15 Signs Of Murder (Fifteen thrillers)

by Luis Samways

  “Gentleman, I did offer you an assist, but I’m afraid regarding your behaviour and disdain for the federal government, that assist is no longer active, and I would kindly ask you two to fuck off,” the DEA agent said, to a few chuckles in the warehouse.

  Frank stood there in complete anger. He was going to sock the son of a bitch but decided against it. He and Santiago left the warehouse and effectively gave up their crime scene. It looked like the sleepless nights were going to continue for Frank. He didn’t have a case anymore. All thanks to the DEA and their love for hostile takeovers.

  “Fuck them, Frank. Let’s go and get drunk,” San said as he drove the two of them off the crime scene and off to a titty bar for some drowning-their-sorrows fun!

  Seven

  Dapper Fred and Big Harry pulled up to the safe house just outside the city. It was surrounded by wire fencing and smelt of burnt timber. The safe house was fronting as a lumber mill just outside Boston. It made Harry a few grand a month as extra uptake, and he employed big heavy men. The guys who worked the lumber mill wouldn’t bat an eyelid at crime but were very clean men. They weren’t the thugs that Harry dealt with. He wanted people with clean records attached to the mill. As Harry and Fred got out of the car, the legitimately employed big men paid no attention to Harry or dapper Fred in his suede suit.

  “God, you got some mean-looking motherfuckers around here, boss,” Fred said, walking past a couple of hard-looking lumberjacks.

  “Keep them mean, keep them keen,” Harry said.

  “Mean? But why?” Fred asked.

  “These guys are clean guys — they don’t have records. This is a legitimate business of mine. I can’t have meatheads walking around who like to kneecap people. I need to keep that part of my life separate from this part of my life. How else am I going to convince the IRS about my vast income?”

  Fred didn’t understand what his boss was trying to say. Fred hadn’t paid a dime to the IRS in the thirty-eight years he had been walking the planet.

  “Taxes? You pay taxes?” he said in disbelief.

  “Of course I do. How else am I supposed to get the damn feds off my back?”

  “And here we are now, about to devise a plan in which we fuck the feds up. Doesn’t sound like you want to get them off your back, boss!”

  Harry stopped dead in the middle of the yard. They were a few feet away from his personal office. He turned to Fred and clipped him around the ear. It was a light clip, but heavy enough to knock the sunglasses off Fred’s head. It was amusing to some of the men working close by.

  “Keep your damn opinions to yourself, Freddy. We need to concentrate on getting a plan in action. We haven’t got much time,” Harry said, taking a few massive strides in front.

  “Wait up, boss,” Fred said, still holding onto the back of his head like a child who had just been spanked.

  “Hurry up — Mickey and Gus will be here soon. I don’t want them to see you sniffling at my ass all day. Let’s get a hustle on.”

  Fred rolled his eyes and walked by a few of the hardworking lumberjacks, who were cutting some timber in two. One of them blew a kiss at Freddy. Freddy didn’t appreciate it.

  “What the fuck are you looking at, you prick?” Fred said, stopping in front of the towering man.

  The lumberjack looked surprised at the tenacity of Fred, and his surprise was painted across his face. That was the thing with Fred — he might have been picked on by the guys he worked for, but the man could fight, and he’d fight anybody. He let the guys do what they do because it was the right thing to do. Respect was a tremendous asset in the business they worked in.

  “Are you gonna do something or just stand there, you big no-good jerkoff?” Freddy said.

  “Um, sorry. I’ll get back to work,” the big lumberjack said.

  Freddy wasn’t having any of it. He reached for the toolbox next to the lumberjack and picked up a tire iron. He didn’t waste time with niceties and swung for the man’s right leg. It cracked under the swing, and the big guy fell to the floor, clasping at his knee.

  “Work is over for you. You’re on vacation now,” Freddy said.

  Harry smiled as his associate whacked the guy a few more times. He knew Freddy wouldn’t kill him, but that was why he kept the idiot around. Stupidity or not, Freddy was family, and he understood the business better than most.

  “Come on, Freddy — leave my damn employee alone. He’s learned his lesson,” Harry Donavon said.

