Kindred Killers: A Stanford Carter Murder Mystery

by Gary Starta

  He was still whispering to Jill about his plan—that she would keep to one side of the parking lot—when Detective Christopher Sajak approached from behind. Sajak thought he had surprised Carter, but the veteran detective whirled around just as Sajak’s mouth opened to speak. Christopher Sajak nearly choked in surprise.

  “May I help you, Detective?”

  Sajak’s eyes blinked rapidly and he swallowed to regain composure.

  “I think you can. And in turn I want to help you,” Sajak answered, keeping steady eye contact with Carter.

  “How so?”

  “I know about your tip. And before you get pissed—well, that’s even if you can get pissed (Jill rolled her eyes)—I don’t want you to go blaming Gelder for this.”

  Carter bowed his head, requesting an explanation.

  “I’m going to tell you flat out. I was desperate. Captain Eldridge was pushing me hard to get the killer of Donnie Cinelli, but the case had gone colder than a January day. I went into the trace lab to blow off some steam. I mean, I admit I was desperate. So I began spilling my concerns to Gelder. I don’t know if he felt bad for me or if he believed in these so called ‘dream visions’ but he told me about your psychic. It led me to believe the killer might be in that van, maybe looking to knock off the person who killed Donnie Cinelli . . . ”

  Carter interrupted. “Stop right there, we don’t know . . . ”

  “Or,” Sajak continued, “They—or more specifically members of the Cinelli family—would go hunting for the man they ‘believed’ had killed Donnie Cinelli. Either way, I would say you’ve got a pretty sound tip. So I’m asking you, Detective Carter, may I join your task force?”

  Jill snorted with sarcasm, “Yeah, quite the task force, a two person squad.”

  “Well, how ‘bout makin’ it three?”

  “I say you’ve got a deal,” Carter responded. “But this is your head you’re putting on the block, Detective. There will be no overtime pay for this. No authorization of any kind. We all might get fired if we don’t get shot first.”

  “Hey, I’ve got it. Eldridge was not going to approve any requisitions to fund a psychic’s whims. But so what? He might not be a believer, but that doesn’t mean everybody else swims in his same circle—get my drift?” He paused to tap his right hand on Carter’s chest and leaned forward. “Cause now that I think of it, I think your man Gelder is a believer in this mystic stuff. I mean why else would he have told me?”

  “Let’s just hope we’ll have time to ponder it after our ‘task force’ completes its first mission,” Carter said.

  It was still sunny, still daylight, still everything a summer afternoon should be. Light bounced off the windshields of parked cars in the back parking lot of Brian’s Bar. Few know about this spot. But those who did, including Jay Fishburne, rarely ever thought of using it, believing the early birds frequenting the bar had already filled the tiny lot up to capacity. It was about an eighth of a football field in length and could accommodate only two rows of cars. Most of the vehicles parked there belonged to employees of the bar or to those who owned businesses in the vicinity. Mick Granger, whose middle name wasn’t even Brian, owned the establishment and made a small killing selling parking to local merchants who were fed up with feeding meters or getting their cars dinged up by those infamous crazy Boston drivers.

  So when Jill and Carter rolled their vehicles into the lot, they barely managed to grab two spots. Fortunately, those spots were in key strategic positions—in the front row—one to the far left and the other far right. Carter pulled his vehicle to the spot on the right. Sajak, sitting in the passenger seat, stretched his arms and took his best nonchalant glance to make sure Jill had parked as well.

  “It’s okay,” Stanford said to him. “They’re not here yet.”

  “I know. But you can never be too careful.”

  “With you on that one.”

  Sajak winked. “Good thinking Carter. We’re in prime position. The van will have no other choice but to engage us. It will only have room to stop in between rows. If you ask me these wise guys aren’t very wise sometimes.”

  Carter ignored Sajak’s comment and dug his cell phone from his coat pocket He accessed a speed dial menu to call the bar. He must alert one person of their plan for their patron’s safety.

