Marshall Law

by Paul Kilmartin

  ‘Down this way please.’ She led the way, past some rooms with numbers on them, and past others without any signs at all.

  Fiddling with the bunch of keys again, she found a larger core than most and opened an unmarked door, and ushered Marshall inside.

  ‘Sit.’ She pointed to a small chair with a cushioned seat and back pad, and then took her place in a larger, more cushioned chair opposite, across a very cluttered desk. She made a point of adjusting a brass nameplate on her office, and then pushed a hand through a fringe of very thick auburn hair.

  ‘Were you aware that I was coming, Mrs. Raye?’ Marshall wondered, at being led in and not asked a single question as to who he was or the purpose of his visit. He had never laid an eye on Marla Raye before.

  ‘Well Detective, it is Detective isn’t it?’ Lance nodded in the affirmative.

  ‘Well then, all family members, staff and delivery drivers are under strict guidance to phone ahead before arriving at the moment. And as we were, of course, expecting a visit from an investigating detective, I assumed that you were he,’ She sat back now. ‘And I was correct.’

  Marshall was impressed at everything that Marla Raye was saying. And he was impressed with every way that she was looking. She dressed in a white blouse and wore tight-fitting black slacks. Her sleeves were rolled up on slender arms that carried the faint tone of a natural tan. Marla Raye wore very little makeup, and anything she had on, was around her eyes. They popped and looked intently at both the cause and solution to her problems.

  ‘Yes, you are correct Mrs. Raye. I am the investigating Detective, Lance Marshall.’ He moved to remove the badge from his wallet.

  ‘Don’t bother. I know that you’re a cop. And it’s Ms. Raye.’

  Lance moved his wallet back further into his pocket, smiled and sat back some more into the chair.

  ‘How many residents do you currently have living inside of the premises, Ms. Raye?’

  ‘26 residents. 25 last night. 24 as of the last head count, thirty-five minutes ago.’

  ‘People are missing, Ms. Raye?’

  ‘One man admitted to the hospital a few days ago. Then one man dead, Mr. Marshall. Last night, a 97-year old man. Is he a suspect Detective?'

  If Marshall sat back anymore, the chair would move backward, so instead, he inhaled until his body temperature returned to normal. He wondered if Ms. Raye had been the scorned lover of a fellow detective. If it wasn't just men that she disliked, but especially men in uniform.

  ‘No, I only suspect you at this early stage, Ms. Raye.'

  Lance was through with her breaking his balls. She had a big set of keys, one of which he knew was for an outside gate that led to Park Lane.

  ‘I have been inside this very building for three days straight. I shower here, I eat here, and I sleep here. We have staff shortages, so I cannot leave until we hire someone new, to cover the night shift,'

  Marshall looked around the cramped office and noticed a Thermos flask on the back window and a white plate underneath some papers on the desk.

  ‘So yes, I have a key for the park on my set, but no, I have not been outside of this building while I have twenty-six people to care for,’

  Her head dropped, really low.

  ‘Twenty-Five.’ She whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry Ms. Raye. I really am. I hate that I have to ask these questions.’

  She looked up and wiped something away from her left eye.

  ‘Call me Marla.’

  ‘Marla, I need to ask these questions. I can ask, and then I can move on. I’m sorry,’

  Marshall leaned forwards.

  ‘Let’s start again. Hi, my name is Lance.’ He reached a hand out across the papers. She laughed and extended a hand.

  ‘Hi Lance, my name is Marla.' She laughed, though some tears that had yet to come out, and then she sat entirely back in her chair, utterly relaxed. Her hair fell down by her shoulders, and her smile cleared away some clouds.

  ‘Cops and Nurses, we are supposed to get on.’

  Lance made a couple of steps out onto the ice. Marla chuckled a little and nodded at a distant memory.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose we are. Serving the greater good, right?’

  ‘Yeah, protecting the vulnerable and sick.’

  ‘Pay sucks though?’

