Murder Mystery McKenzie (Frank McKenzie complete collection so far)

by Luis Samways

  He hadn’t brought many people to the warehouse in the past. Maybe one or two. They were disposed of by now. The only person who remained was her. She was probably still bleeding after he cut her ear off. But he wasn’t worried. He knew he didn’t cut any arteries. If he did, well — she was going to die anyway. It wasn’t the thought of her dying that made him sad, it was the thought of the masterpiece coming to fruition. He had only ever imagined its beauty, but now it wasn’t only in his head, it was everywhere around him. He had done it. He had finally become an artist. An artist of sacrifice, human sacrifice. An artist of both love and pain…plenty of pain.

  He wasn’t afraid of who he was or what he represented. He was proud. He remained proud as he sat on stool in the middle of the room. He sat there for a while, contemplating his thoughts as he batted from left to right with his eyes, like a man watching tennis. He was trying to find something, something that was buried deep within his mind. He had taken off his hat, and what remained was matted hair on his scalp. It was half mullet, half buzz cut. He had thick hair; he played with it as he ran his hands through his greasy hair. He curled his strands up as if he was going for a perm; his eyes were still flickering in his head. He was still searching for something, and then it came to him like a lightning bolt from the sky. His eyes rolled into the back of his head. He’d seen what he was looking for.

  In front of him, just meters away from the wooden stool he was sitting on, was a table. On it was a small black and white monitor. It was playing back a live CCTV feed of the outside of the warehouse. On the TV he saw a car. It had been parked there for a day or so. He knew who they were. He had spotted them long before they knew what they were looking for. At that moment he smiled as the camera panned to the right of the vehicle and revealed the two undercover officers lying on the pavement. Both of the doors to the vehicle were wide open. Both officers hadn’t expected a thing. He had sneaked up on them twenty minutes ago. He had placed his gun to the driver’s side and shot eight bullets from his Glock. Both men hadn’t stood a chance. They were dead. He had opened their doors and dragged them out of the car. He had lined them up, side by side, next to each other.

  It was quite a sight. He looked down at his feet and saw the bloodstained shoes he was wearing. He then looked at his hands and saw the mixture of red and blue paint on them. The camera to the CCTV panned back to the car and on its side, facing the camera, was some spray paint etched onto its bodywork. The Mexican nearly cried when he saw what he had sprayed onto the side of the car.

  The Art Expedition is open, it read.

  He nodded his head in glee. It was ready. The masterpiece was ready. He was ready for them. They were coming. He knew they were. As soon as they realized where he was and why their two undercover men were not answering their radio, they would come. They would come for him and his sins. He knew he had to pay for what he did, but art was so much more than that. Art was his life, and with it he brought death. Death to capitalism.

  “I’m ready,” he said as he got up from the lonely-looking stool in the middle of the dark broom closet–like office and raised his hands up to the sky.

  “I am ready!” he bellowed as he fell to his knees and began to cry.

  He fumbled for his sombrero and put it on. He creased the front of it with his thumb and got back up.

  “I AM READY!” he screamed.

  Seventy-Five

  “Sir, we’ve tried everything. They just aren’t answering. I don’t know what’s going on, but we have zero contact with the stakeout vehicle,” the young officer said to me as I shook my head in despair. Another fucking hurdle on this case. Just what I needed. Just what we all needed!

  “You’ve tried sending a car down to the stakeout to see if they are still there?” I asked.

  The young-looking cop gave me a sideways gaze.

  “We can’t just turn up. We might alert the perp and blow the whole case,” the guy explained to me as he shrugged. “But I guess that’s all we can do now. We’ve got to see if they are okay,” he persisted.

  “What about the tracker? Is it still there?”

  The kid nodded.

  “Yes, it is. The tracker is saying they are still there at the location. But the weird thing is, the on-board computer sent us an alarm stating that both the passenger and driver doors have been open for an extended period of time. It’s now been two hours since the doors were last closed,” the young guy said.

  “Why would there be an alarm for such a thing?” I asked.

