AHMM, December 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Parking spaces are scarce down on Commercial and nonexistent up on Charter, so, for not a lot less than the monthly mortgage payment on a small house in the suburbs, I lease a parking space in a lot just west of Jackson Ave. on Commercial.

  The heavy mist had turned to rain. I was drifting along in the late evening traffic on Commercial Street, windshield wipers ticking away, recalling the look in Lenihan's eyes and the way his hand felt on my shoulder, smiling at the warm glow I got thinking about it.

  But somewhere, way back there in my erotically blurred brain cells, something was screaming at me. Jumping up and down to be remembered. Something the weirdo had said on the phone. Something about the ballgame on TV. I knew it was back there. But between all the beer and pizza and my libido working overtime, I was having trouble doing any heavy thinking.

  * * * *

  I drove past the lower end of the stairway up to Copp's Hill Terraces, signaled for the left turn into my parking lot, glanced up at the rearview mirror, and spotted the Neon as it passed under a streetlight two cars behind me. The sudden jolt of seeing him behind me threw a bucketful of water on my fuzzyheaded musings.

  And I remembered.

  The ballgame. The score. Four-nothing. Four, Val, you scatterbrain, four.

  He had told me, when I'd asked him what he wanted me to call him, “I'm hurt you don't remember, Val, it's only been four years."

  I zipped into the lot, skidded into a U-turn around the attendant's shack, swiped my pass-card through the slot at the exit gate, banged a right back out on Commercial, and passed the Neon coming the other way. In the mirror I saw the Neon's brake lights flash red and its rear end slither sideways on the rain-slicked roadway.

  I pulled over and double-parked at the foot of the long stairway up to Copp's Hill Terraces. I grabbed my handbag, hopped out of the car, and made a dash for the stairs. Halfway up I looked over my shoulder and saw the Neon skid to a stop behind my car. Someone leaped out of the Neon and headed for the stairway. I pulled out my phone, hit my new entry for Lenihan, and took the rest of the stairs two at a time.

  I ran out into the park just far enough so whoever was coming up the stairs below could no longer see me, squatted down and duck-walked back into the shadow of the low wall at the head of the stairs, and was unzipping the side compartment of my handbag when Lenihan finally answered his phone.

  "I'm up on Copp's Hill Terraces,” I whispered into the phone, “and the wacko in the Neon is coming up the stairs after me. Get some cops over here, like now."

  Lenihan was yelling something I couldn't hear as I closed the phone, dropped it into my pocket, and slid the compact Beretta out of the side compartment of my bag.

  Above the hiss of the rain, I could now hear the heavy clomp of footsteps coming up the stairs. A dark figure barged through the opening in the wall, slid to a stop on the wet paving, and stood there staring into the empty corners of the park.

  With the gun held down by the side of my leg, I stepped up behind him and said, “Looking for me?"

  He jumped and spun around to face me.

  It had only been four years since a grieving sixteen-year-old boy had watched me as I dropped my father off at his father's funeral. But wild eyed and seething, rain matting his hair and running down his face, Angelo Cass now looked a hundred years older. He had a knife in his hand.

  "I told you you'd regret mocking me.” He waved the knife in my face. “You are the spawn of evil, and evil must be—"

  I slammed my left forearm up into his wrist, pushing the knife out of my face, and rammed the gun up under his nose.

  "In case you don't recognize it,” I said, “what you're smelling is gun oil."

  His eyes crossed and watered as he tried to look down at the gun pressed up under his nose.

  "Nine millimeter,” I said, “Ten rounds—” I thumbed off the safety. “—and just a twitch of my finger and it's gonna go bang."

  His eyes bulged and he strained his head back away from the gun.

  I leaned into him and kept the muzzle jammed up into his nose. “So unless you want that dysfunctional brain of yours scattered all over the park, I would suggest you drop the knife."

  He stretched both arms out to the side, still looking down cross-eyed at the gun under his nose, and opened his hand. The knife slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground.

  I had Angelo on his face—legs spread-eagled, fingers laced at the back of his neck—when all hell broke loose.

