City of Woe

by Christopher Ryan

  “Pop told everybody he went for arthritis tests. On the fourth floor, right? Sloan Kettering has cancer testing on the fourth floor. I checked. Then I confronted Mom with it, and she cracked, confessed to everything.”

  “Maybe you’re the detective.”

  “Cut yourself a break. You’ve been busy with that case in the papers. He’s known for awhile now, and was betting on being able to beat it quietly. You know his pride. But things are getting out of hand.”

  “I should’ve—”

  The bathroom door swung open. Mallory retreated two steps at the first metallic flash of the walker. Just days ago Pop had laughed with him, made jokes about his health. Now his father was leaning all his significantly decreased weight on a four-legged supporter. Worse, a small oxygen tank hung from the walker’s center bar, a hose rising to a molded plastic mask strapped over his nose.

  Mallory sucked in his own huge gulp of air. Pop’s six foot two frame was crumpled now. Bent at every joint. Wheezing. Coughing. This was not the proud tower of strength he had grown up honoring. The giant who had been his father was suddenly difficult to see.

  “What’re you doing here?’ The sandpaper on gravel voice was barely recognizable as his father’s. “You should be working the investiga—” Hacking coughs choked off his remonstration.

  Mallory forced the rising bile back down to his stomach as he moved to Pop’s side. “What am I doing here? I came for you, Pop. I came for you.”

  FIFTY

  Pop sat in his bed, almost fully reclined. He was bundled in two wool blankets, and still he shivered uncontrollably despite the gorgeous spring weather outside.

  “You figure a hospital this expensive would turn the heat on,” he gasped.

  Mallory threw yet another blanket on him. Pop continued shivering. He couldn’t talk, didn’t open his eyes, he just waged war inside the oxygen mask, a loud rattle punctuating each embattled breath.

  “Bring it up, Patty, go ahead now.” Bitsie’s encouragement didn’t register with her husband. Pop was turning red, each cough pummeling what little strength he had left.

  “Pop. Pop! You okay?” Mallory’s cell phone buzzed, he ignored it, one hand holding Pop in place in the bed. The phlegmy gagging attack finally subsided; Mallory’s father fell back against the slightly raised mattress and became quiet.

  “Pop?”

  “Patty?”

  “Dad?”

  “Shhhhh,” Pop managed, his head nodding that he was all right. Mallory pushed out a big sigh.

  “Francis, you should know about you father’s visit last night,” Bitsie said.

  “What visit? A doctor?”

  “He went to sleep early, but I stayed, they let you do that in this hospital, and I’m watching CSI, and your father sits up suddenly. His T-shirt is dripping with sweat. Dripping! He demanded I come into the bedroom with him.”

  “Ma, don’t let this be one of your frisky stories, please. I couldn’t take it.”

  “Francis Patrick Mallory! That is our business and our business alone. Your father in the condition he’s in and all you can think about is sex. God help Gina.”

  “Ma—”

  “I’m trying to tell you he was scared. Twenty-eight years on The Job,” Bitsie said. “In all your years, Francis, did your father ever brook any nonsense? Ever even consider anything that was, you know, out of the ordinary? You know, weird, like you talk about?”

  “Neither of us does, Bits. But no, Pop’s Baltimore Catechism all the way.”

  “And he was never a big drinker, no drugs. Quit smoking when Kieran was born. He wanted to be around for his grandchildren. Even his coffee is decaf now. There’s nothing in his system to make him see things. I never saw him scared in all our years together, until that moment.”

  “Scared? Of what?”

  “He grabbed my hands, and said I had to lie down with him. That he didn’t want to be alone.”

  “Come on, Ma, why?”

  “Your father swore that his father was in our bedroom.”

  Pop’s father had been a city fireman whose job it had been to run into burning buildings looking for trapped people back in the 20’s and 30’s. He had died before Mallory was even born. “Okay, Ma, Pop had an odd dream—”

  “Do you remember your father ever saying he dreamt, or remembered a dream? No. He said he woke up and his father was standing over there, by that dresser. Your father sat up, thinking that would wake him up, but your grandfather was still there. He walked over to your father, told him, ‘Come now, Patty, let’s go.’”