  He already knew Fishburne was here. He had seen the car—the one with the slightly dented rear bumper—parked across the street from the bar’s front entrance. His mind wandered as the phone rang. Caitlin Diggs’ dream vision had predicted Fishburne would leave the bar from the back entrance around dusk. But why would he come out the back if he has parked in the front?

  A girl with a husky voice answered Carter’s call.

  “Good afternoon, Brian’s Bar, Denise speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Denise, this is Lieutenant Detective Stanford Carter of the Boston crime lab. I have some important instructions. Can you please listen very carefully and promise not to speak to anyone or let your eyes wander around the bar as we talk?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “I know you may want to verify my identification. I can give you my badge number and you may verify it with the lab . . . ”

  “Ah, no need. It’s like I’m happy to do my duty, Detective. I’ve heard your name before. You’re like famous or something.”

  “Thank you, Denise. I want you to tell me if a man with brown hair, average build, about thirty five with a redness about his neck is among your clientele today.”

  “Sure. That’s that PI, comes in here a regular, kind of like the way Norm did on that show, Cheers.”

  “Very good, Denise. I don’t want you to alert him or tell him anything regarding our conversation. At some point he will be exiting your bar from the back door. When that happens, I want you to lock that door and don’t let anybody else use it.”

  “You got it. Sounds like some kind of sting operation going on. I know. I bet the PI is helping you guys out like they do on those cop shows.”

  “Denise, I appreciate your cooperation on this matter. It’s very important that you do this, but only after the PI exits the bar.”

  “Oh, I’ve got it.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I always thought that PI was kinda cute in a boyish sort of way. But I’m happy to help you out. Well, I hope you get ‘em.”

  “Get who, Denise?”

  “The bad guy, of course.”

  “Yes. Remember Denise. This is official police business. Please don’t tell a soul.”

  “Cross my heart,” Denise said.

  When she hung up, Mick Granger asked her who it was.

  “Oh, just solicitors for the police ball. You know the annual call you always get.”

  “And,” Mick said, “I hope you gave them the usual answer.”

  “Oh, of course,” Denise said while polishing the inside of a glass with a rag. “I told them to get lost.”

  “Good girl,” Mick said. “You’re learning.”

  Carter was on his cell with Jill. He requested she repeat back his instructions to him.

  She said, “Only fire at the van to provide you with cover. Don’t leave your position, not to save anybody. Not Fishburne, Sajak or yourself—no matter what.” Jill sighed and rolled her eyes. When she did, her chest heaved. She thought she was out of Carter’s sight but he saw it from his driver’s side window. Sajak noted the concern on Carter’s face and poked him in the ribs. “She’ll do fine. She’s a great CSI. It will be a hell of a shame to lose her.”

  “Exactly,” Carter said. He was not referring to the transfer, but to the danger they would face. Sajak nodded, his smile replaced with grim somberness. In less than half an hour, if Diggs’ vision held true, a black van would enter the lot from a side alleyway entrance and begin firing. When it did, Carter hoped to fire a warning volley. He would shout through a bullhorn urging the shooters to surrender. He didn’t believe this would work. But Carter still believed in procedure and protocol even when he was conducting an
unauthorized stakeout. He also hoped to warn Fishburne in time so he could take cover. In the back of his mind, a voice said he could save Fishburne right now, even keep Jill out of harm’s way altogether. He could simply walk in the bar and make sure Jay Fishburne didn’t exit. But if he did that the occupants might never draw fire on him. If that happened there would be no reason to stop the van for probable cause because a dream vision or a hunch wouldn’t exactly convince a judge he wasn’t violating civil rights. He must let the shooters make the first move—to allow the dream vision to play out. He was certain Diggs’ dream visions were not only accurate but perhaps painted a picture of the future that couldn’t be altered, just as fate couldn’t be changed. About a year ago he had acted on a Diggs’ dream vision and brought two murderers to justice because of it. He could only hope fate would be kind enough to allow him to continue his quest, to find justice and peace of mind for those families who had lost loved ones to murder. He also selfishly wished, daring to take a moment in silence to pray for Jill’s safety. When he finished, he instructed Detective Sajak to take a position on foot just outside a fence that cordoned off the bar’s property line. He was not to open fire until Carter had engaged the shooters or to leave the perimeter of the lot unless the worst had happened.

