City of Woe

by Christopher Ryan

  “Salt in the wounds,” Mallory said.

  Three fingers on the right hand were shattered; the digits bent back almost 180 degrees and held there with duct tape. The ring and pinky fingers strained purple against glowing gold rings.

  “Theft seems unlikely, if those bad boys are still on him,” Gunner said.

  The left elbow seemed smashed, forcing the arm into a stomach-turning reverse angle. Blood splotches stained the white dress shirt throughout the torso.

  That brought the rep nearly to tears. “Custom-made Borrelli, easily $500,. Prada suit, over $1,500. Dolcepunta 11-fold tie, $325. Gucci loafers! I just can’t stand the violation!”

  Without removing the clothes, Mallory couldn’t tell whether the skin had ruptured from bludgeoning, lacerations or stabbing. He did pull back the jacket, for a better look at the pants. They were exquisitely styled, and had been slashed and stabbed numerous times, reducing the crotch area to a large, deep red stain. The right leg bent away from the body in two unnatural angles.

  Behind the detectives, the hotel rep dropped to his knees, gagging. The detectives left him there to wretch, and continued their inspection.

  “Overkill,” Mallory muttered.

  “Severe overkill,” Gunner agreed. “But definitely our guy,” he added, nodding toward the array of index cards. “More footnotes.”

  The cards lay at the end of the victim’s outstretched right arm, under the ruined fingers. The top card bore a single marking; a Roman numeral:

  III

  Mallory was already on his cell phone, walking away from the hotel rep. “Lieu, this is very likely the same perp. … Yeah, with some pronounced variations, the M.O. is clearly present. … There is more detailed work here, but the similarities… yes the cards are present … Haven’t released them yet. … Lieu, I would say Gunner’s on the money — the mayor’s got his out. But please do not release the particulars., especially not the cards. … We’ll be here the rest of the shift would be my guess.”

  Mallory and Gunner stepped aside, letting the CSI guy get back to work. It would be awhile before the detectives could get their rubber-gloved hands on the cards.

  Behind the detectives, the hotel representative loudly mourned from behind his hanky. “Mr. Whitfield had been a fixture at the Excelsior prior to even my arrival,” his voice cracked. “He was a confirmed bachelor and true gentleman.”

  Two valets standing off to the side scoffed. Hanky Man whipped his head around, but found them standing at attention. Mallory raised an eyebrow to Gunner, who wandered over to the valets. After a moment, the big detective took them for a stroll. The representative seemed relieved. “Immigrants,” he huffed, “they know nothing of great men.”

  Mallory ushered Hanky Man back beyond the police tape. “What made Mr. Whitfield great?”

  “His was a vast knowledge of the classics, fine wine, and only the best restaurants. This was not a man with whom to trifle.”

  “How’d he make his money?”

  “The old fashioned way: he was born into it.”

  “Independently wealthy?”

  “Dependently so. Mother visited twice a year, followed by a very visible influx of cash.”

  Gunner walked with the two Latino valets. “Look, fellas, you’re not in trouble. In fact, I need your help.”

  The valets were not convinced.

  Gunner pressed his hands together as if praying, and looked up. “Guys, that manager back there, he tells us whatever makes the hotel look good. I need you to tell me the truth.”

  The valets tensed further.

  “Off the record, tell me about this Whitfield. Was he as kind as Hanky Man back there says?”

  The valets exchanged glances, looked down.

  “C’mon guys, just between us.”

  The shorter one looked up. Gunner met his gaze with warm puppy dog eyes. “Please?”

  “Mr. Whitfield, God rest his soul, the word friendly does not come to mind when thinking of him,” he offered quietly.

  Gunner raised his eyebrows.

  “Always he ordered us around, insulted all the staff. He was never satisfied with the quality or speed or abundance of service.”

  The second valet, clearly younger, chimed in. “Alone, he would just ignore you. But if even two valets were together, he found fault.”

  The first nodded. “And no tips. Ever.”

  Gunner shook his head sympathetically, but kept quiet.

