Bouncer

by Tyan Wyss

  “At least I don’t seem to hold the top position for her rancor. That honor belongs to Chief Rollins.”

  Dr. Steven Koh sighed as he studied the handsome Eurasian face before him. “He couldn’t or wouldn’t help solve either of the crimes that interested her most. I’ll have this report to you as quickly as possible.”

  “Send it to Fox. She can plug it into her little gizmo.” Nick nodded towards the corpse. “So, you’re going to work on her now?”

  “I think our Connie deserves prompt attention, don’t you?”

  Nick’s cell phone screamed at seven a.m.

  “Formaldehyde,” repeated Nick, grimacing as he listened to Fox’s unemotional voice. “So Dr.

  Koh verified it. It must have fried her from the inside out.”

  “It did. Traces of blood were found in her urine and feces indicating she didn’t die at once. Dr. Koh says it probably took about 15 minutes. The bizarre thing is that she must have been forced to ingest the chemical via a straw since her mouth and lips were not burned.”

  “No wonder her eyes displayed such horror.” This was Freddie Kruger type cruelty.

  Lea agreed. “Someone wanted her to die a painful death, but for what reason? Could it have been a wife’s jealous rage, or some diabolical serial murderer who removes the finger of one victim and places it in the hand of another?”

  “Either could be right, Fox,” said Nick, “and my gut instinct screams that Trish Fisher had nothing to do with this murder.”

  “She certainly had enough anger and motive,” mused Lea, “but I’m inclined to agree with you. Both murders reek of purpose, suggesting a serial or ritualistic killer. And let’s face it. Serial killers don’t harbor remorse after a murder, they just pick up the pace. This community won’t handle the idea of a possible serial killer on the loose well. And the note is a distinct threat. It promises more to come.”

  Nick agreed. “I sincerely hope Chief Rollins can keep it out of the papers.”

  The dailies served it up with breakfast.

  At 10:00 a.m., Lea waited impatiently in her office for Nick, and by ten-thirty was thoroughly disgruntled by his tardiness. She made herself a strong cup of tea and opened the Sunday Times for her ritual review. Hand jerking, she spilled some of her Darjeeling tea right across the aggressive front page. Thad Fisher’s pudgy face, in all his mayoral glory, grinned back at her. Beside him, in a complete foil to his soft corpulence, Trish Fisher tilted a perfectly coiffed head. The headline screamed: Mayor’s Wife Implicated in Murder—Steamy Love Triangle Revealed.

  “Good God!” burst out Lea to the empty walls of her wood paneled office. “You would think this were a London tabloid, not a sleepy newspaper from some Podunk town. And how did the paper get this info so fast? It had to be Rollins!”

  The article would have been hilarious if it weren’t so pathetic. Much of the story was simply he said/she said gibberish, which completely misguided the entire piece and was clearly written for effect not substance. Lea threw the paper down in disgust. One particularly nauseating paragraph suggested Trish Fisher had hired a private hit man through the mob to rub out her husband. It, of course, was followed with the clichéd disclaimer of ‘from a refusing to be named source.’

  The phone jarred her from her less-than-ladylike thoughts, and she grabbed up the black receiver.

  “Sorry I’m late, Fox, but I’ve got some bad news for you. Philemon Jenkins was arrested early this morning. I’m down at the police station. When can you get down here?”

  “Now.”

  Thayne waited solemnly at the station, his head and fingers throbbing, partially from too much drink coupled with too little sleep, but mostly from the ‘gift’ he so despised. The precinct was livelier this Monday morning than it had been in years as Fox entered through the swinging glass door. Nick grabbed her before she had time to so much as say good morning to the plump dispatcher, who was dusted with sugar powder from the massive donut she was consuming, and dragged her into a vacant conference room.

  “There’s something bizarre going on here. Philemon Jenkins was arrested at home before 8:00 a.m., read his rights, handcuffed, and dragged to the station after being accused of first-degree murder. I’m positive there’s something Phil forgot to share with us.”

  Lea handed him the paper and he scowled, growling, “Goddamn dailies. This is a fine kettle of fish.”

