Men Who Walk Alone

by T. J. Martinell

  The thief smiled with satisfaction, an expression of mocking confidence on his face. He yelled loudly, hastily reached into his jacket.

  A swarm of policemen came out of the liquor store, all armed with Tommy guns. Meanwhile, the man yanked out a pistol, a police badge in the other hand. He raised his gun up, a grin from ear to ear. His eyes exhibited his intent. He was ready to kill.

  “Freeze!”

  The Vigilante jerked mechanically. He snapped off a terse shot; it hit the policeman’s pistol trigger guard, sent it out of his hand. He promptly fired four more shots at the policemen, hit their Thompsons. They clacked as they fell onto the sidewalk.

  Shocked, terrified, the rest of the officers scrambled for cover. The commanding officer dove around the corner of a building, turned to see the Vigilante running away down the street. His cowardice vanished.

  “After him!” he screamed.

  The CO waved his team towards the fleeing figure. The four officers ran over to recover their weapons, snatched them with angry embarrassment, continued the pursuit down Cabot Street. They turned the corner, saw their prey run around another one. His long trench coat floated in the wind like a cape, giving him a phantom-like presence. His feet were blurry as they moved.

  The policemen sprinted with extra zeal. As they closed the distance, they fired every time they got a chance. But it was too dark for them to get a clear, accurate aim with the submachine guns.

  Pedestrians, homeless people on the street watched from the side in curiosity. As the Vigilante hurried past them, some of them whispered words of encouragement from their placements between door frames, underneath the overheads of stores.

  After about a hundred more yards, the Vigilante turned into an alley. The CO smiled as he stopped just outside of it, caught his breath. It was a dead end. His team formed up behind him. He motioned to his men to take up positions. Three officers went up the street, around the block, chose a flanking spot on the other side of the building.

  Within a minute, they were ready to go in.

  The CO gave the signal. A dark blue mass, the policemen stormed into the alley. Their feet clamored on the ground. Tense, they fired their weapons into the abyss, refused to cease. They finally made their way to the back, noticed something odd. No shots were fired at them.

  They reached the dead end, gasped collectively.

  There was nothing. Not a damn thing.

  One of the officers pulled out his hefty flashlight. His hands shivered.

  The light revealed two garbage cans, a large trash dumpster. Nothing else. No Vigilante.

  But no possible means of escape.

  “Search the place!” the CO said weakly.

  The team began to believe the rabid stories they had heard about the Vigilante. It made them cautious; they rummaged about in the garbage, sifted through it meticulously. A squad returned to their cars, radioed their position, requested further backup.

  An hour search turned up nothing. The large gathering of blue uniformed men stood awkwardly with incredulity, awed horror.

  Other than the faint rustle of the trees, ominous silence fell over the alley.

  ***

  Hardy got out of his police car, a mottled face apparent. He glared at the crowd of policemen outside the liquor store. He belched loudly, rubbed his eyes.

  He had been briefed, got the bad news with his morning coffee. The task force had set a trap for the Vigilante the previous night.

  Not the worst idea. The CO had analyzed his patterns, ascertained where he would be found. All they had needed was bait. It had taken three hours, several unlikely promises to convince an officer to pose as a mugger. The plan was supposed to work.

  But it had failed.

  One man against a whole squad.

  He could see it now: Police incompetency on page one, again!

  Hardy walked up to the commanding officer. The black bags under the man’s eyes hinted that he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep since the night before. He spoke before Hardy could say anything, tried to sound like some gains had been made.

  “Sir, we checked the shells recovered from the scene. They were .455 Webley, the same as the Vigilante’s. Our man also got a visual of him. We’re sending a sketcher to get a rough image of his face.”

  Hardy spat a dark brown substance on the sidewalk, the leftovers of his chaw.

  “I can’t believe ya let him get away!” he yelled. “How the hell could ya let him slip past ya. Ya had an entire squad of men, automatic weapons, and he was all alone with a piece of shit!”

