Welcome To Central City

by Adam C Mitchell

  It still seemed flawless—a plan with not a wrinkle in it, and that’s what kept my resolve as I sat in my car waiting for Gerry O'Connor to come by. I had followed him for the last few days and knew this was his lunchtime stop. I noticed my hand kept checking my coat pocket. Had my subconscious taken over, or was it just nervous muscle memory? I was also over the moon that the weather had turned, and the downpour had stopped, and soon the side walks would become crowded again. Perfect, I thought, looking in the car’s rear view. I found myself flashing back to the conversations back at the office. Then later at the hardware store, gentleman’s club, bar, and at my family’s humble grave, I’d had said to myself and others over the last few days. A dark, almost excited, pleasure began to take over me as I waited for O'Connor to play his unwitting part. That’s when I heard the bell from the parking meter. My time was up. That’s when I saw him, reading a newspaper as he walked towards his usual spot. As I saw him, I became overly focused, to the point at which I could read clearly the newspaper’s saddening Headline

  ‘GANDHI SHOT TO DEATH; RIOTS SWEEP BOMBAY.’

  Seeing that headline gave me even more resolve; this wasn’t a just world any more, and I didn’t want any part of it. O'Connor's face was pale and sweaty under busy red eyebrows and a balding head of red hair; his comb-over was floating in the breeze and wasn’t fooling anyone. The Irishman’s fat body swayed as he ambled.

  Was he drunk, again, and to what extent?

  Was he as wasted as the day he murdered my little princess?

  Then with controlled haste, I slid myself across to the other seat, near the curbside door, got out and made damn sure I was in his path. I spoke up so that Gerry and anyone nearby could hear; witnesses are always helpful in this sort of thing. I did feel bad that one of them was a young woman, with a baby in a Silver cross Sheraton stroller; it was the same one me and the wife used for our own bundle of perfection. In my mind, seeing the Silver cross was an omen that Molly and Sally were looking down on me, happy.

  So, raising my voice, I said with all the built up anger in me, “Ah, hello, up-chuck. There you are. I’ve been hoping to bump into you.”

  O'Connor shot a deer-in-headlights look straight at me, dumbfounded.

  “Hello, Mister …” he began. I didn’t let him finish. I pulled out my pistol and pulled the trigger. As my finger squeezed down, time seemed to slow to a crawl. I watched the faces of the witnesses, the sheer horror of images the young mother will never be able to un-see; but most enjoyably, I watched in slow motion the bullet. Watched it spin its way towards Gerry, boring a nickel sized hole right between the paddy’s eyes. I felt myself smiling as a thin red stream of blood trickled down his face and then watched as he crumpled to the side walk. That’s when time snapped back. The hysteria was at a fever pitch but I was as calm as a monk. I just placed the pistol in front of me, got to my knees, my hands behind my head, and simply waited.

  Jeff came to see me in lock-up, as soon as the flatfeet told him of my arrest. As he was frankly the nearest thing to next of kin I had left, and I told the police I would sign no confession unless they got Jeff here first.

  “Nathan,” he said, his tone downcast.

  “Don’t give me that look,” I said. “Let’s face it, both of us knew something like this mess was gonna happen one day. Don’t blame me. For God’s sake, don’t pity me, an’ don’t think I went out of my mind. I killed that piece of trash O'Connor deliberately and with premeditation. Heck, I enjoyed it! He got justice, finally. I just did what the law couldn't or wouldn’t frankly. You’ll get the insurance money, too. I’ll get death; all that, in my mind, is fair all the way around.” Jeff started to well up. “The insurance payout. Is that why you did this—for the god damn cash?”

  “Well hell, Jeff, why not?!” I laughed “Partner, it’s simple; if you kill yourself, the insurance company won’t pay. But, Jeff, here’s the beautiful catch. If you’re executed by the state, for murdering a citizen of Liberty City… well, hell, the insurance monkeys will pay and keep paying, like good little yes-men. They have to—it’s the law. Jeff, please be a pal, do me one more favour. Take the money and get the business off the critical list. It’s been on thin ice for too long. I’ll be happy soon. My family will be waiting for me.”

