Murder Mystery McKenzie (Frank McKenzie complete collection so far)

by Luis Samways

  Twenty-Two

  I knocked my stiff fist on the metal door. It clanged loudly, echoing off the corridor. A buzzer went off, and the door unlocked. I heard the bolts unwind and a compression of air seemed to escape through the vents above the frame as the door opened. I looked at Santiago with glee.

  “Snazzy,” I said as the two of us entered the futuristic-looking morgue.

  The morgue was draped in white light. It looked as clean as one would expect. A slight smell of chlorine was evident as my nose twitched in excitement. A man was standing in the center of the morgue, wearing a white coat. He was sipping on an energy drink. He looked a little frazzled, like he was bogged down in thought. Santiago and I approached the man. He gave us a cockeyed smile.

  “Welcome, gentleman. It’s good to have company down here,” he said as he shook our hands.

  “Gets lonely at death’s door?” I said playfully.

  “Almost always,” he replied.

  He then moved over to a metal table that seemed to have a body lying on it. It was covered with a white sheet. The sheet was clinging to the dead body’s limbs. You could make out the features of the face, as the sheet seemed to cling to it for dear life, sucking down onto the lifeless shape of the corpse.

  “Spooky,” I muttered as I watched the morgue technician unveil the corpse like a grand prize on a TV show.

  “There you have it, one dead male. Around thirty-eight. Died of gunshot wounds. Two to the head. Died at around 3 a.m. Autopsy is due tomorrow. We haven’t opened him up, as you can see. We don’t really need to, considering we know the cause of death,” the morgue guy said as he swigged on his can of caffeine.

  “So why open him up? We have a cause of death,” I asked, looking at the man resting peacefully on the table.

  “Protocol. Maybe he has something in his system that can open up the case. You never know. Trace elements of something. Something that could lead us to the killer,” he said, sipping on his drink again.

  “Unless you find a trace of red sombrero in his system, I don’t really see the autopsy as necessary,” I said.

  The morgue guy looked baffled as he hatched down on his can once again.

  “Red sombrero? Is that some sort of drug?” he asked.

  Santiago laughed. “No, it’s a hat. You know — a sombrero?” he said.

  The morgue guy looked a little annoyed as he placed his drink down next to the body on the table. I winced at the thought of drinking a can of something that had been so close to a damn body. Yuck.

  “I’m sorry to break it to you, but it’s unlikely we would find ‘traces’ of a hat in a man’s system,” he said in a serious manner.

  “I know, I was being sarcastic. It was a joke. I still don’t see the point in cutting the man up. His family wouldn’t want that. Well, I assume. Mine wouldn’t, anyway.”

  The morgue guy gave me a look of contempt.

  “Sorry, Detective…?” he said.

  “McKenzie,” I replied.

  “Well, Detective McKenzie, an autopsy is standard procedure in a murder case, no matter what the cause of death was. You never know, he could have died before being shot. The gunshot wounds could be there to throw us off. We need to explore every possible avenue.”

  I nodded in understanding.

  “What else can you tell us about the victim?” I said, giving the body a walkaround as I clicked my fingers in tune to my inner pounding headache.

  “Well, the victim was very wealthy. He had a Rolex on him. He also had manicured hands and feet. I could tell he took good care of himself. He appears to be in good health, but has signs of stress on his skin,” the guy said as he picked up his can and gave it another pull.

  “Signs of stress?” Santiago asked.

  “Yeah, a stress rash, some acne, and signs of nail biting.”

  “I thought you said the guy had manicured hands?” I said, still fidgeting with my fingers.

  “I did. He only seemed to bite his nails on occasion, but I can tell that he does have manicured hands.”

  I nodded my head and looked at Santiago. He gave me a defeated sigh, and we both knew that the morgue visit was turning out fruitless.

  “Okay, well, we are off. Please page me or my partner if you find anything substantial that can help us with this case.”

  The morgue guy nodded and threw his now-bent can into the trash.