  His voice was threatening, foreboding. The other officers observed from a distance, started to move further away from the two, shuddered from what may lay ahead for their CO. Hardy’s reputation had followed him from his days in the boxing ring.

  But the CO wouldn’t take the blame so easily.

  “Sir, there is no way he could have escaped. That alley is a dead end. The buildings have no fire escape ladders on that side, and the buildings themselves are over twenty feet high. He couldn’t have climbed them.”

  “Well, he still escaped, didn’t he?”

  “Sir, if you want to explain how he got away, I think we all would appreciate it very much.”

  “Watch ya tongue, or you’ll be starin’ at a freakin’ typewriter for the rest of ya career!” Hardy screamed back, pushing him violently with a rough arm. He then stomped back over to his police car, lashed out at the timid driver with a fuming breath.

  “Where the hell is Seth Moore?”

  “He is at the station right now, sir, working on a case.”

  “Well, get him here, now! I want him to recover any evidence before the damn press shows up! We need to keep this incident under tight lips, got it? Keep them away from here!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The officer grabbed the radio, called for Moore. He was too preoccupied to watch Hardy reach into his pocket with a shaky hand, pull out a pack of cigarettes. He stepped off to the corner of the street, took one out, lit it with a match, slowly sifted out the smoke through his mouth, as if he tried to blow out a private stress with it.

  ***

  I shook my head as I arrived on the scene on Cabot Street. Knee-deep in work on the Vigilante case, I had gotten called by a flustered Hardy. It had been easy to relinquish the three previous cases on my desk. The convictions were forgone outcomes; the perps would get light sentences with early paroles.

  Hardy had given it to me succinctly. They had coughed up a half-witted plan to capture or kill the Vigilante that previous night, but “somehow” he had managed to escape, had disappeared in an alleyway.

  I mused over it as I drove up Cabot, slightly impressed, as well as surprised. The Vigilante apparently shot as well as he planned. The sign of intelligence; add that to his list of attributes. A spark of hope.

  Maybe this wouldn’t be so easy. It seemed that they had all underestimated him.

  I greeted one of the officers as I got out of my car; the officer filled me in with the entire story, added the other facts that had been left out.

  The hunt was still on. But I was admittedly just as confused as the rest of the department. How had he escaped?

  “Did ya have the bullets sent to the lab for ballistics, just to be sure?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. It matched with the Webley-Fosbery revolver.”

  The officer then added with a sad face. “But frankly, there wasn’t any point to it.”

  I nodded my head. “Ya tellin’ me there ain’t any witnesses? Anyone who actually saw him?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Yeah, but what?”

  “We got a lot of people who saw him, but ain’t no one talkin’. Nobody wants to be the rat. We know a lot of the homeless people on that street got a good look at him, but they won’t talk to us coppers. They’re protectin’ the bastard.”

  “Or they’re just freakin’ apathetic,” I answered offhandedly.

  “Or worse, scared shitless.”

 
; “Let’s hope not. Where was he last seen?”

  “This way. I’ll show you.”

  We went down several streets; the entourage of cars appeared to be a ruse to keep the press away from the true scene. The officer took me down an alley marked off with yellow tape. We went under it, strolled curiously to the dead end next to a grocery store.

  I glanced around. There were the two garbage cans, the rusty dumpster next to a moss-covered manhole. I turned to the officer, hoped he would concede to my request.

  “Hey, can ya go back to my car, see if anybody’s tryin’ to get me on the radio? I got lucky to get Hardy’s call, but I don’t wanna to miss nothin’ from the station. They said they wanted me eventually for another case.”

  The officer nodded, walked out, disappeared on the street.

  I grinned, turned around.

  I worked like I walked; alone. No partner, no companions, no friends. It was lonely, but I preferred it. I didn’t want anyone in the Force to know if I found any clues. I liked the peace, the serenity. Nobody looked over my shoulder like a sadistic schoolmaster.

