Cold Hit (2005)

by Stephen - Scully 05 Cannell

“I think that’s a good idea,” she said, then hesitated, adding, “Listen, we found out who planted all those bugs in the Glass House. A tech in ESD named Ivan Roson—short for Rosonovitch. He hanged himself two hours before he was scheduled to take his polygraph. It’s a circus down here. We’re working on a statement for the press. Take the kids down to the Pier and get them something to eat. That fancy restaurant downstairs is nice, but it’s a little pricey for our budget.”

  I told her I loved her, and we hung up.

  At a little past eight, the kids and I left the hotel and walked along the beachfront bike path to the pier. It was a warm night and now there were hundreds of people milling around on the rebuilt wooden structure. I bought Delfina and Chooch hotdogs and ice cream, and we sat on a bench, not a hundred yards from where I’d sat that morning. Funny how savvy our plan seemed, just eight hours ago. Now it felt like total nonsense.

  “Hey, Dad, wanta go on the Ferris wheel with us?” Chooch asked, after finishing his food.

  “Yes, Shane. Come with us,” Delfina pleaded.

  “You guys go. I’ve had a bad day. Got a lot on my mind.”

  “You’ve been really quiet,” Del said. “Maybe if you tell us, we can help.”

  “You guys help by just being here. Go ride the wheel. I’ll buy a camera and get some pictures.”

  I handed them twenty dollars and they went off to get in line. I walked down the pier to a vendor’s stand and bought a Kodak throwaway. As I headed back toward the big, colorful wheel, someone suddenly pressed hard against me on the right. Then a big body leaned in on the left.

  “Hey,” I said. “Watch where you’re—”

  I heard a loud Zap. Intense pain shot into the small of my back. When the department gave us Taser training at the academy, we were forced to take a jolt to see what it felt like. Once you’ve taken a Taser shot, you don’t forget it. I tried to lurch away as my muscles twitched and jumped with electrical overload. I staggered forward and fell.

  “My friend is having a heart attack!” somebody with an Eastern European accent shouted out in dismay.

  Then three or four faces belonging to overfed men in their mid-thirties, were peering down at me.

  “This way! He needs a hospital!” one with a Euro accent shouted.

  They grabbed me. My muscles were still convulsing with the charge.

  “No!” I tried to say as they lifted me. But my voice wouldn’t work. I was helpless.

  “My car’s this way,” another shouted. Then I was being hustled off the Pier.

  They ran with me down the steps into the parking lot. We stopped in a dark area of the lot. Somebody stood me upright and held me. My muscles were chattering and my hands jerked uncontrollably. One of the men took a syringe out of his pocket, removed the plastic tip, and shoved it into my thigh, depressing the plunger, and emptying the cylinder.

  In seconds my vision started to dim.

  I vaguely heard a trunk open and I was dropped onto a hard, rough surface. The lid slammed shut. Everything went black.

  I opened my eyes.

  I was sitting in a wooden chair.

  “This is un-fucking-acceptable!” someone was yelling in American English. It was coming from another room.

  I recognized that voice. Agent Kersey Nix. The mild-mannered FBI agent from the Tishman Building.

  My body ached and my head buzzed like a broken radio. I tried to move, but discovered that all four of my appendages were securely taped to the chair with black electrical tape. The chair seemed to be bolted to the floor because it wouldn’t budge. I looked down and saw what appeared to be dried blood on the concrete underneath me. Then I took a careful inventory of the room. I was in a garage. A single, exposed light-bulb hung from a cord in the center of the space and a black Cadillac Brougham was parked under it. Somewhere I heard the distant sound of thundering surf.

  . . He come … he say, `Suck my dick, yakoff.’ ” It was Sammy Petrovitch complaining. “Fucking asshole—fucking piece-of-shit asshole.”

  “You shut up!” Nix shouted. “Talk to him, Igor. This isn’t working anymore. He’s gonna put our whole thing in the shredder.”

  “Sammy has … he has problems. He will get this worked out,” Igor said.

  “He didn’t used to be like this,” Nix responded.

  “He say, `suck my dick, yakoff!’ I no listen to this shit—motherfucker!”