  “My feelings exactly. You sick? You look like hell.”

  “Thanks. I see you dressed up for the occasion.” Her mind-altering green outfit made him want to shudder. Unfortunately, his head throbbed too much to allow himself that pleasure.

  “Thanks, it’s one of my favorites.”

  Jesus! “Do you drink soda, Fox?”

  “I never touch the stuff. All sugar. Did you know that teeth decays 250 times more quickly in soda than in water?” She hesitated in her condemnation of soft drinks. “That’s a mighty strange question.”

  Thayne looked strangely disconcerted and shrugged his shoulders awkwardly. “Just thought you just might prefer cream soda or something. It’s nothing. So, here it is; the key reason for Philemon’s arrest was those hand clippers found in Mrs. Simms’ shed. A speck of blood has been discovered on them, which bodes ill for our gardener friend.”

  “Wow, and all this just after the morning paper hit the street. This was preplanned, Thayne. I wonder how long before the mayor gives her prepared speech thanking the department for their speedy work. But why all the rush?”

  “Chief Rollins wants this case wrapped up and us out of the picture before we stumble on something he prefers remains buried. He’s waiting for us now in his office.”

  Chief Rollins looked like he’d slept in his clothes, and his icy blue eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue.

  “Sit down,” he ordered, slapping down a thin manila folder before the pair. “I would have thought you’d have done your homework a sight better than this, Thayne. To tell you the truth, I’m quite disappointed in you. Disappointed, but not surprised, considering the company you keep.”

  Nick ignored his tirade and scanned the first page, his almond eyes widening. He pushed the file closer to Lea.

  “A convicted felon,” blurted out the Chief, “living and working here right under our noses. Not only that, he’s been connected to the Marcelli Mob in Detroit, and while the cops were never able to nab him, it’s suspected he was one of Teddy Marcelli’s elite hit men for the last twenty-five years.”

  Chief Rollins reeked smugness.

  “Mr. Jenkins said he worked for a major auto company,” said Nick quietly. “And I believe him.”

  “Oh, he did, he did,” returned the Chief. “But that was just his cover, and a perfect one, at that. I’m amazed you didn’t at least run his fingerprints after taking his statement.”

  “I agree. We should run the prints of anyone African-American. Just on principle, you know,” countered Nick sarcastically, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling.

  “Wise ass, ain’t ya? And I don’t need a civil rights lecture from you. You missed an important fact, and luckily for us, I was smart enough to check the gardener out!”

  “You’re right,” admitted Nick tiredly. “How could one know Philemon was not who or what he said he was.” It was a lie. An image of Philemon standing over a dead corpse muscled its way into his brain.

  Lea wasn’t so quick to acquiesce. “Don’t you think you’re adding up the numbers a little bit wrong, Chief Rollins?” said Lea as sweetly as her slightly gruff voice would allow.

  The pea green linen suit would have looked out of fashion in her mother’s day and was already horribly wrinkled. Where on earth did she get her clothes? Goodwill?

  “Just because Philemon had mob connections in Detroit doesn’t mean he isn’t retired from all that now.”

  “Oh, really,” mocked the Chief. “Then perhaps I should share an interesting tidbit of information with you. Did you know that one of the telltale characteristics of the Marcelli G
ang was to hack off body parts, as mementos of their hits, and bury them beside their next victim as a warning to others not to mess with the mob?”

  Nick suddenly visualized that all-so-important check dissipating under Chief Rollins’ cold eyes.

  “As I recall,” said Lea evenly, “the Marcelli Gang preferred ears and male genitalia, not fingers.”

  Nick marveled as to how Lea got her information, but as usual the chief ignored her.

  “One pair of hand clippers hanging in Mrs. Simms’ tool shed shows traces of human blood. We’re waiting for the final results now. If it’s a match to Thad Fisher, this case is shut tighter than a virgin’s door.”

  “You’re not certain the blood is Thad Fisher’s? You jailed Philemon Jenkins just because you think Thad Fisher’s blood might be on the clippers?” accused Lea.

