Marshall Law

by Paul Kilmartin

  ‘Officer Tomlinson. You look comfortable.’

  Marshall lowered his piece a little and saw the young man lying on the couch, while he was in the middle of receiving a blood transfusion. Brian Tomlinson gave the Detective, a thumbs up, and looked towards the Chief.

  ‘This has all gone to shit, Detective, it really has,’ Chief Edwards hands were clear, and he seemed to accept that Marshall was holding a loaded gun in his office.

  ‘A favor here, and a favor there, and all of a sudden, your minding the family beagle who pisses everywhere.' He nodded at Brian.

  ‘You always had a choice Chief. Harboring a murderer and protecting a criminal. Those are choices.’

  ‘The hell choices did I have. I gave you this case, remember. I could have given it to Brandt, and he would have fucked it up, so I would never have known any of this existed in the first place.’

  ‘Or Lindsay Dawn, and she would have had you and the Mayor in cuffs already.’ Marshall replied.

  Edwards smiled.

  ‘Yeah, Lindsay Dawn is a hell of an officer. But I thought it was too good an opportunity, not to let you try and fuck it up. Pity, your just too good a Cop.’

  Marshall backed away and raised his weapon.

  ‘And now, you’re going to jail, because you helped them almost get away with it.’

  ‘Me? Is there wax in your ears Detective? What the hell did I have to do with any of this?’ Edwards asked, and noticed, for the very first time, the gun at the back of the office, now level with his chest.

  ‘What the hell is the matter with you Marshall? Put that thing away. Are you really that crazy?’

  ‘I'm crazy enough to figure out your involvement in all of this finally. Stitch me up, by planting a mole in my investigation, and the same mole that has murdered three people.’ Marshall moved the gun and pointed it at Tomlinson.

  Chief Edwards ignored the gun and laughed, while Tomlinson closed his eyes and moistened the couch.

  ‘A murderer. Tomlinson?’ Again, he laughed.

  ‘Tomlinson can’t even piss straight. Let alone, fire off a shell from a Browning 220, in the dark, and make a headshot.’

  ‘The ballistics came back?’

  Marshall asked, as he lowered the weapon.

  ‘Oh yeah. Dr. Randall ran the prints, everything. And on the third mask. This time it was a Chicken. Rooster, I think he said.’

  Marshall felt dazed like he was ready to throw up again. He only thought about the Browning 220. It was a sniper rifle. A long-snouted, single shot, a sniper rifle that could be, muzzled for sound and came fitted with a scope. He had come across it in his Ranger days. He never liked it himself and didn't like the soldiers who did.

  ‘I have Officer Tomlinson's range scores from the academy right here. The boy couldn't shoot water if he were sitting on a boat.' He laughed a little more.

  Brian Tomlinson opened his eyes, and felt relieved that he wasn’t going to be shot.

  ‘So how come he was injured? Hardly a struggle with Dr. Rahham?’ Marshall pointed to Brian, and Edwards replied.

  ‘Dr. Randall did say that the victim had been positively identified as Dr. Mira alright. But he said nothing of how Officer Tomlinson’s blood came to be all over that crime scene. In fact, the last thing that Officer Tomlinson remembers of yesterday, is being in the station house, and smelling strawberries, and next he recalls, is waking up, with a wound dressing on his wrist.’

  Strawberries. Marshall added up the clues, and they only pointed in one direction. Of course, you got the smell of fruits from eating strawberries, and the other time you got the smell, was before an operation. Most sedatives smelled like nothing at all, but those strong enough to work quickly enough, smelled of sweet things, like honey or strawberries. And the ones that worked quickest of all were in field dressings, in combat.

  Marshall was sure of it now. The same man, had sedated Officer Tomlinson, drew his blood, and then shot and killed Dr. Mira, and used Tomlinson’s blood to convince everyone that Dr. Mira was Brian Tomlinson. But the hold wouldn’t have lasted. Just long enough to have a Dr. confused and alone, and very willing to sign whatever was placed in front of him.

  Marshall looked at the Chief and at Tomlinson, and realized, that neither of them really knew what was going on.