  Up above on Charter Street, a BPD cruiser, light bar pulsing blue and white, gave the siren a couple of whelps and screeched to a stop. And Lenihan's unmarked, detachable bubble flashing red on the roof, screamed into a U-turn down on Commercial. Two uniforms, guns drawn, came charging down the steps from Charter as Lenihan bolted up the steps from below. And within fifteen minutes, there were cruisers clogging both streets and enough cops in the park for a St. Paddy's Day parade.

  Working the scene under battery-powered halogens, a pair of CSU techs had bagged the knife, while two detectives from the A-1 hooked up Cass, read him his rights, and hauled him off. They had wanted me to come back to the station, but Lenihan convinced them they'd be busy enough getting Cass booked and bedded for the night. Said he'd bring me by first thing in the morning to make a full statement.

  * * * *

  One after another, the cops and the crime scene techs climbed into their cruisers and vans and pulled out, leaving the streets clear and the park empty. Lenihan and I were sitting over on the Jackson Ave side of the wall across the walkway from the door to my building. It had stopped raining.

  "So,” I said, “your buddy the statie over at Logan came up with the list?"

  "Yup. Said the night guy on the desk at Inter City Rental gave it to him off the computer."

  "Just like that, no problem?"

  "Nope. No problem. Just a matter of knowing who to ask, how to ask, and when."

  "Sure,” I said, “also helps to be wearing a state police uniform and a badge that says SERGEANT when you're doing the asking."

  "Can't hurt,” he said. “Anyhow, said he'd fax over the seven names, addresses, and plate numbers, but I had him read me the seven names over the phone. And one of them was Angelo Cass. The ‘Angelo’ part didn't sound right to me—I didn't know about the son then. But Cass? Too much of a coincidence. So I called in and had one of our guys run it through the mill."

  "And?"

  "And it seems young Angelo started racking up a record shortly after his father got whacked. Punched out one of his teachers—no formal charges, but that got him expelled. Then a couple of disorderlies—no finding—a disturbing the peace—a year's probation on that one—then he gets into it with a cop in Downtown Crossing, takes a swing at him, gets arrested, calls the judge an f'ing pig at his prelim, and tries to go over the rail after him—in handcuffs, yet. That earned him a broken nose and a three-to-five at M.C.I. Cedar Junction. And guess what? They turned him loose just last week."

  "Aha,” I said, “so that's why he said something about the lawyer working me too hard the first time he called me, said I should have stayed on the police force."

  "Yup. He was inside when you got your license and set up shop. He thought you were still working for that lawyer over on State Street. Anyhow, all that's what I was trying to tell you when you called for the troops then hung up the phone."

  "Sorry about that, but I was kind of busy."

  "Yeah, I'd say. But you already had it worked out it was him, huh?"

  "A little late, but yes, I finally got it. My dad's funeral was two years ago, and Zeke's father's was the week before last. So the only funeral he could have seen me at four years ago was his father's. And if I hadn't been working so hard trying to prove to him how tough I was, I'd have gotten it as soon as he said it."

  "Don't beat yourself up, Slim, that was a lot of spooky stuff, all that spawn of evil must be punished crap."

  "And that's another thing I should have picked up on right away. I should
have known he was referring to my father when he said I was the spawn of evil, and Angelo has to be the only person I can think of who ever would have had a reason to think of Dad as being evil."

  Lenihan stood up and paced back and forth in front of me. “I guess I can see him thinkin’ the only reason his father winds up getting killed in jail is because your father arrested him, and I can understand him redirecting his grief over the loss of his father into hate for your father. But what I don't get is how he gets from there to goin’ after you."

  I shrugged. “Not sure. Probably some sort of perversion of what the shrinks call transference."

  "Translation, please, for those of us dummies who majored in Criminal Justice."

  "Hey, easy on the ‘dummies’ stuff, I'm doing CJ nights at UMass myself. What I meant was, he knew I'd been a cop, too, so when the object of his hate died, he just transferred his hate from my father to me."

  "Hmm—” He cocked his head to one side and shrugged. “—makes sense, I guess."