  The other valet spoke up now. “Last Christmas he had my cousin fired. He said my cousin scratched his SAAB. That man scratched it himself, outside somewhere.”

  Now Gunner laid out some bait. “Must’ve got you guys pretty mad.”

  The second one sighed. “That would help nothing. He is not the only one who acts in this manner at this hotel.”

  The first one smiled. “In this city.”

  The second valet chuckled. “In this country.”

  Gunner smiled with them. “Whitfield’s kind of treatment didn’t insult you?”

  The first one shrugged. “Too much to lose. I am so close to finishing my college degree. Why ruin it on someone like him?”

  “College?”

  The valets smiled now.

  Gunner realized he must sound like just another Whitfield. “I apologize for sounding surprised. You sound like you’ve been through college already. What are you studying?”

  The first valet looked him right in the eye. “In Bolivia, I held a doctorate in education, taught Algebra. Trigonometry. This country does not honor my license. I am made to repeat college. I did. Soon, I will teach Math again, to Latinos in the public school.”

  “Impressive,” Gunner turned to the other. “And you?”

  Now the second one met his gaze. “First, I help my brother get through school, become a teacher again. Then it will be my turn. I want to teach English as a Second Language, also in the public school. Serve my community.”

  “Gentlemen, I thank you for your assistance.” Gunner nodded to both, then made his way back to his partner and Hanky Man. These two were not suspects, but that didn’t clear the rest of the staff. He was eager to peruse a list of Excelsior service employees, particularly those who were white males in their 30s or 40s.

  The hotel rep nearly had a heart attack when Gunner made his request. “You can’t possibly suspect anyone on The Excelsior staff! Think of the publicity!”

  Gunner put a meaty paw on the slender hotelier’s shoulder. “Pal, there’s a body already cold on the floor right here. Publicity is coming. It ain’t got brakes, and it ain’t gonna be pretty. Nothing we do is gonna make it much worse.”

  Hanky Man spun out from under Gunner’s hand. “No! The press mustn’t come here! You cannot tell them! I forbid it!”

  Laughter got the better of the detectives. Hanky Man retreated behind his linen shield.

  “We’re not in charge of who tells whom, and what gets told. That would be the mayor’s job,” Mallory said.

  “Perfect. You see, the mayor is a friend of The Excelsior. He would never allow the media to overrun—”

  Mallory cut Hanky Man off, smiling. “Timing is everything.” Behind them, at the garage access doors, part of the mayor’s police detail and a few well-dressed political types had arrived with a team of City Hall journalists.

  Hanky Man paled. “He wouldn’t.”

  Gunner leaned in towards the petrified hotel rep. “To get his own ass out of the fire? Sure he would.”

  Hanky Man was close to collapse. “I can’t— I cannot face the press …”

  “Then don’t,” Gunner said. “Go get us the list. Worst case scenario, you’ll show the Excelsior is working with the mayor and the NYPD as a concerned guardian of New York’s safety, aggressively fighting to protect its guests, and the entire city. Now that’s a good spin on this whole thing, ain’t it?”

  Hanky Man straightened, adjusted his tie, jacket, hair, and then led them to the business offices. He punched information up on his computer. �
�Let’s see, white males in their 30s or 40s whom have been terminated within, shall we say, the last two years?”

  Mallory nodded, studying the screen. “Those years should cover it.”

  The hotel rep hit one last button. The computer whirred, hummed, switched screens, and came up with nothing. “Not a single name comes up. No one fitting that description has been terminated here in the last two years. I told you it was futile.”

  Mallory frowned, brows meeting to confer at the bridge of his nose like old, insincere friends at an upscale bar. “May we see current employees who fit the description, please?”

  “There aren’t any white males in their 30s or 40s in the service departments of The Excelsior.”

  “Incredibly Caucasian of you,” Gunner offered.

  Before either Mallory or Hanky Man could comment, Mallory’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he swept the plain silver model out of the holder clipped to his belt, flipped it open, and pressed it to his ear. “Detective Mallory … Great, Mac. Can you get a uniform to bring them to the offices behind the main lobby? Room 112. Some gloves too? And Mac? Discreet, okay? Thanks.”