  “I want you to make sure, Detective Sajak, the perps are not allowed to leave this lot in case I should fail to stop them.”

  “I’ve got your back, Carter.” He patted Carter on the shoulder and exited the car. Seconds later Sajak had bounded over the fence and had taken cover behind a tree. Carter couldn’t see him in his rearview mirror. He sighed and this time Jill was the one observing.

  No more words were needed. The detective conceded they could only let fate play out.

  ***

  As Bull Dog drove he fiddled with a GPS navigator, trying to avoid traffic congestion, Sparks kept an eye on the man he believed to be the devil incarnate.

  Sid Auerbach a.k.a. Rocko was seated on the floor of the van, free of any shackles except for rope tied about his hands.

  “You can’t begin to know how much I despise you,” Sparks said to Rocko. “I’m only going along with your little plan so I can be the one who takes the pleasure of smokin’ you.”

  “You know hate is a pretty complex emotion,” Rocko answered as if he believed Spark’s banter was purely conversational and not threatening by nature. “There are certain degrees of hate. And I can see by the look in your eye that I am probably the King Kong of all assholes in your opinion. But someday you might turn that hatred on yourself, kinda like I’m doin’. And then, bada bing, bada bang, you’ll be ordering your own death sentence. And don’t think I’m kiddin’ either. Rocko speaks of experience.”

  “Rocko speaks of this, Rocko speaks of that. What you think you’re the fuckin’ Dalai Lama or somethin’ spoutin’ wisdom like some freakin’ Buddhist master. The only thing you’ll be speakin’ bout soon is the shit load of pain I’m ‘bout to unload on your sorry ass.”

  “Interesting you should speak of Dalai Lama, some Buddhists believe him to be free of reincarnation. And if so, then I am not the Dalai because I’ve been here before. I just know it. And I think fate made me kill Donnie Cinelli, like he was going to become some kinda antichrist or something. I think I was fated to kill him even before you beat up those poor cops. That incident seemed to invoke some kinda karmic retribution if you will . . . ”

  Sparks turned to Bull Dog who drove with a solemn face, eyes hidden behind sunglasses. They both tried to contemplate if ‘Rocko’ really existed and if this was just some sort of con. If it wasn’t, then Rocko saw Auerbach as a completely different person, the one who was beaten by Cinelli’s thugs. And if so, Rocko killed Donnie Cinelli for a completely different motive, maybe one that sounded a lot like some sort of Zen bullshit to a couple of wise guys. But for a brief flicker of a second, both Bull Dog and Sparks considered if what Rocko was saying was true. Could Donnie Cinelli have been some sort of anti Christ?

  After a moment, Bull Dog sighed prompting Sparks to talk.

  “You believe this fuck, I say to hell with Johnny’s orders. I say let me take this fucker apart piece by piece right here, right now.”

  “Find a way to deal with your inner rage, my son,” Bull Dog said, looking at Sparks in the rearview mirror.

  “Okay, how ‘bout this?” He picked up a bottle of Christian Brothers V.O.P brandy. “Speaking of holy, how ‘bout takin’ a hit of this fire water, trust me it won’t take away the pain when I finally cap your ass, but it will dull the senses a bit. And if so, I suggest you drink the entire bottle.”

  “No thanks. I’m trying to stay off the sauce.”

  “Hey,” Sparks said, eyes lit with fire, “this ain’t a fuckin request!”

  Sparks uncapped the bottle, took it and slammed it into Rocko’s chest causing him to open his mouth. He poured the brandy into Rocko without quarter.

