Bad Thoughts

by Dave Zeltserman

  The name was only vaguely familiar. Dornich kept his smile intact. “Joe’s a hell of a guy himself,” he said.

  “Yeah, sure. He wanted me to ask you how you got the nickname Pig?”

  The fat detective’s smile dulled a bit. “It’s because of the way I sweat.”

  “You’re sure that’s the reason?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “No, nothing else. It’s because I sweat like a pig.”

  The desk sergeant broke out laughing. “Quite a nickname,” he said as he rubbed some wetness from his eyes. “Wait here. I’ll see what I can get you.”

  Dornich waited patiently. He hated that nickname. Hated it more than anything. Even though he’d never admit it to himself, it was the reason he retired from the force. Head of detectives at fifty and retired at fifty-one. All because of a rotten nickname.

  The desk sergeant wandered back. He stood very close to Dornich and pushed a wad of paper into his hand. “Slip this inside your jacket,” he said, winking. The paper disappeared quickly into the fat man’s jacket.

  “What do you think about Bill Shannon?” Dornich asked after the sergeant got back behind his desk.

  “A smart guy. Maybe too smart. But he’s a good cop when he’s not acting like a wacko.”

  “Does he have a girlfriend?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “I wouldn’t be the guy to ask.”

  “Any sort of reputation with hookers?”

  A cautiousness darkened the sergeant’s features. “Again, I wouldn’t know,” he said, his voice guarded.

  “I can appreciate that.” Dornich showed the few teeth he had left as he smiled broadly. “Of course, nothing I find out goes back to his wife. I just want to bring him home.”

  “I’ve never heard anything about Shannon playing with hookers,” the sergeant said stubbornly.

  Dornich took out his handkerchief and rubbed it quickly along the back of his neck. A grin crept along the sergeant’s face as he watched. “Quite a nickname,” he said.

  “Sure was,” Dornich agreed. “By the way, his partner . . . ?”

  “Joe DiGrazia.”

  “Is he around? I’d like to ask him a few things.”

  “Sorry, he took the day off. Not feeling well.”

  Dornich couldn’t keep from smiling. A real smile this time. Big surprise about DiGrazia. Obviously, the party was still going on. He asked the sergeant for a home number and the sergeant told him no problem, consulted a directory and scribbled the number down for him.

  “Let me leave my number in case he calls in,” Dornich said.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  Dornich wrote it down and handed it to the sergeant. He hesitated. “I’ll tell you,” he started, a playful smile forming over his round face, “the world has changed since I left the force. Eight years ago murders meant something. Maybe a domestic situation that got out of hand or some scumbag trying to muscle in on some other scumbag’s territory. But there was always something behind them. Nowadays they mean nothing. It can be simply because you look at a punk the wrong way. These days, words lead straight to gunplay.”

  “Yeah, these kids out there now are nuts.”

  “Not just the kids. You can just call someone the wrong name and have a Magnum .357 shoved up your ass. I’ll tell you, though, it will clear away hemorrhoids better than anything I know. You might want to tell your asshole buddy Joe Wiley that.”

  The desk sergeant had the look of a man badly wronged. He reluctantly accepted Pig Dornich’s sweaty extended hand.

  * * * * *

  It wasn’t until after five o’clock that Dornich was able to reach Joe DiGrazia at home. He told DiGrazia what he wanted and DiGrazia gave him his home address and invited him to come over.

  When DiGrazia answered his door, Pig Dornich knew he was on the right track. Eyes were bloodshot red, bags heavy enough to check in at the airport, and a hungover complexion that gave the cop’s skin a feverish look. The general haggard appearance of a man who’s been screwing and snorting hard all night.

  DiGrazia gave the fat, smug detective a quick look up and down before stepping aside for him. “Susie hired you, huh?” he asked.

  “She’s worried about her husband. I was hoping you could help.”

  “Hey, anything I can do.” DiGrazia seemed to lose his train of thought for a moment as his eyes wandered away. When they focused back he asked Dornich if he wanted a beer. Dornich said okay and DiGrazia asked him to follow him, that they could talk in the kitchen.