  Freddy dropped the weapon on the floor. It banged and clanged a few times. Freddy got one last jab in, this time with his fist into the guy’s ribs. He then brushed his suede suit off and walked up to his boss, who was smiling from ear to ear. He put his arm around Fred and gave him a squeeze.

  “Now on to some more ass-kicking,” he said. Both men walked into the office cubicle in the middle of the lumber mill. As they walked in, the other big men broke ranks and attended to their downed workman. None of them showed sympathy; they just got him out of the yard quietly and went on with their business.

  Harry Donavon’s business.

  Eight

  Frank McKenzie and Santiago pulled into the titty bar in their Ford Capri. San had put on some Metallica, and it blasted out of the car as they arrived. A few bouncers clocked the cops and gave them a candid nod. Frank and San were now off-duty, hence why they were being as loud as they wanted with no regard for proper etiquette.

  That was the thing most men in the P.D. did. They liked to party hard. They felt they had to after the things they saw on a daily basis. Santiago liked strip clubs. Frank wasn’t into them as much as San was, but he felt he’d tag along just for moral support.

  Both men felt like crap. They had just been ousted from their own crime scene by The Man, and they were not happy. Cops get pissed off, too; they’re only human.

  “You ready to drink your sorrows away, McKenzie?” Santiago asked as he put the car in park.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” Frank muttered, not feeling as excited as his partner.

  Frank could never get excited about crowded bars and big breasts. He wasn’t that sort of man. He liked women, that was a given, but he liked them dressed casually. He preferred a woman’s mind, and then her body. It was a trait of his that affected his ability to partake in casual sex. He just couldn’t find what he needed to take a girl home. Most of the time, he would see a girl at the bar and feel obliged to let her know everything about him. He would tell women all sorts of stories. Heroic ones, some not so heroic, but all of them summing himself up pretty well. It wasn’t exactly a turn-on for most one-night stands. So he hadn’t had sex in a while. A very long while, in fact! Not since his wife was murdered ten years ago.

  “We’re cops, remember?” Frank said out loud.

  It caught Santiago off guard as both men left the car. As they walked down to the bouncers, San tried to ignore Frank’s mood. But he ended up needing to get a few things straight, so he decided to pipe up and tell his best friend to relax and get laid!

  “Look, buddy, you definitely need to unwind a little. You’re too uptight. We are off the books now. There isn’t anything illegal about going to a strip club and having a good time. So why are you so down?” San said, reaching the door and nodding at the two big men standing next to it.

  The men looked at Frank and San and let them in immediately. They looked surprised to see two cops at their establishment, but realized by the state they appeared to be in that they wouldn’t be trouble. Even cops need to let off steam.

  “It’s not that I disagree with strip clubs, San, it’s just I’d rather not go to them,” Frank said as they walked through the double doors, which looked like big black metal slabs. They walked in, and the lights dazzled their eyes. Pinks and reds blasted across their vision. Some hard-thumping bass music played in the background. Frank and San had to speak even louder to be able to hear each other. The place was filled to the brim with punters and strippers. They had girls on the stage. Girls on top of ta
bles. Girls at the doors welcoming San and Frank.

  “Lighten up, Frank. Everything will be fine!” Santiago shouted into his friend’s ear.

  “I’m going to get a drink,” Frank said.

  Santiago shrugged his shoulders, as if he hadn’t heard what was just said. “WHAT?” he shouted.

  “I’M GOING TO GET A DRINK!” Frank said, this time loud enough for half the club to hear.

  San smiled at Frank, and both detectives went their separate ways for the time being. They didn’t know it, but party time wouldn’t last very long.

  Nine

  Mickey and Gus got out of their station wagon, just outside the lumber mill. The dust kicked up as they walked down to the outhouse office that Harry Donavon occupied. Their presence brought a certain electric feel to the air. The workers cutting wood and going about their business didn’t dare look at those two men. They’d learned the hard way earlier that if you stepped out of line with these guys, they wouldn’t play nice. The lumberjack who’d taken a few wrench shots to the leg knew that, and so did everybody else. It was old news, anyway. The guys walking down the middle of the lumber mill were more than the current news — they were bad news, and they sure as hell knew it.