  “Pizza delivery?” Gunner asked with mock hopefulness.

  Hanky Man sat bolt upright, while Mallory just nodded his head. “Maybe you could run a list of white males in their 30s or 40s employed on managerial and executive levels?”

  “That would include me,” Hanky Man huffed. “Am I to be a suspect now?”

  Gunner grinned. “Why? You got something you need to get off your chest?”

  “That you would even joke about such a thing leaves me aghast.”

  The big detective opened his eyes wide. “Really? I’ve never met someone who was aghast.”

  Hanky Man surrendered. “Fine. Make your fun. Sully all of our reputations, why don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure we have that kind of time,” Gunner smiled.

  There were considerably more white males on this list. Mallory counted 37 names. “We’ll need to interview them, starting with any working right now,” he said.

  “You will not! These people have rights!”

  “And you’ll have to call back any who worked during your last shift.”

  “I will not!”

  “Have it your way, sir.” Mallory turned to Gunner. “Get the paper work started. Warrants on all of them.”

  “Oh! My! God!” He punched a few more keys, and printed out the current list. “Here are your 30 pieces of silver!”

  As the printer kicked out the last of the names, a uniform entered carrying a Daily News. He nodded to Mallory, who stepped forward to block Hanky Man’s line of vision. From the paper’s center, the uniform withdrew two pairs of rubber gloves and an evidence bag. Mallory slipped everything into a jacket pocket, nodding his thanks. The officer left. Mallory turned back to the wary Hanky Man.

  “That officer is cleared to obtain the warrants should we deem them necessary,” he assured Gunner.

  Mallory turned to Hanky Man. “I need one more search.”

  “What now?”

  “White males, 18-25, terminated from any type of employment in this hotel over the last two years.”

  Hanky Man typed. The computer whirred, hummed. Letters flew across the screen. Forty-seven names appeared. One stood out:

  William Hill.

  THIRTEEN

  They left Hanky Man sulking at his computer, and walked back through the hotel’s business suites. Gunner peeked into a conference room, found it empty. They entered. Mallory slid the cards out of the evidence bag and onto the conference table. He took the top one, bearing the Roman numeral three, placed it up and to his left. Both men huddled together to read the rest:

  That old bastard freaked me out for awhile. But real men don’t stay shook. Real men don’t give up their body to no other man.

  Shit, that sounds gay.

  What I mean is real men protect what’s theirs. Body. Soul. Mind. That’s what I’m talking about.

  Mallory placed that card next to the first.

  This is my body, and I’m keeping it. Besides, the old man’s fire trick knocked so much outta him, I shoved him aside easy.

  And took his powers. Took them right from him.

  I rule over that old man now, and over anyone who ever pissed me off. Including that fat prick that got me fired from the hotel.

  Gunner grunted. “Huh. He did know about Whitfield.”

  “Who? Will?”

  “I don’t believe Willie boy wrote this, Mal. Neither do you. But the doer does, or else he’s pretending his ass off that he believes.”

  Mallory placed the card next to the first two, studying the handwriting, word placement, flow, where the writer broke from page to page. Nothing stood out. “How did he know so much about Will Hill?”

  Gunner nodded his chin toward the remaining cards. “Only way to find out is to climb back aboard the crazy train.”

  I been thinking about getting—

  —that third level sinner—

  —every day since it happened.

  I’ll burn right into that fat, whiny bitch. Take over his soul. Then I’ll be the rich bastard. I’ll spend his money, live in his luxury suite, fuck his money-grubbing ho girlfriends.

  That was it. Mallory rechecked the cards. “Where’s the blow-by-blow description of the murder? Why stop there, before the murder?”

  “’Cause he’s a fuckin’ loony-toons-I-watched-too-much-spooky-bullshit-television-as-a-kid psycho crazy nutjob, that’s why.”

  Mallory ignored him, flipped through the cards again. “The kid might curse in conversation, but in his writing? This guy’s making an effort, I’ll give him that. He’s not succeeding, but he is more creative than any of our other collars.”