  “What?”

  “Francis, your father says your grandfather tried to get him to leave with him.”

  “Leave where?”

  “Leave, Francis. The last leave.”

  Mallory’s mouth went dry. “Pop’s not like that.”

  “Your father kept staring right over, shouting ‘I’m not going with you, Pop!’ I didn’t see anything, but he sure did. He turned to me and demanded, ‘You tell my father I’m not going!’ He kept insisting, so I finally said, ‘Dad, he’s not going, so goodbye!’ Then your father shouted, ‘Dad, get out of here.’ After that, finally, he laid down. I stayed with him until he fell asleep, talking up a storm.”

  “Talking? What was he saying?”

  “He’s been mumbling in his sleep for awhile now. I can’t tell, but he’s got a lot to say to whoever he’s talking to.”

  “That’s not like him, either,” Maggie said, sounding like she was crying.

  Mallory tried to swallow, couldn’t.

  Marching down the Sloan-Kettering halls, Mallory flashed at the portly Asian doctor Bitsie said was Pop’s physician. He carried a forced dignity about him like a protective cloak, and seemed to need all of it as he addressed them. “I’m sorry, but I cannot operate on your father. He is too far… far too sick.”

  “But doc, it’s this cancer that’s making him sick. Can’t you do anything for him?” Mallory asked.

  “If you don’t operate, the cancer will keep making him sick,” Maggie added. “It doesn’t make sense not to.”

  The doctor nodded. “You are both correct, and I understand your concern. Please understand mine: were I to operate on your father in his present condition, the chances he’d survive such a traumatizing experience are remote. I respect him too much to risk his well-being in this way.”

  Bitsie squeezed Mallory’s hand until it hurt. He leaned toward the surgeon. “So what is the best thing we can do for him right now?”

  “You need for the specialist to take another look at him; as I surgeon, I wouldn’t be as helpful. I will call for you.”

  Mallory shook the doctor’s hand. Bitsie kissed his right cheek, throwing off the doctor’s composure completely.

  Five hours later they were still waiting for a specialist. A nurse brought some liquids, but the doctor doing rounds seemed extremely reluctant to take action. Repeated requests for answers, for a conversation, even for medicine were answered with vague promises that the specialist would be here “soon.”

  Mallory had called first Gina, then Gunner, informing both of the situation. He asked Gina to stay where she was, and for Gunner to keep the investigation moving, making him promise to call if anything broke. Gunner promised.

  As they approached the sixth hour of waiting, finally a Doctor Miriam Baxter, whom Bitsie identified as “Paddy’s regular doctor,” arrived. In her late 40s, blond, matronly, with an intelligent face backed by a serious demeanor, Dr. Baxter met them outside the room, and wanted to know “what seemed to be the problem.”

  “Doctor, this morning my father was deemed too sick for surgery. He’s shivering, has a hacking cough he can’t control, he cannot seem to keep his breath, can’t stand up straight, can’t stand at all without the walker – he’s barely been able to remain conscious due to the extreme pain he is clearly in,” Mallory said, almost accusing. “But the doctors here don’t seem alarmed at all.”

  “I just saw him a week ago. Everyth
ing was going along fine,” she countered.

  “I’ll tell you what, doc,” Mallory challenged. “You go in there, see my father. If you can honestly tell me he’s the same man you saw a week ago, we’ll get out of everybody’s face right now.”

  When the doctor pulled back the curtain her face registered shock. She took some vitals, read his chart, then stopped the head doctor on duty. “Why hasn’t this man been moved?”

  The attending physician challenged, “Where did you want me to send him, doctor?”

  “The ninth floor, immediately,” Dr. Baxter demanded.

  The other doctor answered with a simple, “Oh.” She took a last look at Pop, then gave one definitive nod to Dr. Baxter. “Right away.”

  Dr. Baxter turned to the family with a tight smile. Mallory wasn’t having any. “Why has my father gotten so sick so fast, doc?”

