by John Misak
I took a long sip, let the booze slide down my throat and warm it, then looked at Rick. “What’ve you got?” I asked, trying to sound somewhat interested.
“Oh boy.” He still smiled. I resisted the urge to smack him. I should have a trophy case for the awards I deserve for my restraint with him.
“Uh-huh.” Another sip.
“I’m telling you John, this is it. I just have a feeling. This is the one that’s gonna put me over the top.” See? It’s all about Rick.
“Like the pet store owner two months ago,” I said, flatly. I did like to rub it in sometimes. “That one was real huge.”
“No, this is different.” It must have been, because his voice was going up and down an octave as he talked. He got excited easily, but he really got going on this one. I must say, it got me a little interested to.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“You know Ron Mullins?”
I recognized the name, and raised my eyebrows. Everyone in the city knew him. Millionaire, philanthropist, general ‘gut living the dream’ and making us suffer the nightmare in comparison. “The software guy?”
Rick nodded. “That one.”
“What about him?” He started to speak, but I interrupted. “What is it other than the fact he’s dead?” Gotta keep Rick on topic.
“Committed suicide.”
“Well, that makes for a big case. All we need to do is find the note. I can see where this will make your career,” I said.
“I don’t think it was a suicide.”
Good point. The man was worth millions, and rumors floated around that he would enter the New York Senatorial race the next year. He had a gorgeous wife, two kids, a private jet, and just about everything else that goes along with being one of the luckiest bastards in the world. Suicide didn’t fit.
“Well, that makes sense. Unless he killed himself because he felt guilty making everyone else’s life look like shit.” I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out my cigarettes. When I did, I realized there was only one left. I put it on my mouth, crushed the pack, and placed it on the table. I lit the cigarette, but before I could even inform Rick that he was buying me another pack, he clumsily reached into his jacket and pulled out a fresh pack. Helluva guy, I gotta tell you. “Thanks,” I said.
“No problem. I knew you’d ask for them. Fifteen bucks, too.”
“Price you gotta pay.”
“Yeah, anyway, I agree. The guy had no reason to kill himself. At least, no obvious reason. I already got on the horn with Geiger. He’s gonna let us handle this one,” Rick said. Geiger ran Homicide and, though a decent boss, he didn’t exactly fit the description of a nice guy when it came to work. I only wondered what Rick had told him to get a suicide case with such a high profile. I didn’t want to know, because I was involved.
“What makes you think I am interested?” I asked.
“Well, the rest of the list consists of a dead homeless guy, a 95-year-old man they found rotting in his apartment, and an apparent gang shooting. I figured I was doing you a favor.”
He did. He also put me at risk. This case could have some serious ramifications, but I realized then that I needed just that; something with excitement.
“Okay. What have we got so far?”
“Well, it seems Mr. Mullins ran his $150,000 Mercedes into a wall off FDR Drive three hours ago,” Rick said. That brought a powerful image to my mind. What a way to go.
“I didn’t hear about it on the radio,” I said.
“A couple of uniforms were right around the comer, the street was near dead, and they were able to keep it away from the press so far. I’d say the networks will get wind of it within the hour.”
“So, he drives into a building, and dies. Maybe it was a suicide. Maybe just a car accident.” When dealing with the rich and famous, we followed up a bit more on things, I hate to say. Rick considered Mullins’ death a homicide because he was rich and famous. Those people get better treatment. If you crash your car into a wall, we cops basically just have you scraped off and move on.
“Maybe. But it is certainly worth delving into a bit, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. They find a note or anything?” I asked.
“Nothing that I know of. His cell phone, which somehow survived the crash intact, was on,” Rick said. “Phone call right before impact, if the math is right.”
“Could have been thrown on by the impact,” I said. “Like a cement-wall-dial.”
Rick gave me a sideways look and shrugged. “Possible, but we’re already checking out who he called last.”
