Murder Mystery McKenzie (Frank McKenzie complete collection so far)

by Luis Samways

  “Sick asshole,” Olivia said as she spoonfed herself some more ice cream.

  “Don’t you think that would be a travesty? To let an officer of the law be gunned down?” the anchor asked the caller.

  “Fuck that. I think it’s a travesty that innocents have to die. Cops are prepared to lay their lives down for the greater good. Discouraging this sort of thing is the greater good. Frying the bastard for a cop killing is ideal,” the caller said.

  “I’m afraid we can’t tolerate that sort of language on air. I’m afraid we have to cut you off,” the anchor said.

  Olivia spooned another mouthful. “Goddamn it. Get someone on the phone who isn’t an idiot,” she said as she dribbled some cream down her face. She didn’t care. She was enjoying her downtime, even if it seemed like the city she lived in was going to hell that night.

  She continued to watch in awe as more and more people phoned in and gave their off-the-wall opinions. Many of which were far from the stuff you’d expect to hear.

  Just outside her door, somebody was making a phone call in the hallway. He held the cell phone close to his ear, holding it in black-gloved hands. His mustache gently brushed against the speaker as somebody answered on the other end.

  “Sorry about the wait, Frank, but I needed some time to think. Now back to you barking like a dog,” the familiar voice said into his cell phone.

  Fifty-Seven

  I held the cell phone to my ear and shook my head. He wasn’t giving up on pissing me off. In fact, I could tell by the tone in his voice that he was enjoying every moment of it with sprinkles on top. By God, this asshole was making me twitch. My leg was feeling numb, and my voice was raspy. I felt like shit but needed to stay strong even if the voices in my head were wearing me down to a fifth of the detective I was before all of this happened. I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself. I didn’t have time to mourn the death of my dignity. The only thing I was concentrating on was trying to get the upper hand. Maybe it would be just enough for me to reel this case in and get some medical attention.

  I was fully aware of the unlikelihood of me reining this case in from gunpoint, but stranger things have happened. Some people referred to those things as “miracles” — I myself refer to them as hard work. Work hard and something is bound to give, and what I wanted to give was the ground under this killer’s feet so that when he fell through the cracks I’d be able to catch the bastard in mid-flight and split him in two. Maybe I’d send one half of him to prison while I kept the other half for some games. Who knows, maybe I could pull it off, being a killer…. It does make me wonder…if I weren’t a cop, I think I’d be craving his blood…but seeing him in cuffs is victory enough for me, even if wanting to see his heart ripped out of his chest is what I truly craved.

  “You’ve gone awfully quiet on me, Frank. You have something on your mind?” he asked, bringing my attention out of my thoughts and back onto the case.

  “Yes, I do,” I replied.

  “Oh, and what would that be my friend?” he sneered, accompanying his cold delivery with an icy laugh that was near patronizing.

  “Forgive me, I’m just daydreaming about gutting you and feeding you to the sharks,” I said.

  His laugh continued on the other end of the phone. I could hear him nearly blowing out the speaker with his reaction. “And how do you suppose you are going to accomplish that? It is my understanding that I am the man with the gun, not you,” he replied.

  I paused for a second or two. I didn’t want to seem overly keen, like I’d planned my comebacks. I decided to have a little laugh as well. Maybe that would throw him off; maybe he’d get angry that I was seemingly enjoying myself.

  “Sorry, please forgive my outburst. I just haven’t had a good laugh like this in years. I mean, I’ve come across some sickos, some real pieces of shit, but you, you are different. You are special, a special turd, if you will,” I said.