  “I need to review his file, but that is exactly what I intend to find out.” She nodded, clasped Bitsie in a quick hug, then hurried out the door, saying as she left. “I will visit you upstairs a little later.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that, either.

  FIFTY-ONE

  At the morgue, four bodies were lined up on gurneys, then uncovered without ceremony. Dr. Ralstein was professional, courteous, and efficient; none of which saved Mallory or Gunner when he began to speak about the kids.

  “The children, both of them less than three years of age, mercifully died of smoke inhalation first. All burns were post-mortem.”

  One glimpse and Mallory’s head snapped to the right, eyes shut tight, breathing through his mouth as he waved the doc on. Gunner dropped over the nearest trash can and hurled into the bin. There were some things even cops never got used to.

  Dr. Ralstein and Mallory stepped to the wife.

  “The mother serves as an interesting case, exhibiting evidence of assault; most specifically, trauma to the back of the head. The body sustained additional bruises, believed to have occurred as it was moved, most likely dragged and then hoisted onto a bed. She was found fully clothed, including undergarments, jeans, a button down top, and as you can see, this sports garment, all under the remains of a sheet and bed covers, but evidence of sleepwear, folded neatly, was reportedly found not far from the body.

  “The shoes were removed, however, and the pants unbuttoned and unzipped. We believe the killer intended to change the victim’s clothes but either found it too difficult or ran out of time.”

  A pale Gunner rejoined them. He studied the body before them, finally pointing to the jeans. “I remember her wearing these. Day we interviewed them. That hippy embroidery up the leg.”

  “You make a decision?” Mallory asked Ralstein.

  The doctor nodded. “Most definitely wrongful death.”

  “Have you made positive identification on each?”

  The physician shook his head. “We’ve only just gotten the bodies, detective. Checking civilian identities takes time, requires family medical records which we’ve only just requested. Could take hours. However, initial identification — driver’s licenses, identification markers on the children’s clothing, support initial reports that these are the Farringtons. But—”

  “Clothing and wallets could have been planted,” Gunner pressed.

  “Please understand, detective, we are in fairly close agreement here.”

  “Doc, you satisfied with Paul Farrington’s ID?”

  “Not at all, detective. Allow me to show you.”

  Dr. Ralstein padded to the last cadaver, which was virtually incinerated. The hands and feet were all but melted, the jaw shattered, the skull caved-in at several points. “Skin, musculature, organs had all fused, shrunk, or collapsed around the skeleton. The condition is easily five to 10 times more severe that the other victims.”

  “This raised questions for you?” Mallory asked.

  “Our killer saved his most extensive efforts for this man,” he continued. “He was found on a downstairs couch which, according to firefighters’ preliminary statements, seems to have been soaked in gasoline.”

  The detectives exchanged knowing glances.

  “The deceased was most probably assaulted first; blunt trauma to the back of the head. Additionally, his bare hands and feet were wrapped in material; we believe towels were used, also drenched in gasoline. His teeth were assaulted with a heavy object — small mallet or hammer. The same was used to damage his skull. The killer clearly did not want this man identified quickly or easily.”

  “So, no identification as yet?” Mallory asked. Gunner had wandered away and was now handling an empty gurney, guiding it back toward them.

  “Until we prove differently, we must assume this is Paul Joseph Peter Farrington, as his driver’s license suggests. But I am unwilling to sign off on that as yet. But you must understand that we’ve had the bodies less than a day. We cannot be expected to—”

  “You’re not being expected to do anything, Doc,” Mallory interrupted. “As a matter of fact, we are amazed you’ve done so much already.”

  Gunner slid the gurney alongside the alleged corpse of Paul Farrington. “How about an unofficial confirmation, doc? Would you be interested in that?”

  The medical examiner seemed intrigued. “Any information you can provide will most assuredly be fascinating, detective.”

  Gunner indicated Mallory should hold the empty gurney steady, then he hopped up on it, scooted his butt to the position he wanted, then swung his legs parallel those of the cadaver. He inched himself down until his feet were exactly where the body’s charred appendages ended. “Would you say the feet are even enough, Doc?”