  “Swish,” he said as we both left the bright lights of the morgue and entered the hallway.

  “Van?” I asked, pulling out another smoke.

  “Van,” replied Santiago.

  Twenty-Three

  “Damn, I like the smell of seared flesh in the morning.” The Mexican laughed as he began to blowtorch the second leg of his victim.

  Jesse Foster was in a state of considerable pain. He was foaming at the mouth. His eyes were gluing themselves shut. His eyelashes were acting as stitching — they seemed to hold his eyelids in a constant closed position. He was past being fully aware by now. He didn’t actually know if what was happening to him was real. He didn’t even care. He just wanted out of it. He wanted to be killed. He was begging for it. He was craving death, but death wasn’t coming.

  Work until the night comes….

  And then….

  Work until the light comes…..

  Work all the damn time, The Mexican sang as he carried on with his masterpiece.

  Jesse Foster had been coming in and out of consciousness. He didn’t know what to do. He was still shackled on the hand trolley. The only difference was that half of his body had been burnt. Burnt beyond recognition. The Mexican had given him some strong painkillers. He had injected him with a few saline-looking solutions. It had numbed his skin. He was frightened. He could see his skin being burnt, but he couldn’t feel it all that well. It was starting to annoy him. He wanted to be able to feel the pain he was going through, all of it. He wanted it to come crashing down on him. Maybe then he would pass out. Anything but this, he thought to himself.

  Then his wish was once again granted. The Mexican started to blowtorch his face, the only part of his body where he didn’t feel numb. Jesse Foster started to scream. He could see the flames exploding out of the rusty torch. He could feel his teeth popping in his mouth like popcorn. He could feel his cheeks widening as the skin started to fall away. The last thing he saw before he died was the flames hitting his eyes. He died before his eyes had melted. He was long dead before he was charcoal black.

  The Mexican turned off the torch and surveyed his work.

  “Wonderful,” he said in pure happiness. Tears of joy were streaming down his face. “It’s beautiful,” he cried, dropping to his knees and embracing the burnt corpse. Holding it tightly, comforting his masterpiece.

  “You can rest easy now. Your work is done,” he said, popping a small red sombrero on the burnt chest of Jesse Foster.

  The Mexican bowed his head in solemn prayer.

  Twenty-Four

  Santiago and I were on our way to the white van crime scene when we got a radio call stating that we should go to a bar in downtown Boston. I was unfamiliar with the bar, but when Santiago and I pulled up to it, his eyes lit up.

  “Love this joint,” he said as he shifted the stick into park and keyed the ignition off.

  “Seems like a shithole,” I said, observing the dingy-looking surroundings through the windshield.

  Truth be told, it didn’t look that bad. But anytime we are called to a specific location, I know there must have been violence involved. I automatically assume all places where murders are committed warrant a place in my “shithole” category.

  We got out of the car, and I sparked up a smoke. The wind took the smoke from my cigarette and plumed it up into my face. I swatted at it like a man trying to exterminate an angry fly.

  I looked around and saw the yellow tape plastered from post to post in front of the bar. A few police officers were standing side by side, guarding the scene. A small group of onlookers had gathered. Phone
s were out. Pictures were being taken. I shook my head in annoyance.

  “Damn iPhones, kiss my fucking ass,” I said as I walked through the entrance to the bar. I hadn’t noticed if Santiago was with me. I was way too eager to get into the bar and see what had unfolded. An old work buddy of mine was already in the bar. I smiled at him.

  “Mullins. What are you doing here?” I asked. It was rare to see my favorite uniformed officer at a murder scene, let alone at two murder scenes in the same day.

  “You know, bad luck I guess. Second murder I stumble across in as many days,” he said.

  “When are you going to put a suit on and join the rest of us?” I said, smoking my cigarette blissfully. For that moment in time I had forgotten about the murder that must have taken place. I was too preoccupied with Mullins to even notice what was lying at my feet.