  "What do you think will happen to Cass?” I said. “He never really got around to hurting anybody."

  "Hard to say, but he'll get a preliminary hearing sometime in the next twenty-four hours, at which time, if I had to guess, the judge will send him down to Bridgewater for a series of psych evals. Whether he stands trial for stalking and assault with a deadly weapon or just gets institutionalized for a couple years will probably depend on whether or not the dome-doctors find him non compos mentis."

  "So, what's your guess? Think he'll wind up doing the hard time?"

  He shook his head. “Who knows. Even if they find him mentally competent to stand trial, between overcrowded prisons, overburdened courts, and some of the over-the-top judges in this state, it's anybody's guess. But either way, it's better than even money he'll be back out on the street in a couple a years."

  "Now there's something to look forward to,” I said.

  * * * *

  A crescent-shaped slice of new moon had climbed out of the clouds and rode high above the harbor like a lopsided smile.

  Lenihan looked down at his feet, glanced up at me, then turned and stared out at the harbor. He stuck his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath, and held it.

  "Okay, Lenihan,” I said, “what's the problem?"

  He looked back at me and blew the breath he'd been holding out the side of his mouth. “No problem,” he said. “It's just that it's been so goddamned long that I, ah ... I don't know, I guess I don't remember how to, ah..."

  "Don't remember how to what?” I said.

  He shrugged it off and tried a smile. “Never mind, forget it. So what's a guy gotta do to get a beer around here this time a night, anyhow?"

  "Come on,” I said. I hooked my arm in his and walked him toward my door. I looked up at him and grinned. “As this old cop I know once told me,” I said, handing him my key, “'Just a matter of knowing who to ask, how to ask, and when.’”

  Copyright (c) 2008 Ernest B. & Alice A. Brown

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  Fiction: COMES AROUND by Chris Rogers

  He had the face of a murderer. Nothing else could account for my instant certainty, and I was dead certain. Jake McGrew had killed a fellow being in cold blood.

  After twenty years on the job—eight with Homicide before I took retirement—I can get the scent of trouble up my nose like a bloodhound. Finding out who McGrew had killed shouldn't be impossible. I took it as my personal challenge.

  He comes around on our poker nights, supposedly doing a story called “Games People Play.” Claims he's an essayist, whatever that means, and we let him watch. Came around last night, drew up a chair right beside me, watching how I played my hand.

  Around our table, I can sum up each player in a word. Ed Colliard—he's a joker. Can't go five minutes without cracking a line. Guess every table has one. Betty Grable—yeah, that's her real name, and yeah, we don't mind that she's female—Betty's a thinker. Doesn't talk much, but ask her a question about anything, doesn't matter—railroads, baked hams, French poodles—she can tell you more than you want to know and pose philosophical suppositions that will numb your mind.

  Then there's Boots Reyes. He's young, loudmouthed, foulmouthed, smartmouthed—in a word, callow. That boy has lots to learn. Kevin Locke, he's reverent. I don't mean he's a man of the cloth, although it wouldn't surprise me to learn he'd been a preacher sometime in his past. What I mean is Kevin has an “oh, wow” attitude about life. He can be awestruck by a blade of Johnson grass.

  And now there's Jake McGrew, killer.

  "Boots!” Ed interrupted the kid, who was rambling on and on about a new video game, “would you deal sometime this century? I swear, boy, you could talk your head off and never miss it."

  Boots dealt the cards. “I'm not taking your crap tonight, Ed. So leave off, already.” He cursed a blue streak under his breath.

  "How long have you guys been playing poker together?” McGrew asked, smiling as he looked around the table at all of us.

  Nobody jumped in to answer him. Finally, Kevin spoke up.

  "I had to think a minute there, and now I'm wondering if it can be right. Has it really been nine years, Bradshaw?"

  That's me, by the way, Ford Bradshaw.

  "Going on ten,” I said, “for you, me, and Ed."

  "Yeahhhh.” Kevin nodded. “You were still on the force, I had my vet practice, Ed owned the supermarket on Tenth Street—"

  "I still own the store,” Ed said. “I just have a menagerie now."

