by Luis Samways
“Don’t you think that’s sick? He flirted with her, tipped her, and then killed her. She wouldn’t have even sensed anything was off.”
“To be fair, boss, tipping someone fifteen bucks is a little off,” I said, smoking my cigarette down to the butt.
“You got that right. Anyway, I need you down here.”
“Patrol are needed at a crime scene?” I said sarcastically.
“Nope. I need detectives. You’re reinstated.”
I shook my head in disdain. Why the hell was he giving me my job back? I was getting used to patrol.
“Why am I being reinstated? I thought I was suspended?”
“You are. It’s just I need you on this. A few of my guys are off on another case.”
“Fair enough. What about my pay?”
There was another pause on the other end. This time I broke the silence with some laughter.
“No pay it is,” I said.
Chief Shaw grunted in agreement. By the time I had gotten off the phone, I was feeling a lot better. I didn’t know that throughout the investigation, my ability to laugh would be severely hampered by the sheer size of the case. Maybe if any of us knew what we were getting ourselves into, maybe, just maybe, I would have stayed on patrol and Shaw would have found someone else.
By the time I left my apartment for my second shift in twenty-four hours, I was dog-tired and ready for bed. Sleep wasn’t an option when you worked as a detective. Murder doesn’t wait for fresh-faced detectives. As they say, no rest for the wicked.
Thirteen
Officer Mullins was putting some supplies in the trunk of his police cruiser. After a slight struggle with some heavy equipment, he shut the trunk. The sound of the heavy metal locking shut echoed off the precinct parking structure. He looked up at the sky and sighed. It was early morning, and the birds were chirping. The cold Boston winter air was creaking into his joints as he opened the door to his cruiser. He quickly got in, trying to escape the violent cold outside. He clasped his hands together for heat, blowing into them as if he was shivering. He turned the radio on and listened for the morning’s occurrences.
A few minutes passed before he heard what he was looking for. He would always wait a few minutes when starting his shift to see if there were any responding crimes at that moment. There was something about racing out of the precinct with the police lights blaring and the siren wailing that made it his favorite time of the day. It didn’t even have to be a murder; just a damn jaywalker was enough for the blaring lights. He was all about making exits and entrances. That, and making sure he looked like he belonged on the force.
The police radio spat out a report of an abandoned white van on the heath. Mullins smiled as he picked up the two-way.
“Mullins responding. ETA fifteen minutes,” he said into the radio.
He quickly flashed his headlights, the beam hitting the concrete pavement beneath his wheels. The cold air was glowing off the yellow-looking lights as he sprung the siren and lights into effect. The police precinct was dazzled in blue and red as Mullins rushed off to his next job, fully unaware of the seriousness of the call he was responding to.
Fourteen
Jesse Foster opened his eyes to the sight of a moving ceiling above his head. At first, he felt disoriented. He didn’t know what was happening. He managed to close his eyes again, and when he reopened them, the moving ceiling was still swaying above his head. He turned his head a little and saw that he was being dragged. He immediately panicked. He tried to get up but noticed he was shackled by the wrists. He had big metal braces around his arms, constricting their movement. A heavy-duty chain was wrapped around his torso. He could feel his chest heaving under the pressure of its tight grip. He tried to open his mouth, but it was held shut with duct tape. He could taste the odd flavor of plastic in his mouth. It was mixed and marinated with sweat and copper. His heart was racing. The ceiling was still rushing past him; it seemed to get faster and faster. He then heard the turning of wheels. It was then that he realized he wasn’t being dragged, but carted off somewhere. He was on some sort of metal trailer, a small hand-dolly of some sort.
With every passing second, the ceiling above his head seemed to get dirtier and dirtier. It was tiled and looked as if it had smoke damage. He could smell sulfur and gasoline. He imagined he was in some sort of warehouse, or an abandoned building. He could hear his captor whistling while he was dragging him. He was whistling a familiar tune. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had heard it various times throughout his life.