  I took my pack off my shoulder, put it down by the garbage cans. Out came a Leica III camera. I took several pictures of the scene; they had already had a police photographer do it, but I didn’t trust the man’s abilities.

  Finished, I took a closer look at the dumpster, stared at the wall at the end of the alley, observed it for holes or crevices where a man could put his foot. There were none I deemed feasible. It was too high to be climbed, too high to jump over, even with the dumpster pushed up against it. And the dumpster hadn’t been found there. There was nowhere to run.

  Unless he really was a ghost.

  I took out a pair of gloves, slipped them on before he leaned into the dumpster. I started to search the garbage inside. I winced, grimaced, held my breath as my fingers experienced odd sensations.

  I pulled myself away when I noticed something at the bottom of the exterior.

  It was an imprint made with a powdery substance, a footprint from a shoe or boot. I crouched down, stared closely at it. It appeared to be rust. I grabbed my backpack, pulled out my camera again to take a few close-up photographs. I retrieved a small plastic bag with a brush, then tapped the substance lightly. It loosened a small sample of the residue into the bag. Finished, I took one last look at it with intrigue. My instincts ran to acid.

  I smiled. It was something. I would have it examined at the station to be sure.

  Spurred on by my discovery, I decided to look again inside the dumpster. Before I did that, however, I took another look down the alley.

  No one.

  I bent over the side, looked once more.

  Another small discovery; a thick black hair dangled on the side of the dumpster. I peered at it, picked up the hair with a pair of tweezers, placed it in another evidence bag.

  I had gotten what I needed.

  The bag was closed shut, everything thrown into my pack.

  I glanced around the alleyway again. The impossibility of escape bothered me. The Vigilante was a physical being; to hell with the newspapers, their phony accounts. The man was a mortal, like the rest of them. He had escaped the alley, evaded his pursuers with a clean getaway. He had done it smartly. Not supernaturally.

  I walked briskly out of the alley, back to the liquor store where my car was. I opened the door; the officer hurried over to me, told me there had been no radio calls.

  “Thank you.” I said. “Oh, and tell Hardy that I found nada. So sorry.”

  The officer grimaced. “Yes, sir. I’ll tell him.”

  “That’d be swell.”

  I drove off, made the short journey back to the police station with a sardonic grin. I ignored my colleagues when I ventured inside the building. Nobody took offense to it.

  I hurried straight to the lab to have the chemical analyzed as soon as possible. This would be the first clue that would lead me to the Vigilante, if my instincts served me right.

  ***

  The results came back within twenty-four hours.

  I sat eagerly at his desk on the third floor, read the results with a vindicated, smug expression. I scratched my hair habitually.

  My hunch had been right; it was rust. The lab boys had given me the thumbs up.

  According to the analysis, it was corroded metal.

  My mind went to work.

  I checked through city records, discovered there was a junkyard of wrecked Model T’s near Shingleville.

  I tossed the results on my desk, set my feet on top of it as I leaned back. Was it a coincidence?

  There were no coincidences. Coincidences were for people oblivious to the obvious.

  I felt invigorated, inspired to travel downstairs to the archives to access the criminal records. Too bad archives was a disaster; nothing orderly or arranged properly. The boys who ran it should have been shot; probably had been. Explained the mess.

  The minutes turned to hours as I sat down in a lonely, dark corner with my head buried in a sea of folders. I searched for any males that lived near or in Shingleville that had been involved in any crime related incident.

  The minimum and maximum timeframe would be two weeks ago to one year. It was pure logic. No one who intended to fulfill an act of vengeance or vendetta would wait more than a year. Patience was not a trait of the vindictive.

  The clock on the wall read three in the afternoon when started perusing the files; I came to a halt at nine thirty when the search was over. My shift was done at six, but I knew Hardy would have gotten antsy, made me stay. It was futile for me to fight it.