  ‘So, the Mayor calls you and asks you to sit on Brian here, correct?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And slowing down McIntosh, and having him stall? That was your idea too?’

  Edwards brought his hand up beside his body and motioned that it was half of one and half of another.

  ‘I called him and asked him to run all of the evidence by me, first, before you. And separately, the Mayor must have been putting the squeeze on. I only just heard that McIntosh is sitting in a room downstairs,’ Edwards continued.

  ‘Thank you for that. I will see that everything gets sorted from his end.’ Edwards said, as he moved to pick up the phone.

  ‘Can’t let you do that Chief,’ Marshall pulled the short range, walkie-talkie that he had taken from the Cop outside the hospital.

  ‘Any officers in the building, please come to Chief Edwards office right away. I am detaining Chief Edwards on suspicion of harboring a known fugitive, and of aiding a conspiracy to commit fraud and murder.’

  ‘The hell you are.’ Chief Edwards roared at the top of his lungs, which in effect, was much more effective than the walkie-talkie.

  Marshall raised his Beretta.

  ‘Sit. I also said on suspicion. So, you are going to have plenty of time to talk and figure this whole thing out,’

  Marshall heard footsteps running down the corridor, towards the office.

  ‘But one more thing. Did Dr. Rahham fix you up with this transfusion?’

  He directed his question to Brian Tomlinson, who was as white as a sheet. The blood was going in just fine, but it had just dawned on him, how much trouble his Uncle had gotten him into.

  ‘Yeah, he came around to the office, about an hour and a half ago. Before the Chief put Detective Johnson on the door.’

  The door moved open, and two uniformed officers stepped in with their guns low to the ground.

  Marshall had deposited his weapon back into his holster, and faced the officers with his hands held up high in the air.

  He read the men their Miranda rights but urged the officers not to cuff their men, unless they deemed it necessary.

  Leaving the office, he turned to Chief Edwards who looked as angry, as any man could ever be.

  ‘Chief. It's nothing personal. You would have had me in cuffs if you could have.’ He cocked his head to the side and got a smile from the Chief before he scowled again.

  Marshall left the office and walked as fast as he could, to the stairwell. He tried to reach, Brandt, Johnson, and Dawn but got only static and unpicked up cell phones. He needed to hurry, and time was not on his side.

  DEATH CAME CALLING

  Marshall kept calling on the cell phone, and even resorted to hollering out names, the further he got into the back of the station.

  He received no answers, and he heard no sound of anyone. Marshall came to the door that Alan O'Riordan had been outside of, a few days previous to that, and he pushed it open and walked towards the park.

  It had been the assumption that Alan had been waiting for his father, and as it would always stay, that’s what Sean O’Riordan would ever see on an official report, but Marshall knew differently, and when he saw that look in Sean’s eyes, he knew it too.

  He came to the gate and crawled over, one leg at a time. Encountering a couple of stray officers, he yelled at them, to find Lindsay Dawn, and raise him on the walkie-talkie when they had done so. They okayed his order and ran back towards the station house, eager to follow through.

  Marshall continued into the interior of the park and came across the center, where Annie-Ann had been found and saw that the lichen and moss, was starting to reform and clump together again. There were no more trace
s of the outline of the body of a young woman, who was the epitome of someone with their entire lives to look forward to.

  He wondered if Roger Richards would have buried what he had found, if he knew what it was going to cost him. Of course, he would have, but he was only doing his job. Nobody deserved to lose a child for doing their job.

  Marshall came towards the hospital, and the door he had taken, into the mortuary and tried to remember what Alfie Simmons had said, about Dr. Mira meeting with a man in the park. Was it Roger Richards? Or had it been Mayor Tomlinson? Marshall bet that it had been Roger Richards. Maybe he was going to plead with Dr. Mira to tear up the deed and allow the Mayor to proceed with what he had wanted to do.

  He looked at the door and saw that it was being held open, slightly ajar, held in place by the twig of a branch. Inside, it was pitch black, so Marshall closed his eyes, to prepare them for the blackness, and then he took the twig out and closed the door behind him.

