Murder Mystery McKenzie (Frank McKenzie complete collection so far)

by Luis Samways

  Harry watched as the last truck disappeared from sight. They were minutes away from accomplishing what they had planned. Harry got into his limo and raced off to the airport. When he got there, he gave the boys in the convoy the go-ahead.

  It was time.

  Twelve

  The DEA agents were still busy working the warehouse crime scene. They had sorted and packed a few hundred boxes of cocaine into a pile of evidence. They were awaiting the FBI and the DEA’s own transport. It was yet to show up, so the agents got to brushing down the crime scene. The coroner hadn’t even showed up for the dead man named Bobby Sanders. His body was left untouched at the side of the entrance. The blood had hardened and gone a cold bluish color. Most of the agents were inside, which was lucky for Harry Donavon. When the timer expired and the gas came gushing out of the vents, most of the agents hit the deck before they knew what was going on. All that remained were two men who spotted the gas and ran outside. They were about to call in the incident when both got taken out from afar. A man was stationed on a mound overlooking the warehouse. He had been placed there for a few hours, ever since the warehouse got taken over.

  Harry had sent a few scouts there before the trucks turned up. By the time the convoy entered the DEA-infested area, green smoke was pluming out of every gap and crack in the warehouse. The men who came out of the trucks scattered like ants, hitting and kicking the downed DEA agents. A few men got carried away and let off a few non-lethal shots at the downed cops. No cops died on that raid. None of the crew had shot real bullets. They didn’t have to — every man and woman was knocked out cold by the time the crew came in and ransacked the area.

  The men lugged the heavy evidence containers into the dump trucks. It took them all of ten minutes to empty the warehouse completely. All that remained were agents on the floor and the occasional sparse packaging of cocaine. Nothing much, a few kilos that slipped out of their grasp. The clean-out crew came hollering out of the warehouse and got into their vehicles. Trucks started to leave at rapid pace. Smoke from the screeching tires left blackened marks on the ground. The last of the convoy was still stationary. They were the first men in but were set to be the last ones to leave. They stayed there for a few minutes, making sure that no one woke up. They were satisfied when everyone had left. One of the men grabbed the dead Bobby Sanders and hoisted him onto his shoulders. They grabbed the last of the drugs and money, and put them into the idling truck. Bobby was thrown into the back with the rest of the take. The doors were slammed shut, and a couple of the men hung off the sides of the vehicle like garbage men did. The truck was so full they had to. The vehicle reversed and got out of Dodge.

  All that remained was the lowly sniper on the mound. He watched as the dust settled and the smoke plumed some more. The warehouse and its surroundings were desolate and quiet. He got up and packed his rifle away, dismantling it without taking his eyes off the warehouse. He felt like the job was done and he could leave. He got out his cell phone and texted a message. He pressed “send” and dusted himself off. He hoisted the rifle bag onto his back like a guitar player leaving a concert. He ran up the hill and jumped on his Harley.

  The motorcycle rode off into the Boston sunrise. All that was left was the eerie silence of a job well done.

  Thirteen

  The cell phone in Harry’s breast pocket vibrated a few times.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said, reaching in for it and pulling it out. It vibrated in his hands, and he swiped at the screen. A new message had been sent. He pressed on the message, and a smile spread across his face. The job was done, and he was a happy man. He put the cell back into his breast pocket and got back to paying for his flight.

  “So that’s a first-class ticket to Morocco, that will be…eight thousand and seventy-two dollars,” the desk girl said in a bright and cheerful voice. “Oh, I almost forgot — would you like priority boarding?” she added.

  Harry shook his head.

  “That would mean less time talking to you, wouldn’t it?” he said.

  The young lady smiled. She must have been in her early twenties, but Harry wasn’t a slouch, even though he was rather square-looking, being built like a house of bricks.

  “Well, I suppose I get off for breakfast in an hour. Gives you plenty of time to talk,” she said quietly, looking around to see if anyone was looking.