  “You know, could alert us to a kidnapping or carjacking,” he said.

  “Yeah, because all carjackers drive off with both doors open. Maybe they went for a piss. You know what, just leave it with me. I’ll tell Shaw. I’m sure he’ll just love the idea of carjackings and alarms for open doors,” I uttered in a disparaging tone. The young officer nodded. I could tell he knew who I was, and it intimidated him. “Thanks, though, good work,” I added, just for niceties and such.

  I didn’t have too much of a long walk to the Chief’s office. I was intercepted by that young cop in the main office of the precinct. The Chief’s office wasn’t too far from there. I walked up the stairs and knocked on his door. I felt like I was having déjà vu. I had been in the precinct for far too long. I needed some sleep, but I wasn’t going to get any. No, sir. It was full steam ahead as of now.

  “Come in,” I heard the Chief say from behind the big oak door.

  When I entered, I was greeted with more than a hello. I was greeted by a firm handshake from a well-armed individual. He was standing next to the Chief’s desk. He had combat gear on and was sporting a heavy-looking rifle. I didn’t recognize him at first, but then he became familiar after a second or two.

  “So good to see you again, Frank. Let’s hope we don’t meet again under those same circumstances,” he said.

  “Thanks for your work down on the Common. You sure know how to rescue a detective in distress,” I muttered.

  “All part of the job,” he replied.

  Shaw cleared his throat, getting our attention. “Did you want something, Frank?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, sorry, sir. I was just briefed by a uniformed officer. He told me that communication with the stakeout car opposite the warehouse has been lost. Apparently some sort of alarm in the car had been tripped. Something to do with the doors being open?” I said.

  Chief’s face was a picture. I knew what he was thinking, and, to be honest, I was thinking the same.

  “This killer certainly knows how to fuck with us,” the armed combat soldier who had rescued me said.

  “Gentleman, we’re going in. If he wants us to play his games, so be it. We are going in hard. I don’t care whether he’s dead or alive. I just want to put a stop to this,” Shaw said, sounding a little emotional.

  “With all due respect, sir, I think it would be best to take him alive,” I suggested.

  Shaw nodded. “Yeah, I agree, but we don’t always get what we want, now, do we, Frank?”

  I decided to keep my mouth shut. If Shaw wanted the bastard dead, who was I to say different?

  Seventy-Six

  We had kitted up at the precinct. We were all wearing flak jackets and helmets. We looked like those soldiers out of that movie Starship Troopers. I could feel the weight of the world on my shoulders as I made my way down to the deployment zone in the underground parking bay of the station. I don’t know if the weight on my shoulders was actually the world or if I was experiencing some serious strain from wearing all that body armor.

  I’m not one for protection (in the armor sense of the phrase), nor am I a man who likes to go in all guns blazing. In my opinion, at the time, I was quite disappointed at the idea of raiding the warehouse and snatching the killer. Sure, I was happy at the thought of apprehending the suspect, but I wanted to do it like they did in the movies. Not the Steven Segal ones, but those clever, sophisticated French ones. I wanted a stakeout (too bad our stakeout had gone awry); I wanted a conclusion that I w
ould be happy with. I didn’t want a Hollywood shootout and car chases. Granted, that’s not what happened, but it was still Hollywood — Se7en Hollywood, in fact.

  I remember the distinct smell of the parking bay. It smelt of crude oil and gasoline. There were a few grease monkeys working on the undersides of some of the convoy trucks. I guess they were tinkering before we left for the big, bad raid.

  I saw Santiago leaning against one of the trucks. He was smoking a cigarette. I thought I’d join him. I walked toward him and gave him a brief smile. He repaid me with one back. It was obvious that neither of us were in the mood for chitchat. What we had on our minds far outweighed the energy that it took to talk about the Bruins and the Stanley Cup. We were this close to finally moving on the suspect. We were so close I could practically taste the salty texture of victory in my mouth. It was coating my tongue much like that white stuff does when you have a really dry mouth. I was ready for this. More so than I had previously thought. I was trembling with excitement. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins. And then Shaw showed his face and put the cherry on top. He too was wearing Starship Trooper-esque clothing. He was joining us out on the field. I knew that could only mean one thing: Shit was real.