  ‘No social life.’

  ‘Great perks though, office and accommodation all rolled into one. Maybe I’m the lucky one.’

  Marla put a hand up to her eyes, smiling and embarrassed.

  ‘It’s a bit of a mess in here, I don’t think that it’s ever been this bad, not since I have been here anyway.’

  Marshall replied, ‘The office or life?’

  ‘Both.’ Marla leaned forwards, both hands on the desk.

  No rings.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Lance said.

  They shared a smile, of two people in the two jobs, where all they seemed to be doing is maintaining something ethereal.

  ‘No close to solving the murder of that poor girl?’

  ‘Now it’s a girl and a guy,’

  Marla shook her head.

  ‘And it turns out that the second victim was the son of a Cop.’

  ‘I haven’t heard the news today. I didn’t know that someone else had died. I have been cooped up in here all day.’

  ‘We both have death on our agenda today, it is never easy, for both of us.’

  She sat back again, looking up into the ceiling for some answers or an escape hatch from this conversation about death.

  ‘You need to ask me some questions, ask away.’

  Marla guided the conversation back to familiar ground.

  ‘Have you a list of any staff that was working over the past 48 hours? Including any residents with access to Memorial Park.'

  ‘Yeah, sure. There was me, five other girls and three guys who were working, and no one had been out to Park Lane since a week last Tuesday.’

  ‘No one? How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I am the only one with keys, and as to how I am sure that no one has been through our gate. Well, the best way is to show you.'

  Marla Raye hauled herself up from the chair and walked around towards the door. She led the way as, they continued down the corridor that had led them to another door that looked like Marla’s office and turned right, walking down a very similar hallway, but one, which had been painted in blues and yellows. On some of the door's there were numbers, and on others, there were none.

  ‘Some doors are bedrooms, and others are stores, or laundry, or break rooms.' Marla saw Marshall staring.

  They continued around again, onto the same corridor, which had been painted in orange and turquoise.

  ‘The colors help with some of our residents who are feeling very down. Bright colors seem to help them.'

  They arrived at the opposite end of the building from where Marshall had entered into and came to a door that appeared slightly different from all of the other ones.

  Marla held out a key in the bunch and moved it to the side, opposite of where the lock was, on the other side of the door. It was a false keyhole, cleverly hidden by having been painted as the very same color as the door.

  ‘We didn’t want to take even the slightest chance that our more vulnerable residents would stumble upon the keys.’

  It was a brilliant way of operating, but none more so, than what lay beyond the door. From the back door to the gate, and what would have been a distance of thirty feet, was covered in thick foliage. In terms, of making a route impassable, it was an insurmountable wall of thick thorn bushes.

  ‘I can’t imagine this went down too well with any health and safety inspectors?’ Marshall asked.

  ‘We lost our gardener about a year ago, and this is a result of what happened.’

  It was exceptional growth for less than a year of growth, discounting the winter months.

  ‘This, in less than a year? How is that even possible?’

  ‘I personally think that ou
r gardener sabotaged our garden and treated these thorn bushes with plant growth hormones and pellets. They grew too quickly and too densely. Nature doesn’t grow like this.’ It sure didn’t. Lance looked around and never saw nature looking so angsty.

  ‘Who was your gardener? Maybe I should pay him a visit when all of this is over and remind him what criminal negligence means.’

  ‘Don’t bother. He has the best means of protection that there is. Better than any lawyer out there.’

  ‘Is he a Cop?’ Lance asked.

  ‘Worse, he now works for Fr. O’Driscoll.’

  Jose Dominguez.

  ‘Leave it with me.’ Lance rubbed his head and, satisfied that it couldn’t have been Marla, at least not from here, beckoned her back inside.

  The pair walked back around, to the side of the building they had not been down, and to a cream and light red colored corridor, and then down a yellow and blue corridor, before finally coming back towards the front door.

  ‘Sorry if I had to be so direct and ask those questions earlier Marla. It’s a part of the job that I don’t enjoy doing.’