  A week later, I was. Judge Powers saw to that; the verdict I got in the docket was MURDER IN THE FIRST DEGREE, and he wouldn’t accept any plea for mercy. Well, that suited me fine. I was ready; heck, I admit I was relieved when I got the chair and not the noose—it was the express train to my Molly and Sally. Wasn’t it Scarlett O’ Hara who said in a film something about not crying? Well I won’t be; I’m going out smiling like a fool. The fact that I’d beaten the suicide loophole just made it even sweeter, and I’d beaten the clause rather perfectly, don’t you think readers? Granted readers, a few days on death row gave me an almighty scare. Out of the blue, this failing state decided to throw out the death penalty. No more noose or chair; instead all death-rowers were to get life, times three. Well, that was just great, I can tell you. Now that could really have put a wrench in the works. No payout for Jeff, no one-way ticket to my family for yours truly.

  But don’t fear, friends, the loopholes kept on coming. The “No Chair” rule was still applied, regardless. If anyone was to murder a member of law enforcement, they still got burned, no exceptions. So isn’t it lucky that Gerry O'Connor was a police lieutenant in traffic when he killed my little girl. But what is even luckier is he was busted back down to beat cop when I gave him his brass headache. Seemed fitting, really.

  “Nathan Kovakx, you were sentenced to death by electrocution on 12th September 1948 at midnight. In attendance is myself, warden Markus Ender, Officer Stephen Christie and Doctor Tom Hammett. Also in the viewing room is Gerry O'Connor's widow and son.

  “The crime was for two counts. One, Mulder in the first degree, and Two, unlawful possession of a war trophy, noted in the court papers under Article 3a as one German-made Mauser P08 9mm Luger, which on the 5th September 1948, you used with premeditation and evil intent to murder Officer Gerry O'Connor of the Liberty City Police Department. You pleaded guilty and did not ask for mercy. It is now my solemn duty to oversee the enactment of your punishment. Nathan Kovakx, you rejected any and all religious support, which will also be noted. Do you have any final words for the official record?”

  “Just one thing, Warden, if I may?” I said, smiling as broadly as I could

  “Very well.”

  “I’m coming home, Sally. Tell Molly I will see you both soon. That’s all, Warden Ender. Oh readers, yes you in the real world, thanks for listening” As I sat there waiting, I finally felt that dark passenger leave my soul; I was finally free.

  “Very well, Nathan Kovakx. May God have mercy on your soul in the here-and-ever-after. Officer Christie, on the stroke of 12, complete the sentence.”

  END.

  CHLOE's JUSTICE

  Part One

  The primal scream of a young woman filled the silence left by the smoking whisper of a sub-machine gun. The scream drew every black and white from three blocks to the Hollywood-like crime scene. An angry screech of rubber on damp tarmac preceded the fast paced steps of two veteran Central City Police officers running for all their worth. Their red lights and sirens wailed over the hive of commotion around them.

  Captain Morgan and Lieutenant Doakes ran to the horrid scene. They dodged onlookers, and Officer Joe Miller, who tried as best he could to hold back the press, vile vultures from the dirt sheets and The Globe. They seemed to have swooped down from out of nowhere after the next story. None of them cared about the tragedy, just the story. Miller didn't have it easy when all eyes were glued fast to the dead body. The small, battered body lay across the dirty grim side walk, a leg bent unnaturally around what was once a yellow fire hydrant. A bloodied dress with a faded flowered pattern was torn on the damp ground. The dead body was that of a two year old child, with blonde hair, ruby cheeks, pigtails, dimples and a skipp
ing rope. This kid was the picture of what blue collar living was all about. Staggered angrily in a line across her small back were three dime-sized punctures, each with its own flowing river of innocent blood. Doakes, despite being a mountain-sized man, struggled for all his worth to calm a frantic mother, knowing if he had to switch places, he’d have barged through anyone who’d have gotten between him and his child.