  “Get the fuck out of my way!” Gus said, pushing what seemed to be an apprentice woodcutter to the floor. No one went to help the fallen man; they wouldn’t want to end up on their keisters themselves.

  Both Gus and Mickey reached the outhouse office and went inside. The electric atmosphere seemed to follow them like invisible chains, binding them to the evil they took part in. Everybody in the yard breathed a collective sigh of relief when the men were out of sight and the workers were safe. The money kept them around, though; it always did. No matter how scary their work environment was, the money made life that much easier. Plus, when people knew you worked for Big Harry Donavon, more than respect flew your way. Everything flew your way.

  Inside the office, Harry and Dapper Fred were sitting at a desk doing shots of whiskey while listening to Pavarotti blast out some classic performance on sixteen-inch vinyl. The slight crackling sound coming from the spinning record gave the room an Italian feel – a Mob feel.

  Harry locked eyes with the two men who joined them at the table. Not one word was said for a while. First came the shots of whiskey, and then some lines of coke. Business was always a solemn affair in the company of those men. Whenever it was called for, things would get loud, but caution was the first sign of the mayhem that would surely ensue soon.

  Finally somebody spoke. The first to break the formalities was Dapper Fred.

  “Nice to see you guys,” Freddy said.

  A slight smile broke across Mickey’s face. He was a pale man and had a distinct rugged look to him. He was the type of man you’d rather kill from behind than face from the front. Legend had it that his stare would crumble most men and turn them into stone. His long-time partner and ally would finish the job and smash them into pieces. That man was sitting next to him. And then he spoke, too.

  “It’s always nice to see you, Freddy. And it’s even nicer to see Big Bad Harry!” Gus said.

  Gus was a big black man. He was around six feet tall and had arms the size of boulders. The Mob was hardly known for associating with black people, let alone having them in their ranks. It was a good thing that Gus, Fred, Micky, and Harry were not the Mob. They were a new kind of evil. They didn’t live by those stupid traditions. They lived by one tradition only, and that was force. They were going to force the feds into submission. That was a given.

  “So, what do we owe the pleasure?” Mickey asked, sipping on some whiskey.

  “Our warehouse downtown got hit. The DEA have secured the area. There are around a dozen feds in there. Word has it, FBI are on their way but are about two hours out. It gives us a chance to use that contingency plan we have in place,” Big Harry said, clasping at his drink and swigging it in one gulp.

  The lighting in the room went from a stable beam to a few flickers. Someone outside had turned on the chipper. Whenever that happened, the lighting in the office suffered.

  “Are you sure we can risk such a move?” Gus asked. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, his voice sounded like hot melting butter.

  “Yes, we wouldn’t call you if we couldn’t handle it. We have Simon and the men waiting around the corner from the warehouse. According to them, local P.D. bailed on the case, and the DEA are the only guys there. They are underpowered and understaffed. We get there in the next half hour, and we can regain our stash, move it, and save ourselves forty-five million,” Harry said.

  “Not to mention, if they do enough digging around, they could cotton onto the fact that we are selling directly to the clubs these days. It could fuck up our whole operation,” Fred chimed in.

  The atmosphere went cold when Gus asked the question that everybody had been waiting for.

  “So, we are going to kill a bunch of feds?” he asked.

  Fred looked at his boss, Harry, who didn’t relish the thought of doing such a thing. It was one thing to kill somebody who posed an immediate threat to his life, but a bunch of straight working men who so happen to be on shift when called to his warehouse? Nah, that didn’t settle well with him. He wasn’t into killing people with families, let alone innocent men trying to earn a living the right way.

  “No, we can’t go offing a bunch of feds. That’s not how we stay out of jail. We’ll have to think smart on this one.”

  Fred nodded.

  “I agree. Popping feds is stupid. We aren’t the bad guys, man — leave that to the damn cartels,” he said.

  The guys around the table started to laugh a little. It eased the tension. Everybody felt better off knowing that they wouldn’t have to kill anybody that day. It was a simple plan, and it would work. They were all certain of it.

  “So, we use the gas,” Harry said.

  Gus and Mickey lit up in anticipation.

  “You still have it hooked up to the ventilation system?” Gus asked.

