Evil Dark

by Justin Gustainis

  "Already called the tow truck – they're on the way. I'll leave the keys and paperwork in your box, like you said."

  "That's great, Perrotta. Thanks."

  I closed the phone and said, "The uniforms found the guy's ride – Econoline van parked across the street from Rachel's. Wanna guess what was inside?"

  "From the way you're smiling," McGuire said, "I figure it was something along the lines of gasoline and some rope."

  "Fuckin' A," Karl said.

  "You both win the prize, gentlemen," I said, "although the real winner is the DA."

  We'd all been worried that the commando would only be charged with what had actually gone down at Rachel's tonight. We had him on trespassing – which is a misdemeanor – attempted assault, and attempted abduction. And if that was the whole indictment, the bastard might well make bail.

  But since rope and gasoline had been used in both witch burnings, finding it in Mister Commando's van meant the DA could charge him with two counts of abduction and murder, along with the stuff involving Rachel. And since a case could be made that he was motivated to burn the women because they were witches, a trio of civil rights violations might be involved, too – although that's a Federal rap.

  Which means that at arraignment, the district attorney's office could ask the judge either for a remand into custody, or for bail so high that the fucking Rockefellers couldn't pay it. And there was a real good chance that any judge would go along.

  The last thing I wanted to see was the commando released on bond. He'd disappear faster than a politician's ethics – and be just as hard to recover.

  The three of us were grinning at each other when a uniformed officer came into the squad room, looked around until he spotted me, then headed toward McGuire's office.

  "Excuse me, Lieutenant," he said to McGuire, then turned to me. "Sergeant, your John Doe is in interrogation room 2."

  I looked at him. "My what? John Doe?"

  "That's what he is, Sarge. Guy refused to give his name. And since he didn't have any ID on him…" The officer shrugged. "He's John Doe."

  "Jeez," Karl said. "I would have at least expected name, rank, and serial number."

  I stood up. "Well, guess I'll go talk to him. If I can figure out what movie he's got playing in his head, maybe I can tweak the ending a bit."

  Karl said, "I'll get started on the arrest report while you're doing that. Don't want him to get sprung because of a paperwork error."

  "Let me know how your conversation goes," McGuire said.

  "Hell," I said. "You'll probably be able to hear the screams from here."

  "His or yours?" Karl asked.

  The interrogation room is about eight feet square, with acoustic tiles on the walls and ceiling. The purpose of the tiles is to block out distractions from outside, but if a suspect wants to think the point is to muffle screams, that's not usually a bad thing.

  Carmela Aquilina followed me into the room, closing the door firmly behind her. Procedure says at least two cops have to be in there with a suspect. Unlike a lot of procedures, that one makes a certain amount of sense. One-on-one, it was just possible that a suspect could overpower the detective and grab his gun. Then all kinds of bad shit would follow.

  Since Karl wasn't permitted in the room, I'd asked Aquilina to back me up. Part of that decision stemmed from the fact that she was available, although I knew that a couple of other detectives from the squad were also in the building someplace. But my other reason for asking her was based on her gender. We didn't yet know what scabs on his psyche our commando was trying to scratch with his witchburning, but I thought hatred of women might come into it somewhere. If so, having an attractive female cop present might get under his skin, with interesting results.

  The commando was seated at the big square table, so Aquilina and I took chairs opposite him. "You and I have already met," I said, "although I didn't get the chance to introduce myself. I'm Detective Sergeant Markowski." I made a nod to my left. "This is Detective Aquilina. And you are…?"

  He just stared at me. He was trying for impassive, but the hatred burned in his eyes like twin bonfires. They'd taken the stocking cap off him downstairs, and I saw that his hair was what my mother would have called dirty blond. He had the blue eyes to go with it, too – a regular storm trooper. Pettigrew would have loved him.

  "I don't know why you're playing cute about your name," I said. "If you've been in the system, your fingerprints will ID you soon enough. Same thing if you've ever been in the service." I pretended to study him. "You're ex-military, aren't you? What were you – special ops?"

  I didn't believe that for a second, but sometimes a little flattery goes a long way. Not this time, though. He just kept that basilisk gaze on me.

  "Maybe he's ashamed to tell us," Aquilina said.

  I cocked an eyebrow at her. "You think?"

  "Could be. If we knew his name, we could look into his background. I wonder what we'd find?"

  "Maybe he was a war hero," I said. Aquilina and I had slipped into good cop/bad cop without even planning to. That's another reason why I'd wanted her in the room. She's smart as hell.

  "No, I don't think so." She ran her eyes slowly over the prisoner. "Anybody trying that hard to look tough is probably overcompensating for something."

  "That's not fair, Carmela," I said. "We don't know anything about him."

