Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery

by R M Wild

“Don’t be so old fashioned, Mettle. If you really liked me, you’d love me no matter what I have between my legs.”

  “I swear to God, you better be joking,” he said, fists forming.

  I playfully touched his chin and said in a husky voice. “Or what, big boy?”

  “This isn’t funny, Casket,” he said, his eyes going to my crotch.

  I disagreed. I thought it was very funny, a good distraction, one I desperately needed.

  Suddenly, behind the glass, the door opened. A guard entered, followed by a man in a dark orange jumpsuit.

  “Take your eyes off my crotch,” I said. “He’s here.”

  Dimitri entered. By the ease of his shuffle, he looked at peace in his cage, not very haggard. The only evidence of change was that his mustache had eaten the rest of his face and become a full, dark beard.

  Mettle clenched his own knee.

  Dimitri looked at me, then at Mettle, then back at me again. The guard said something behind the glass and Dimitri shuffled over to the stool and sat down.

  I picked up the receiver. So did Dimitri.

  “How nice of you to veesit,” Dimitri said in his thick Russian accent. “You are not going to set me on fire, are you?”

  “I’ll try not to,” I said. “We’ll cut to the chase. We want to know about my sister.”

  “I know nothing.”

  “She’s not talking about your intelligence, Sergei,” Mettle said.

  I shot Mettle a look that said, “sshhhh.”

  “We know you were down in the cave. We saw the tape on Hardgrave’s liquor stash and we know your skills are too specialized to mean you’re working alone. We want to know who is behind all of this.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Dimitri said.

  Mettle leaned into my receiver. “You’ve already been convicted, Boris. None of this is going to trial. We just want to find Chrissy.”

  And my father, I thought. But I said nothing. Instead, I put my hand over the mouthpiece and hissed, “Matt seriously. Let me do the talking. You’re going to piss him off.”

  “A lover’s spat,” Dimitri said and tented his fingers. “Very exciting. Fun to watch.”

  “I’ll lover’s spit right on the glass,” Mettle said.

  “Now, now, Trooper. No need to be revolting.”

  “I’ll show you a revolt.”

  I put a hand on Mettle’s shoulder to calm him down and then glared at Dimitri. “When I was at Peter Hardgrave’s trial, someone sent me a photo. The picture was of a woman bound and gagged. The message said it was from my ‘photographer’ friend. You’re the only photographer I know. Are you the one who took that photo?”

  “Maybe,” Dimitri said.

  “Yes or no, Gorbachev,” Mettle said. “It’s an easy question.”

  “Yes.”

  We were so shocked to hear a confirmation, we both leaned forward.

  “You did?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “The woman had a tattoo. Was it Chrissy?”

  “Yes.”

  My heart did a little pirouette, one as graceful as Chrissy on the balance beam. I grabbed Mettle’s knee in excitement.

  “Is Chrissy still alive?”

  “Yes.”

  I could barely contain myself and covered my mouth.

  “At least she was when I took the photo,” Dimitri said.

  “And when was that?”

  “About a year ago.”

  “Where is she now?”

  Dimitri leaned back casually on his stool. “I will tell you if you get me out of this prison.”

  “No way, we can’t do that,” Mettle said.

  “Then no more information.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, buddy. It’s not up to us.”

  Dimitri smiled and transferred the phone from one ear to the other. “Eeet is your loss then. Or maybe your sister’s loss.”

  I covered the mouthpiece and leaned into Mettle and whispered, “What if he really knows where she is? What if we have a chance to save her?”

  “He’s bluffing. He doesn’t know jack stroganoff,” Mettle said.

  “But we can’t take that risk.”

  Mettle took the phone from me. “Give us something solid. Show us you’re not lying, comrade.”

  “Tell us about the photo,” I added.

  “Yes, I remember taking that photo. I did not use a flash, yet you can see the details. Very hard with a painting to see that tattoo. You would need a camera with a large sensor and large photosites to take a peecture in such a dark place and still see those details. There was no blurring, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You would also need a very fast lens. That is professional equipment. Now you know I am not lying. It was shot by a professional. Is that enough for you?”

  “What did the chair look like?”

  “The feet were metal. Like hooves.”

  I covered the mouthpiece again and leaned over to Mettle. “He’s right about the chair. This might be our only chance.”

  “Can that Ken Doll work his magic to get him out?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe,” I said. “It’s worth a shot. Do we have a choice?”

  “I don’t think so,” Mettle said. He turned back to Dimitri and spoke into the phone. “Okay, Mr. Politburo, here’s the deal. We’re gonna put you in touch with a good lawyer, but we want the info about Rosie’s sister first.”

  “I don’t talk until I’m out.”

  “It could take months.”

  “I may be Russian, but I am in no rush,” Dimitri said.

  Mettle gritted his teeth. “Real cute.”

  “Is my sister’s life in danger?” I demanded.

  “Yes. It has always been in danger,” Dimitri said. “If she is still alive, she will not be for long. The man who has her does not play games.”

  I leaned into the glass. “What man?”