  A bloody child’s hand still clutched in vain for their mother as life poured from her eyes and her spark dimmed. Her young soul poured from her small frame. Morgan held the small girl’s hand softly, hoping to give the small child an element of solace and peace in her last moments on Earth. At least she was going to a better place, away from here. Part of him envied her. But mostly, he felt her loss. He felt the little hand slowly went limp as the small child took her last faint, raspy breath. He forced himself to look away from the child, his eyes telling the crowd more than words could.

  “What in God’s name happened here? Someone will swing if they don't tell me right the hell now!” he asked using his badge and authority to keep himself from crying. Trying to stay professional above emotion as best he could, He was old school and men don’t1 cry. Not real men anyway and besides with the events of the last few years, the world had cried enough.

  “One of you must have seen something, anything no matter how small. Please come forward if you did.” Doakes had just about managed to calm the mother down as the ominous Black Maria police van drove up. With the fading lettering of the coroner’s department for all to see, the Maria carrying a police photographer and the Medical Examiner in tow. Not that the photographer's snapshots of the scene would do very much Doakes thought, as he held the distraught woman Morgan knew better, these photo’s would help eventually, despite the bag log the boffins in the C.C.P.D had at the moment.

  Every snap would help him nail the bastard responsible. They never did. Shady eyes moved from the young body to the newcomers. Their notepads streamed faster than their eyes could process. Morgan could see everyone but the press was afraid. Their hesitant silence hung over everyone like a dark fog. All of them looked around now, everywhere but in the direction of the crouched police captain. It made him more than just mad. It made him wonder why he bothered putting his life on the line daily for the good folks of Central City. He was mad, but he understood to a point.

  He grabbed the arm of an eight year old juvie.

  “God damn it, kid — spill!”

  The freckled juvie tried to break free, rolling his beady eyes when he knew he couldn’t run. He spat on Morgan’s boot. A second volley from the mother shut him up again. Morgan turned his head and met Doakes eye line.

  “Be a pal. Take her somewhere, will you?”

  For the second time since he got here, Doakes struggled with the woman, this time leading her away to calm her. Two other cops on the beat jogged up, offering their help to Miller who still struggled to hold back the stream of on-lookers. Morgan went back to his reluctant child witness.

  “Come on, buddy. Sorry for snapping at you. Here, have some chocolate.” He passed the kid a chocolate bar from his jacket and tried to calm his tone “Please buddy, be a star. Tell me what happened, kiddo and don’t worry bud ya’ in no trouble okay. Promise,” he asked with all the pleasantry he could muster.

  The ginger haired lad started to sob. Between sobs, snivels and maddening emotional babble, the eight year old painted a picture of what happened. Morgan, the veteran he was, jotted all the facts down, sifting through the fragments of childish speak. A group of juvie’s had been playing kick-the-can in the street, all happy due to it being a weekend with school two days away. None of them had heard the speeding car until it was almost too late. Two of the juvie's laughed as they hopped off the sidewalk in a mock game of chicken with make believe Indian 440’s the kid told Morgan how they made the engine noise and everything as kids of that age do. The poor dead baby was named Chloe. The ginger kid told Morgan that there was a man walking along the side-walk, reading a paper in front of Chloe. It didn’t take a genius to figure from the little snot’s statement that the man, whoever he was, was in fact the target of the gunfire. But the paper reader had darted between two buildings and over a chain link fence when the shower of hot lead came to snuff out little Chloe’s life. Nobody took the plate as the car sped past. It all happened way too fast.

  Morgan let the kid go, sliding him a few dollars by way of an apology.

  “Hop it, kid, and don’t spend it all too fast.”