  He tossed a beer can to the fat man and took one for himself, then sat down at the table and held the can firmly against the side of his face. “Got a real bad headache,” he said, smiling. “I’ve been out all night and day looking for that sonofabitch. Just got home a half hour ago. I was going to take a quick nap and go out again tonight.”

  “Rough day,” Pig Dornich agreed.

  DiGrazia still had the beer can pressed against the side of his face. His eyes were half closed and dropping fast. He shrugged.

  “You find anything?”

  DiGrazia slowly opened his eyes. He stared silently at the fat man for a few seconds, his face hardening. “What the hell do you think?” he said at last. “If I found anything, you think Susie would’ve wasted her money hiring you?”

  “I was hoping maybe you found something.”

  “That’s not what you meant,” DiGrazia said. “Don’t try and be a wise guy with me. You got something in your throat, spit it out. Otherwise, in the mood I’m in I’d be more than happy to do the fucking Heimlich on you.”

  “I was hoping you could tell me about his girlfriend,” Pig Dornich said defensively.

  “What do you mean girlfriend?”

  “Just what I said. Who’s he with now?”

  DiGrazia stared long and hard at Dornich before shaking his head slowly. “Susie knows better than that,” he said. “Where the hell you get that idea?”

  “I don’t have to tell the wife any of it. I just want to find him and bring him home. If his party ends a few days earlier than expected, that’s too bad.”

  DiGrazia stared at the fat detective incredulously and then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “There’s no girlfriend,” he said in a tired voice. “What did you think, that the two of us had a couple of hookers and some coke and were partying it up?”

  “No.” Pig Dornich hesitated. “I was just asking—”

  “Yeah, sure. Let me tell you something. Bill does this every goddamn year. Completely flips out for a couple of weeks. Right now he’s out there without a clue. You don’t believe me, you can talk to his therapist. I’m sure Susie can get you her name and number.”

  Pig Dornich fidgeted uncomfortably. He knew he screwed up, that he could’ve played his hand much better, but that wasn’t what was bothering him. Doubt was beginning to work on him. “What have you been doing to find him?”

  “Barhopped all over the goddamn place showing Bill’s picture. Didn’t get anywhere. I thought it might help if I knew where he’d been drinking last. That’s the way it always works. He loses it while drinking. After last call I drove around places in Boston, Revere, and Charlestown where he’s ended up in the past. Nothing there, either. But there probably wasn’t any chance of there being anything. I don’t think there’s any pattern to what he does after he flips.”

  The phone rang. DiGrazia reached for it. “What is it? Ah, shit, I’m beat . . . No kidding? In the mouth? Yeah, does sound similar. Doesn’t make sense, though. We got our guy locked away . . . Okay, sure, I better check it out . . . Thanks.”

  He put the receiver down and stared expressionlessly at Pig Dornich. “I have to go,” he said, his voice dead tired. “Police work. Give me a call in a few hours. Maybe I’ll drive around with you and fill you in some more. Maybe we can even find the sonofabitch.”

  Chapter 16

  February 12. Midday.

  The first thing he felt was the throbbing
in his fingers; next he felt the cold. Shannon lifted his head and found himself squinting against the sunlight. As his eyes adjusted to the light he realized he was lying in a basement of what was probably an abandoned building. The sunlight he was squinting against was coming through a broken window.

  The overall effect was disorienting. After all, one second Shannon had been in the Black Rose working on a bottle of bourbon the slow way, shot by shot, and the next he was lying on a hard, cold floor in some foreign basement.

  He knew what had happened. That he had been gone since that second at the Black Rose. He pushed himself into a sitting position and looked over his hands, making sure there were no gashes or cuts. He quickly checked his fingers, feeling for frostbite and then felt over his body probing for any injuries or broken bones. It brought to mind a story he once read about a leper who was constantly checking himself for cuts, always worried about gangrene setting in. That was what it had come to for Shannon also, being unaware of what damage, if any, he had been doing to his body. For all he knew he could’ve been sitting there bleeding to death.