  Alfie Simmons hadn't been in the form to leave his doors open with twigs, so Marshall had a thought, that it was someone else who had done so. He stepped to the side, in the pitch black, and tried to remember the layout of the room, when last inside.

  Stepping around the perimeter of the room coming to what he thought was the small desk by the wall, Marshall felt himself stepping in a puddle of thick, sticky toffee. Marshall stepped away from it, and realised that it was blood, but it continued to make a noise on the floor, with his shoes.

  ‘I could shoot you in the dark, as easy as shooting you in the light.’

  The voice. It could only ever have been one man.

  ‘Brandt. You always did like to make a mess.’

  Marshall knew it, almost from the get-go. Pete Brandt had never wanted to play second-fiddle to Lance Marshall. He didn't like to do it in college, in the Rangers, and especially not in the MCPD. He imagined him, back there in the dark, leaning over, patting that disgusting moustache, over and back again. Plus, it had been the revelation of the Browning rifle that had been used.

  ‘I was always cleaning up after you.’ He wasn’t saying much, because Marshall knew that he was on the move.

  ‘And what about Lindsay, or Ed. What about them?’

  That stopped Brandt from whatever he was doing.

  ‘I don’t know anything about them. I ain’t touched either of them. But if I knew how much you were sweet on Lindsay, maybe I might have.’

  Marshall imagined the smug bastard, smiling in the corner.

  ‘You know there was nothing like that between me and Lindsay. We’re friends. We all are, or were.’

  ‘Yeah yeah, like you ever become friends with any of the women in your life Marshall. You burn them up, and leave them to rot.’ Brandt was so angry, and he snorted as he spoke.

  ‘You're still cute on Samantha? I can't believe it, Brandt, after all these years. You can have her. Anything is better than who she is hanging around with these days.’ Marshall tried to goad Brandt and get him thinking with his emotions.

  ‘What do you mean by that? What are you talking about?’ Brandt shouted out. He was twenty feet away now, that was clear, but the direction wasn’t.

  ‘You don’t know? The priest. She was banging the priest. Father Sean. Oh, Brandt. I’m sorry it had to come from me.’

  Brandt laughed a little. 15 feet, or thereabouts. Moving, left to right and without his shoes. He was quiet.

  ‘You think, Samantha and Sean?’ He laughed, but held his breath and kept the distance at 15 feet.

  ‘It was me, all along. It was never him. But she was never going to tell you about you, so she made a name up. She invented a lay that made sure you couldn't go psycho when you found out,’

  Marshall dropped his guard a little and tried to work it out.

  ‘I approached him and made sure, no matter what, that he went along with it. He is actually a fairly, decent guy Lance. I don't know why you give him such a hard time. Would you believe that he was negotiating for an apartment in the City for Samantha when all of this is finished and that park is all carved up? Unbelievable. They will probably tear down the Church, and he wants this woman, who has caused him so much grief, to get something from it.’

  Brandt explained.

  Marshall thought about it all, and it made a damn lot of sense. He cursed the twisted mind of Pete Brandt, that he could try and concoct such bullshit, and yet make it sound so real.

  ‘So, she gets the apartment, and you get the girl. That about right?’ Marshall tried to flesh the lie out a little more.

  ‘Oh, I already have the girl. We met up, not long after me and Nancy split, and it's fair to say, we have been doing the deed every since.’

  Brandt chuckled, a dirty and slimy, wet kind of a laugh and it made Marshall recoil.

  ‘What about Emma? Where does she fit into all of this?’ Marshall asked.

  He had him narrowed down, to five feet, but Marshall had gotten closer. He crawled across the floor after he had taken off his shoes and made ready to leap at Pete Brandt.

  ‘Emma? That little bitch came home, from Paris, I think, about six months ago. I kicked her out. Told her to get lost. I think she began looking for her Daddy, but well, she might have been too late. Especially when I lay you out in this mortuary.’

  Marshall didn't give him another vowel. He jumped and collided with a man in the center of the room and sprawled on top of him and reached out to feel for his head so he could hit into it with the butt of his Beretta, but Brandt was wriggling beneath him. So, he aimed for the most substantial part and started to punch him in the stomach and sides. Three big thumps, and one that hit the mark, on his windpipe, that took the breath of Pete Brandt and had him gasping for air.