  “Mr. McKenzie, don’t think your childish games will work with me. Calling me names will just make it worse for whoever is on the other side of this door. Calling me a turd won’t do this person any good. You see, Mr. McKenzie, when the police were setting up their tents and making the place look like a Die Hard set, I was slipping out the back and making my escape. I wasn’t going to stick around to find out how long it took for them to grow some balls and try to intercept me. You see, Mr. McKenzie, I had better plans, bigger plans. I have an end goal. I am not some no-good murderer — I am a damn artist. My motherland is full of artists and musicians, but I keep my art pure, and when it runs with the blood of my victims I can assure you America will not forget me. They will not forget The Mexican, and you will see my face in your nightmares, haunting you, destroying you. I hope you can live with yourself, Mr. McKenzie, because when the girl dies, it’s on your head,” he said.

  I could feel the blood boiling in my veins. The pulse in my neck was throbbing with every breath I took. “What fucking girl! You’d better not be lying, because when we find you in the flat overlooking the common, I think you won’t be making it out alive,” I screamed.

  For a split second there wasn’t any sound coming from the cell phone, and then I heard something. I heard a mighty crash, as if something had been broken, and then a scream. A woman’s voice, screaming louder than I had ever heard before. And then nothing but silence.

  “She will be fine, Mr. McKenzie. She’s asleep now. It’s when she wakes up the fun will begin.”

  The phone went dead, and I was left reeling for air as I nearly hyperventilated. The bastard was winning. He was sucking us all into his game. He had made a public spectacle of this and dragged the media into it. And when the public finds out that we let him slip away and he managed to shoot me in the leg, I think the DA will have a fit when it comes to public relations. This day couldn’t get any worse, or so I had thought. I hadn’t heard what the news was saying about me, but in fifteen minutes I would, and it would have been better if I had stayed in the tent. They say ignorance is bliss; so is being trapped in a white tent when the world wants your head.

  Fifty-Eight

  The Mexican put his cell phone back in his pocket and surveyed the room as he stood tall and wide in the entrance to the apartment. He saw his carnage and smiled. He could smell the fear in the air, the fear that he created with his actions. He took a few steps forward, walking over the unconscious body of the girl on the floor. He could feel the wooden splinters from the door that had shattered off its surface when he booted it in. He could hear them crack under his feet. A few bits of plywood were strewn on the carpet of the apartment. He bent down and moved the door. He picked it up with ease and balanced it on the wall adjacent to the entrance. He took a few deep breaths, sounding raspy and full at the same time. He wiped the sweat off his brow and grinned at his mess. He bent down and grabbed the woman on the floor. She had ice cream around her chops; he must have inconvenienced her at a bad time. The comedy of the situation made him cackle.

  “Ice cream makes you fat,” he said as he grabbed Olivia Cormack and hoisted her onto his shoulder.

  He fireman-carried her out of the apartment with ease. As he left, he could hear the TV blaring out the news channel. He nodded as they talked about his crimes. He smiled as they mentioned the tape recordings he’d made. He left feeling happy. Everything was working out just fine. They were falling for every trick he was pulling out, like a rabbit in the hat. It was undeniable; he was truly magical, and his act was just beginning. If they were not captivated by now, come the encore, he had something special for them, something that would make them ever so entertained. The masterpiece had just begun.

  Fifty-Nine

  Officer Mullins was on the phone. He had dialed the chief of police, only to be redirected to an outside line. Usually Shaw was in his office. He was hardly ever in the field, but today he was, and that intrigued Mullins. Usually most uniformed police officers didn’t have a number for the chief of police, but Mullins was different. He was what Shaw called a hybr
id cop. He was uniformed and did patrol, but he was also trusted with detective duties. Mullins didn’t know if that was because of a budgetary situation or the fact that the PD didn’t want to give him full-time detective status. Either way, he hadn’t received a pay raise for his newfound role, but he didn’t mind. Every police officer needed to be flexible, even if that meant doing more than you were supposed to do. Mullins didn’t mind being a hybrid cop, but he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t long to be a detective.

  “Chief. It’s Mullins. I’m downtown at Foster Industries. I received a call to investigate the scene of a possible burglary. Forensics have been called because there is a significant amount of blood at the scene. I’m hoping it’s a possibility that we could have a matching blood sample to one of our victims on the case. It seems as if Foster Industries is somehow connected or something. The man at the diner was positively ID’d to be an intern for this company. And the victim at the bar was also linked to this building. I think we might have a case here, sir,” Mullins said in one breath, trying to get everything out in as little time as possible.

