The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

  “District Attorney for the City of Albany says otherwise, Terry,” Miller says. “You’ll be hearing from me soon.”

  Miller opens the door, steps out. I follow. As we’re making our way down the brightly lit corridor toward his office, I hear him whispering, “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “You realize if it’s proven a lefty killed Simon,” I say, “Kyle Carter is gonna be—”

  “—Released . . . yeah, yeah, I’m fully aware, Jobz,” he says. “We could get her on all those other charges, but they’re pending and pending doesn’t mean shit. That’s why we’re heading to Georgie’s now. Let’s see if what he says about the angle of attack is right. And if he is right, it means only one thing.”

  “What’s that, Miller?”

  “The real killer is still out there.”

  We race to the Albany Medical Center where my mother is currently struggling for survival, which means I’m not leaving there without checking in on her. We don’t park in the visitor lot but, instead, around back by the morgue. We enter the cavernous basement corridor by means of a pair of automatic sliding glass doors wide enough to fit even the biggest casket through. The place is dimly lit and cold. Whenever I’m here, I’m overwhelmed with the sensation that the architects designed the place to be like this. Like they brought in an interior designer and told her, make the place look really spooky and dead, just like the bodies that occupy the joint. Make it look like the set for a Zombie horror flick.

  So, instead of bright and cheery, we get doom and gloom. It’s also quiet, the only sounds the hissing of steam valves, the hum of electrical lighting ballasts, and the clanging of pipes. Even the ceiling is exposed, just like a body that’s had its chest cut from caudal to clavicle, the rib cage sawed open wide. We walk the corridor until we begin to hear music, the mechanical sounds are replaced with a kind of lush, romantic, orchestral music.

  “That sounds like one of Georgie’s favorites to me,” I say.

  “If I had to guess,” Miller says, “Vaughn Williams, Appalachian Spring.”

  “I think you’re balls on correct, Detective,” I say.

  We come to double wood doors that say Pathology. Miller pushes the right-hand door and we enter the autopsy room. Set directly before us, on the closest of four stainless steel tables, is the body of Anita Simon. She’s laid out on her back, a green sheet covering her up to her torso, the back of her head set on a half-moon shaped metal block, her eyes closed, and her face at peace. Her feet are bare and the big toe on the right foot has been tagged with her ID. Her hands rest palm up by her side. Judging by her long red fingernails, she’s recently invested in a manicure. A matching pedicure, too.

  “Gentlemen,” booms a deep voice to our left.

  It’s Georgie, and he’s entering the room via his attached basement office. He goes to the 1970’s era stereo system set up on the counter and turns down the volume on Vaughn Williams.

  “Whaddaya got for us, Georgie?” Miller says.

  The long-haired, white whiskered, cowboy boot-wearing pathologist crosses his arms over his chest and glances at Principal Simon thoughtfully.

  “I gotta a whole lot of damn crying shame, gentlemen,” he says. “I’ve been at this game for forty years and seeing a young beauty like this one snuffed out in the prime of her life never ceases to punch me in the gut. And that’s coming to you from a guy who witnessed some real bad shit in Vietnam.”

  “Like what?” I ask, immediately sorry that I did.

  “How about the jungle outside Hue where the Vietcong took great pleasure in crucifying captured GIs?”

  For a split second, I try to picture just what a crucified GI would look like. But as quickly as my imagination goes to work, I try my best to shut it the hell off.

  “So, what’s the deal, Georgie?” I say, refocusing the conversation. “You think it’s impossible for a right-handed person to have killed, Anita Simon?”

  It’s the million-dollar question. No, scratch that. This is the 21st century after all. It’s the billion-dollar question.

  “Not necessarily impossible,” he says, “but most definitely improbable, and that’s something I’d take to the bank in a court of law if they make me.”

  He steps up to the body and pulls the green sheet off. The flesh has been cleaned and now the white skin exists in sharp contrast to the deep red/purple gashes in the stomach and neck. Making a fist with his left hand, he pretends to jab at the body’s belly with an imaginary knife.