  The kid smiled then ran like a greyhound back home. Captain Harry Morgan removed his brown flat cap, wiping his hand through his graying hair. The Maria came to life again as the scene photographer and Medical Examiner carried the gurney of the child to the back of the parked vehicle. That’s the last time Morgan wanted to see the child. He crossed the street to a house where Doakes had taken the grieving mother. The Captain had no trouble finding the mother; her wails and sorrow flowed freely through a smashed window. He walked up the small wooden stairwell to the second floor of a rundown apartment building and found the poverty-stricken apartment. Well, Morgan thought it was an apartment. The door barely hung on its hinges. The walls were damp. This place was a wreck, but he could tell the mother had done her best to make it homely.

  Doakes leaned against the wall behind the door, one hip resting against a rickety, square table. His eyes held back a tear and his heart was focused on the woman crying in a rocking chair. Opposite the broken mother was a tall, willow like man, who, like the woman, was twisted with grief and trying as hard as he could to comfort her. Next to the pair was an aged crone who must have been knocking ninety. With her almost silver hair, she looked like a photographer’s negative.

  Morgan took a deep breath and strode in. Doakes turned to his partner

  “Boss it was their only kid.” He sighed. “Neither knows anything about what happened except that their bundle of joy is gone.”

  Morgan swore under his breath. The woman’s eyes could have killed.

  “Bastards,” she shouted. “You bastards are just like the monsters, who took my sweet, sweet baby girl! You...You know who did it, but you won’t do jack shit about it. We’re only poor people from the Tanneries. Nobody cares if my Chloe is…” She trailed off into sobs as the man stood next to her tried to reassure her in some way.

  Morgan swiveled on his booted heel and left the way he came in. He was about to make his way down the wooden stairwell when the man from upstairs overtook him.

  “Excuse me, captain wasn’t it?

  “Could you just forget what my wife says? As you can see its the grief. She’s in no condition too. See I work at the dump when I’m not pushing myself to hard with the garbage trucks, ya’ see I make a little extra money from cans and the like, and after we pay rent you see, we are pretty much broke and I can’t lose my job because of what she says ya’ see.” Embarrassed he stopped, Morgan slowly turned to face the husband

  “Your wife’s opinion of the police in this damn city is frankly the same as mine,” he growled. He carried on back down the stairs. Doakes caught up with the captain, who was taking a cigarette break on the hood of the squad car. After the captain finished, they both got in and drove off.

  Doakes was silent. “I wish some of the bleeding hearts could take a break from their pointless fundraisers and see what we saw today. There’s no romance or tinsel town glamour in what these damn thugs did, no fame for killers like this. In fact, the way that kid died was kind of lonely. I’m by no means a sap, boss, but that whole thing got to me. Poor kid”

  Doakes passed a hand over his bald head.

  “It was probably one of Allegra Renetti’s mob out of that damn club Allegra’s farther, Victor owned you know The Lost Angel, you know the one that got robbed two or three years back. If it was one of her lot, they were probably after one of the Razorbacks and I bet dime to dollar there was powder involved somewhere. Not that we can take a run at them for it without a shred of evidence. More’s
the pity.”

  Morgan flicked a cigarette butt out of the window thinking hard as the car turned out of the tanneries. This district was once a mad district, the heart of which was an old school Tannery and leather shop that made the best leather goods for the country’s elite, products that the so called elite would drop thick wedges of cash on. But that was before the war, before the factories were closed, and the slum lords and there knock off homes popped up all over. And if the cold winters in the slum homes didn’t kill its residents. The lethal chemicals left behind would, but more slowly. This place was just a few steps above what Doakes thought hell must be like.

  “You know, partner, if it was one of the Lost Angel lot, they mustn’t have gotten their man, as the blood bath would have been bigger, two bodies, if you get me. Let’s head back and see what hornet nests we can wake up. What do you think?”