I took another swallow of the drink, emptying it. Without hesitation, John made eye contact with me and nodded again, moving toward the bottle of Dewars. What a guy. I looked around the bar. The guys in the suits were still there, and Rod Stewart, of all people, played on the jukebox.
“Okay, so we get the phone records and see who he called. Probably won’t lead anywhere.”
“If it doesn’t, then we certainly don’t have a suicide. Obviously, if he talked on the phone at the time before he killed himself, that call would be important, and the person on the other end will have some information for us,” Rick said, ever-hopeful.
I lit another cigarette. This case was going to be complicated. Maybe a dead homeless guy case would serve me better. But something nagged at the back of my mind, something about wanting to be stimulated. Not that kind of stimulated.
“How long before we have anything?” I asked.
“Guy down at the station said to call him a little after ten. I say we pay a little visit to whoever Mullins called tonight, see what they talked about.” Rick beamed now, like a little kid who gets to drive the car on his Daddy’s lap. Actually, he bubbled so much with excitement that I felt my own stomach tense a little. That reminded me that my stomach was empty.
“Okay, I think that’s a good idea. We’ve got about an hour, so why don’t we grab a bite here while we wait.”
“It’s after nine. I never eat after nine. Anything you eat late ends up on your gut.” That’s three reasons I thought about strangling Rick almost every day. Rick obsessed about health, and staying in shape. I didn’t. He was a year younger than me, but built a lot better. He always drank protein shakes, ate health bars, and took vitamins. He was a good specimen, and certainly didn’t fit the donut-eating cop stereotype. He looked like a Hollywood actor. Okay, maybe a soap opera guy. Unfortunately, if you are interested, he is married, with two kids. You could send him flowers, though. He’d probably like them.
“Well, I’m starving, and I do eat when I am hungry. I don’t care what time it is,” I said.
Rick sighed. “Okay, get what you want.”
Chicken fingers and a burger sounded pretty good to me. I gestured to John, who sent the waitress over, a twenty-something blonde who looked way too good to waitress at Kasey’s. Okay, maybe I was horny. Hadn’t been laid in over a month. But, I had good old Rick there, and he’d probably say that having sex after nine was no good for your heart or something like that. I ordered the fingers and the burger, and Rick entered us into idle chat for a while. Nothing interesting, trust me.
Two
The free dinner satisfied me nicely. Nothing like a free meal to fill your belly. Rick wasn’t exactly happy about paying the bill. He made a face as he did so, but he came through regardless. I’m not really a mooch, but if I had to tolerate his company, I needed to get paid for it. By the looks of things, a long ride lay ahead of us, and his wallet was going to get thinner from it. If he wanted my help to make it to the top, he had to take care of me.
“Let’s get a look at the body,” I said. I lit a cigarette, which drew a frown from Rick, and enjoyed the after dinner smoke—one of the best.
“Not a bad idea, though it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”
“I don’t know,” Rick said.
“I have. Trust me.”
We got into Rick’s car, a brand new
Acura CL coupe. A chick’s car, by my standards, but Rick was proud of it. I went to light up another cigarette, but he stopped me cold.
“Not in here,” he said.
“Is it leased?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t matter.”
“Come on, who cares?” I asked. What a bitch.
“I don’t want the car to smell of it,” Rick said. A valid complaint, but that didn’t control my urges.
“Give me a break.”
“No, give me a break. I bought you dinner. Paid for the cigarette you want to smoke. The least you could do is not smoke it in my new car.”
He had a point.
“Whatever,” I said, holding up my hands.
We drove through midtown, to the morgue. Morgues aren’t as bad as most people think. They don’t stink, surprisingly, and, by the time the bodies got there, they were cleaned up, and looked like mannequins. We pulled up, Rick looked for the perfect spot for about three minutes, and we walked in.