  “You can see how a lefty would have landed the blade precisely on the right side of her abdomen, as opposed to her left.” He shifts to her neck. “Same goes for her neck. The wounds are to the right side and not the left.”

  I take a step forward, my eyes moving from her neck wounds to her belly wounds and back again.

  “What if the attacker came up on her from behind?” I say. “Wouldn’t that have produced wounds at least similar to these?”

  “Good question, Jobz,” Miller says from behind me.

  I smile. “I’m educated beyond my means, Miller.”

  Georgie takes a quick step back, like an artist who needs to survey his entire canvas instead of just one little portion.

  “Then that man, or woman, would have been a hell of a contortionist,” he points out.

  “How’s that?” Miller asks.

  Georgie cocks his right wrist one way and then the other.

  “The human wrist doesn’t bend in a way that would match the way the blade entered her neck and belly. Again, it’s not an entirely impossible situation that he or she could have gone after her from behind. But if I were being interviewed before a jury of my peers, it would most definitely be my professional opinion that Anita Simon was stabbed while she was standing up and from the front.

  “She saw her attacker then,” I say.

  “She most definitely saw her attacker,” Phillips says.

  “If only the dead could speak,” Miller says.

  “That would put us out of a job,” I say.

  Nobody laughs. Not me, not Georgie, not Miller. Anita Simon doesn’t laugh either. She’s dead, after all.

  Bidding Georgie goodbye, Miller and I head back out into the corridor. Miller’s sour expression makes it look like he’s just lost his best friend or maybe his dog done got kilt.

  “Shit,” he says out the corner of his mouth.

  The old detective is usually careful with his four-letter curses, as if they’re a commodity a man can use only so often in a single lifetime. That said, when he curses, he means it.

  “Shit,” I say, as casually as I breathe the air.

  He stares at the old terrazzo floor. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it has blood stains on it. It’s a stark reminder of the dead who frequent this dungeon on a regular basis. It’s also a metaphor for our case against Kyle Carter.

  “You gonna call Kindlon?” I go on, “or want me to do it?”

  Raising his head, he looks me in the eye.

  “That’s my job. My case, my dirty work. You’re just the hired gun.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “It makes me wet when you put it that way.”

  “I have that gift,” he says.

  “Maybe when the knife comes back from the lab, that will shed light on who the real killer might be. Maybe in the end, it will end up being Kyle, after all.”

  “Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe the DA will find a reason to hold her for a while longer. Maybe he can add one of those pending charges.”

  “But you doubt that, don’t you?”

  “Mother of God,” he says, shaking his head.

  Speaking of Mother, the face of the comatose woman who is my mother comes to mind. She’s fighting for her life only a few floors above us.

  “Listen, Miller,” I say, “my mother’s upstairs. I know it’s getting late in the day, but you mind I take ten minutes to stop in, say hello?”

  He nods.

  “You go do what you have to do,” he says. “I’ll be out in the car c
alling Kindlon and then the DA. Just meet me out there when you’re done.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Don’t thank me for doing the right thing,” he says.

  I was only being polite, I want to say. But he’s already walking out.

  Take the elevator to the second floor. Get off at ICU, nod at the good people working the round, brightly lit desk.

  “Hello, Mr. Jobz,” one of the female nurses offers with a smile.

  Good memory, I think.

  “Your mom is still in the same bed,” she says. “Brit is with her.”

  “Thanks so much,” I say, heading into the facility and immediately spotting Brit standing at the end of my mom’s bed.

  As usual, she looks stunning in her tight jeans, cowboy boots, and black t-shirt, her left wrist still bearing all those silver bracelets. She’s also wearing a white bandage on her left thumb.

  “And what happened to you, pretty lady?” I say, not without a beaming smile.

  She turns, runs her good hand through her lush dark hair, and smiles back at me with those mesmerizing green eyes.