  The sound of Rocko’s struggling amused Bull Dog. The gurgling, gagging and gulping noises provided him with a great soundtrack to drive to. But after a moment, Bull Dog instructed Sparks to knock it off.

  “Hey Bull Dog,” Sparks said, “remember what this piece of shit told us back at the warehouse. That he drank to keep the demon in him at bay. I’m thinkin’ that if what this little asshole says is true, then we’re going to put good ol’ Rocko back in his genie bottle and then we’ll have Sgt. Sid Auerbach, Boston’s finest, at our beckon call. And when that happens, even you won’t be able to stop me from slicin’ and dicin’ his friggin’ ass.”

  Bull Dog giggled, a strange childish laugh coming from his six foot four inch hulking frame.

  “Now that I think of it, sounds like a plan.”

  For a man driving a van to place a hit, Bull Dog drove with courtesy, even signaling his turn into Brian’s Bar’s parking lot with a blinker. He expected there would be no interference. The police had a stone cold case on their hands—for the moment—because right now they couldn’t possibly know that Sgt. Auerbach was involved, nor could they know the Cinelli’s suspected Jay Fishburne was an accomplice in their kin’s death. It was the reason Johnny Cinelli approved a hit during daylight and a drive by hit no less. Johnny Cinelli didn’t equate the order with boldness, but with compassion. He must take down the men responsible for his son’s death ASAP.

  Bull Dog stopped the van in the middle of the alleyway access road. From the parking lot’s vantage point, no one could see them.

  “Okay, sober up, time to place a phone call,” Sparks said to Rocko. The cop/gangster hybrid didn’t seem to even hear Sparks command at first, his eyes rolled in their sockets.

  Sparks slapped him until Rocko managed to grunt.

  “Ah, that’s good. Now you’re going to dial your old buddy’s cell phone and encourage him to meet you in the bar’s back parking lot.”

  “How—how duh fuck will he believe me?”

  “Pretend you’re Sgt. Auerbach. Tell him you’re sorry for ratting him out and that you now see your error. That there is new evidence and it proves him innocent. Tell him that you’ve been best buddies since grade school and it’s time to bury the hatchet. If your friend Carter hasn’t told him about your suspension then there’s no reason he shouldn’t believe you.”

  “Yeah. Uh. Gimme the phone,” Rocko said. His voice sounded more like Rocky Balboa’s after going seven rounds. His mouth was swollen and his tongue was lacerated from biting it.

  “Praise Lord for muscle memory,” Rocko said, punching numbers more from repetition than from conscious decision.

  Fishburne answered on the second ring.

  “Hey, it’s me.”

  “What? I think you’ve got the wrong number, man.”

  “No wait. It’s me, your buddy Sid. I have to admit I’ve hoisted a few but it helped me clarify things.”

  “Like how?”

  “I’ve come to realize you didn’t do those murders. I’m prepared to speak to Detective Carter, vouch for you. But I want to talk to yo
u in person first.”

  “I’m not so sure this is a good idea.”

  “Yeah, it is. It’s a frickin’ wonderful idea. I’m here in the back parking lot.”

  Fishburne’s mind wandered. He wondered how Sid found a space.

  “Are you comin’ or what?” Sid asked, his Rocko persona all but burying even a hint of Sid’s natural voice. But what Bull Dog and Sparks hadn’t realized was that a hint of Sid Auerbach was returning.

  “Okay, I’m headin’ out. We can talk, but only for a few minutes.”

  “Hey, I know it’s almost time for your date, man. Well I won’t keep you long.” Sparks muffled a laugh with his hand and whispered to Bull Dog, “Sure as shit won’t.”

  Bull Dog put the van in gear and Sparks readied a rifle.

  Seconds later, Carter saw a black van from the corner of his eye. He pushed open his partially open car door and rolled to the ground, gun raised, and pointed to the sky.