  “Okay, good job. If you are right about this, I think we might have the CEO mummified at the park. We found a body here, dressed like a piñata. We can’t get an ID on him yet, but if the blood at the park and the blood at your scene match, we may have a name for the mummy,” Shaw said.

  Mullins face grew a little brighter with excitement.

  “That’s great news. Seems like this case isn’t that bad after all,” Mullins said.

  Shaw laughed on the other end of the phone. “You haven’t heard, have you?” he said.

  “No, what?” Mullins asked.

  “The killer has showed himself. He has the press involved and everything. The guy has Frank as a hostage. He has a sniper rifle pointed at him from afar in the Common. We don’t know where he is or what he wants. The killer is playing games with us, and this case may change into a cop-killer case. He has already shot McKenzie in the leg. Non-fatal, but the intention was there,” Shaw said.

  Mullin’s excitement trickled out of him, and he went pale.

  “What the hell? When did this all happen?”

  “The last couple of hours have been a blur. But it’s safe to say it’s about to get worse,” Shaw said.

  “Why do you say that, Chief?”

  There was a long pause on the other end.

  “The killer has been recording conversations he had with Frank on the phone when he made himself present and shot Frank in the leg. Let’s just say Frank didn’t handle it too well and ended up calling him some names,” Shaw said in a lowered voice.

  “I don’t understand. What’s the big deal? The guy has a sniper rifle pointed at Frank, I’d be calling him names as well,” Mullins said.

  “That’s not the problem, kid. Frank used some racial slurs toward the killer on the phone. The killer released the tapes to the press, and they’re having a field day. You see, our killer is of Mexican descent, or so it seems. Frank called him a spic and a beaner. Turns out those phrases don’t tend to endear the public to our sympathetic situation. Now it seems the public are siding with killer. We have a public relations situation here, son. The killer is trying to gain fans. People are empathizing with him. Suddenly we look like we may be the bad guys.”

  Mullins shook his head.

  “That’s bullshit. We aren’t the bad guys. We aren’t the ones popping businesspeople off left, right, and center. We aren’t the ones with a pile of bodies lying behind us. I’m sure the public will see what this is — nothing but a play by the killer,” Mullins said.

  “I hope you’re right, son, or we could face some backlash if we don’t bring the killer in untouched. We can’t let this go on any further. It could destroy the PD. It could destroy the city.”

  With that the phone went dead, and Mullins was left with his thoughts. He couldn’t believe what was happening. How could a case like this not be terminated within the hour? If it were up to him, the killer would be getting a bullet in between the eyes, but he assumed that was another reason why the PD hadn’t given him detective status yet.

  Sixty

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly 1 a.m. It had been twenty minutes since the killer phoned me and told me of his disappearing act. I didn’t believe him at first and didn’t know if he was trying to trick me. I thought that maybe he wanted me to make a move and try to walk out of the tent. Maybe he would have a reason to press down on the trigger and split my head in two.

  I wasn’t going to give him a reason to kill me, so I decided to wait. After my twenty-minute wait, I was bored. I had been running through my interactions with the killer in my head. I was trying to break them down and analyze what sort of man he was. He sure acted like he didn’t care about much, and to the untrained eye that might seem plausible, but as a detective, it is my job to dig deep and find the demons, and I was certain that I’d found his.

  To me he seemed like the type of man who wanted to appear emotionless, but judging by his crimes thus far, I thought he was very emotional about something. It was my best guess that he was killing people in passion, although to most it would seem he was killing for fun. I thought that he might be taking some enjoyment from it all, but I didn’t think he was crazy. He called himself “The Mexican,” so I thought the name must mean something. What it meant exactly was anybody’s guess at the moment, but I came to the conclusion that I wasn’t going to solve the case from the tent. I had to make my escape, even if the killer was bluffing and he just wanted to take a shot at me.