  “Jobz,” she says. Glancing at her wristwatch. “I didn’t expect you for a couple hours.”

  “What happened to your thumb, Brit?” I ask.

  “Oh, you know,” she says, “clumsy in the kitchen while cooking my famous stir-fry last night when I went home for dinner and a little vino. I should know better than to be blade slinging when I’ve had a few glasses of pinot.”

  “Blanco or noir?” I ask.

  “What a sophisticated question, Steve,” she says.

  “My mom tried to raise me with class,” I say.

  As painful as it is, I turn away from her and look at my mother. Same clear tube stuck down her throat, same forced heavy mechanical aided in-and-out breathing, same pale white face. Correction, her face seems even paler than before, like her life’s blood has either leaked out of her body or perhaps stopped circulating altogether. Just looking at her robs me of my breath.

  Going to her, I lean over her.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say.

  I take hold of her hand. It’s cold, clammy, and it feels like all the flesh and blood have evaporated.

  “Can you hear me, Mom?”

  No acknowledgement. Her eyes are closed and her chest heaves, but in my mind, she’s already gone. Leaning further down into her, I kiss her forehead.

  “Love you, Mom,” I say.

  Heading back around the bed, I go to Brit. In the span of just a few seconds, I feel exhausted and overwrought with guilt. I should have been there for her more than I was. But as usual, my train wreck of a life got in the way.

  “What’s your honest opinion, Brit?” I say. “How long?”

  She crosses her arms.

  “Well, I’m not a doctor,” she points out. “I’m just the nurse. But I’ve seen women in her condition go weeks or months with no change. On the other hand, I’ve seen them recover fully.”

  “I guess what I’m asking is when do I, umm—”

  I can’t get myself to say it.

  “Pull the plug?” she asks. The exact words I had in mind, although in all honesty, I kind of expected her to go with something a little more clinical like cease medical life support assistance, or something like that. Oh well, maybe she’s dumbing things down considering it’s me she’s talking to.

  “That about sums it up,” I say.

  “Does your mom have a living will? Because if she does, I haven’t seen it yet. Perhaps the Ann Lee Home has a copy in her file?”

  “You mean like something on paper that states whether she’d want to live or die under these circumstances?”

  We both shoot my mother a glance. She’s lost so much weight, and she’s hooked up to so much equipment, it’s almost like she’s not even present. She’s hidden among all that high tech and life-giving support.

  “I don’t believe so,” I say, “or I would have had a part in creating it. She has a will naturally, and an estate passed on by my father, of course. I’m her only living heir, so any decision has to be approved by me, I think.”

  Brit smiles, her green eyes dig into me like eagle’s claws. The most pleasant eagle’s claws on God’s good earth.

  “But what about her money? Her estate?”

  “When the time comes for her to . . . go,” I say hesitantly, “it just goes to me. I’m signatory to all her accounts, and her trust, if that’s what you mean.”

  She nods. “I see,” she says. “Then what it all comes down to is you’re her power of attorney.” Placing her good hand gently on my shoulder. “The decision is yours to make and yours alone, Steve.”

  I feel the weight of the world crushing my consciousness.

  “Great,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “I get to play God with my own mother.”

  Again, we steal another glance at Mom. Her chest heaves and the monitors record every last, weak heartbeat. It’s truly a sad sight to see. But then, maybe in the end, it would be the right thing to send her back to my dad. It’s where she wants to be. On a jet plane, in first-class, with Dad, on their way to South Beach. Sun, fun, and twilight cocktails on the beach. She can have all that again, if only I—Pull. The. Plug.

  “I’ll sleep on it, Brit,” I say. “Because you know what my greatest fear is?”

  She shakes her head, blinks.

  “That I could pull the plug and she’ll die. But what if I don’t pull the plug and she suddenly comes out of this, sits up in bed, and asks me to take her to the Denny’s for a Grand Slam breakfast?”

