a little too carried away and needed to be taught a lesson. Some people got greedy with the idea of a favor and he just couldn’t tolerate that.
“You think of anything else, you let me know,” said Morgan. “In the mean time,
don’t say anything to anyone else, got it? I mean absolutely no one.”
“Okay, Mr. Neil,” said Carlos, “Whatever you say.”
Without saying another word, Morgan got up from the table and made his way into the back room. Carlos suddenly felt the urge to go to the bathroom, but first things first; he wanted to get the hell out of the Raven Club.
Leslie arrived at the newspaper mid-afternoon; he had toyed with the idea of calling in sick, but then realized if he stayed home all he’d be doing was sitting around and obsessing about Gail and the events of last night; staying at home would do more damage to his psyche then going into work and pretending everything was normal. So he went into work.
Along the way he tried to seriously and honestly evaluate his situation. He knew Gail was a serial killer, not only responsible for Harry’s death, but also those two others; last night, although he had been staking out Harry with the intent of working up the nerve to kill him – thinking about killing a person wasn’t a crime as far as he knew – his involvement in the murders had been self-defense; he was coming to the aid of his friend whom he thought was in trouble, and despite the fact she was a killer, she had been in trouble when he broke through the door. It was clearly a case of self-defense on his part; no one could blame him for his actions. So, knowing that, he could turn Gail in; it wouldn’t be like in doing so he was confessing to any crimes of his own. She was a killer.
Leslie figured he’d make up his mind by the time he finished his walk to the newspaper and his office; by that time he’d know what to do. When he finally sat down at his desk, he picked up his phone with every intention of calling the police, but something was keeping him from dialing the number. He just couldn’t do it; he really didn’t know why, but he couldn’t do it. Leslie got up from his desk and made his way out of his office.
“I was wondering when you’d get around to stopping by,” said Walter as Leslie appeared in his doorway, “what with three Morgan Neil henchmen getting killed early this morning. You want to know what I have on the murders, right?”
It had crossed Leslie’s mind that the newspaper was the perfect place to spend the afternoon; at home he’d be too lost in his thoughts, but at the newspaper he’d also be in the loop of information. Walter was a crime reporter and would be all over this story; he also had other friends on the City Desk covering the crime beat and police, and they’d be digging for information. Just by hanging around and talking to the right people, he could keep as on top of the investigation as was possible without actually being a Detective on the case.
“I heard on the radio this morning about some triple homicide,” he said, sitting down across from Walter.
“Haven’t got all the details yet,” said Walter. “The Police are keeping a real tight lid on this one. I’m working my usual contacts and a few who are a little bit more unusual, but so far nothing of note.”
Walter got up from his seat and moved to a small bar area he kept in his office. “Drink?” asked Walter.
“Yeah, sure.”
“How come every time you darken my door these days you’re looking a little bit more the worst for wear?” asked Walter as he set about pouring a couple of bourbons, straight up. Leslie didn’t know what to say. Walter approached him and handed him the drink.
“I can’t be sure, but if I had to make an educated guess, there are newer bruises on top of the older bruises, kid,” said Walter as he moved back around his desk with his drink and sat back down.
“Either you’ve met an extremely aggressive woman whose idea of foreplay is the equivalent of the Rumble in the Jungle, or...hell, I don’t know what else,” said Walter. “I’ll tell you one thing, kid, if it’s some new broad in your life, I definitely don’t want to meet her sister. Couldn’t afford the health care.”
“Are you done?” asked Leslie.
“Let me see,” said Walter. “Good friend with an unhealthy obsession keeps showing up at my office door looking like he doubled for a punching bag at a boxing ring, and you’re asking me if I’m done? What the hell is going on, kid?”
“What do you know about the Financial District murders?” asked Leslie.
“Change of topic. Nice strategy. You’ve been reading my columns?”
Leslie nodded his head, Yes.
“Then you know what I know about the Financial District murders.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Much the same as we’ll pretend that you’ve met a new girl in your life and she likes rough sex to explain all those bruises.”