It was then that the whistling stopped, and so did the moving ceiling. It appeared that they had stopped for the moment. Jesse was feeling even more alert and frightened. All he could see was what was above him. Everything seemed faraway and out of reach. Then the captor’s head peered over him. He was wearing a big red sombrero. His eyes narrowed on Jesse as the hat-wearing man let out a sneer.
“You’re awake. Good. I thought you’d never wake up. They say shock can kill you. It was only a cut to the face. I’m sure you’ll live. Anyway, they call me ‘The Mexican.’ I know what you’re thinking, and no, I’m Cuban, but hey, it doesn’t really matter. My mom and dad were Mexican, and I lived in Mexico for a long time. I guess that’s why the name stuck. Look at me, getting ahead of myself. I’m rambling. Best thing to do, Jesse Foster, is relax, because you and me will have plenty of time to get to know each other. We’ll be best friends before you know it! Now, I’m going to have to put you under for a while. I don’t want you seeing the surprise before it’s due. It won’t hurt, don’t worry. I’ll catch you on the other side.”
With that, The Mexican held a rag over Jesse Foster’s face. It smelled funny and made Jesse feel tired. Before he could even think of fighting back, he was knocked out, fast asleep. “The Mexican” continued to drag Jesse down the long maintenance tunnel, toward what he knew to be his victim’s final resting place.
“Sleep well, Mr. Foster,” The Mexican said, whistling loudly as he carelessly dragged Mr. Foster away into the darkness.
Fifteen
I walked into the downtown café, Lucky Eleven. It was quaint-looking, even with all the fluorescent lighting from the CSIs. Flashing bulbs were going off. They were snapping pictures of the crime scene. Specks of blood made themselves known under the blue lighting. The smell of burnt coffee made itself known through my nasal passage. I immediately felt the urge to get a coffee down me. I was tired. Too tired to be at work. But Shaw wanted me back. For what reason, I didn’t know. But I did know that any murder, whatever the circumstances, needed good detectives on it. It was owed to the families of the bereaved.
I saw Detective Santiago wafting through the crime scene in front of me. He was a tall man. His dark bronzed skin made me feel pale and dainty as I approached him. He welcomed me with a smile and a coffee. He handed me the Styrofoam cup and smiled.
“Thought you’d need this,” he said as I sipped on the murky black bliss that I called my true addiction.
“You are a lifesaver, Detective Santiago,” I replied, licking my lips as the hot substance caressed my mouth. “Good stuff,” I said as I tapped the side of the cup. “What sort of coffee is it?” I asked, still fidgeting with the warm Styrofoam beaker.
“It’s that coffee that’s made from shit. You know, from Japan or some shit,” Santiago replied.
My face was a picture. I wasn’t disgusted by the thought of such coffee, it was just the idea that someone on the force had managed to make a cup of the stuff. Just one small espresso cup can cost upwards of one hundred dollars if it’s the good stuff.
“How the hell did you get this stuff?” I asked.
“Chief Shaw ordered some. He thought he’d treat us,” Santiago replied, sipping on his ultra-expensive supersized cup.
“So you thought you’d treat yourself with a thousand dollars’ worth?” I said, laughing at Santiago’s 7-Eleven-style cup.
“Shaw didn’t buy it. It’s knock-off. Probably hasn’t even got real
shit in it.”
I laughed.
“Oh, the horror,” I said, downing my last sip.
Silence followed as Santiago polished off his knock-off Kopi Luwak. I watched as the CSI personnel finished off their duties. They looked a little bemused as they walked off. I nudged Santiago, who nearly choked as a result.
“Safe to go in now. The nerds have left the building,” I said, moving closer to the counter.
I peered over the high-up counter and saw a female body sprawled out behind it. A small pool of coagulated blood had formed around her petite body. A book was lying down next to the face-up body. She had a look of uncertainty on her face, as if she wasn’t really sure whether she was dead. It gave me the heebie-jeebies.
“Like an angel!” the voice in my head said as it rattled me from my normality.
Santiago noticed my discomfort.
“Heartburn? I get that, too,” he said.
