Jericho's Razor

by Casey Doran

  Screams rose outside the office. Above it, I heard Jagger’s voice from a radio.

  “I’m inside,” Torrez answered.

  “What? Get the hell out right now!”

  Smoke filled the office carrying the scent of burning wood and seared flesh.

  “I have Sands. He is standing over the dead body of Eric Watts.”

  “What? Repeat that.”

  “Eric Watt’s is dead. GSW to the head by what is almost certainly Jericho’s gun. He tried to make a grab for it when—” Torrez lowered his radio and began coughing hard enough to make me worry about him reflexively pulling the trigger.

  “Eddie, the fire department is inside. They say it’s moving too fast for them to contain. You have to get out!”

  “Dammit, Torrez, lower the gun and listen to your partner!”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said.

  “Okay. So what’s the plan? Secure the crime scene? Call in the forensic crew? Get real, man, the whole damned building is coming down!”

  “Just like you planned it!”

  Torrez began another bout of coughing. I joined him. Smoke hung like a shroud over our heads. The cackle of the flames could be heard right outside the door like crunching fall leaves. If we did not leave soon, we never would.

  “Hands behind your back.”

  “Screw you. I’m not going to try and run out of here in cuffs.”

  “Do it, or I’ll shoot you and leave you here!”

  I did as instructed and Torrez cuffed me while Jagger ran inside. Torrez gave directions to secure the murder weapon as firefighters rushed inside and yelled at all of us to get the hell out. Torrez grabbed the body and tossed him over his shoulder, contaminating the hell out of the evidence but probably deciding it was preferable to letting it barbeque. Part of Eric’s skull fell off and landed on his shoes. He hardly flinched.

  Jagger explained that I would lead the way out, covered by her and followed closely by Torrez. She added that if I made any attempt to run once we were clear of the building, she would empty her weapon into my spine. We hurried like that, all of us coughing and fighting our way through curtains of black smoke.

  Chapter Eight

  I sat in a hospital room with four police officers guarding the door. My leg bore a large gash where the sliver of beer bottle had been removed. Second-degree burns covered most of my left hand. Nurses submerged it in cool water and wrapped it loosely in gauze in attempt to control the damage. But it did nothing for the pain, a searing agony that felt like I had grabbed a handful of red-hot coals. My right hand was in far better condition. It was also handcuffed to the hospital bed.

  There was a quick knock on the door and a nurse entered. It was the same one who had treated me earlier, an African American woman in her forties who talked about running marathons. She had introduced herself as Martha and warned me that if I tried anything funny, she was an expert in self-defense and would snap my neck before I knew what was happening.

  I liked her immediately. She was smart and tough and didn’t take any shit. Nurses are notoriously overworked and underappreciated. They watch doctors waltz in and out as they please while they work fourteen-hour shifts. Martha gently examined my hand, frowning while I did my best to choke down screams.

  “Have you come around on accepting those painkillers yet?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Your decision.” She said in a tone that made it clear she thought I was being stupid. In fact, anything that could dull the searing pain would have been welcome. But I knew that Torrez and Jagger were close by and circling like sharks. At any minute they would come through the door looking for blood, and I wanted to be clearheaded.

  “I’ve heard some of the staff talking,” I said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s the tally? How many of you think I’m the second coming of my father?”

  Martha turned her head toward the door. Her voice lowered. We were alone, but I was sure the move was just a habit. Nurses are notorious gossipers.

  “You really want to know?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re not looking too good, honey. I’d say about eight out of ten think you are guilty as sin.”

  I nodded. “Probably to be expected.”

  “Was me, I think I would lay low for a while. Someplace warm maybe. Let this sort itself out.”

  “Not really an option.”

  “Figured you’d say that.” She looked over her shoulder again. “Those detectives are waiting to talk to you. They don’t look happy.”

  “I imagine not.”

  “Their boss just left. He read them the riot act. Heard him yelling from down the hall. They’re catching a lot of heat over this.”