  "Menagerie?” McGrew asked. Only a newcomer would ask.

  "General manager, produce manager, meat manager—menagerie."

  Like I said, Ed can't let a straight line just lie there. McGrew laughed politely. Most people do until they've been around Ed for a while. I'd give McGrew an hour.

  "So you three are all retired,” he said, taking a small stack of note cards and a pen from his shirt pocket. He scribbled a few words on the top card and slipped it back into his shirt. “What about you, Boots?"

  "Do I look like I'm retired?"

  "I mean, how long have you been playing with the group?"

  "A couple months is all. Somebody moved out of state—"

  "Paulie Cade,” Betty said. “Moved to Florida, just as four out of every five retirees do who move out of state when they quit working. What draws them, I wonder? The hurricanes? The drugs? Swamps and alligators? The Disney World tourists? Why not retire to Georgia or Mississippi, where the living is easy?"

  She dropped two cards face down on the table and wiggled a finger for Boots to give her two more.

  "When did you join the group, Ms. Grable?"

  "Just Betty.” Picking up her soda glass, she raised it toward McGrew. “I'm celebrating my paper anniversary with our poker club this very night."

  Maybe McGrew knew what “paper anniversary” meant. I didn't, and nobody asked.

  I drew three cards to a pair of sevens—no help—as I watched McGrew's hands. How a person uses his hands can reveal plenty, if you think about it. Look at a diagram of the brain sometime, one that shows the parts of the body each area controls. You'll see about the same amount of brain matter allotted for hand movement as for vocalization. In other words, your hands can say as much as your mouth. The first thing I noticed about McGrew, he's left handed. Sinister, to use the old terminology. The Boston Strangler was a lefty. So was Jack the Ripper. The American Zuni Indians consider the left hand the hand of judgment.

  Ed slid a five-dollar chip into the pot, raising it. Boots and Kevin folded.

  "Most people these days who retire before they turn sixty,” McGrew said, “keep busy through consulting or ownership, like Mr. Collins, or go into another line of work."

  Kevin's eyes grew round like Orphan Annie's in the comic strip.

  "Hey, that's right! All three of us. I sold the practice, but the young fellow pays me a consulting fee just to keep my name on the door and drop by once a week. And Bradshaw, you're still
a cop, right? Just not on the force."

  McGrew looked at me. “Security guard? Private detective?"

  "I find skips and runaways.” My hands remained still as I said it. Most liars, their hands give it away. Like Henry Kissinger, tapping his nose, thumbing his chin. Anybody could see he was pushing the truth around the way his hands were pushing at his face.

  "Is that profitable?” McGrew scribbled on another card and slid it into his pocket.

  "It's satisfying.” This time the truth came easy. On the job, the satisfaction of jailing a perpetrator ended when I saw them right back on the street, thanks to an overburdened legal system. Privately, I don't have to involve jails, lawyers, or judges.

  I looked at McGrew's hands and wondered what weapon he used. He raised his pen and pointed it at Ed the way some men would point a knife for an upward thrust, all four fingers wrapped around the shaft, thumb on top for leverage.

  A jolt of excitement whipped through me like an electrical shock. It's always like that when I close in on a case, but with McGrew I had only a hunch.

  "You must know one another pretty well after ten years,” he said.

  Ed shrugged. “I know Kevin can't resist drawing to an inside straight and Bradshaw will bluff with a pair of deuces.” He laid down three sixes and raked in the chips. “That doesn't tell me if they sleep with their socks on or what they do alone in the shower."

  McGrew smiled. He had a hustler's smile, the kind of smile that convinces an old woman to part with her life's savings, or a young one her virginity. Ted Bundy had a smile like that. So did Tom Parker, before I shot him through the right eye.

  Parker, from a family with both money and power, had started his life of crime with several occasions of date rape and never served a day in jail. That gave him the brass to push the envelope. He kidnapped a young woman, kept her three days for fun and games, then dumped her in the Gulf of Mexico, which wiped away all evidence. The cops knew, the court knew, I knew, and only one of us had the mettle to give Parker what he deserved.