I couldn’t help but laugh. If only it was gastro-related and not voices.
“Yeah. I have pills for it,” I said as I chucked a few in my mouth.
“What a feeling! What a feeling! Cue the firemen,” the voice rattled on.
I continued to ignore my insistent inner demon as I looked at the murdered woman on the floor. I couldn’t help but feel bad for her. The book she was reading was a self-help book. If only she had managed to duck. That would be help a-plenty.
“Sad, isn’t it?” I heard Santiago say as I moved my attention elsewhere.
“The CCTV?” I asked.
“In the back. Be my guest. Doesn’t show much on it. You don’t see the killer’s face. He was wearing a hat.”
“A hat. That sucks. You sure there wasn’t any way we could see his face? Hats do tend to allow such a feature,” I said as Santiago and I went to the back.
“No, not this hat. It’s a big’un. A big red sombrero,” he said as we reached the CCTV and VHS player.
My heart skipped a beat for a second.
“A sombrero? Red one?” I asked.
“Yeah. It sort of looked like a party one. You know, one of those over-the-top ones.”
“Fuck me,” I said.
“Ariba!!! Ariba!!!” the voice taunted me.
Santiago gave me a look. It was a look that I was accustomed to.
“What, Frank?” he asked.
“Nothing, it’s probably nothing. It’s just I saw someone yesterday with a big red sombrero. It couldn’t be a coincidence.”
“Well, it could be. The likelihood of two people choosing to wear such a shit hat on the same day is beyond belief. Check the CCTV out. It may be your guy, or worse, we may have a red sombrero–wearing epidemic in Boston!”
I hit “Play” on the VCR and waited for “my guy” to show up.
Sixteen
Officer Mullins pulled up to the abandoned vehicle he was sent to deal with. His headlights hit the side paneling on the van first. There was something written on the side paneling, and it caught his eye a little.
Foster Industries, it read.
He got out of the police cruiser and stretched. It was hard work sitting in the driver’s seat of a police car. It played havoc on one’s back, and one’s patience.
“Damn abandoned vehicles. What’s the point? Send the damn recovery units in. Tow them. Wasting valuable police time, if you ask me,” he mumbled to himself.
He had a habit of whining to himself. It was something he did regularly. He stopped and surveyed the area in which he found himself. It was cold and brisk. He felt like crap. He wasn’t much of a morning person, and needed excitement and caffeine to wake him up. He didn’t have any coffee with him, so the lack of excitement was really testing his nerves.
He looked around the immediate area. It was a desolate lot of some sort. It looked like a nature reserve, a park, maybe a National Park reserve. By no stretch of the imagination was the place he was standing in beautiful. It wouldn’t even fly for a park in the gangbanging ’hoods of California. It was mundane, to say the least. It smelt of sulfur for some reason. The abandoned van looked out of place but at the same time fit into the scenery pretty efficiently.
Looking around, Mullins noticed a couple of burnt-out vehicles surrounding the area. There were some cars and a few vans. What surprised him was the fact that the burnt-out vans looked similar to the abandoned van he was sent to inquire about. He immediately suspected something.
“What do we have here?” he said under his breath.
He walked toward the van that wasn’t burnt and started to study its exterior. It looked quite normal. There were no immediate signs of anything out of the ordinary. He did a complete lap of the vehicle, flashing his torch into every nook and cranny. It was after a second lap of the vehicle that he noticed a small hole protruding out of the right side of the van. It looked like a bullet hole. He stopped in his tracks and looked around. He felt a little on edge now. A slurry of thoughts ran through his head faster than he would have liked.
“Shit,” he said as he bent down and inspected the hole. “Nine millimeter,” he added.
He straightened up and reached for his radio. The morning sun was glistening off the windshield of the van; it blinded him a little as he spoke into the radio.
“I need backup. Westside, 64 bank. The seventy-four I’m attending seems to be involved in conjunction with firearms. I have found a bullet hole in the van’s bodywork. Requesting forensics.”