  “They won’t have me. Say I’m too valuable on the streets. Plus, you know when me and you get together, bad things happen,” the young officer said, giving me a smile to go along with his Brylcreemed hair. He looked like a fifties cop. A real noir piece of art. I always found that entertaining.

  “Keeping yourself handsome, I see,” I laughed.

  “Got to keep appearances up, my friend,” he said.

  “Gay,” I heckled.

  He shook his head at my immature joke. It was like being back in the playground. Believe it or not, I had actually enjoyed my time with Mullins in the patrol car. Before that, he and I were involved in a case together. It was my last big one before this case. The fucker got away, though. You can’t catch them all, I guess.

  “Watch your step,” I heard a voice say from behind me.

  I turned around and saw some CSI person waving a camera around. For some reason they were taking pictures of my feet. I looked down and saw a damn sombrero on the floor. One of those red ones. It was smaller than the one “my guy” wore but was unmistakably his calling card.

  “Fuck sake, not again. You’re telling me that Red Hat Guy is on a spree?” I said aloud.

  The CSI person nodded.

  “Looks that way,” the person said. The voice that came out of the all-white suit was a woman’s voice. I immediately got out the way of the CSI and let her do her work. That was me all over again. An old-school gentleman.

  Santiago came in from behind and patted me on the shoulder. It threw me off a little. I was engrossed in the pattering of my brain when I turned around and saw his face. He looked exactly as I felt.

  “The guy struck again. Looks like he killed two victims here. One of the victims I know — he’s the owner. Was a nice guy. I liked him,” he said, looking a tad white as I noticed the scared look on his face.

  “You knew the guy? The owner of this bar?” I asked.

  Santiago nodded. “I’ve been here a few times.”

  “Okay. Cause of death?” I said, whipping out my notepad and jotting down random sentences.

  “Gunshot wounds. Both victims were shot in the head,” he said.

  “Are we certain it’s our guy? The red-hatted one?” I asked.

  “Unless there is a copycat killer, then yeah, it’s him. He left two mini sombreros on the victims’ heads. Both were red. Both victims were shot, just like the one in the van.”

  I shook my head in frustration.

  “But why?” I said aloud.

  “Good question,” Santiago replied.

  After a brief moment of silence, I decided to have a look at the corpses. Both victims were behind the bar. They had been moved there. A trail of blood wrapped around the outside of the counter, winding its way inward. It looked as if they were dragged behind the counter on purpose.

  “They were dragged?” I said.

  “One of them was. The owner was shot where he lies. You can tell by the unmolested blood pool around him. The other guy was dragged. He was shot over where that hat is. Near the entrance. It was as if the man was waiting for something. Waiting for someone,” Santiago replied.

  “But how do you know that?” I asked

  “You can tell. The way he was dragged. The area in which he was killed. Looks like the man knew the killer,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “There is no way you can know that. It’s impossible to know that. For all we know, it could be a random attack.”

  “I just have a feeling, that’s all.”

  “Well, Santiago, don’t go putting up your mortgage on feelings,” I replied.

  A man came rushing into the bar. He had a look of excitement peppered on his face. He wore a T-shirt and tie, and had a PD badge hanging on his belt.

  “We have CCTV!” he cried.

  “Wow, again? That’s some damn luck right there,” Santiago said as his face flushed red with color.

  I immediately found myself looking up at the corners of the crime scene. I was looking for cameras.

  “Bingo. We have a case,” I said as I spotted the CCTV pointing in the direction of the two corpses.

  Twenty-Five

  Roger Smith was feeling tired. He had had a bad day. It was hell down on the north side of the industrial district. He had visited three factories that had closed their doors. He was sent there to deal with the workers and help them get better pay. Get a better deal. It was inevitable, really. He knew those workers wouldn’t get what they wanted. He knew the businesses were not just threatening to move, they were actually quite serious about it. In the cutthroat world of capitalist America, business was more important than employees, no matter how many of them might be affected.