  Calmly, Lance Marshall got to his feet and walked to the side of the room, where he remembered there was a door, that led to the hospital. He stopped at the door and flicked a switch, and bathed the inner space in light.

  Brandt was on his feet, panting and carrying a look of pure madness in his eyes. He held a long Bowie hunting knife in his hands and swapped it between his left and his right side.

  ‘Can’t shoot an unarmed man now Lance. Can you?’

  Marshall raised the Beretta and knocked the smile from Brandt’s maniacal face.

  ‘Why Alan O’Riordan? Before I arrest you, I want to know.’

  Brandt spat on the ground.

  ‘That? Not how did I rappel a human being to the ground from the hospital, and then put one between her eyes? Or the masks? The effort that I put into those was something else. Come on, give me some credit.’

  Impressed with himself, Brandt held his hands out by his side and gave a cocky little swagger as he moved forward a step or two.

  ‘For you, that’s not that impressive. Actually, it was just lazy. The rope gave you a line of sight. I’d have been more impressed if you missed,’

  Marshall kept the Beretta up and pointed straight ahead of him.

  ‘And as for the masks? I had a feeling that they were just window dressing. There was no note, no message, just a mask. If they meant something, you would have left something, for us to see how much they meant to you. And you were too clean with the lack of evidence, you knew what we would look for, so we stopped looking.’

  This new fact caused a ripple of disturbance in Brandt’s persona.

  ‘No, you didn’t, You had Alvin combing those masks, day and night. You needed a result.’

  ‘Not really. He was convinced of their worth, but I knew it was just a smokescreen, and especially when it went from Cow to Ant, and the Chicken,’

  Brandt didn’t understand. He stood with his mouth open.

  ‘It's too random. A serial killer like that would be methodical. The kick for a serial killer would be when they sat back and thought about us scratching our heads, as to why the Cow, or why the Ant. But not, to have had no meaning. That's chaos. And the murders were organized, not chaotic. They were planned.’

  The swagger returned, and Brandt took a step t
o the side and then forward again.

  Marshall pulled a shot to the left, and in the exact spot that Brandt would have been in, if he stepped only a little more to the side.

  ‘Sorry. I was trying to guess where you were going to go next,’

  The shot continued to echo, around the room, and the concrete dust that had been kicked up blew towards the back door.

  ‘One more try. Why kill Alan? Was it something Sean O’Riordan said to you? He wasn’t involved in anything to do with the land grab. So what was it?’

  Brandt scrunched his face up really tight, and Marshall knew then, that he had no idea of anything to do with any land grab. Pete Brandt was just a stupid grunt.

  ‘Couple of reasons. One, was Pamela Rodriguez,’

  Marshall asked. ‘The hook up, in the library?’

  Brandt smiled. ‘I tried. But she rejected me. I think she was gay. Made doing in Alan O’Riordan was a lot easier on the conscience, than I thought it might be.’

  ‘So you killed him because he was gay? Even for a sick fuck like you, that’s a step too far.’ Marshall exclaimed.

  ‘Alan got a look at some planning maps, one night over at Edgbaston’s private residence,’ Brandt said the word private, in a very suggestive way.

  ‘It was clear as day from the maps that Edgbaston was going to bulldoze the precinct, so he couldn’t take the chance that old man O’Riordan would find out. He needed Edwards onboard, and he was sure that word would have gotten back. So, he took steps.’

  Marshall dropped the gun a little and realized that Chief Edwards was only half-aware of what was actually going on. He had played dumb a little too effectively. He also realized, why Sean O'Riordan's friends had looked at him like that in the basement.

  Alan never did tell his father who he was seeing, and now it made perfect sense, why he had kept that from him. It's all fun and consensual until your casual lover has you murdered for money.

  Marshall dropped the gun that little bit more, and called out.

  ‘Throw away that knife, and c’mere and let me teach you a lesson, junior.’ He wanted to hurt Brandt.