  Dimitri lifted his chains to make a motion like his lips were zipped—and then he burst into flames.

  20

  “Mary, Mother of God!” Mettle said as he fell backward off his stool.

  The ball of fire blasted right against the glass, the heat enough to singe my eyebrows and sting my face. I fell backward too and landed right on top of Mettle, his body as solid as landing on a pile of bricks, the badge on his chest hot and pointy in my back.

  Two guards rushed at us. Before they could grab us, Mettle broke away and pushed me off him. He crawled backward and pointed at me.

  “What did you do? You are a witch! I saw it with my own two eyes!”

  “I didn’t do anything!” I said. “You were sitting right beside me. Maybe you’re the witch! You ever think of that?”

  “Boys can’t be witches!”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard!”

  The guards pulled us to our feet and wrestled our arms behind our backs. Mettle was strong enough that if he wanted to, he could have easily sent both guards flying back against the wall, but he was so distracted by the blast of fire and the confusion that he was easily led to the doorway.

  As the second guard pushed me toward the door, I caught a last glimpse of Dimitri. One of the guards on the other side of the glass had sprayed him with a fire extinguisher. Like Phyllis Martin, Dimitri was trashing around and throwing off splashes of white foam, the entire room twinkling like a grim wonderland.

  At the end of his agony, Dimitri collapsed. His charred lips quivered and then he was still.

  “What did he say? What were his last words?”

  “I’d be more worried about yours,” the guard said and pushed me out the room.

  The room was decorated from floor to ceiling with an absurd number of degrees, all of them framed in cherry and behind glass. The Latin calligraphy was hard to read, but I could discern at least two Doctorates of Philosophy in theology from at least two different schools.

  Mettle and I had been told to sit in front of a giant desk, the polished slab of cher
ry large enough to land fighter jets. The moment we sat, Mettle conspicuously slid his chair farther away from me and avoided eye contact.

  “Why are you acting so weird? I don’t have cooties all of a sudden.”

  Mettle grunted. “I saw what you did. You set that man on fire.”

  “How could I possibly have done that? He was behind glass.”

  “You’re a fire-starter aren’t you? Like a red hairy Carrie or something.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s a perfectly logical explanation.”

  “Like what? Did Dimitri have anything in his hands?”

  “Not that I could see,” I said quietly.

  “Was there anybody near him?”

  “No.”

  “Did someone throw a match at him? A lighter?”

  I shook my head.

  “The guards were in the corner and there were no other inmates present. Not only that, but we were sitting at a different station from the last time. The only common element in these murders is you.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “How about you explain what’s going on.”

  “I can’t,” I said. “You know as much as I do.”

  From the side of the room, a metal door opened. A man who looked like he was in his mid-sixties entered. He paused and studied the two of us and then he shut the door behind him.

  Without a word, he went straight for the metal swivel chair on the other side of the desk, his back looking strong for a man of his age. He sat with absurdly rigid posture, as if a metal ruler had replaced his spine, and the rusty casters on the chair shrieked. The top of his head was as bald and shiny as the desk and speckled with age spots as large as knots in the desk. Longish wisps of gray hair fanned out from above his ears like angel wings and the prism-shaped plaque in front of us read: Warden Mayweather.

  “My name’s Cotton Mayweather. And you are?”

  “Matt Mettle.”

  “Rosie Casket.”

  Mayweather’s eyes lingered on me. “Ordinarily, I would thank you both for visiting my prison, but we have now witnessed two troubling conflagrations and we are short on explanations,” he said. He turned to the beige computer on the edge of his desk and tapped the spacebar on his keyboard. “Dimitri Roganoff burst into flames and died in your presence less than half an hour ago. Phyllis Martin died the same way a few days earlier. You are the only common denominator. Or should I say, demon-ator. Tell me, Rosie Casket, are you the antiChrist?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Do you have a compact with the devil?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” I said through my teeth.

  “Then what is your explanation for the color of your hair?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Recessive genes.”

  “Are you aware of what the Bible has to say about red-headed women?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. That’s because they are not worthy of description. Have you checked your scalp for the number of the beast?”

  “Are these serious questions?”

  “Very serious,” Mayweather said. “In times when science fails us—which is does quite often—we must look for other explanations. I believe in upholding three basic tenets in this institution. Routine. Prayer. And discipline. Freedom comes from within, not without. The moment you set foot in this prison you are a free man if you choose to accept the Lord.”

  “Lord, get to the point,” Mettle muttered.

  “After reviewing the facts of this case, I can only draw one conclusion: you have been working from within, not without.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I barked.

  “It means that I’ve checked the logs and I see that you have made two other visits to this prison within the past year, both times to visit the woman who is now in an urn, no cremation necessary. Care to tell me the nature of those visits?”

  “Yes, I was visiting,” I said.

  Mayweather narrowed his eyes.

  “He wants a straight answer,” Mettle said.

  “And I gave him one. I came to visit. I talked with an inmate. There’s nothing else to tell you.”