  Harry cracked another smile. This time it was huge. It nearly overshadowed his large round head. He grabbed the ticket from the desk and popped it into his jacket pocket, the outside one. He nodded at her and gave her a wink.

  “I might be around. Maybe I’ll see you near the concourse,” he said, nodding again and walking off.

  That was the thing with being Harry Donavon. You always got your own way, but it didn’t mean you had to let everyone know about it. The girl would be there, and he would most likely have his way with her before the flight. It didn’t mean that he was going to let her know it. She knew what he was after, but she truly didn’t know what he was capable of, like most people. And that was where they fell at the first hurdle. The people who underestimated him ended up dead…often.

  Harry Donavon was as free as a bird, and that was how he’d stay. They shouldn’t have underestimated the big man. He always got his own way.

  Harry walked off into security and went through the metal detector. It didn’t sound off. That was when he knew he was free. And that planted an even bigger smile on his face as he strolled off down the hallway and into a café for an early morning, pre-flight donut and coffee.

  Fourteen

  Frank McKenzie and Santiago were just about to turn into the warehouse crime scene when they spotted the green smoke mushroom-clouding around the area.

  “Holy shit! What happened here?” Frank asked out loud.

  “Get onto the radio. I think the warehouse has been hit,” San said as they screeched into the parking lot just outside the warehouse. He rushed out of the car and went running into the building with his sleeve over his mouth.

  “San, wait up, man!” Frank shouted out the window, but to no avail. Santiago bolted into the mist and left Frank in the car.

  Frank reached for the radio and clicked it on.

  “Dispatch this is car 187, we have a possible 82 down at the warehouse we were called to. It’s on West and 11th, situated a mile or so from the airport. It looks as if the place has been hit. I see a couple of DEA agents down on the ground. Requiring assistance in the form of an ambulance and armed backup.”

  Frank slammed the radio back down and got out of the car. He nearly tore the seatbelt off the seat as he lunged out of the vehicle. He got up and ran to the entrance. He spotted a downed agent and checked his vitals. The guy was alive but knocked out. He had a steady rhythm. He checked the other agent next to him. He, too, was alive.

  Frank heard San from the inside:

  “We have multiple agents down. Looks as if they are not fatally wounded. They were knocked unconscious. Must be this gas shit. I’m feeling a little woozy, Frank. You’re going to have to come in and….” Then San went quiet.

  “San! SANTIAGO?” Frank screamed. Without hesitation Frank went flying into the misty warehouse. He saw Santiago on the floor and hoisted him up to his feet. The detective was a little unsteady, but both of them came running out of the smoky warehouse and into the sun-baked morning air. Santiago coughed a few times, clearing his throat from the green substance he had just inhaled.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Frank gasped as he tried to suck at the clean air.

  “I don’t know, man,” San said, also struggling for air. “The warehouse has been cleaned out. All the gear is gone. The drugs and the money…I think the owners came back,” Santiago managed, falling onto the floor face first. He was out cold. Frank could see it. He knew what was going on, but it was no good. He was succumbing to the tainted air as well. It wasn’t long until he was also face down, knocked out cold.

  The backup arrived five minutes later. They were as shock
ed as one might expect, seeing all the agents on the floor. They feared the worse but were relieved when people started coming to. No one had died, but the city’s pride was hurt. Gutsy criminals had managed to capture what was theirs, and the city lost a lot of respect from the D.A.’s office. The DEA were embarrassed and didn’t take the loss lightly. A few revenge drug busts were taken, and the biggest drug bust in Boston’s history was soon forgotten. The DEA were heroes again, and Frank and San were left to homicide cases.

  As with all murders, some got solved while others lay cold. Frank and San never forgot the day the DEA came tumbling in and fumbled one of their biggest cases. It stuck in the minds of most people in the P.D. They hadn’t managed to capture the people who raided the drug bust, nor did they catch the guys who popped the delivery man. It was a cold case not long after it had begun. It didn’t stop Frank and Santiago from going on to solve more cases. But as with every case that turns cold, some haunt the detectives more than others. This case in particular did more than haunt McKenzie and Santiago. It left its cold mark on their case files.

