by Rick Reed
He pushed the button on the remote and heard a muffled explosion above. He stepped out the service door and into the alleyway. Once outside he scanned for other watchers. The street was empty except for an intoxicated couple getting into a D.C. cab. He walked to the cab’s open door and shot the couple multiple times and then shot the cabbie.
He pushed the woman’s leg inside and shut the passenger door. He then put the driver’s body inside the trunk and drove away. Just another late night in D.C.
Chapter Two
Three weeks later, Evansville, Indiana
August was a bad month for Detective Jack Murphy, starting with some ex-military guys turned hit men and ending in a shoot-out where Jack thought he would be killed. Several people were killed, some good, some bad. In fact, the county prosecutor had died. Then the chief deputy prosecutor, second in command, had “flown the coop,” without a word to anyone, not even to Jack’s ex-wife, Katie, to whom he was engaged. Good riddance to the prick.
September was shaping up to be more of the same. The new prosecutor and new chief deputy prosecutor were pricks just like the old ones. But the worst thing of all was that he and Katie had almost gotten back together through all of this, but he’d blown it. It was a long story.
Katie wasn’t taking his calls, hadn’t taken his calls for several weeks, and even her sister, Moira, who had orchestrated them getting back together, was mad at him. “Sexist pig” was his new name, and that was the kind version.
Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse he’d gotten a call from the prosecutor’s office asking that he come to a meeting to discuss an arrest he had made last night. Jack was expecting some repercussions for breaking the sick bastard’s jaw, but it felt like the right thing to do at the time, and he’d do it again given the same circumstances.
It was early enough that Jack hadn’t any trouble finding a parking place in one of the city council spots behind the Civic Center. He even walked through the unmanned security station that led to the judge’s chambers and the prosecutor’s office. He wondered why it wasn’t manned by security as soon as the Civic Center was opened for the day. But he didn’t make those decisions. Civilians with political aspirations and the right connections made them.
Jack entered the prosecutor’s offices unchallenged. The second set of doors that were normally locked was cracked open. He walked down the hall to where he remembered the conference rooms were located.
Moira Connelly’s office was just ahead on the left. He could tell she was in because he could hear music coming through the thin wall. Maybe she could tell him what this was about. He knocked on her door. The music stopped and a voice said, “Come in.”
He pushed the door open and found Moira doing Pilates in front of her desk. She was wearing a blue two-piece power suit with a red silk blouse. She straightened up and tucked the blouse in where it had come loose.
“Just getting warmed up before the meeting,” she said, a little out of breath.
“I always wondered what attorneys did before court,” Jack said with a grin.
Moira was Katie’s younger sister, and where Katie was short, like their mother, Moira was tall, like their father. Both women were beautiful, but a striking feature they shared was their bright red hair—thick, wavy, and long. Moira pushed her hair back into place and picked up a file from the top of her desk. She was settling in nicely to her job as deputy prosecutor.
She squeezed past him and out of the door. “Let’s get this party started,” she said and led the way down the hall.
Outside the conference room, she hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. Jack could hear men’s laughter coming from inside the room. She looked at Jack and said, “The new prosecutor went to law school with the defense attorney, Joe Miller. He might call him Boom Boom. That’s Miller’s nickname. Try to keep your temper.”
Miller wasn’t exactly a big gun as far as defense attorneys go. But he was ruthless and not above cheating, stealing, and lying to get his client off the hook. “What am I going to get mad about?” Jack asked, but Moira was already pushing the door open.
The new prosecutor’s name was Mike Higgins. He preferred being called Mr. Prosecutor. He was appointed to his position a few months ago after the last guy ate his gun. Higgins was a little guy with a giant ego, but so far Jack had no reason to dislike the man. All that was about to change.
The prosecutor was slumped behind the big conference table in a leather-covered office chair, feet on top of the table, and pretending to be reeling in a fish. By the looks of his mimicry, he was catching a “big” one. Higgins was new to Evansville, and even newer to holding a lofty office such as prosecutor of the third largest city in Indiana. He had come from Boston, where he had worked in the prosecutor’s office as one of the grunts. No one knew how he got this job.