  I’d really stirred up some trouble with my trip to Century City. I realized dully that I’d actually accomplished what I set out to do this morning. I’d frightened the Petrovitches enough to get them to grab me. But I’d underestimated them. They were smart enough to do it on their timetable, not mine. I wondered how they found me. While we were inside the dress company, did one of them sneak over the fence and plant another bug on my car? However it happened, they’d waited until I was separated from my backup and made their move. Now I was alone and in big trouble.

  The side door into the house suddenly opened and Kersey Nix stood backlit, in the threshold. Behind him I could see a modern kitchen. He moved toward me followed by Iggy Petrovitch. Sammy loomed in the doorway, watching.

  I kept thinking, What the hell is Kersey Nix doing here?

  “You were told by Mr. Virtue to go away,” he said. “Apparently, you don’t hear so good.”

  “I’m kind of tone deaf. But I’m getting over it. I get the message now.”

  “Too late.”

  “Too bad.” I took a deep breath. “Where are we?” “A long way from L. A.,” he said.

  “What the hell do you and R. A. Virtue have to do with these Odessa thugs?”

  “This is not a deal where you get to ask questions, asshole. You tell me what you know, then I decide what to do about it.”

  “I don’t know anything. I’m a fuck-up. I never score.”

  Nix’s cell phone rang. He answered. “Nix.” A pause. “Yeah, they got him, sir. Zapped him on the Santa Monica Pier. Lately these guys are fuckin’ outta control. I have two agents down there now, laying down some counterintelligence. Finding witnesses who saw it and telling them the guy just had an epileptic seizure.

  So far so good. But we’ve got a problem with the big guy. You or Iggy are gonna have to deal with this now. Sammy needs to go home. We need to put him on a plane tomorrow.” Nix paused, then added, “Okay .. . fine …” Then he disconnected.

  “How’s Mr. Virtue?” I said, trying to sound self-assured and in control while a little puddle of flop sweat was forming under my ass.

  “Okay, Scully. Here’s the deal. I want to know what you know, what Broadway knows, what Perry knows, what your wife and Lieutenant Cubio know. You’re gonna debrief me completely.”

  “None of us knows anything. We’re just local cops. We’re slow and stupid.”

  “Right now, even though you’re sitting up and breathing, you’re just a corpse that hasn’t been buried yet. The question here, as far as you’re concerned, is how you die, not if you die.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “I think you’re going to change your mind and come up with something. You can buy your way out of a very painful ending with a little useful information. Stonewall, and I’m gonna let Sammy fuck with your psyche.”

  I looked over and saw the silhouette of Samoyla Petrovitch standing in the doorway, leering with that horrible face.

  “Igor, get the box,” Nix said.

  A moment later, Iggy Petrovitch returned carrying a black metal suitcase. He set it down and opened it.

  There was a strange looking device inside that had all kinds of wires and clips attached.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked in panic.

  “It’s a polygraph,” Nix said. “We’re going to debrief you on the box. That way we know everything you say is righteous.”

  “Doesn’t look like any polygraph I ever saw.” There was no graph, or stylus, but it had an LD screen on the back.

  “State of the art,” he said softly. “You don’t need
to give yes or no answers on this. It reads the truth in sentences.” He looked at Igor. “Hook him up.”

  Iggy Petrovitch grabbed my shirt and ripped it open. Buttons flew off and danced across the concrete floor. He spoke to me softly as he hooked up the skin sensors and finger clips. “You make big mistake coming to our office. There is nothing there. So you will find nothing. You say you make a project of us, now we make a project of you.”

  “You can’t just kill a cop,” I said.

  “Yes we can,” Iggy said softly. “We do it all the time.” Once the box was connected, he stepped back.

  Nix took his place in front of me. “We’re going to start with your partners, Broadway and Perry. How much of this do they know?”

  I sat strapped to the chair feeling like a death row inmate.

  I’d once taken a weeklong capture and survival course at Fort Bragg where we spent a day working on anti-interrogation techniques and polygraph deception.

  I knew if I was going to get through this, I had to lock my mind on something other than my imminent demise because fear of death would cause me to produce excessive amounts of adrenaline. Polygraph machines operate on body chemistry. A lie produces a physical response that speeds the heart and sends an impulse down your nervous system causing sweat and increased skin electricity.