Alfred, the man at the desk who looked dead himself, smiled at us. I knew it wasn’t genuine. “Here for Mullins, I suppose,” he said, in his whiny, annoying voice. It had a slight wheeze to it. I saw—or heard—my vocal future if I kept smoking. No, it didn’t make me want to quit. It made me want another cigarette. Morbid.
“Yup,” I said. I wanted out of there. Hated the place. Despite my previous comments, the place spooked the shit out of me. Something about a building full of dead people can do that.
“Not here,” Alfred said.
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Still at the hospital. Downstairs. Doctor’s giving him a good once-over.”
“Strange,” Rick replied. “You think they’d be done by now.”
“The way things go when you’re dealing with someone as important as him,” Alfred said. He emphasized ‘important’ as if to add sarcasm.
“He is dead, right?” I asked.
“Far as I know.” Alfred fumbled with some papers. He was done with us. Like he had any interest in the first place.
“Time to hit the hospital.” Rick looked at Alfred. “St. Mark’s, right?”
“That’s the place,” Alfred said, not taking his eyes off his paperwork.
We hit no traffic going to St. Marks, but that didn’t stop Rick from driving like he was in bumper to bumper. I checked the speedometer, and saw the needle pinned cleanly on ‘30’. idiot. Some people are beyond help, and Rick chartered that group.
It was nearly 10:30 when we made it to the hospital. We entered the emergency room, a brightly lit room with white walls and a white tile floor. If you were tired, and needed a jolt, the emergency room was the place to go. Maybe that was their first technique in reviving the dead, hitting them with enough fluorescent light to illuminate your average ballpark. My eyes shot wide open from the light and, through the glare, I noticed your usual emergency room occupants. A teenage kid held what looked like a cut thumb, a woman cried in the corner, probably waiting for news on her husband, and about four people looked to be in various states of pain. Two of them looked like they just had their asses kicked. All in all, it was a pretty quiet night for St. Mark’s ER.
We went through the doorway to the main hospital, flashed our badges to the security guard, and made our way to Mullins’ temporary resting place. We passed through two sets of double doors, and found the room with four metal tables, only one occupied by a body. Now, if you read the way I do, I strongly suggest you put down that bean burrito, have a glass of water to wash whatever you ate down, and try to relax. This isn’t going to be pretty.
The room, unlike the morgue, smelled of death. Between the chemicals and the rotting bodies, the smell is most reminiscent of when I leave Chinese food in the refrigerator for too long. Oh, and throw in a little spoiled milk. Not sour milk, but the kind that comes out in chunks in your morning coffee. That’s pretty much the smell of the place. Real pleasant.
The smell only started the fun. Mullins’ body rested on a metal table, in clear view. Hovering over the body of the former Mr. Mullins was Dr. Siebling, a squat man with very little black hair and thick glasses. I’d met him a few times before, and thought him a pretty decent guy. He had brains, that’s for sure, and I came to value his opinions in his area of expertise. That didn’t happen with me too often, as you can probably tell. I got the feeling, however, that he didn’t like cops coming to his workplace, so I always kept the questions to a minimum.
“New York’s ‘Finest’ coming down to take a look at our esteemed Mr. Mullins,” he said in his low voice. I always had to strain to hear him. “I don’t think there’s much I can tell you, other than the fact that he’s dead.” He liked to joke around, it seemed.
“I figured that much,” I said, moving around the table to get a look at the body. Mullins’ face was almost completely smashed in from the impact. The skull had fractures at the forehead and left temple. I knew this because along with the deep red blood coming from those spots, I saw little chunks of grey. Yup, brains. His car, though expensive, was old, and didn’t have air bags. Poor guy. He had incisions on his neck, and part of his esophagus was visible, probably from glass, I assumed. There looked to be food oozing out of there, but that was illogical. Still made me want to puke.
His hair was caked with blood. I thought right there that this was no way to commit suicide. He might have died instantly. That I would have to find out. But it must have been painful, regardless. I looked at a man who had life by the balls. He had everything. Why would he want to kill himself? Did he have some sort of closet problem, like child molestation? I’d seen some pretty powerful guys off themselves for such things, but from what I knew about Mullins, he didn’t fit the profile. It may just have been an accident, but something at the scene had caused the uniforms to say otherwise.