  He hardly ever got his hands dirty, but when he did, he was just like the rest of us. Ready for action like a bad-ass on call. He always knew how to make an entrance. He was the damn chief of police. He practically owned every single man in that precinct. He owned Santiago and me, and we obeyed his every command. This wasn’t the time for anyone to question the Chief, even if I had questioned him in the past; I knew where his heart was on this one. I knew that what we were about to do was important. It was important for many people, but mostly for the victims of the killer. It was no secret that we needed this to go off without a hitch. But as they say, secrets don’t stay secret for too long.

  I extinguished my cigarette with my foot and nodded at Santiago. By the time I got into the back of one of the heavily armored vans, I was feeling faint. I had to take a few pills to even my keel. I watched as the convoy of police vehicles filled up with armed men, all looking prime and ready for action. I clenched my fist in anticipation as the wide shutters to the parking bay opened and the Boston skyline appeared through the gap. We were off, and I was more nervous than my first kiss as a young boy. I could feel my heart doing backflips in my chest.

  I was ready.

  Seventy-Seven

  The convoy pulled into the industrial park half an hour later. Santiago and I hadn’t uttered as much as a word to each other since we’d left the precinct. It wasn’t like us to remain quiet, but there was something somber about the day, something that really rattled at my nerves.

  As the lights on our truck darkened and the rest of the convoy did the same, I heard the unmistakable voice of doubt in my head. It was scratching at my skull with claws the size of lions and a viciousness to match. I had heard that voice many a time before. It had made me question many things in my life. God, love, and humanity were none of those things. It doesn’t pain me to admit that I am a selfish man. A man who doesn’t have any interest in any of those things. As far as I’m concerned, all three of those things left Planet Earth long before we knew what they were.

  I guess my way of thinking would always allow such negative thoughts to enter my head. It wasn’t as if I had set out to be a detective with an attitude problem. No, as a matter of fact, I had set out to do the world good. Make it better. Make it hurt less. But upon doing so, I had opened the doors to the devil himself. I had stared evil in the eye on many occasions. Sometimes evil would make me tremble, but I’d never let it defeat me. That was until that day. The day I sat in the back of the truck, staring my partner in the eye. That day will never leave me. Not because of the journey that I had gone on. Not because of the case as such. More so for how it ended. I suppose I should get to that…but every time I recollect these memories, a little bit of me dies inside. I guess that shouldn’t really be a problem. Most of me is dead already.

  I looked San in the eye. I was staring deep into his soul. Like most people of his upbringing, God and spirituality were very important to him. I could tell he couldn’t take much more of this. It was testing his faith, as it was testing mine. Not in God, but in me. Could I really be a homicide detective after this? Could I unsee the things I’d seen?

  “You can do this, McKenzie,” San said to me. It turns out he was just as good at picking up vibes as I was.

  “I appreciate your vote of confidence, man, but I’m not as optimistic as you. I have a bad feeling about this,” I said, holding my stomach as I did so. Truth is, I was really feeling a little sick. I didn’t know what it was, but I guess now I know. It was that feeling you get when you know something bad is going to happen. Impending doom, if you will.

  “Being a good cop isn’t about optimism, Frank, you know that. It’s about doing the job. Staring evil in the face,” he said. I couldn’t hold my smile. Santiago was doing it again. A mind reader and a good friend? What else could a Boston Homicide jockey ask for?

  Our van radio cracked, and someone’s voice came through it. The staticky-sounding voice echoed off the tin walls in the back of the van. I looked around at the people who sat next to us. We all sat in rows, two of them, like the back of a prison transport van. Except we weren’t prisoners, we were cops. Prisoners of our fate, maybe, but that was about it.