  “I’m aware that sometimes security can be too lax in our medium security wings,” Mayweather said. “After Phyllis Martin’s death, I reviewed the security footage and noticed that you smuggled a cell phone into the visitation room on at least one prior occasion. How, I don’t know, but crafty women have been known to hide things in different places than men.”

  “I didn’t smuggle it in,” I said. “I didn’t know phones were against the rules and no one told me and no one checked me for it.”

  With his fingers, Mayweather combed a wispy strand of hair behind his ear. “If you could smuggle a phone into the visitation room, then you wouldn’t have much difficulty smuggling a fire-starting device of some nature, now would you? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t have you arrested right this very minute.”

  “Sure thing,” I said. “A lack of evidence. And I have a very good lawyer on my side.”

  “Don’t be flippant with me, young lady,” Mayweather said.

  “Young lady? How about you find out who’s leaking your security footage all over the internet? Thanks to your ‘lax security’ my business has been destroyed.”

  “Settle down and watch your tone,” Mayweather said.

  “Is this a witch hunt? Do you want to check behind my ears for warts? How about you give me the water test? I assure you, I don’t float very well. It’s been tried.”

  Mayweather turned to Mettle as if he had no patience for a shrill woman. “You, I understand you’re a state Trooper correct?”

  Mettle smoothed his uniform. “This isn’t a Halloween costume, if that’s what you mean, sir.”

  “And what do you make of this situation? It seems reasonable that Miss Casket has had some help on the inside, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mettle looked at me. My nostrils flared. Don’t you dare throw me under the bus again.

  “Yes, it seems reasonable,” Mettle said. “But I’ve known Rosie for quite some time now and while this whole thing has freaked me out a bit, I honestly don’t see a motive.”

  “No motive? Dimitri Roganoff threatened her life. Is that not a motive?”

  “Yes, fine, that’s a motive,” Mettle said. “A good one, too. But new evidence came to light before Rosie visited and she wanted to come here to ask Dimitri a few questions, not kill him. She wanted him alive.”

  Mayweather fixed his eyes on me as if he were determined to exorcise my demonic spirits. “Dimitri Roganoff attempted to murder you and your elderly friend. Is that not a motive?”

  “We understand how bad this looks, Warden,” I said. “But I did not come here to kill anyone. I wouldn’t even know how to kill them. The glass is an inch thick and we were both searched before entry.”

  “So you know how thick the glass is?”

  “It was just a guess,” I said.

  “Did you not kill them with your mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you cast a spell?”

  “I’m not answering anymore inane questions.”

  “Did you set it up with her?”

  “With whom?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Am I the only one who knows exactly what I’m talking about?”

  “Apparently,” I said.

  Mayweather thumbed the phone on his desk. “Bring me Phyllis Martin’s cellmate. And while she’s gone, tell the guards to search her cell.”

  21

  We waited in awkward silence. The only sounds were the farting of our cracked vinyl cushions as we shifted uncomfortably and the squeaking of the warden’s casters as he tried to maintain his flag-pole posture.

  Mettle cleared his throat, but it was only a half-hearted attempt as he seemed afraid to upset me, afraid that I’d set his crotch on fire or something. Because the
first throat clearing was so ineffectual, he had to clear his throat six more times over the next fifteen minutes, each attempt equally pathetic, each attempt making his cheeks grow redder.

  “So,” Mayweather said, “I hear you’ve been suspended.”

  “You’ve got your ears to the rail,” Mettle said.

  Wish it were the third rail, I thought.

  Mayweather nodded. “I don’t have to listen very hard. People talk. Guards, cops, firemen—we may wear different uniforms, but we all wear the same underwear. How long is your suspension?”

  “A month.”

  “You paying your bills okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Mettle said firmly. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.”

  “Tell me.”

  Mayweather sized Mettle up, his eyes lingering on his biceps. “You ever think of working for the prison? With a build like that, your mere presence would be able to keep the inmates in line.”

  “I’d rather shave my head and dunk it in hot glue.”

  “You might change your mind,” Mayweather said. “We’ll talk later.”

  The door opened and Mettle and I twisted in our chairs. A woman shuffled in, followed by a guard. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit. Her ankles were fettered and her wrists were constrained to the level of her hips via a belly chain. Her hair was black and frizzy, as if she had tried to supercharge a hot pot, but had gotten her wires crossed. Her cheeks were divided into distinct portions, the lines in her face spanning haphazardly into features where they didn’t belong.

  She glared at me. “Don’t set me on fire.”

  “There’s no glass here, duh,” I said.

  Everyone looked at me.

  “Obviously, I use the curvature of the glass to concentrate my powers. It’s like a magnifying glass.”

  Their eyes widened.

  “That was a joke. What’s the matter with all of you? I don’t have any magical powers. No one does. Magic isn’t real.”

  “Be careful,” Mettle whispered out the side of his mouth. “The warden went to seminary school.”

  Mayweather folded his hands on the desk as if he were about to pray. “Do you know this woman, inmate?”

  “No,” she grunted.

  He turned to me. “Do you know her?”