Higgins’s voice was deep, and his laugh was infectious. That was deceptive because he could be laughing and smiling and that’s when you knew you were in his gun sights. His Boston accent was thick, and he had already earned a reputation for taking no prisoners. He was five-foot-five at best, and his prematurely graying hair didn’t match his boyish looks. All in all, Mike Higgins was a conundrum, but to Jack he was just another attorney that he was going to have to deal with sooner or later.
Higgins sat up when he noticed Jack and Moira and motioned them to come in. “This is Joe Miller,” he said, introducing the man who was standing in one corner of the conference room still holding his hands apart as if measuring something. “We were just reminiscing about a fishing trip to the Keys when we got out of law school.”
“I assume the fish got away,” Jack said to Higgins, with as little sarcasm in his voice as he could manage.
The two attorneys shared a look. “I told you he was a pistol, didn’t I?” Higgins said.
“I think the word you used, Mike, was ‘smart-ass,’ ” Miller said.
Miller was the exact opposite of his colleague in appearance. He was tall and heavyset with dark curly hair that swept back from his forehead and grew long and thick in the back in a mullet. His face was wide with jowls that shook when he talked. He reminded Jack of a basset hound—minus the dog drool.
“Have a seat, Murphy,” Higgins said.
Not Jack. Not Detective Murphy. This was going to be bad. Jack sat and Moira took a seat beside him.
The defense attorney, Miller, sat across from Jack. The prosecutor broke from tradition and was sitting beside the defense attorney. Any closer and they could hold hands, but Miller was all business now.
“We have a problem with the arrest you made last night,” Higgins said.
Moira looked down at the table with a neutral expression. Jack could feel his blood pressure rising.
“By ‘we’ do you mean the royal ‘We’?” Jack asked. “And are you referring to my arrest of a serial rapist last night? The one who’s put four of his victims in the hospital? The same one who’s been in the newspaper frightening the public for over a week?”
“That attitude is exactly why we’re here,” Higgins blurted out.
Miller put a hand on the prosecutor’s arm and said, “A picture’s worth a thousand words.” He produced several color photos from the manila folder and slid them across the table.
Jack glanced at several 5x7 color photos of a black male whose face was misshapen and whose eyes were swollen shut. Jack thought he looked like a praying mantis but kept that to himself. He knew the guy’s jaw was broken because his fist still hurt. He pushed the pictures back to Miller.
“Nate Cartwright,” Jack said. “I arrested him last night. So?”
Miller said, “This will never make it to court, my friend.”
Higgins sat stone-faced, arms crossed, saying nothing in Jack’s defense. Murphy knew what was going on here. The defense was brokering some kind of deal with the prosecutor.
Miller smiled and said, “My client is only guilty of having bad taste in women. He spurned her, and she attacked him in a jealous rage. H
e was defending himself and was actually glad the police arrived. And then you beat him while he was handcuffed because you, Detective Murphy, are a racist.”
Jack looked to the prosecutor to say something, but Higgins folded his hands on top of the table and remained silent.
Jack asked, “So how does your client explain the victim’s vaginal and anal tearing? How does he explain that he was completely naked and her pants and blouse were torn?”
Miller made a dismissive motion with one hand. “She did that to herself. My client was fighting for his life. His penis might have penetrated her vagina while he was trying to get away from her.”
“Are you really going to court with that bullshit?”
Higgins looked at Jack but addressed “Boom Boom,” his school chum. “Joe, if I drop your client’s charges to sexual battery, will you dismiss the federal charges you filed against Detective Murphy?”
“What charges?” Jack demanded.