  “Really? Isn’t that a fucking shame?”

  “Don’t be cursing at me, mister. And I’m just saying, maybe you want to keep in mind you’re both on the same side. You both want to catch this guy.”

  “So you don’t think it’s me?”

  “No. I heard some of the cops say that you ran into a burning building. I can’t figure the person who started it doing that. But like I said, I’m in the minority. Your best bet is finding whoever it is.”

  The doctor came in and made some uneasy small talk. He was one of the eight out of ten, clearly. He explained that my CAT scan was negative. My head was no more messed up after the fall into the Dumpster than it was before. No bones were broken. I was being discharged into the care of the detectives. He cleaned his hands of me.

  Jagger and Torrez came in right behind him. They passed a lot of looks between them, as though unsure of how to start. Jagger stepped up. She wore a pair of black jeans and a black-and-red Hell Kat T-shirt.

  “How’s the hand?” she asked.

  “Fine.”

  “We need to talk to you about what happened.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  There was a pause. “Not yet.” Torrez finally said.

  “Then I want this,” I rattled the handcuff against the bed railing, “taken off.”

  The detectives passed another look between each other. Torrez spoke up.

  “I think we’re going to hold off on that for right now. Just until we can be certain that you are not a danger to yourself or others.”

  It was a pretty good “cover your ass” line. By admitting I was not under arrest, he would have to remove the cuffs. This way, he could play both sides. Smart.

  “It is your right to have a lawyer here,” Jagger said. “We can wait outside while you call one.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer.”

  “Let’s clarify that,” she said. “You absolutely need a lawyer. The question is whether or not you want one.”

  “Fair enough. I do not want one. Can we get on with it?”

  “Suit yourself.” Jagger set a tape recorder on the table. “Do you mind if we record this conversation?”

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  Unlike the detectives, I had not been granted the luxury of changing clothes and stunk of rotting garbage and burning flesh. In the enclosed space the stench was overwhelming. I wondered how they were able to ignore it.

  They worked like a couple of rotating knights on a chessboard. One attacked while the other drew back, adjusting position, planning the next strike. They hovered over me while I gave my statement. When they were was finished, Torrez approached looking as though he were presented with a great puzzle.

  “So, you claim that Eric Watts and his security guards beat you and then threw you off the roof.”

  “I don’t claim that is what happened. That is what happened.”

  “Really? Because nobody seems to have seen it. In fact, not one person on that smoking deck can recall seeing you at all.”

  “How about Katrina?” I asked.

  “We have not yet been able to talk to Miss Masters.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because her brother swooped in and is running interference,” Jagger said.
“The congressman is using every connection he has to shield her from all of this. He says that Katrina will issue a statement via her attorney in the next few days. We can’t go near her. That came directly from our boss.”

  “So,” Torrez said, stepping in, “as it stands right now, we have Eric Watts shot in the head with what will certainly prove to be your gun.”

  “Watts grabbed my gun on the roof. Anyone could have used it.”

  “You know for a fact that he grabbed it? You saw him do it?”

  “No. I was too busy getting the shit kicked out of me. But it’s the only way it ended up in his office. By the way, when do I get it back?”

  Jagger laughed.

  “You crack me up, Sands. Really. You have no way to corroborate your story, you’ve turned up in the immediate vicinity of two murder victims, and you’re worried about getting your gun back?”

  I held my shirt out toward her. The stink was strong enough to make her back up a few steps. “How about this, detective? Does this corroborate my story?”

  Jagger backed off and paced the room like a tiger. She was hitting a stride and wasn’t about to let me or my smelly shirt derail her.

  “Eric Watts was having sex with your ex-girlfriend. It’s obvious you still have feelings for her. Knowing that primate was sticking it to her must have made you crazy. Crazy enough to shoot him in the head. Crazy enough to set fire to his club and watch it burn.”