  He stretched in his office chair and yawned. The computer monitor in front of him showed the twenty-seven emails that he had not opened. Twenty-seven emails he didn’t care to open. He knew what was in them. He knew it was more work. Work he didn’t fancy committing to. No siree, Bob, Roger Smith wasn’t interested in the district’s problems today. Not after a twelve-hour shift that was made for the demons of hell. He was tired, scared, and fed up. He wasn’t frightened of anything in particular, just the fear of change — change in the marketplace. A third of his representatives were forced out of work that year. If it kept up and the pace of the demise of business didn’t let up, Roger feared his union would crumble. Unfortunately, the departed businesses didn’t need unions where they were going. The wild lands of Mexico were ungoverned when it came to his kind. The only unions the Mexican people cared about were the cartels, and by God Roger knew he didn’t want anything to do with that.

  His partner walked in and looked just as defeated. Sal Smith (no relation) was a big man. A man who oozed in power and basked in knowledge. He was a formidable-looking gentleman. Around fifty years young, and looked every bit as good as he felt.

  Smith and Smith (the highly original and thought-out name of the union) was a force to be reckoned with back in the eighties. Both men had secured big business and helped the little man fight the big fight. It gave them huge pleasure in helping their fellow factory worker aspire to be held in the same light as the next man. It gave them a warm feeling inside, a feeling that catapulted their union to the top in Boston.

  It was never about the money. Sure, the membership was a little over four hundred dollars a year, docked from pay, but what it got the average worker was unlimited resources when it came to making sure they got just cause. It was the reason they had more than 29,000 employees in their corner. It was the reason the businesses in Boston had wised up and decided to move on.

  Smith and Smith had blamed themselves. Maybe they had pushed too hard for equality, and in passing had received the biggest blow in history. The businesses were not putting up with the unions anymore. They were shipping off to the third world and making profits to spite themselves.

  It was devastating news to Sal and Roger. News that was just sinking in.

  “How can another factory be shipping off? How are we going to survive?” Roger found himself asking his partner as he sat down on his chair facing Roger’s desk.

  “God only knows. God only knows, my frie
nd.”

  There was an everlasting silence in the room. Both men couldn’t bring themselves to talk. All they could do was wait. It was 9 p.m., and that meant only one thing; The last day of operations was coming to a close. After years of success, Smith and Smith were punching their last paycheck in the district. All that was left on their roster were some small-time fish on the outskirts of New England, and after those businesses inevitably left Smith and Smith, Roger and Sal would be out of business themselves.

  “Maybe we should ship off to Mexico,” said Sal.

  Roger nodded.

  “I heard they have nice weather,” he replied.

  Both men didn’t say another word for the rest of the evening. They were determined to pull something together at the last minute. Trading closed at twelve. Maybe they could score a new client. Maybe Foster Industries would change its mind. Just maybe Sal and Roger Smith would triumph. Just maybe….

  Twenty-Six

  I pressed “Play” on the remote. For the second time in a day and a half, I was staring at surveillance to a murder. In this case it was a double murder. And the way I was feeling, I couldn’t wait to see if “my guy” was responsible.

  The CCTV started off from the night before. It showed a bar that was heaving with activity. Santiago and I spent the next hour and a half scouring the CCTV in real-time for our guy. It was useless. We didn’t see anything of any interest. There were a few drug deals, a bar fight, and a session of forbidden love in the men’s bathroom, but nothing that linked in with our case. It was halfway through the tape where we spotted our victim. He looked like he was depressed. He entered the bar and started to drink shots at a pace that even I was impressed with. He was chugging those bad boys down like anyone’s business.

  “Guy can drink,” I said quietly as I tapped my finger on the edge of the desk, gazing into the endless loop of video footage.

  Santiago entered the fray with some coffees and a few donuts. He sat down, not saying one word, as he, too, gazed into the mysteries of the murder on the flat-screen monitor in front of us.