  “I would, sir.”

  Gunner made a last adjustment, then lay down alongside the corpse. He looked to his left, and found himself face-to-face with the battered skull. “Hey there, Mr. Farrington, good to see you again.” He called out to the M.E. “Doc, would you say me and my pal Paulie here are about the same height?”

  “Within an inch, yes.”

  Gunner leaned up on one elbow, wiggling an eyebrow. “Well, there you have it, Doc. Unless extreme heat can stretch a guy, we have a problem. When we interviewed Paul Farrington a few days ago, I was able to easily look down onto the top of his head to the point of noting his hair was thinning in back.”

  “Your demonstration would explain his driver’s license, which lists an incongruent height,” Dr. Ralstein smiled. “While not strictly scientific, this does strengthen some of my suspicions.”

  “Mine too, Doc,” Gunner said. He jerked a finger at the blistered corpse. “Captain Barbecue here ain’t our guy.”

  FIFTY-TWO

  The ride downtown gave Mallory time to check in with Gina, then call Tizzie who was digging for more information on Paul Farrington.

  “Get this,” Tizzie said. “Paul Farrington was a top computer geek for Cooper-Pierce Research, one of these monster investment houses. His job was to do background checks for Wall Street. Supposedly he was aces; could find out anything about anybody. The reason he was free to wreak havoc the last few days? He got shit-canned last week.”

  “Hnnh.”

  “Wait, it gets better,” Tizzie chuckled sarcastically, his usual tone while discussing suspects. “The company public relations ho would only tell me it was a result of downsizing, but our favorite new detective, Laura Jacobi, has a brother who knows somebody who knows somebody else who’s banging a secretary at Cooper-Pierce. She says Farrington was bounced by young up-and-comers who bragged about trying to put him ‘out to pasture’ for being too old.”

  “Motive,” Mallory noted.

  “It gets better still. This is where the shit really hits the fan,” Tizzie chuckled, his signature cynicism coming through loud and clear. “The secretary? In the heat of passion or something she lets slip that Cooper-Pierce ain’t the Wall Street firm it appears to be. The company’s top consultants ain’t giving stock advice. They’ll all former black ops guys, government assassins, demolitions guys, SEALS, Green Beret sni
pers. These guys don’t hack their corporate espionage enemies, they end them. The wife and family? All cover. We checked around, The family were actors hired by Farrington to make ‘improv films for his corporation. The guy we saw might have been the real Farrington, this guy in the morgue? One of the actors. They thought they were improving ‘professional development life skills/coping films’ for Coopers-Pierce.”

  “Tizz, this is no time for games.”

  “Damn rights, pal, ‘cause you got played too. We interviewed neighbors about it. They said the wife was cashing a check for the last film, which she was very excited about. Apparently the theme that time was how to deal with police investigations.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “This guy knew you were coming. Set up the whole thing as an improv. The actress told neighbors she got to act with John Goodman and some guy from Law and Order.”

  “I don’t get—”

  “Gunner and you were in her last film, probably with Farrington. The neighbors said the ‘director’ would sometimes ‘stand in’ for the husband. He was right there, Mal, right in our grasp. He expected us, prepped for us, waited for us, played us… and then he took the family he hired as actors, whom he let stay in the brownstone as part of their ‘method’ – he took them and he burned them down, charred those two suckers and their innocent little toddlers,” Tizzie’s voiced was raising, emotion choking him up. “That bastard burned babies to get over on us, Frank. We need to get this guy. We need to get him now.”

  Mallory didn’t know what to say. The two of them remained silent for a moment, each working to compose himself, work the case, do The Job.

  Mallory finally spoke. “What about Cooper-Pierce?”

  “Feds are crawling all over it now. Not sure which side of this thing their working.”

  “That it?”

  “No. Get this: Your boy’s adulterers? The woman was an older partner’s wife; the guy was the very same young exec who was supposed to fire Farrington.”