  "We know what we can see. I mean, look at the size of his nose, and those short fingers. I think he dresses like a tough guy because he's got a teeny weenie, and he's afraid somebody will find out."

  "Oh, come on – you've got no call to say stuff like that."

  She gave the prisoner a nasty smile. "Betcha ten bucks he's hung like a hamster."

  "How do you figure to win that bet?" I asked. "I'm sure not gonna make him undress in front of you."

  "Wait until he's been in the county jail for a couple days – and nights." The nasty smile became an evil grin. "Then we can ask his cellmates."

  "All right, Carmela, that's enough," I said, making myself sound irritated. "Take a walk. Go get some coffee, or something."

  "All right, Stan." Aquilina stood up slowly, as if it had been her idea all along. "I'll leave you and your new boyfriend alone for a while, if that's what you want."

  We were violating procedure now, leaving me alone in here with a suspect. But I thought the payoff might be worth it.

  When the door closed behind Aquilina, I said, "I'm sorry you had to put up with that. She's not my regular partner. But he's undead, and not allowed to participate in interrogations. That Influence thing, you know."

  I was about to offer him a cup of coffee when he spoke for the first time since I'd entered the room, his voice quiet, but filled with contempt. "Bloodsuckers, and witches, and– " He looked toward the door where Aquilina had exited. "–stupid cunts who don't know their place. With those for pals, how does a human like you look at himself in the mirror?"

  I shrugged, and tried for a sheepish expression. "Sometimes it isn't so easy."

  The smile he gave me matched Aquilina's for nastiness. "Well, don't worry about it, Markowski. You won't have to do it much longer."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He just shook his head. "I want a lawyer."

  "How about you explain what you meant, first?"

  The headshake again. "Lawyer. Court-appointed lawyer."

  "Uh-uh. You only get a court-appointed lawyer if you can't afford to hire one."

  He gave me a shrug of his own. "Fine – so I can't afford one."

  "Your wallet, which I'm sure had its contents inventoried downstairs, contained $440. Less than half of that will buy you an attorney to represent you at your arraignment."

  "And how am I supposed to hire this cheap lawyer from in here?"

  "Just a minute," I said. I got up and left the room. A few minutes later, I returned with a landline phone and a telephone book. Cell phone reception in here, I knew from experience, was terrible. I plugged the
phone into a jack in the wall.

  "I'll leave you alone for a while," I said. "You can find yourself a lawyer in the phone book. Here's a tip – look under 'A' for attorneys, not 'L' for lawyers. And if you need to take notes – here."

  I tossed him a pad of paper and one of those four-inch pencils we give to prisoners. They're supposed to be too small to use as weapons.

  He stared at the phone as if I had dropped a fresh warm turd on the table in front of him.

  "You'll listen to the call," he said.

  "No, I won't," I said. "One, because it's against the law, and two, anything we heard would be inadmissible in court, anyway. What passes between you and your lawyer is privileged."

  He chewed on that for a couple of seconds. "You'll still have the number I called."

  "So what? We'd be able to figure that out based on what lawyer showed up to rep you. We know 'em all, believe me."

  He seemed to deflate a little. "How much time do I have?"

  "Twenty minutes is customary. Should be plenty of time – all you need to do is hire the guy. You can tell him your story when he gets here. Maybe," I said, "you'll even tell him your name."

  He nodded solemnly. "All right – thank you."

  Thank you. That was the first thing he'd said that surprised me.

  Back in the squad room, I saw Aquilina at her desk, with a cup of coffee. When I walked over, she gestured with the mug. "It seemed like good advice," she said, "so I took it, although the coffee's as bad as ever."

  "Thanks for your help in there," I said. "You played the son of a bitch perfectly."

  "Did it do any good?"

  "Actually, no – but that's not your fault." I looked at her for a second. "Remind me never to do anything that'll get you talking to me like that."

  Aquilina took a swig of the terrible coffee. "Pretty unlikely, Stan," she said. "You don't look a thing like my ex-husband."

  I stopped by McGuire's office and told him what we'd gotten out of commando boy, which was exactly zip.

  "Can't say I'm surprised," McGuire said. "Maybe his prints will get a hit – FBI, DOD, something like that."

  "I hope so. Although there's millions of people who've never been printed by anybody, anywhere."

  "Yeah." McGuire gave me a crooked grin. "What kind of police state is this, anyway, where we can't even make people get fingerprinted?"

  "Maybe we'll get his name in court," I said. "He can't be arraigned as a John Doe, can he? At least, I've never seen that happen."

  McGuire raised and lowered his eyebrows. "Why not? What are they gonna do – threaten to put him in jail?"

  "Guess we'll find out in the morning," I said.

  I was sitting at my desk, describing for Karl how Aquilina and I had unsuccessfully tried good cop/bad cop on the suspect, when Karl's head came up suddenly.