  But he wasn’t. His skin felt cold and raw but there were no cuts or broken bones. He ran a hand over his face and felt that his skin was intact; a few day’s growth but no damage. His nose and ears felt numb but they didn’t feel frostbitten.

  He pulled himself to his feet. Other than the throbbing in the fingers of his right hand, he didn’t feel that bad. Kind of dry in the mouth and his legs a little wobbly, but other than that, not that bad.

  He was still wearing the same clothes as when he was drinking at the Black Rose. They were pretty much a mess. With some relief he found his wallet and badge were still in his pockets. He pulled out his wallet. There was still money in it.

  The basement had a dank, musty smell. It was, for the most part, empty; a few broken bottles and some bags of garbage but not much else. He walked over to the broken window. There were pieces of glass lying along the floor underneath it.

  Shannon walked up a small flight of stairs and found the door nailed shut. The wood, though, was rotting. He braced himself and then kicked it down. A couple of crack heads were sitting in the hallway smoking some stone. One of them was completely oblivious to him, the other one looked up from his pipe, kind of surprised.

  “Hey, man,” he asked, “what were you doing down there?”

  “Hell if I know,” Shannon said. He walked over them. The oblivious crack head never looked up. The other crack head started swearing.

  “That’s right,” he sputtered out, indignant. “Just walk over us like we’re trash.”

  Shannon ignored him. He heard some more crack heads upstairs arguing about who owed who for what they were smoking. The front entranceway had been boarded up but some of the boards had been pulled loose. As Shannon was squeezing through the opening, he heard the indignant crack head yelling at him.

  “Just kick down other people’s doors like they’re your own,” he was yelling. “No respect for other people’s property. No goddamn respect.”

  * * * * *

  It turned out he wasn’t that far from home. The abandoned building was in Roxbury, a section of Boston located only a few miles from Cambridge. He bought a newspaper and was relieved to see that he’d only been gone five days. Five days was better than a week. Still, it was five days that were lost to him. Five days of doing God knows what. A chill ran through him. Like usual, whatever he was doing, he wasn’t eating a hell of a lot. His clothes felt loose on him. At least this time, though, he wasn’t sick. At least he made it past February tenth in one piece. He had to be thankful for little favors. When he tried hailing down a cab, the driver attempted to swerve past him, but Shannon stepped out in front of the cab and held out his police badge. The driver pulled over and Shannon climbed in and gave him his address.

  As they approached the triple-decker that his apartment was in, Shannon saw the squad cars lining the street. DiGrazia was standing in front of the house next to his talking with a uniformed cop. Their eyes locked on each other. DiGrazia started moving in a trot towards the cab. He was at the door as Shannon stepped from it.

  DiGrazia was breathing hard from his run. “Well, well,” he grinned. “The prodigal son has returned. And looking kind of ripe at that.”

  Shannon couldn’t help returning the grin. DiGrazia was looking worse than him. Along with the dark circles under his partner’s eyes, the little hair DiGrazia had left was streaked with dirt and his clothes looked like they had been slept in.

  “At least I have an excuse,” Shannon said. “What’s yours?”

  “What’s mine?” DiGrazia sputtered. “You sonofabitch. I’ve been out every goddamn night looking for you. I haven’t slept in five days. That’s my goddamn excuse.” DiGrazia hesitated and then lowered his voice. “What have you been up to?”

  “I don’t know. I just woke up, so to speak.”

  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t look like your rest did you much good.” He paused, considering Shannon. “At least you’re back in one piece.”

  “It looks that way. About spending your nights looking for me, I’d like to thank you.”

  “Yeah, sure you would. You really don’t know what you’ve been doing?”

  Shannon shook his head. “No idea. About an hour ago I came out of it in a crack house in Roxbury.” He hesitated. “How’s Susie been?”

  “She hasn’t left you yet. My ex sure would’ve.” Exhaustion passed over DiGrazia’s thick face, giving his flesh a wasted look. “I’m glad to see you, pal. I’ll tell you, after the last week being run ragged both on the job and looking for you, I’m having a tough time thinking straight. Did you know Rose Hartwell?”