  Marla stopped him before the door and looked in Marshall’s eyes with a seriousness that made time stand still.

  ‘You do enjoy it, same as the parts of the job that I don’t enjoy doing, but I wouldn’t have anyone else do, but me. We must enjoy it, if only we want to do it, right?’

  ‘I guess you’re right. Maybe I need to start doing some more of the things that I think I don’t like doing.’

  Marshall didn’t even know what he meant by all of that, but she was right. There were things he didn’t like doing, like trying to solve this case, but he wasn’t going to let anyone else do it.

  ‘If you need some company in doing things you don’t like doing, come by again sometime, and bring a lawnmower.’

  Marla closed the door and retreated behind the frosted glass with the other shapes.

  LITTLE RED RIBBONS

  Marshall checked his mobile as he walked from the Nursing Home towards the station house, hoping to have received a message about a break in the case, but no help was forthcoming. He thought about calling Lindsay but knew that if anything else had turned up, she would have notified him. It was the same for Brandt and Johnson, they would have left him a message, especially Brandt, but the inbox was empty. Lance looked across the road and noticed a free booth in Andy's, and jogged across a quiet street to get something to eat.

  Andy's had been a firm favorite of the Cops of the West and Lively precinct, that entire squads were spending full paycheques on breakfast, lunches, and suppers when on duty. Though the one rule, that old man Andy had instilled from the get-go, was no blues on display. You needed to wear a jacket if you wanted to eat at Andy's. It was something about not wanting it to be known, as just a Cop restaurant.

  It was a large neighborhood, and Andy had wanted everyone's business. If you cooked bacon as well as Andy had, then you didn't mind, so at any time of the day, there were scores of men, sitting at tables and in booths, dressed in jackets of all kinds of description and color.

  Lance Marshall opened the door, which sounded a bell and alerted a waitress. She just looked up and waited for you to show her whereabouts that you were going to sit, so she could come and take your order. Lance nodded to an empty booth at the far corner, by the window and she nodded back.

  It was sparsely busy, but still full of Cops, in NBA, NFL and plain, light blue hooded tops from the Metro City soccer franchise, Metro Blues. Some looked up, and some noticed who had walked in, but they quickly looked back down again to continue eating. That had been unusual, where usually a stare would have taken place, or a word, now nothing was happening.

  Marshall knew what was being said, of what had been the talk in the locker rooms. A murder had been committed, against the son of a cop. People were watching to see what would happen next. It wouldn’t have taken a Detective to have figured out that Sean O’Riordan was in control of the mob.

  Lance would have his time to investigate, but after that, the mob would rule. Marshall thumbed the small Nokia and sent another follow-up text to Pete Brandt, and then to Ed Johnson, to call him back.

  He ordered a ham and cheese sub, with steak cut fries, and coffee and prepared to eat quickly. The evening was incoming, and there was a house visit to conduct.

  Crawling, inching, creeping, stalking.

  The killer moved with precision and care, slowly stepping, and then hiding for twenty minutes, before bending over for an hour, and then lying down for five hours. He followed the shadow of the sun, and kept in its embrace for the entire day, as he bent around stairwells and lay flat against the walls, that hid his approach from every viewpoint.

  He held his breath and blew it out in directions that the dust was falling, so as not to disturb even the molecules that collapsed around him. If he were in your bedroom, he wouldn't have been inside the wardrobe, or under your bed. He would have been on the back wall, flat against the masonry, away from your field of vision.

  If you looked right, he was on the left side. If you looked down, he would be up. He lived in the shadows and kept in everyone's blind side until he came to find himself in the perfect position.

  Out of everything, this was to have been the most planned and the most prepared off all the events. He could see into your crystal ball, and step where he knew, that you would never look. The ghost of your nightmares and he was looking to kill again, tonight.

  Marshall leaned in close and looked out past the condensation that had built up on the front window of his car. The AC hadn't been up to much for the twenty-minute journey, and Lance's sleeve was damp from having to wipe clear his field of vision.