  "What's up?" I asked. Even though I'd been feeling pretty damn tired, I was suddenly very alert.

  "Blood," he said. "There's fresh blood close by, and a lot of it."

  It took me two heartbeats to realize what that meant, then I was out of my chair, through the door, and racing down the hall.

  A second later, a blur went past me, and I knew my vampire partner would get there first. When I arrived at interrogation room 2, Karl was pushing at the door and meeting a lot of resistance, by the look of it. The door was open about four inches and didn't want to go any farther. This close, even I could smell the blood inside the room. Commando boy, it would seem, had done something rash.

  "He's got furniture braced up against it, somehow," Karl said. "It's a pretty tight fit."

  "Fuck it," I said. "Can you tear the door off its hinges?"

  He studied the frame for a second. "Yeah, probably," he said. "The gap where the door's open will give me some leverage."

  "Then do it."

  "One thing, Stan. Once the door's down, I've gotta get the fuck out of here. That much fresh blood around… I could lose control, and that'd be pretty embarrassing."

  "Fine," I said. "Yank out the door, then take off. I'll see you upstairs."

  "Right."

  Karl reached into the gap and got a grip on the edge of the door. His hands were wide apart, with one set to push while the other pulled. He strained against the door, and after a few seconds the top hinge tore out of the wall. That gave Karl even better leverage, and a moment later the door pulled free with a banshee screech and slammed into the opposite wall. Karl said, "See ya," and was gone before the door crashed onto the carpeted hallway.

  Cops – uniformed and not – came running from all directions, drawn by the noise. They were all asking their own versions of "What the fuck happened?" but I didn't answer at first. I was staring into the interrogation room through the empty space where the door had been.

  It was pretty clear that commando boy wouldn't be needing a lawyer, after all.

  • • • •

  "They searched him down in Booking," I said to Karl. "They emptied the fucker's pockets, then checked him for weapons and contraband. He didn't have anything on him when he was brought into that interrogation room. He was clean, Karl."

  "I believe it."

  "Then I had to go and give him a pencil."

  "Don't beat yourself up over it, Stan. Sure, you gave the guy a pencil – that's standard procedure. That's why they keep that box of pencils down there. And they're special pencils, too."

  "Four inches long," I said. "With a sharp point."

  "Hell, it's got to have a sharp point, or you can't fucking write with it."

  "Yeah, I guess so," I said. "But still…"

  "'But still' my ass," Karl said. "They give the prisoners those dinky little pencils for a reason – they're supposed to be too small to be used as a weapon, for either homicide or suicide."

  "The motherfucker managed it, though."

  "I don't figure whoever ordered those pencils had in mind a guy so determined to off himself that he would dig the thing into his neck, and keep pushing until he opened the carotid artery."

  "That does seem to call for a certain amount of determination, doesn't it?" I said.

  "Determination? It calls for a fucking psycho, that's what. It's like… cutting off your arm with a pocketknife."

  "A guy did that, though, didn't he? There was a movie made about it."

  "Sure," Karl said. "And the reason they made a movie about it is because ninety-nine point nine percent of human beings would never have the guts to do something like that – even if the alternative was dying of thirst in a fucking cave."

  "I guess commando boy belonged to that one-tenth of a percent," I said. "Maybe he was special ops, after all."

  "I doubt it," Karl said. "He was just nuts. How'd he manage to barricade the door, anyway?"

  "He pushed the table against the wall," I said. "Then he wedged a chair against it, and then another chair behind that – which brought the whole fucking Tinkertoy setup within a few inches of the opposite wall."

  "Shit, no wonder I couldn't force it open."

  "I did find something kinda interesting down there, though – after they carted commando boy off to the morgue."

  "Interesting how?"

  "Well, I gave him a pad of paper along with the pencil."

  "Also standard procedure," Karl said. "So?"

  "So, he'd thrown the pad into a corner – a corner where the blood pool didn't reach."

  "I don't suppose he wrote out a confession, did he?"

  "No, but he did write something on it."

  Karl sat up a little straighter. "Don't keep me in suspense, Stan."

  "It looked like it wasn't intended for us. God knows why he bothered to write it down at all. Maybe he found it comforting, because it looks like he wrote it over and over."

  "Hope do you know it wasn't for us?"

  "Because he tore off the sheet he was writing on, and shredded it before he started digging into his neck with the pencil. The pieces of paper were so small, they look like confetti."

&nb
sp; Karl smiled a little. "But he forgot that the pencil would leave the impression of what he wrote on the sheets underneath, huh?"

  "No, he seems to've remembered that, too. He not only shredded the top page – he tore out the next three or four and did the same. Like I said – confetti."

  Karl rubbed the bridge of his nose. "OK, so why're you telling me about it, then?"

  I produced a little smile of my own. "Because he didn't tear off enough of them."