  Torrez stepped in. “Allow me to outline this for you. You knew the victim. You had reason to hate the victim. You were in the vicinity of his murder and cannot account for your whereabouts. And best of all, you own the murder weapon. That’s motive, means, and opportunity, the holy trinity in our business. The state attorney is on his way down right now, and I know he wants to go to the mattresses with this. Especially considering he is golfing buddies with your pal Preston Masters. When this goes to trial they will crucify you.”

  Jagger jumped in. “Let us help you here, Sands. Tell us what happened. We’ll handle the state attorney and Masters. We’re cops, not politicians. Show us you’re a good guy, let us clear this case, and we will do everything we can for you.”

  I looked between them. “Jesus Christ,” I said. “I always thought my cop dialogue was too corny, but here you are using it. You really expect me to fall for this crap?”

  “You’re falling, alright.”

  “And the cheesy dialogue continues. You haven’t got anything.” I said, hoping my voice sounded more confident than I felt.

  “Is that a fact? Well, Jericho, I doubt that a jury will agree with you.”

  “It will never get to a jury. You have no real evidence, no witnesses, and nothing tying me to the crime scene other than a stolen gun. You say that I had reason to hate the victim? Ask around, detectives, everybody hated Eric Watts. He was an asshole.”

  Jagger leaned in. “Katrina Masters sure didn’t think so.”

  I laughed. “Oh, I’m sure that she did.”

  “She would have a relationship with someone she thought was an asshole?”

  I spoke slowly, as though explaining something to a seven-year-old. “Detective Jagger, Katrina is attracted to assholes.”

  “Well … that must be why she dated you for so long.”

  “Precisely. Thank you for making my point. Now, if you’re done trying to coerce a bullshit confession out of me, I’ve had a long night and I would like to go home.” It was a good speech. It was also bullshit. They had me dead to rights and they knew it. I was almost ready to believe that I had killed him.

  Someone knocked on the door and Torrez left, shutting it behind him. Jagger leaned against the wall, arms folded across her chest, looking at me like one of those pictures that you have to blur your eyes to see the hidden image.

  “Two dead bodies.” It was a serve, an open-ended comment thrown out for no other reason than to get a response. I wasn’t going to play. And Jagger wasn’t going to ease up.

  “You’re a smart guy, Sands. You must know what Occam’s razor is.”

  “Aren’t they a punk band out of Chicago?”

  “Occam’s razor is a principle stating that the simplest solution to a complex problem is usually the correct one. Once you shave away all the excess complications and bullshit, the most basic solution is usually right in front of you. As a detective, I apply that principle to my investigations, and it always works.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Right now, the simple solution is that you got bored writing about all those fun and interesting ways to kill people. You wanted to see what it was really like, to actually feel the excitement you’re always describing.” Jagger paused. “Just like your parents. I’m sure Peter would be proud of your handiwork. If you hadn’t killed him, that is.”

  Jagger approached the table. She was on stage, getting into her role, trying to get me to open up. I guessed that most guys would probably be pretty helpless when she turned on the charm.

  “Just tell me what happened, Jericho. Stop carrying around all of that baggage. Tell me how you killed Sean Booker by cutting off his head with a chainsaw. Tell me how you imagined doing it until you just couldn’t stand it anymore, so you found some worthless, lowlife drug dealer and finally allowed yourself to have some real fun.” I felt her breath in my ear. “Was it just like you imagined? Or was it not as good as you thought it would be? Is that why you had to kill Eric Watts? The decision to make him victim number two must have been easy enough … I’ve seen them together at the club. Hanging all over each other, getting busy right there in the VIP lounge between sets. And I assure you, buddy, she was not thinking about you.”

  She was good. I had to give her that. But I went on ignoring her until Torrez returned. He looked at me briefly, but it was enough to know that I wasn’t going to be returning to my jail cell. When he whispered the news into Jagger’s ear, she was less than thrilled. She turned to her partner and mouthed something. Torrez shook his head. Jagger stared at me and walked over to the hospital bed. After a moment, she took out her keys and unlocked my cuffs.