  She slips her hand off my shoulder. “Tell you what,” she says, “why don’t you come over to my place tonight? I’ll try to make you a terrific stir fry without cutting my fingers off.”

  Things are suddenly starting to look up. Brit inviting me to her apartment. Could it be it’s an underhanded request for a little bedroom fun? Or am I Fonzi jumping the shark?

  “I’d love to,” I say. “I’ll bring the vino.”

  “Perfect,” she says. “Seven o’clock?”

  “That should work just fine,” I say, pulling my sunglasses from my pocket.

  I’m so worked up over her invitation and my mother’s condition, that I fumble the sunglasses case. It drops from my hand, but Brit is so quick, she catches it in mid-air.

  “Now, that was a spectacular grab,” I say, genuinely impressed.

  “I played softball in college,” she says. “I was a pitcher and a catcher.”

  “You go both ways, huh?” I say with wink and a laugh.

  Me, always the wise ass, always pushing the boundaries of decent, adult conversation. She hands me back the case, and I switch up my eyeglasses for the dark aviator sunglasses.

  “Shhhhhh,” she whispers, bringing the index finger on her injured hand to her succulent lips. “Not in front of your mother.”

  Well whaddaya know. Brit is not only beautiful and a saint of a nurse, she’s also got a sense of humor. Maybe I’m the one who’s died and gone to heaven.

  “See you at seven,” I say.

  She leans in for a kiss on the lips. My heart beats a mile a minute.

  “Can’t wait,” she says.

  I bid my mom a goodbye and then head for the exit, a definite skip in my step. For the first time in a long time, I’m one semi-happy-go-lucky gumshoe.

  Hopping into the cruiser, I lock eyes on what looks to me like a very miserable and just generally pissed off Chief Homicide Detective Nick Miller.

  “Bad news first,” I say.

  He turns, looks me in the eyes with his steely gray eyes. He’s still holding his cell phone and the stale smelling cruiser’s big six cylinder is idling.

  “How did you know I was gonna say that, Jobz?”

  “’Cause you got that look on your face.”

  “What . . . look?”

  “Like that drama face you see on all the theater placards. You know, that half smiling, half down in the dumps face.”

  “Oh, that obvious,
huh?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Okay, bad news first. DA Soros says we’ve got no choice but to drop Kyle’s murder charge.”

  “Well, that sucks,” I say. “She ends up being guilty, we might never have another chance to nail her.”

  “Yup,” Miller agrees. “Kindlon would do everything in his power to scream double jeopardy.”

  “I thought that only applies once a person is convicted.”

  “Yeah, in general, but he’ll do his best to appeal to the local media darlings. He’ll scream harassment and probably start a Twitter mob movement like hashtag Free Kyle, or some bullshit like that.”

  Miller’s got a point. Strange times we’re living in these days when the bad guys are the good guys and the good guys are assholes just for being good.

  “The good news, Miller?”

  “DA says we might be able to make one of the secondary counts stick, especially the extortion. But . . .”

  “But . . .”

  “There’s still the issue of the missing face in the CCTV vids.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” I say, “isn’t it obvious this woman was dressing up like her dead mother in order to rip off Loudonville Elementary School? You ask me, it’s not even extortion anymore but grand larceny since it wasn’t Kyle who was employed at the school.”

  “Sure looks that way,” he says, “but we gotta convince the court of that.”

  We’re both quiet for a minute while we look out onto the parking lot and the many cars parked around us. Every one of them belongs to a person who’s either sick, injured, dying, or the family of the sick, injured, and/or dying. It’s kind of depressing, even if I am feeling happy.

  “How’s Mom?” Miller says after a time.

  “Not good,” I tell him. “I have to make the decision to pull the plug. Sooner than later.”

  “That’s rough, Jobz,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  Cocking my head to one side, I shrug.

  “I’m gonna give it some more thought before I do it,” I say.

  “That’s your best course of action. Such decisions are not to be taken lightly.”

  “Brit asked me to have dinner with her tonight.”