  Gun To

  The Head

  One

  Seth and the “Gang”

  So the night began. Well, I say “began,” but it was more of a happening than a “began.” Hell, I’d even go as far as saying that the night didn’t begin as much as it just happened. As usual, we had a plan.

  “Tonight, gentlemen, we get wasted. We snort coke. We fuck women. We do what we always do,” Seth would tell us during his usual pep talk. The pep talk hadn’t quite happened yet because I was running late. I was at home as usual, playing video games. I like gaming, and I won’t hear anyone tell me any different. Plus, from what I have just told you, you would probably envision me and my pals as some Jack the lads. We are more “Jack the don’ts,” as in, “Don’t you feel bad you’re still a virgin?” Yes, I do. Damn right I do. But hey, what are you going to do? Bitch and moan about the fact that no girl wants to sleep with you? No, that’s not how I roll. I don’t socialise very well. I hate big crowds and dislike confrontation. It’s just nonsensical that someone would pick a fight with anyone…but I’m getting ahead of myself here.

  Now, let’s talk more about Seth’s pep talks. You see, I may be a “Jack the don’t” and so are most of my friends in our tight group, but Seth isn’t. This guy can party for the world, not just any given country but a flat-out jig to the planet’s rotation. He’s a heavy hitter. He likes women, and women like him. That’s all there is to it. He goes into a club, and we watch him accumulate a wad of girls’ phone numbers. It’s quite impressive, if you ask me. But that’s beside the point. Seth may be a good-looking all-out ladies’ man, but we — the “gang,” as he likes to put it — are not good-looking guys who are brilliant with the females. I wouldn’t say we are bad-looking gentlemen, but women don’t flock to us in clubs. We haven’t got the Seth whitened teeth. We don’t have the Seth charm, nor do we have the Seth charisma. Now, you’re probably thinking that I’m being too hard on myself. I probably am, but the truth is that Seth always reminds me and our “gang” of how much we need him to score with chicks.

  It’s not that he sticks his fingers out and says stuff like, “Smell that, boys? That’s the smell of a man getting pussy.”…Okay, maybe he does. But he’s a good guy. In comparison he leads the same style of life that all of us live in our group. We go to the same college, and we live in the same suburban shithole. The similarities end there, I’m afraid. Since we started college, the guy has changed. He fell into the mid-popular range while we dwindled in the lower leagues when it came to school popularity contests. I don’t know how he became so popular so fast while we remained so unworthy. Nothing new on our side, though. He was there at one point with us, in the same shitty twilight zone, experiencing the same lack of appreciation or pure acknowledgement of our existence. You know how the system works. Be an asshole, and your fellow students cheer you as you walk down the corridor on the way to home-mech; be academic and have aspirations of moving out of your hick neighbourhood, and you get slammed into the lockers and made to look like a victim. I know that system, and I appreciate my place in it. Seth, however, did not. That’s why he brought a baseball bat to school and gave the resident school asshole a new face. That’s why he is where he is now. With that incident he managed to grow some confidence along with his newfound balls. Yeah, that’s Seth all right…push him and he pushes back. Still, though, the guy can party!

  Two

  Me, Myself & the Mirror

  Confidence is something I personally lack. As you can probably tell, I have a certain disdain for over-the-top arrogance. Seth aside, I hate the popular people. They are popular for all the wrong reasons. If you ask me, we so-called nerds are the true gatekeepers of the universe. While most of these jocks and sluts will go on welfare for the rest of their lives while they rear children like cattle at a dairy farm, we nerds move on to bigger things, super-hot models and fast cars, well-paying jobs and self-respect — well, that’s what Seth tells me.