  “Boss says we kick, you lose,” Torrez said.

  “What happened? I was under the impression you were about to arrest me.”

  “We were.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Katrina Masters. She called and verified your story. She said that after your swan dive she went down to the alley to make sure you weren’t dead. According to her you were out cold and in no shape to kill anybody. She also said she saw Eric Watts take your gun and put it in his coat.”

  “Don’t sound so thrilled, Torrez. I know how much you were hoping it was me. Would have made this easy for you.”

  “Don’t push it, Sands. Detective Jagger will drive you home. I suggest you stay there and stay out of trouble.”

  Jagger gave him a look that said she did not appreciate being delegated to taxi duty, but Torrez waved it off like the matter was already settled. She grumbled instructions for me to meet her downstairs in five minutes. I grabbed my things, met her outside, and climbed in her car. It was pretty typical of cop cars, crammed with gear, made smaller by the steel grill separating the front and rear seats. A pump-action shotgun sat in a rack between us. Jagger had to move a duffel bag that was open and overflowing with hairnets and gloves and black rubber boots. Crime-scene gear. She sped off without a word until we were outside my building. When she looked at me, her eyes were unrelenting, going right through me.

  “Booker was five. Watts was four.”

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  “Well, I am sure that deft and creative mind of yours has already come to this conclusion, but I’m pretty sure that this guy’s plan is for the grand finale to be you.”

  I looked at her, letting her words sink in. The idea had occurred to me. But somehow having it spoken aloud made it more real.

  “Sleep tight, Sands. If you have another gun in the house, I would recommend sleeping with it by your pillow.”

  The clock
read 4:10 AM as I arrived home. Doomsday was curled on the sofa chewing intently on his softball and watching Deadliest Catch. I keep episodes recorded on the DVR and run them on a loop when I am going to be out all night. The crabs fascinate him. I have no idea why. He turned his head to look at the door and then glared at me.

  “Yeah, I know. Sorry bud.”

  We walked around the block, me trailing behind him while the odor of smoke and burning flesh filled the air. Lights from the emergency vehicles could still be seen from down the block where firefighters finished extinguishing the smoldering shell of a building that had been The Dungeon. I thought of the unfortunate people who were lost. Doomsday finished his business and turned back towards home, flopping back in the same spot on the couch as I had found him. On the television, the fleets were on the hunt for crab, while the deckhands acted out drama’s that would be worthy of Days of Our Lives.

  I opened a Newcastle and took a seat opposite him.

  “So, Doom. How was your night? Anything eventful happen?”

  He was silent as usual.

  “Mine? Well … let’s see. I paid a hundred dollars to sneak into a club that I was eventually tossed from, via the roof. I had a fight with Kat. And Eric Watts was killed with my gun by somebody who is getting ballsier by the minute. So if you hear somebody at the door, feel free to rip his face off.”

  The dog’s attention was owned by the fishing vessel Wizard. He growled when the captain came on screen. He always does. I have no idea what his life was like before we crossed paths, but am certain it was filled with cruelty. He is too irritable for there not to be a backstory.

  “I enjoy our little chats.”

  I headed for the bedroom, knowing that any sleep I managed to get would be restless. But I had long ago become accustomed to sleeping through nightmares, and I was exhausted. Jagger’s words came back to me as I entered the bedroom. I retrieved the shotgun from the study and set it by the bed, loaded and within arm’s reach. Soon after hitting the mattress, I felt Doomsday settle onto the foot of the bed.

  Chapter Nine

  My stomach woke me several hours later. It growled and ordered me out of bed and into the kitchen. My last real meal was only a vague memory. I had been surviving on coffee and nicotine for the past two days. The clock in the living room read 4 PM. I had slept for twelve hours. It felt like twelve years. My body was sore and stiff, telling me I was too old to be thrown into Dumpsters from rooftops.