“They’re out there, Walter, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” said Leslie with a smile. “C’mon, Walter, you’ve been around a long time. You’ve got more contacts than God. What’s the inside scoop?”
“Inside scoop,” said Walter with a laugh. “I’ll get you one of those fedoras with a ‘Press’ card in the hat band, if you keep talking like that.”
Leslie just gave his friend one of his patented annoyed looks.
“The inside scoop, as you so datedly put it, is that the cops are sitting tight on these murders,” said Walter. “They’re not letting much out, and based on the fact my usual sources aren’t getting anything more to me, tells me this has been mandated from the top down. Haven’t seen this kind of a wall of silence in a long time.”
“And what does that mean?”
“They’re either sitting on something of significance they don’t want leaked, or they’re completely stymied. At a dead end and don’t want it to be common knowledge.”
“So, what do you know?” asked Leslie.
Walter took a moment to take a swig of his bourbon; he was eyeing Leslie closely. Every fiber of his being was on high alert, telling him that not all was as it seemed; he hadn’t been a reporter for this long without trusting his instincts.
“What’s with this sudden interest in those murders, kid?”
“Research. A book I’m working on.”
“I highly doubt that, but if you’re going to bullshit a bullshitter, I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you some professional courtesy and not call you out on it.” Walter paused to take another drink. “There isn’t much I know that hasn’t all ready been printed, however, about an hour ago; a source of mine indicated that the triple homicide last night might somehow be related to the Financial District murders. Said something about a possible similar M.O. in one of the murders.”
“How so?”
“Probably a mutilated corpse,” said Walter. “That would probably tie it in. But I’m just guessing, haven’t confirmed anything as of yet. You know kid that bourbon ain’t getting any younger.”
Leslie looked down at his drink; he’d been absently holding it, lost in his attempt to get Walter to give him some solid information.
“I like it a little aged,” said Leslie, before taking a sip.
“Stick to the entertainment section and your books, kid, it’s a much better life than delving into all this madness.”
“I guess,” said Leslie as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “I was wondering if you could also help me out with something.”
Leslie unfolded the piece of paper and tossed it on Walter’s desk. Walter reached over and picked it up; on the piece of paper was a picture of a rather attractive young woman and a Press Release bio introducing her as Gail Russell. Walter put it back down.
“This the bruiser?” Walter asked.
“I was wondering if you could talk to your contacts and see if you can find out anything about this woman; her past,” said Leslie. “I’m having some difficulty finding anything myself.”
“An artist? Need it for a Profile piece?”
“Something like that.”
“Why don’t you just get an interview; seems like a nice enough broad to sit down with.”
“All ready have,” said Leslie. “Mysterious type; doesn’t like to say much unless she’s going on and on about her art, you know the type. I think there might be
something interesting there that will help with the profile. I’ve hit a dead end, that’s why I’m here, asking the expert.”
Walter smiled and downed the rest of his bourbon.
“As I was saying,” said Walter, “the bullshit and the bullshitter.”
“Can you help me?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” said Leslie as he stood up.
“There is one thing you can start doing for me, kid, if you don’t mind,” said Walter.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“You might start ducking,” said Walter, as he got up from his desk and moved back over to the bar. “You weren’t all that good looking before you started coming in here all beaten up; none of this is going to improve anything. You want to live to be an old reporter like me, kid,” said Walter, sounding a little more serious. “You better start using your head for something other than a punching bag.”
“I’ll take that into consideration,” said Leslie. “Thanks, Walter.”
Leslie made his way out of Walter’s office as Walter poured himself another drink. His reporter senses were still on fire, but he knew Leslie well, and if he wasn’t about to confide in him, no amount of poking and prodding would change that. He just hoped the kid didn’t get himself killed embarking on some sort of foolishness. He hoped it wouldn’t happen, but from what he’d been witnessing of late, he wasn’t going to bet against it.
Gail stared out at the city; life was going about its daily routine. The art gallery had left a message saying a collector had committed to buying three pieces at full price; that coupled with about five other sales, was making the Lakeview showing a grand success. In the long run she didn’t care. Money mattered to others. Not her.