  “Moving in on target in three minutes. Call to arms,” the mechanical-sounding voice said. It wasn’t a robot’s voice, or one of those “Satnav” voices, but whoever was on the other end of that receiver sounded as nervous as we were. This was the big time, and the big time called for big guns.

  Seventy-Eight

  The Mexican was back in his small office in the warehouse. He had been pacing for a few minutes. He was feeling the heat. He had cracked his collar for some air. The red sombrero he was wearing was really getting to him, but he felt as if he had to prevail. It was no good chickening out now. He had come too far. He was at the bottom of the ninth, ready to swing the ball out of the park. The only thing was, he was feeling the strain. He felt as if he was no longer the big bad wolf. He felt like half the man he was a few days ago. He was ready to go down, but not without a fight.

  He was fixated on the CCTV monitor that burned at the center of the room. The images on it were searing into his mind. He knew what time it was, and he knew what was about to happen. He watched as a convoy of trucks pulled up just outside the perimeter of the building. The beams from their headlights were quickly turned off, and they remained idle for what seemed like an eternity. He watched as nothing happened. With every second that passed, his brow grew ever wetter with sweat. His nose began to twitch, and his eyes began to shift from left to right. The small office room he had in the warehouse grew ever smaller as the presence of danger surrounded him. He could hear the whistling of the wind outside. The small window that adorned the otherwise featureless room ejected small particles of light into the dark and dank space. The lighting from the window was coming from the moon. The moon stood tall and fat in the sky. The perfect landscape for the opening of a horror movie. All that was missing was the big, crumbling castle on the hill, and the winding footpath that led to it.

  The fact was that this wasn’t the opening act to a horror movie — it was the closing act on his masterpiece. He could feel the curtain call coming, and all that was left was the encore.

  “I’m ready,” he repeated once again. He watched as the idle trucks in the CCTV image remained stationary until he spotted some movement. Out of nowhere, the backs of the trucks opened, and a few dozen men came tumbling out of each of them. He watched as they formed a line and regrouped. They didn’t spend too much time loitering. The Mexican knew he only had a few minutes to put the finishing touches on his project. He knew that time was of the essence. When he saw them about to make their move, he was already halfway out the door.

  He ran out of his small, cramped office and bolted
down the hallway. Something in his mind was counting down, like an egg timer about to go off. The dark hallway he was careering down was sparsely lit and posed many an obstacle. He was ducking and diving through a sea of crates and clothes rails. The place looked like the back of a drama workshop. He knew what it was, though; he knew they weren’t drama props. No, they were his props. Props for his masterpiece. It was a shame he didn’t have time to use all of them.

  He finally reached the end of the hallway and stopped to catch his breath. That was when he heard a small explosion. They must have breached the front door. They were big metal bastards, he thought. They sure came equipped. He snapped himself out of his fear and unlatched the door in front of him. With no time for a respite, he charged into the room and grabbed the keys on the hook off the wall. In the middle of the room was Olivia Cormack. She let out a scream. He hit her on the head with a closed fist, like a hammer into a nail.

  She went bye-bye. He smiled.

  Seventy-Nine

  The big doors came down with a thud. I couldn’t see much because of the smoky residue left behind by the breeching explosives. When the smoke finally cleared, we went in. I was in the lead team, the front team. The guy who saved my life at the Boston Common was leading the pack, and behind him were two of his closest squad members. Behind them, were Santiago and me. Behind us were two more teams, consisting of around twelve men. To say we went in all guns blazing was an understatement. We went into that warehouse with every intention of war on our mind. What we didn’t expect was what we got.

  We went storming in. I could feel the weight under my feet crack into the door that lay splintered in the entrance way. As we all made our way inside, I could hear the ever-so-present sound of our marching boots. I could hear a chorus of controlled breathing, the sort of breathing marksmen have. None of that controlled breathing was coming from Santiago or me. Our breathing mimicked that of an overweight, unfit, hyperventilating mess of humanity. We weren’t too familiar with the adrenaline rush that was a police raid. It felt like something out of the movies. We felt like SWAT.