Miller sat back in his seat and let Higgins explain. “Here’s the situation as I see it.” He leaned toward Jack, hands folded as if in prayer. “Your arrest of Mr. Cartwright wasn’t within police department guidelines. Even though Mr. Miller may be stretching things a bit far to suggest you beat Mr. Cartwright while he was handcuffed, we can’t ignore the fact that his jaw is broken and there are other injuries to his face that you admittedly caused. You stated so in your arrest affidavit. Your report simply says Mr. Cartwright resisted arrest. So it would leave a reasonable person to assume you would show some injuries too, and you look fine to me.”
Jack said nothing, waiting to hear what charges the defense had dreamed up.
The prosecutor continued. “Mr. Miller, acting on behalf of his client, who was too injured to speak to the FBI, filed a criminal complaint against you. He also filed a civil suit against you, the Evansville Police Department, the Vanderburgh County Jail, and my office. There will probably be an investigation by the Department of Justice Special Litigation Unit.”
“So that’s the real problem. This asshole is threatening to sue you.” Jack cocked his head to the side. “So I’m going to be arrested for getting a serial rapist off the street? A guy, who, by the way, I caught in the act. He goes free or I get charged.”
Higgins sat back in his chair and wouldn’t make eye contact with Jack.
Jack was past his anger and was becoming calm. It was the calm before the storm. He said, “The only reason I didn’t file ‘battery on a policeman’ charges on your client, Mr. Miller, was because he was already being charged with rape, aggravated assault, and sodomy.” Jack put his hands, palm down on top of the table. “Your client came at me in a rage because I was interrupting his fun. I tried to stop him but he flung his face into my fist several times. I defended myself, and I have proof,” Jack said straight-faced and pointed out the bruised knuckles on his left hand as evidence. “Maybe I should go to the ER and get checked out.”
Miller let out a deep sigh and said, “I guess we’re done here. See you in federal court, Detective Murphy.” He turned in the doorway and said, “I suggest you get yourself a good attorney, my friend.”
* * *
“Jack, wait.” Moira said catching up with him in the hallway. “I’m sorry, Jack. You know this wasn’t my call. Right?”
Jack was too angry to talk.
“I’ll talk to Mike. Maybe I can make him see reason.”
“Whatever,” Jack said.
“You didn’t do yourself any good in the meeting just now. Not every problem’s a nail, you know.”
“What does everyone expect me to do? If I use any force at all, the public crucifies me. If I don’t stop the criminal, I’m crucified. I’m starting to get a Jesus complex.”
“My boss can be a real jerk sometimes, but he really isn’t a bad guy. I think he’s afraid of any bad publicity.”
Jack could see her point. Mike Higgins was still learning the ropes with the prosecutor’s position, the city, and politics. The publicity of a lawsuit like this would be a death sentence for his career. He was new to the Midwest. To Evansville in particular. Jack would give him the benefit of the doubt. Unless, that is, Higgins was stupid enough to surrender and let a serial rapist have a free pass.
Moira said, “Maybe I’ll point out to him that he needs to recuse himself from the case since he’s best friends with the defense attorney.”
“You’re learning to play the game,” Jack said, and she smiled, taking his remark as a compliment. “That’s scary,” he added and she stopped smiling.
“I get it. You’re mad. But don’t take it out on me,” Moira said.
“I’m not taking it out on you,” he protested, but she gave him the look. “Okay, maybe I was taking it out on you a little, but I’m not angry.” He knew he couldn’t affect the prosecutor’s decision, so he decided to do what any good cop would do. He’d take his partner to eat copious amounts of donuts and violate some citizen’s rights while he was at it.
Her smile was back. “How’s Cinderella?” she asked.
“Cinderella’s fine. Plenty of shoes and furniture to eat. I’m waiting for her to go potty so I can look for a pair of cufflinks.”
Cinderella was Jack’s dog. She was sort of a mix between a large poodle and an alien. Jack had inherited her—sissy name and all—when her owner was murdered and she’d been left injured and homeless. Then a redneck police chief in Illinois had wanted to shoot her and Jack couldn’t allow that. Jack had made some excuse about the dog being evidence in a murder investigation and taken her to Evansville, first to his veterinarian friend, and then to his cabin. He hadn’t wanted a dog. Being an animal owner didn’t mix well with his job because of his uncertain hours.