  Enough about him for the time being. Let’s talk about me. My name is Toby French. Yep, that’s right; my parents are condescending assholes. It’s not that I don’t like my name, it’s just that’s it’s so, you know…meh. Anyway, you can imagine the sort of nicknames I get at school. “Toby the Turtle” is one of them, maybe because I have a slow pace about the way I walk. Well, that’s what I like to think. But I know it’s probably some juvenile way to go about calling me slow, as in retarded, even though I get straight A’s all year round and never flunk a class. But in high school that sort of success means you are “retarded.” I should have known that the most successful people in the world drank from beer bongs and had sex with multiple brain-dead cheerleaders. Oh, well, I guess I’ll just have to stick to my 185 IQ and “retarded” grades.

  My real friends (Seth included) call me “Frenchy.” It’s nice, I suppose, but nothing that flatters the pants off me. I would rather be called Toby, seeing that’s my name, funnily enough. Moving on, I’m a pretty sarcastic and easygoing fella. I enjoy my video games, as previously stated, and really enjoy my math. I don’t know what it is about math that makes me hard, but I tend to sway to the point that maybe it’s because math is problem-solving and my life is chock block full of problems. I also like drinking. I mean, what self-respecting under-twenty-one-year-old American doesn’t? Plus, when the parties flow, the beer usually does the same. Not to mention all the hot girls. I guess the only bad thing about these parties is most of the company. You get the jocks being assholes and the women admiring the assholes for some ungodly reason. Don’t get me wrong — I, too, would behave like a menacing alpha-male jock if I had the ability to, but the truth is I’m five foot eight on a good day and a buck ten on a fat day. So you can imagine the six-foot-five guys weighing in at a muscle-y two hundred and twenty being more of a babe magnet than me, who in fairness is more of a punch magnet. Not that I get blasted in the face or anything, but the jocks do like to give me a dead arm once in a while. Not too often, just a few times a day. They like to approach me and say things like,“Frenchy, good to see you, buddy. Oh, by the way, I appreciate you doing my essay for me. Sick website, man!” Then bam, the inevitable punch in the shoulder. Oh, how that makes me feel like “one of them.”

  The website they are referring to is the one I set up myself: willdoyourhomeworkforyou.net. It’s a little venture I thought of all by myself. People go on there and fill out a form, attach a Word document, and send me $10 to complete it. It’s usually pretty easy; I mean, most of them send me math and English work. Some of them on the odd occasion make it hard on me and send me essays on football so they can pass their scholarship. I get Seth to help me out with those. We split it five bucks a piece on those occasions. I tend to make about $500 a week. It’s a good little earner. No Saturday job for me, just all the Cheetos I want and an everlasting cash pile for my video games. Not to mention that it’s made me less of a punching bag and locker-dwelling nerd,
and more of their homework friend, which in point gets me and the boys into all of their parties. Yay for me!

  Three

  The Phone Call

  I’m sitting in my room as usual, playing the greatest game of all time, World of Warcraft. It’s an MMORPG. In other words, it’s a game where loads of people play it simultaneously while going about their daily business such as looting gold and armour in dungeons or playing through the thousands of quests that are available to complete. The game rocks, and I enjoy it immensely. It’s rather expensive, as you have to pay a monthly subscription to play the damn thing. Fifteen bucks a month is no easy steer for a guy in college. But my brilliant website takes care of that for me, so who cares, right? I look at the time as I glare down at my watch.

  It’s eight-thirty. I need to get moving and get ready. Seth will be calling me at any minute telling me that he is outside. He picks me up on a Saturday night. He’s got a Scooby Doo–type van, old hippy type of body work. Seth actually went out of his way to deface the peace sign that stretched out on the van’s side. I don’t exactly know why, but I think maybe he was worried by what sort of message the peace sign would send. After all, he did just break out into the major leagues of college rep.

  I get up from my sturdy black foldable chair propped nicely under my lavish metal desk that supports my budget PC. I stretch a little to get rid of those creaks and cracks that make the life of a PC gamer hell. I widen my arms out, and I hear them snap. Ah, that’s better. I feel like the Tin Man with a new oil job. I look at myself briefly. As usual, I look like shit, nothing new there. I grab some hair gel and smooth my black hair over. It looks queer, but that’s what everyone is doing these days. Got to stay fab for the girls! Not that it ever gets me a girl. Peer pressure is a wonderful drug.