Mullins tucked his radio back into its pocket holster. He then moved to the back of the van. He saw the back had no windows. It was just a whole lot of door. He looked at the muddy pavement below the back of the van. He saw footprints. He saw some that didn’t match his own. He decided that maybe it was best to step away from the vehicle until someone arrived. He didn’t want to spoil a potential crime scene.
“HQ, I’m not inspecting the vehicle any further in case of the possibility of contamination of the crime scene,” he said into his radio.
He walked back over to his squad car and got in. The warmth inside the car drained the cold from within his bones as he sat there and waited for backup. Mullins knew something was amiss with the van. He just didn’t know it would spark a case that could define his career.
Seventeen
Nick Evans was still at the bar come morning. He was face down in the toilet bowl of the fine establishment where he had spent the whole night. He’d been heaving his guts out for what seemed like hours. In reality, he had spent most of the night passed out on the restroom floor. The sticky surface had nearly glued his face to the tile when he had come to. He had immediately felt queasy. He then went on to be sick a few times. He had drunk a lot the night before. He must have fallen asleep in the toilet, because when he looked at the time, it was morning. The bar had closed long before he had awoken to the tornado of his upset stomach.
The pounding in his skull was irrelevant at that time. He didn’t care about his appearance, even though he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on his way out of the restroom. He didn’t really care that he looked homeless. Nor did he care that he had spent a whole night drinking himself stupid. He wasn’t into giving himself a hard time. He didn’t see it as necessary. All he needed was to get his head straight and move on.
He walked out of the restroom to the smell of stale beer and hard liquor. He looked around and saw the dank and dark surroundings of the bar. The place was shut. It was completely closed, and he was stuck in it. He decided to grab a cold drink of cola from behind the counter. His mouth felt like sandpaper.
He snapped his head back and tilted the ice-cold drink down his throat. The liquid found most of its way into his mouth. A few dribbles had managed to escape down his face and soil his front. His suit jacket was ripped. The sleeves were tattered and destroyed. His white T-shirt underneath looked yellow. It was stained with vomit and cigarette smoke. His charcoal pinstripes were worn out on the knees, and his belt hung off its clasp, swinging around with every step Nick Evans took.
“Hello? I�
��m locked in. Someone help me!” he shouted.
Nick grabbed a pack of cigarettes that had been left on the counter and took one out. He sparked it up and started to nurse himself back to health as he sat down on a stool and blew smoke rings. His plan was to wait for the owner to show up. Maybe he would get off lightly if he threatened to sue the owner for negligence. Maybe he would get his ass kicked. Whatever the outcome, Nick Evans didn’t really give a damn.
Eighteen
The Mexican was idle as he stared at his knocked-out grand prize as it lay on its back, gasping for air.
“Damn, that’s a beautiful sight,” he said as he tapped on his workbench.
The dark warehouse he was occupying was nonetheless empty. Only he and his prize were within its walls. The Mexican wanted to keep it that way. There was a certain excitement in the warehouse that morning as he stood there and watched his victim come to. It was an excitement akin to having your first sexual experience, or killing the family dog with a brick. It was rather pleasing in his eyes. It was so pleasing that he found himself trying not to get an erection. That would be embarrassing. He didn’t want his victim to get the wrong idea. It could hurt his feelings. He wasn’t cruel, after all. He did have a heart!
Un corazón hermoso. A beautiful heart.
“Wake up, my precious,” he said as he continued to rattle on the workbench next to the flat-bed trolley.
He was getting impatient. His victim was coming in and out of a deep sleep. He wished that he would just hurry up and come to already. It was stressful work being a mastermind. He didn’t envy his previous inspirations. He didn’t envy their hard work. He just thought that it would be easier. He wasn’t quitting, by any means; he just wanted things to move a little faster.
In the movies the killer was already plastered on the news by now. But for him, he hadn’t had one single bit of recognition. The police didn’t even know what was going on. They were clueless. The worst thing was that he had left plenty of room for interpretation. It would take a seriously foolish police force not to recognize what was right under their noses. Foolish, indeed!