Like the famous circus owner, P. T. Barnum, said, “A sucker is born every minute.” Jack knew he was that sucker. Cinderella was strong-willed, shedded constantly, chewed anything left on the floor, and sometimes left steaming presents in the shoes in his closet. She wouldn’t respond to any other name, a whistle, or even Jack’s “doggy-voice-of-doom.”
“Cinderella loves you, Jack,” Moira said.
“She didn’t bite me this morning,” He knew that way down deep inside, she really hated him. It had become his mission in life to make her love him. What’s not to love?
* * *
Jack needed something stronger but he’d settle for coffee. As usual the coffeepot in the detectives’ office was empty. He made an extra dark brew, found his mug, and filled it with the sinister black liquid. The oversize coffee mug was a gift from his partner, Liddell Blanchard. JACKENSTEIN was embossed on the side—a reference to the long scar that ran from just under Jack’s left ear, down his neck and across his chest ending at his right nipple. The injury had necessitated stitches and staples and a month of physical therapy and was a gift from Bobby Solazzo’s bowie knife. Jack, believing it was better to give than to receive, had given Bobby a gift that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men wouldn’t have been able to put back together.
Jack sat, sipped his coffee, and stared at a family photo on his desktop taken when he was a teenager. His mom and brother were smiling gaily. His dad was scowling. Jack was looking away with a bored expression. That snapshot told the history of the Murphy family pretty well. Since his father’s death, his mother had harped on him and his brother to settle down and bring some little Murphys into the family. She was like a tiny dog with a big bone, whittling them down with her sharp wit and even sharper remarks.
Another photo on the desk showed his father, Jake Murphy, in police uniform complete with eight-point cap, oak billy stick, and a wide leather gun belt that was canted from the weight of the big. 357 he carried. Murphys had been cops in Evansville since Great Grandpa Murphy came in through Ellis Island.
An unpleasant thought struck Jack. He might be the last generation of Murphy cops. He was divorced and childless, and his older brother, Kevin, would never have time for kids. Not that Kevin was gay. He was as heterosexual as Bill Clinton on me
th. Kevin was an oceanographer. His job was to study boring stuff like why sand deposited on beaches. Jack was interested in studying other things deposited on beaches: blondes, brunettes, redheads. He was an observer by profession. Anyway, Kevin was more than dedicated to his work. It was his life. Kevin and Jack were alike in that way, but different in almost every other.
When they were growing up, Kevin was the good son, the popular one, the athletic one, the one who brought home perfect report cards. Jack came home with clothes that were bloody from fistfights or was suspended from school. Kindergarten was a tough place.
In grade school and high school, Kevin still came home with perfect grades but he wasn’t as outgoing anymore. He shied away from sports and stayed in his room studying, planning a career. Jack still came home with blood on his clothes, but it was someone else’s blood.
Jack’s desk phone rang and he answered.
“Jack. It’s your mother,” his mother said as if he wouldn’t remember her.
Murphy’s Law says: “If you think about your mother, she will call.”
“I was just getting ready to call you,” Jack lied. Lately she called once a week, sometimes more, to complain about Kevin’s needing to find a good woman. She seemed to think finding this “good woman” was Jack’s job. Trying to be a good son, Jack knew he should talk to Kevin and pass on their mom’s fear that Kevin would be happy with his life minus a woman. So he had called his brother and said, “Hey, Bro, mom says you should find a good woman and settle down.” Kevin had laughed, Jack had laughed, and the topic was closed as far as Jack was concerned because he wasn’t his brother’s pimp.
“Are you listening, Jack?” his mother said, dragging him back into the conversation. He wondered if he could find a “nagging filter” for his iPhone. Maybe there’s an app for that?
“Kevin’s a grown man, Mom,” Jack said. “He’s successful. He’s happy. He doesn’t need advice from me.”