  My face was red from all the scratches on my whiskers, my coffee cup stained brown, a mountain of cigarettes in an ashtray by my side. But it had been worth the results; dozens of names that fit the bill.

  I quickly read the list; only one name stood out.

  Patrick Malone: a twenty-five-year-old who’d lived on Eastern Avenue since he was seven. Irish immigrant family with a typical misery tale; parents had been murdered less than a year ago by burglars. Patrick had been at work at the time of the attack, thus escaped harm. His sister, Evelyn had been there, hidden in the closet when the killings happen. But she watched it all through a crack in the door.

  I read on. The mick lived in the same house with his sister. According to the report, she had been examined by a psychiatrist, confirmed to have emotional instability, obviously from what she had seen. She was unable to live on her own. The culprits were never caught. Patrick kept them off the street through hard work, pulled double shifts at the factory.

  I brought a hand over my forehead as I sighed gravely. It was too good, too bad. Malone was reminded every day of what had happened to his sister. The memory wouldn’t go away. It couldn’t.

  I fought my confidence with suspicion. I had seen this situation before. The person I most suspected turned out to be the most innocent. From beat cop to lead detective, I had learned to always double check my gun before I fired it. I needed more proof before I could be sure. Easy way to do that.

  I called the forensics lab with a weary voice.

  “This is Lead Detective Seth Moore, homicide bureau. I sent a piece of evidence, No. 4567, to be analyzed. Has it been done yet, or do I have to come down there myself and give ya good kick in the ass?”

  There was a slight pause as the person looked up his evidence number.

  “Not yet, sir.”

  I scowled. “Can I expect to have this done by Christmas, or should I write a letter to freakin’ Santa Claus and ask him to do it?”

  “Sorry, detective, but we just had another boatload of evidence sent to us from burglary. There was another break-in at the Benzene Factory. You know the drill on that, priorities and all. We’ll get it to you as soon as other more urgent evidence is finished with.”

  I rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.”

  The Benzene Factory was a farce, another front operation for smuggling by the pier. Someone broke in, stole the contraband
before it could be examined, then returned it through the usual channels. The evidence they used was part of the ruse to throw off the customs agents who weren’t in on the deal. They couldn’t be touched, had the right connections with the district attorney and the governor.

  I was vexed. I wanted the answer right away. The information could either prove or disprove any theories I had. Unable to do that, however, I had an open slot in my schedule the next day.

  It was time for me to make a house call.

  ***

  I worked there every day. I should have become acclimated to it by then. But I still shuddered every time I drove into Shingleville. I lived on Kittredge; there was a big discrepancy. A big one.

  Every city had a section they weren’t proud of, like a shameful relative. For Beverly, it was Shingleville: A section of town comprised mainly of Irish immigrants, separated from the rest of town by a rickety bridge. The less-than scenic route started at Elliot Street, crossed over the bridge onto the area near Porter River that abutted the cities of Peabody and Salem.

  The vicinity had its own ambiance, one that caused my hairs to stiffen every time I drove over the bridge, the factories perched on my right like monuments to a bygone era.

  Rather than an idyllic, utopian neighborhood of pristine houses, the environs were filled with dilapidated shacks. They had chipped paint on the walls, plaster torn away and salvaged, fences ripped, rotted away. Wrecked automobiles, dead carcasses filled in the gutters alongside empty liquor bottles.

  My car was a strange sight on the road for the pedestrians who stared at me like I was an alien out of an Edgar Rice Burroughs’s novel. There were a paltry number of operable cars. It was as if Beverly was back in 1905, the automobiles a wonderful, invention.

  I finally turned onto Eastern Avenue, where I stopped to glance at my notes for Patrick Malone’s address. I pulled my car over to the side, the house twenty feet ahead. I got out with watchful eyes as I walked up to the residence.

  The whole block a row of shacks. The neighborhood was full of them, covered with unkempt foliage; made the area look more like an African jungle than a community. Ten years ago, they’d have been condemned, torn down. Standards had changed.