  “Ah, shit. What happened to her?”

  “You did know her?”

  “Yeah, I know her. I know everyone on this street. What happened?”

  DiGrazia started to say something and then stopped himself. For whatever reason he got cute. “You better look for yourself.”

  “All right. Let me wash up first—”

  “Nah, don’t worry about it. You’re fine. Fresh as a goddamn daisy.” DiGrazia had an arm around Shannon’s shoulders and was veering him away from his building towards the triple-decker Rose Hartwell lived in. As they walked, DiGrazia asked whether Shannon knew if the Hartwells were having marital problems.

  “Yeah,” Shannon said, “I think things had kind of hit bottom for them.”

  “That’s what I’ve been hearing,” DiGrazia said.

  There were about a half dozen plainclothes cops milling through Hartwell’s apartment, all grim-faced, all wearing beige or maroon sports jackets. Shannon didn’t recognize any of them. Rose Hartwell was waiting for them in the kitchen. She was lying on a small table, fully clothed, a knife sticking out of her mouth. She was dead. Gary Aukland was standing off to one side while a thin man with a short marine-style haircut examined the body. The man had an unnaturally pale complexion with lips that were way too red. His facial bones seemed to shine through colorless, translucent skin. Shannon didn’t know him, either. DiGrazia murmured in his ear, “FBI.”

  There was no shock as Shannon looked at the body. He was surprised how calm he felt. Almost serene. It was as if he’d been expecting this for a long time. Maybe not Rose Hartwell, but someone. He asked the FBI examiner how long the woman had been dead. The man sniffed in the air as if he smelled something and then muttered about them having to wait for a report. Aukland cleared his throat and said it probably happened early in the morning. He moved his head to one side, signaling towards the living room. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go talk.”

  They left the kitchen with DiGrazia joining them. Aukland asked if Shannon had been sick. “You look almost as if you’ve been suffering from exposure,” the coroner noted.

  “Not that I know of. But then again, what the hell do I know?”

  Aukland gave him an odd kind of look and then shook his head. He told him he’d heard Shannon had been put on departmental leave. “R
ight now I wouldn’t mind volunteering for that,” Aukland added. “They’re really pissing me off in there. You realize how big a favor they’re doing letting us watch? Tight-assed little pricks.”

  “Why are they involved?”

  “Because they’re experts from their elite Sex Crime unit. And we have a serial killer,” Aukland said with an unhappy smile.

  “There was one several days ago in Boston,” DiGrazia said.

  “And the Roberson murder,” Aukland added.

  Shannon turned to DiGrazia. “I thought you had the kid all wrapped up?”

  “I was wrong. He didn’t do it.”

  Shannon was going to say something else but he let it drop. DiGrazia’s expression demanded that he let it drop. He asked Aukland what they had on Rose Hartwell’s murder.

  “It’s hard to tell standing on the sidelines, but it doesn’t look like there’s any physical evidence. No skin, no blood, no semen. There’s a slight discoloration along the wrists that shows her hands were tied. Probably with some sort of fabric, maybe a towel. Whoever did this has a pretty good knowledge of forensics. How closely did you look at that knife?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You probably couldn’t tell from the angle you were standing at. The knife went right through the back of her neck and stuck a half inch into the table. It severed her windpipe. My guess is she died of asphyxiation. And, Bill, it probably wasn’t fast.”

  “Any other wounds?”

  “No, just the one. It was more than enough, though.”

  “And there was one like this last week in Boston?”

  “A carbon copy. And you have Phyllis Roberson. For the most part the profiles match.”

  Shannon looked out the window, squinting. “How’d you find out it wasn’t Roberson’s kid?”

  Aukland shrugged. “The blood we found on the pillow didn’t match either Roberson or her son. Also the timing didn’t fit. With the amount of time it took her to bleed to death, the son couldn’t have done it. He was in school at the time the internal bleeding had started.”