  Chief Rollins pointed to the door. “That and the ‘word’ your spooky partner found engraved in that blasted magnolia just happen to be the first five letters of Mr. Jenkins’ name. Phile! Why don’t you go powder your nose, Ms. Fox? I’ll wrap things up with your partner here. And don’t you worry your pretty little head; both of you will get a check for three full days’ work. I’m feeling generous.”

  “Right. If I were the murderer, then by all means, I’d carve my name into the tree right at the site. Like freeway tagging, you know. Aren’t you forgetting something?” asked Lea, refusing to budge from her chair. It was dangerous to call her pretty when she never deluded herself.

  “Like what?” snorted the Chief

  “Like a motive.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “If Philemon is the murderer, a paid assassin as you have suggested, then who employed him?” She tossed the morning Times on the table and pointed to the highlighted sentence speculating Mrs. Fisher had hired a hit man to rub out her adulterous husband.

  “This is entirely ludicrous!” snorted Richard Rollins, who’d obviously not had time to scan the morning papers.

  “It seems, if you’ve done your math correctly, and two plus two really does equal five, you should arrest her as well.”

  Chief Rollins swore long and loudly. “Trish Fisher is no more guilty than my dog. I’ve known her for years. This accusation from our flawed local paper is absolutely ridiculous. I’ll be demanding a retraction as soon as you two vacate the premises.”

  “I’m sure that’s precisely what Philemon Jenkins’s wife thought as they dragged her innocent husband away, and besides,” said Lea. “While I don’t agree with any of your logic, I have to concede that poison is a women’s choice, after all, and Connie was forced to swallow formaldehyde, of all things. Pretty lethal and cruel, if I do say so myself, and cruelty like that reeks of a wronged woman. The only wronged woman I’m aware of in this whole tawdry mess is Trish Fisher.”

  “I oughta toss the both of you out on your misguided asses.”

  “You’re just upset because you know Fox is right,” said Nick. “I’d suggest you research your facts better before you brand a local black man as the killer,” said Nick, inciting Chief Rollins to swear again, this time even more loudly and foully.

  “You’d better watch your step, Thayne. I’m not releasing Philemon. The law states I can hold him for twenty-four hours, and by that time the blood samples will prove his clippers were used to take off Thad’s finger.”

  Thayne straightened his shoulders. “If you fire us, no one will be around to prove that Trish Fisher didn’t hire Mr. Jenkins. And I refuse to condone his arrest or bail you out simply because you knew my father. If the papers interview me, I’ll tell them I believe this office has a racist mandate.”

  “Why you . . .” growled the chief.

  Nick glanced out the office’s window into the active main room. “I sure don’t see any African-Americans on the staff here. I wonder why?” Nick lifted himself from the cheap office chair. “Come on, Fox. Let’s go find the reporters.” Lea obediently rose, enjoying Nick’s laconic tone, which only hinted at the wrath he so obviously felt.

  Chief Rollin’s watery blue eyes held Nick’s for a full minute. His florid face flushed even redder before he lowered his eyes under Nick’s forceful gaze.

  “Now, hold on, hold on. Don’t be hasty. Sit down.” His eyes stabbed at Lea as she sank down as gracefully as her wrinkled green suit and unresponsive foot would let her. Nick remained standing, towering over the portly police chief.

  “Goddamn it! Sit down, man. My neck ain’t like no flamingo’s. You have to agree the gardener’s arrest was justified. He was a Mafia hit man, for God’s sake!”

  “You’re probably right,” said Lea mildly. “Philemon is such a good assassin that he stabbed the mayor with a screwdriver in one hand while clipping off his finger with the other, just to save time, you know. I know his type. Black and bad. Synonyms really, aren’t they?”

  “You know what you are, lady?”

  “A Capricorn?”

  “An unemployed bitch as soon as the lab report comes back. You believe someone else did it, then find out who really hired Jenkins. You have 24 hours. And you, Thayne, keep a leash on her!”

  Lea grinned, totally unfazed as Nick followed the awful green suit out the door. She paused by the water cooler and smoothed her skirt, looking quite amused for one so verbally abused.