  If I could get my mind and emotions to quiet down, I had a better chance of focusing on a deceptive thought that would allow my responses to register as inconclusive on the machine. But everything in me wanted out of here, wanted to survive this, so I wasn’t having much luck. I tried a slow breathing technique to bring my heart rate down.

  “You are going to be debriefed,” Nix said. “You should also be advised, I’m not beyond using extreme techniques.”

  With Sammy standing in the doorway, I didn’t even want to speculate as to what ‘extreme techniques’ might include.

  “Answer me. How much information do Detectives Broadway and Perry have?”

  If I talked, I would be signing Roger and Emdee’s death sentences. If I didn’t talk, I was going to go through a very bad session here. Not a great choice, but since I was probably a lost cause anyway, I knew I’d feel a lot better about going down if I didn’t give these guys anything. I set my jaw and said nothing.

  “Sammy,” Nix said. The big man moved out of the doorway and over to the black Cadillac. He opened the trunk. A moment later he slammed it shut and walked toward me carrying a short-handled tree limb cutter.

  “What the hell is that for?” I asked.

  Nix stepped aside and without warning, Petrovitch placed the limb cutter over the index finger of my taped down left hand at the first joint near the fingertip.

  “You can’t be serious,” I managed to say as the horror of what they were about to do dawned on me.

  There was no further discussion.

  Sammy simply bore down with the gardening tool and cut off my fingertip. It flew off the end of my hand liked a discarded cigarette butt and hit the floor. A second later, the pain hit.

  I howled. My mouth was open and somebody stuffed a rag into it, choking off my screams. I watched in horror as my mutilated finger spurted blood. As my blood mixed with the dried blood under the chair, I wondered how many people before me had sat here and gone through this.

  My senses were on overload. When Nix leaned in to speak, I could smell his breath. “I ask you again,” he said. “What do Detectives Broadway and Perry know?”

  He nodded to Iggy, who pulled the rag out of my mouth.

  “Go fuck yourself,” I wheezed through gritted teeth. Nix stepped forward with a roll of surgical tape and a gauze pad. He carefully wrapped and taped my finger stemming the flow of blood so I wouldn’t pass out.

  “We can get Samoyla to clip you apart one piece at a time,” Nix said. “How ‘bout a toe, or the last two inches of your dick? I can make this last all night.”

  I tried to hold on, but I could feel my resolve weakening. Then suddenly, my eyes filled with water, and though I made no sound, I knew I was crying.

  “Sammy,” Nix said, and the giant stepped forward, this time, placing the clippers on my right index finger.

  “No … no, don’t,” I said. The panic and desperation in my voice surprised me.

  “Talk,” Nix said.

  “We … I … I think Davide Andrazack was an Odessa mob hit. Martin Kobb, too.”

  Then the dam broke and I was spilling my guts, telling about the cold hit and how we wanted to use the 5.45 slugs from the PSM automatic to tie both murders to Sammy. I said that Broadway and Perry knew about all this, but that we couldn’t prove it without the gun. Basically I puked up our whole case.

  When I finished, Nix checked the LD screen on the polygraph, then sat down on the bumper of the car and regarded me carefully. “You see, you could have saved yourself a lot of pain if you just told me that earlier.”

  He speed dialed a number on his cell. After a minute he said, “Okay, I think we can contain it. Sammy has to ditch his little assassination pistol and he definitely needs to go visit his family in Russia tomorrow. These guys have the gist of a case, but they can’t make it without Sammy’s gun or a witness. I think we can make this go away.”

  There was a long pause as I sat with my head on my chest, feeling lower than I ever had in my life. You like to hold the idea that you can withstand anything—that you can take torture, or the worst man has to offer and not break. But I hadn’t been able to do it. I had a much lower threshold than I had imagined. I’d fallen short, and now, even though I was probably not long for this world, I had to live with that uncomfortable knowledge until they killed me.

  Nix said into the cell phone, “Fine. I’ll go with them and make sure it’s done right.”

  He disconnected and said, “Put him under.”

  One of the brigadiers stepped forward with a needle and jammed it into my leg again. Whatever was in that syringe was powerful stuff. I was out before they untaped me from the chair.