“He died from severe head and brain damage. Actually, he probably died a minute or so after impact. Tough to tell right now, but that’s how it seems.” That meant he suffered during that time.
“You testing for drugs, alcohol?” Rick asked.
“Have to. Should have results in a few minutes actually. Coltrain wanted me to do it for him, considering that I was doing all this work.” Bryan Coltrain was the city Medical Examiner, and he usually went through such tests. I was sure he would be on the way to the morgue, eagerly awaiting the body. Spooky.
“Nice of you. Got anything else?” I asked. Vomit had started to form in the back of my throat, or stomach acid, or part of the cheeseburger. Talking became difficult.
“Well, his palms are cut up too, which would indicate that he covered himself before impact. Not sure what that means.”
“Could mean he didn’t mean to kill himself,” Rick said.
“Or, it could mean that this was an accident,” I said, after swallowing hard. Both of them looked at me.
“There were no skid marks, John,” Rick said. “Didn’t I tell you that before?” He had that ‘smarter than you’ tone to his voice. Maybe I could puke on him, I thought. Two birds, one stone.
I shook my head. I couldn’t remember. Didn’t care either.
Siebling looked down at the body and shook his head. “Forty-seven years old, and he had everything going for him. Amazing someone with so much would end it all, compared to someone who was down on his luck.”
“Maybe he was down on his luck, and we just don’t know it yet,” I said. “Maybe he porked the wrong person.”
“Yeah, sure he had lawyers for that sort of thing,” Siebling said.
“Or, it could have just been an accident, or a heart attack. Seen that many times,” I said. I didn’t believe that.
“I see no evidence of coronary problems, but I’m sure Coltrain will investigate that further.”
“How soon before you ship him off to the morgue?” I asked.
“They’re on their way now.”
We waited for a few minutes, with nothing else to say. Siebling went about preparing the body for the morgue, which basically consiste
d of putting it in a body bag. I guess a lot of people standing there looking at the dead body of a successful man would think of how fragile life was, and how Death can come knocking on your door at any moment. All I could think about was what I had just eaten, and how I didn’t want to taste it again.
An unattractive woman in a white lab coat walked in. She was about my age, with dirty blonde hair and had an awful complexion, the type you have to try not to stare at. Her body was more like a man’s than a woman’s—rail thin, with no breasts to speak of.
“Allison,” Siebling said, “meet the friendly members of the NYPD. Detectives Keegan, and...” Siebling looked awkward, not remembering Rick’s name. I wanted to laugh. That had to hit Rick hard.
“Calhill,” Rick said, cordially extending his hand. She didn’t take it. I didn’t bother.
“I have the blood work,” she said, in a tone that had nothing but creepiness in it.
“I have her on loan from Coltrain,” Siebling said to us, then he grabbed the folder from her hands. She just stood there, as if not knowing what to do. Certainly not someone who was comfortable around people—living ones at least. Siebling scanned the report, then looked up at us.
“Nothing. No alcohol, no drugs. Not even an antibiotic. His blood is clean.”
“Was clean,” I corrected him.
“Right. However you say it, his mind was clear of any chemical influence that we can tell. He was sober.”
“Then he knew what he was doing,” I said.
“Or wasn’t trying to kill himself,” Rick said, “I’d have to get pretty wasted to go through with something like this.”
“Or he got cut off, and was driven into the embankment that way,” I said. I liked to argue with Rick, and our boss Geiger sometimes thought this aided in our investigations. Other times he thought he wanted to drive him to an early grave.
“Uniforms said eyewitnesses didn’t see anyone but him on the road. Looked like he drove right into it.”
“Well, I think maybe we should take a look at that again.” Rick’s cell phone rang.