  Harry reached under the big table in the office and pulled out an electronic tablet of some sorts. It had a massive antenna sticking out of its side and didn’t look like an iPad. It looked more like a detonator.

  “We use this sucker. In fifteen minutes’ time, as soon as I hit this tab right here, we’ll have the place smoked out. We roll over there in a few vans and get the merch back in our grasp, and then we haul ass out of the city and wait for the smoke to die down.”

  Everybody agreed with the plan. Harry input his code and got the detonator to start the countdown to the release of sleeping gas he had set up in his warehouse. The agents had no idea they were about to go to sleep. The ones who were outside would be incapacitated with non-lethal shots of electricity. It was a plan that made the guys around the table really happy. A plan that was perfect. Almost too perfect….

  Ten

  Frank and Santiago had been at the bar for an hour or so. Frank hadn’t touched his drink, and neither had Santiago. They were sitting next to each other in a booth that overlooked the main stage of the strip club. A girl named Sally was grinding on the pole on stage. She was a nice-looking girl, but both San’s and Frank’s minds were elsewhere. They were not enjoying themselves. That was obvious from the get-go.

  “What are we doing here, man?” Frank finally asked.

  Santiago sipped on his drink and tried to ignore the question.

  “San?” Frank looked at his partner to see if he was listening to him. San didn’t even look at him; he was too busy eyeing up the girl on stage. “Hey, I’m talking to you!” Frank shouted.

  This time Santiago gave Frank the attention he was looking for. “WHAT?” San asked, a little flustered and annoyed.

  There was a pause as Frank tried not to head-butt his partner. He was pissed and needing to vent. So he did, but with his mouth instead of his forehead. The music was pounding through the P.A. system as a few more girls made their way to the stage.

  “What the
hell are we doing here, man?” Frank repeated, this time calmly.

  “I don’t know — I just thought we needed to get our heads straight, ya know?”

  Frank nodded. He knew where his partner’s heart was, and that was enough to ease the anger he had toward him.

  “Look, we can’t just let these DEA assholes walk all over us. It’s time we stand up for ourselves and show them that they’ll need to drag us out of the crime scene before we leave!”

  Santiago nodded his head. He agreed with Frank’s sentiment, but it was easier said than done.

  “They are feds, Frank. We can’t just hijack the crime scene and expect no repercussions. You get what I’m trying to say?”

  Frank understood. He got up and put his coat on. He wasn’t interested in drinking or trying to forget the case. He was only interested in getting back to the warehouse and giving those bastards a piece of his mind. “Look, man, I’m going back. I need this case. I need to be doing something. I just can’t sit by and watch them take what’s rightfully mine and yours. The people of this city need answers, not deadlines. Those DEA assholes are only interested in RICO charges. It will be years before Bobby Sanders gets his justice. If we let them take our case, we won’t be doing him any!”

  Santiago perked up a little. He downed his drink and got up as well, sliding his coat on and looking a little pumped.

  “Easy, fellah. I’m driving — you look a little loaded!” Frank said.

  Santiago cracked a smile. “Good job you pussied-out and didn’t have a drop, then,” he replied, squeezing Frank’s shoulder.

  Both detectives walked out of the strip club with a second wind. They were ready to take back what was rightfully theirs - what was rightfully Boston’s.

  It was time to lay down the law.

  Eleven

  The convoy of trucks pulled up to the curb just a few blocks from the warehouse. The convoy was met by another convoy. All in all, there were eight trucks on the street, all lined up like a bad conga line at a party. Most of the trucks were of the waste management variety. They were all heavily modified, and to the untrained eye, you wouldn’t notice the bulletproof armor that surrounded the vehicles’ bodywork. It made the white paint jobs shine on the trucks. Each one of them looked like an exact replica of the other. They were all well-kept and sounded like they had powerful engines. On the side of the truck were the words “Dump Now,” which was a last minute decal job. It was meant to throw anybody off who tried to search for the owners of the trucks, because “Dump Now” didn’t exist, and it never would. Its sole purpose was to mask the intentions of the convoy. Anybody strolling by wouldn’t know what they were about to do. They would have no idea as to the carnage that the men inside the trucks were about to inflict.