  Chapter 58

  When I regained consciousness I was back in the trunk and we were moving. I wasn’t sure how long I’d been out, but my whole body ached, and my left index finger was throbbing like a bitch.

  Memory started to return, and as it did, I knew I was going for a ride I wouldn’t come back from.

  I now had some of the “bows,” but the “whys” still eluded me. To keep my mind from disintegrating in fear, I tried to reason them out.

  Nix was Virtue’s right hand, so that meant Virtue was, for some reason, allied with the Petrovitches. Why?

  Virtue and the Petrovitches were all in Moscow in the mid-eighties. Stan Bambarak and Bimini Wright had also been stationed there. Was this part of Bimini’s ‘85 problem? Alexa told us that Sammy had been an assassin for the KGB. Was he the shooter who did Bimini’s Russian doubles in that Moscow prison? How did all of that tie to R. A. Virtue? Why would Virtue take such a risk? I wasn’t sure, but it felt as if it started back then.

  Then came a wave of frustration and anger, most of it directed at me. For the past three years, I had gotten into the habit of playing just outside the boundaries. I was usually able to pull it off, but little by little, I had become overconfident. Past successes had blinded me to current weaknesses. I had allowed myself to be taken and then hadn’t held up. I’d given our case away. It would now come to nothing. That memory shamed me.

  I started to review the events that lead me here. There was now little doubt that Samoyla Petrovitch had degenerated from whatever he’d been in Moscow into a much more dangerous, murderous psychopath. He had pulled that tree-limb cutter from the trunk of his car. Then he’d snipped off my fingertip. Did it without a hint of hesitation or a flicker of emotion.

  A question began to bump up against that gruesome memory. What the hell was Samoyla doing with a tree limb cutter anyway? Maybe he bought it to cut off Davide Andrazack’s fingertips so the Mossad agent could be dumped in our serial murder case. Then a new idea struck me.

/>   Alexa told me about the Stinger attack in Kabul. How Sammy had been stitched up by a U. S. corpsman who saved him, but also disfigured him for life. I’d seen firsthand that Sammy was an impulse killer. He almost murdered me in his Century City office.

  As I lay stuffed in the trunk of the moving Cadillac, I tried hard not to curse my stupidity. I had been so locked on the idea that Zack was the Fingertip Killer, that I had completely overlooked Sammy.

  The hub of my case against Zack hinged on the fact that Vaughn Rolaine was involved in both of his murder cases. But Alexa had pared that coincidence down. As she had said, it was statistically possible that Zack and I just happened to catch the Vaughn Rolaine murder on that Friday night two months ago.

  I suddenly wondered if all of the logic I’d used to tie Zack to these murders might just as easily apply to Sammy. Maybe Vaughn Rolaine was the precipitating murder that got Sammy started killing homeless men. He’d been ordered by Virtue or Nix to kill Davide Andrazack because Davide was finding those reverse-engineered Americypher bugs and tracking them to a receiver station on the roof of their Century City office building. But maybe Sammy was so ritualized by then that he just continued the same rage-based techniques he’d been employing during all the other homeless murders.

  We didn’t find any bugs or scans on the ME’s computer, so maybe that chest carving hadn’t leaked after all. Maybe Sammy had been using it all along, carving a Medical Corps insignia on Davide Andrazack as well as all the other homeless vets he killed. All of it because of psychopathic anger over that botched field triage in Afghanistan. Maybe Davide Andrazack wasn’t a copycat kill, but part of the same series of murders, and the only thing that was different was the motive.

  I had to admit that Sammy fit the unsub’s profile at least as well as Zack. I remembered Underwood’s suggestion that the unsub was covering the eyes of the vics because he thought he was ugly and didn’t want them looking at him even in death. I had scoffed at that, but now with Sammy as a suspect, I wondered if I was wrong, just like I was wrong about the unsub being an organized, methodical killer. Sammy was an impulse killer with a questionable IQ who didn’t plan his murders. But he was also a KGB-trained assassin. He knew how to cover up his crimes, and those acts made the crime scenes appear organized when in reality they weren’t. He was a classic example of a mixed unsub, and cutting to the bottom of it, Judd Underwood’s profile was a lot closer than mine.