  Now that he had stopped, Marshall cleaned it once more and looked onto the white porch, and at the American flag that sat so very still, in the blackest of nights. Marshall hated these moments, where he had to speak to the families, and show them that he would be the one who would be accountable for finding the ones who had caused the harm. Now here he was, coming to burn their dream down and ask questions of their dead daughter.

  He walked up a wide front porch, on a two-story white frame boarded house. The garden was immaculate, having been mowed only a few days ago, maybe by Annie-Ann herself, and on the side of the house, the flag lay so perfectly still.

  It was going to be a bad house call, right from the get-go, right from when her body had been found, spread-eagled in the middle of the park. Lance couldn't have stopped them from thinking the worst, of what had taken place. He knew how a parent thought. Marshall knew, that there was no way he was going to call over without some information first.

  But, time had passed, and all Marshall had, were questions of his own.

  Lance had left it long enough, and now he had no alternative. Without an answer to any question, Lance knocked twice on the Richard's front door and waited.

  A broken down shell of a man opened the door, and through wobbled lips, said hello. He wore a red chequered shirt, tucked tightly into a cream pair of slacks, and he wore his hair to the side, held in place by water or a light application of gel. From behind him, a housewife, of similar age, stood against a wall, trembling. She wore a white apron around her waist, and though she had also taken the time to dress, and do her hair, it all looked so frazzled and attempted.

  They had been crying, probably together and possibly in the kitchen and more likely, all over the house.

  The man invited Detective Lance Marshall into the house, after introductions had been made, and asked him to sit in the kitchen, at the table. He told Lance that his name was Roger, and his wife was Jane. Roger took his wife, by the shoulders into another room, though she shook as they walked, and they both returned after a long couple of minutes.

  The sink looked empty, and there didn’t seem to have been any meals that had been cooked in the house for a few days. The apron, worn around the woman’s waist was white, and immaculately clean, and seemed to have been put on, out of habit, tha
n any functional use.

  ‘Tell me about our daughter. Tell me everything.’

  Roger asked the man, tasked with finding her killer. Marshall looked at the mother, now stood beside a cold hob and then he looked back to Annie-Ann’s father, sat across from him at the table. Roger was doing a fine job, of keeping it together, all things considered. His eyes, were the color of a bull that had been pierced by the Matador. The fight had almost completely left Roger Richards.

  ‘What we know, is that she died, after putting up a courageous fight. The killer stabbed her, but did not in any way molest her. She was untouched, sexually.'

  Lance looked at Jane, who had her left hand across her eyes and nose. He saw her mouth some words, that felt like, Thank God. The words he had used were direct, but Annie-Ann's father was a straightforward man. His eyes were big, red, and over flowing with intense welts of pain and anger. They watered but held onto a look of supreme anger from within.

  ‘Why Annie? Why did he kill her?’

  ‘I don't have those answers at the moment. It seems from everything that it was a random killing, but I do need to ask you both some questions,’

  Roger sat back a little and beckoned the questions towards him with a wave of the hand. He didn't speak. He didn’t care.

  ‘Did Annie, ever mention anyone that had been a problem for her, an ex-boyfriend perhaps or a friend that she had fallen out with? Did she have a falling out with someone in work maybe? Has she been getting into any fights recently?’

  ‘Annie told us everything, about everyone. She was fine. We would have known, we would have known if there was someone like that in her life.’

  Her father thumped the table with his fist, and seemed to be losing a battle with an emotion that had bolted long ago.

  Annie's mother stumbled across and held her husband's shoulders from behind. She was as beautiful as Annie and wholesome. The hug she gave, was warm and full bodied, and she began to speak.

  ‘Annie decided, when she was younger, that she wasn't going to be like her friends. She was going to be honest with us, all of the time. She told us when she had her first kiss, and when she was sexually active for the first time. She didn't want us to worry about disease or teen pregnancy.'