  Nick didn’t share her humor. “Not only a racist bastard, but a sexist one as well. How does Roger put up with him?”

  “What I want to know is what’s his connection to Trish Fisher?”

  “You got your antenna up, Fox?” He leaned against the wall.

  “Yup, and I’d say he’s mighty sensitive about the woman; his ears were burning red when I suggested that she too should be picked up for hiring Philemon Jenkins as a hit man. It’s time I spoke to this Mr. Jenkins myself. Since Chief Rollins has placed the personal stamp of disapproval on him, I’m sure I’ll like him.”

  Chapter 14

  Sunday, 11:30 am

  Philemon looked like the life had been punched out of him, but rose politely when Nick and Lea were led into his cramped cell.

  “How you do, ma’am,” he said genteelly. His grizzled head dipped as he extended a calloused hand first to her and then to Nick. His glasses were spotted and a nasty stain marked his green t-shirt.

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Jenkins. I’m Lea Fox and I’m working with Inspector Thayne here. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  The dignified gardener dropped heavily upon the county-issued mattress and ran a weary hand through his wiry hair. He lifted dark eyes to the petite woman and studied her with a face neither filled with recriminations nor excuses. The slightly blurred walnut eyes, red-rimmed from fatigue, were sharp with subdued intelligence. This man had played second fiddle all his life, but not anymore. He had learned, just like most women, to hide his sharp mind behind what appeared like submissiveness. Lea suspected it wasn’t racism that caused this pretended intellectual indifference. He had once worked for men of few scruples and twisted intellect and managed to walk away from Detroit still intact in body and soul. Lea instantly admired Philemon. He was the type of man she’d befriend if his circumstances weren’t so desperate.

  “Not at all. I ain’t going anywhere. How are you, Mr. Thayne?”

  “Not very good since I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “You and me both. They say I’m in here for killing the mayor and that mistress of his. I don’t even know her name. This morning passed like a blur when they slapped the cuffs on me and dragged me away, my woman weeping and clinging to me like her heart would break. Please, can you look after my Darcy? Her heart won’t take the strain. I’m nothing without my Darcy.”

  “We’ll stop by and see her right after lunch, Mr. Jenkins,” Nick promised.

  “Please, call me Philemon. Less formal than Mr. Jenkins. So, what did you want to ask me, Ms. Fox?”

  “Are you a born-again Christian?”

  Both Nick and Philemon jerked. This was not the question eithe
r had been expecting.

  “Why, yes. Yes, I am.”

  “And when did this conversion take place?”

  “It’s been over five years since I pledged my soul to the Lord.”

  “And were you a hit man in Detroit, as Chief Rollins states?”

  Philemon gripped the gray-striped mattress with taut fingers. “I enjoy being a gardener, Ms. Fox. I never imagined a job more fulfilling than the cultivation of plants. Every day, I notice something in Mrs. Simms’ garden that fills me with awe. Sometimes it’s a rosebud that’s just opened, or a piece of ivy that’s finally reached the eaves of the house. The bees are alive and on a quest. Bumblebees, honeybees, and little black striped bees I don’t even know the name of. And then there are the birds. The pyracantha found in her garden is full of orange-red berries, and the leaves are so shiny and smooth that the robins, with their fat round bellies, love ‘em. God bless the beasts and the children. You know no sparrow drops without God’s knowledge?”

  Lea nodded. This man’s faith gave him joy.

  “Mrs. Simms desires color and harmony and respects my opinion. She said to me once, ‘Philemon, you sure have such a way with living things.’ So I spend my days nurturing the perfect and thoughtless—the plants and flowers and wild birds—just like I did when I was a boy in Georgia. And when I do that, it nourishes my soul and replenishes it. My poor, tarnished soul. I’ve done many things in my life I regret, Ms. Fox. Just what those things were are now only between God and me. I answer to no man, or woman for that matter, only to our sweet merciful Jesus. He knows who the real killer is and will reveal it when the time is right. The guilty are always punished unless they repent.”

  Lea sighed and pulled out her mini-computer, her fingers rapidly entering his response.