  I turned around and looked at the exit of the tent. It was flapping away as a breeze came in and revealed a little of the outside. I shook my head. I knew that going through the front would be a stupid idea. If the killer was bluffing, then he’d just shoot me on sight. I had a gut feeling, a fifty-fifty feeling, that he was hard-scoping the entrance at that very moment. It was like I could hear his breathing slow down as I thought about my escape. I could imagine him steadying his aim and shooting. I then imagined nothing. It was as if the shot had actually connected and my thoughts had become reality for that split second.

  I opened my eyes and realized I was still in the tent. I had been engulfed in my thoughts of escape, so much so that I had lived them out in my head. I looked at my watch once again. This time it was nearly half past one. I couldn’t believe the fact that I had drifted into my thoughts for nearly forty minutes. What the fuck was wrong with me? Was I that much of a chicken? Had I lost my nerve?

  “Fuck it,” I said out loud. Only the corpse in the mummified costume would have heard…if his death hadn’t impaired his hearing.

  I turned around and stared a hole into the back of the tent, next to the mummified corpse. I walked over to the back of the tent and gave it a closer inspection. I touched the felt with my hand as I smoothed it over. I was trying to get a feel for it. I didn’t know why; I mean, I was fully aware of what a crime scene tent felt like. I decided that I had to do it. Only an idiot would stay in the tent until his inept colleagues decided to take action and save his ass.

  I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my Swiss Army knife. I clasped it in my hand and gave it the once-over. I flipped it open and immediately stabbed the tarpaulin tent. I made a huge incision, and then another. Before thirty seconds had passed, I had made a man-size hole in the tent. The floodlights on the Common beamed through the hole. I could smell the cold air as it hit my face. I took one step through the hole and then heard someone shout.

  “Don’t do it, Frank!”

  Sixty-One

  Olivia Cormack woke up in a strange room. The air conditioning was humming in the background. She tried to move, but she couldn’t. She was tied down by straps. They were gripping onto her legs and wrists, making it nearly impossible for her to move. She couldn’t breathe that well, and chains lay across her chest, strapping her down further. She was tied down to a gurney. The stretcher moved a little every time she tried to loosen her restraints
. It was pointless; they were clasped down harder than anything she had felt before. Whoever had put her there didn’t want her escaping. The panic that was rising through her was only made worse by the room she was in. It was whitewashed; the walls were bare and made of bricks. The floor beneath her was scuffed and consisted of old concrete. The room smelt of damp and anesthetic. She could only imagine what she was going to go through and what she was going to experience. She knew she was in danger. She remembered what happened. She remembered why she was there, and who brought her there.

  She remembered sitting down on her couch watching the news after a nice relaxing bath. She was eating ice cream and hollering at the screen. Suddenly there was a faint voice on the other side of the door. She could hear someone talking; she assumed it was one of her neighbors. The talking stopped, and her mind went back to concentrating on the television. As soon as the talking stopped, the terrifying ordeal commenced. Her door was kicked in and nearly hit her on the couch where she sat. Her apartment was small after all, despite her considerable financial capabilities. She had managed to turn her head in time to see a man standing in her doorway. He was a very tall man. He had a classy look to him. He had something in his hand. She didn’t see what it was, but whatever it was, he had thrown it at her. Before she could make anything out of the situation, she was knocked out. She then woke up and found herself in the room she was in now.

  “Help me!” she screamed.

  She thought that it was weird that her mouth hadn’t been gagged. Everything else was tied and clasped down. It was obvious that she was now a prisoner, but a prisoner who still had the use of her mouth. Why was that? She figured that maybe her screaming was pointless. Looking around at her surroundings, she soon realized that she was most likely in a secluded place. After all, a person kidnapping someone wasn’t likely to bring them within earshot of help, no matter how classy said kidnapper looked.