  “Except that guy who said he was possessed by dolphins.”

  “Okay, except him. But something is driving this guy. He’s trying too hard.”

  “To do what?”

  “Convince us, himself, or both, that he’s something more than just another psychotic.” Mallory dropped the cards into the evidence bag, stripped off the rubber gloves, pocketed all of it, then left the room.

  Gunner pocketed his own gloves. “Know what? I say we ignore all this crazy ass shit.”

  “I agree.”

  “What bothers me is he’s using facts he shouldn’t know. How’s he doing that?”

  “Not sure yet. The only thing I am sure of is that he wants us to read these cards. He wants us to listen. He’s not a demon, he’s a showoff.”

  They entered the garage. The detectives looked at the victim sprawled on the grimy garage floor. Mallory murmured so only Gunner could hear. “The cards said ‘burn him.’ Which is what Will claimed was happening to him at the end of the first batch of cards. So, where are the burns?”

  Silent minutes passed, both men searching Whitfield’s corpse.

  There were no burns.

  FOURTEEN

  Two skateboarders —too young to be Will’s friends— glided by, ignoring the detectives. Otherwise, Dyker Park was deserted. Mallory and Gunner waited about twenty minutes before Ron sauntered into view. They waited some more as he took his time getting to them.

  Mallory positioned himself right in front of the big teen, keeping a causal distance. Gunner took three more steps; angling to cut off the best possible escape route should he try to run.

  The big kid called him on it instantly. “I had a great head start a couple of minutes ago, now I’m gonna run? I didn’t do anything wrong. Why do I have to worry?”

  Mallory cut off Gunner’s angry response. “Look, we just need some clarification about events at the concert. Little things that could help catch the guy who murdered your friend.”

  The big kid leveled a look at Mallory, held it, then shrugged. “Statistically speaking, cops hardly ever catch murderers, but go ahead.”

  Gunner moved toward the kid, pissed. Mallory spoke quickly. “At the concert, did you guys tease Will about getting fired from a job
?”

  “Not about getting fired. That would be fucked.”

  Gunner was mock-impressed. “Oh.”

  “We broke his balls about his revenge plans, though. Constantly.”

  “Revenge plans?” Gunner smiled.

  “Did you do this at all at the Garden?” Mallory asked.

  “All night. We were on a roll with that shit. Here, before we left. On the train. At our seats. Holy shit, we broke his balls.”

  Gunner relaxed now. “Why so much abuse about this one thing?”

  Ron shook his head at the big detective’s obvious stupidity. “’Cause Will never shut up about it, and because it was such utter bullshit. We were so sick of hearing his plans for Whitehead.”

  Mallory murmured, “Whitfield.”

  “I know that. But we changed it around when we were fucking with him. Whitehead. Whitefish. Whitestain.”

  “So Will spoke often of wanting revenge on Whitfield?”

  “He ran it so much we had his rant down cold. Trapps, one of the other guys who went with us? He did the whole thing verbatim while we were waiting for Robert Plant to come on. Fucking hilarious.”

  “And the old guy?” Gunner asked. “He was nearby during all this?”

  Another scornful glance. “Right behind us. I told ya already.”

  Mallory picked up the thread. “What was the old guy doing?”

  “Writing. Like his life depended on it.”

  Mallory and Gunner exchanged glances.

  “Someone’s did,” Gunner said.

  FIFTEEN

  William Hill, Sr. shuffled up to the peephole, glanced, then whipped opened the door with urgency. “Tell me you got the bastard.”

  Mallory said, “Sir, complications have arisen with the investigation—”

  Mr. Hill’s face fell, his eyes smoldering. “My son’s dead. What could complicate things further?”

  Mallory used his best calm tone. “With all due respect, and with our sincerest condolences again, sir, we are trying to resolve the case.”

  Mr. Hill closed his eyes, sighed, and then said, “You’re right. I’m sorry. C’mon inside.” He forced out the next word. “Please.”