by R. G. Oram
The jingles rung on – but there were no sounds in response to signal that someone was coming to answer.
Lazy and asleep, Frank thought.
He got his snap gun. Normally he would put it in the lock without hesitation, but perhaps sensing an opportunity, he placed his hand on the doorknob and turned the knob. No need for tools or force.
Depositing the snap gun back in his pocket Frank entered carefully and closed the door behind him. Every curtain appeared to be drawn. A veiled sun gave Frank a dimmed visible path. Clouds of dust stuck to his shoes and the walls were spotted here and there. Evidently Shaun was slobby and oblivious to the need for any form of housekeeping.
Finding the bedroom, inside the bed covers were mangled, it was apparent that nobody had slept in them recently. There were drawers that looked shaken and disturbed; each pulled out in a careless fashion. Returning downstairs and entering the kitchen, he found a sink full with unwashed dishes and appliances looking as though they we stricken with aged leprosy. Frank was in a decaying house of dust smothered remains, decorated with milk-soaked bowls of cereal. He fought to ignore the smell and continued to scan his surroundings. Frank tensed when he noticed a rack of sheathed knives mounted on the wall. But now only four black handles remained in a five-roomed rack.
Frank retrieved his burner phone and called Shaun’s. A swift, female singer’s voice rang out form another part of the house. Shaun’s ringtone sung its lyrics nearby. He followed it to the source which appeared to stem from a room with a white-carpeted floor. He paused cautiously in the doorway. Rectangular see-through game cases were scattered all over. A thin wide screen television and games console box were mounted on a wall. The singer entertained from among the plastic cases.
Frank moved some out of the way with his foot and carefully bent down to pick up the device. Even a brief glimpse told him it was the phone he had instructed Shaun to keep.
Where is its owner? He asked himself.
Frank casually allowed the phone to slide down his fingers and drop among the cases again. The house shouted that Shaun was not here. The unlocked front door, empty bed, hanging bedroom drawers and the discarded phone, all confirmed this.
Why had Shaun gone? That was the next question. What caused him to leave so abruptly? There had to be a plausible explanation.
The little cracks of light stealing through the curtains blinked as a shadow shot across. Frank, motionless, assumed it was a car windscreen reflecting the sun’s glow. What happened moments later was totally unexpected – knocking at the door accompanied by a few muffled words.
Frank stepped noiselessly to the nearest window, inching back the curtain a finger’s width to observe the outside activity. A uniformed police officer stood confidently at the front door, talking rapidly into a portable radio on his shoulder. The squad car was parked behind Frank’s car, allowing no room for escape.
The curtain fell back, Frank checked his weapon. Fully loaded and no sign of fault. In his other hand he held a cloth. Then he pulled the bottle of fluid out of his coat pocket and poured the entire contents of chloroform over the cloth. Tucking the firearm away, Frank strode towards the door. Another set of knocks came as he neared it. He opened the door, answering them.
Sunlight burst through, but some was being refused admittance by the uniform framing the portal.
‘Morning sir. Sorry to bother you, but are you the owner of this house?’ a young voice with authority in it asked.
‘Yes. This. Is. My. House,’ Frank said, taking pause after each word.
‘Okay. Well the reason I am asking you this, sir, is because we received some information earlier of a possible disturbance occurring at these premises. Would you know anything about that?’
Frank used his upper face muscles to squeeze his eyes, hoping to show a plausible anxious face.
‘No,’ he went for a painful tone. Then Frank moved his eyes to the left and kept his head in line with the officer.
‘Then I apologise for bothering you sir. Must have been some kind of prank. Happens a lot. Hey, before I go could you tell me how long you’ve LIVED here?’ The officer unclipped his gun.
Frank grasping the cryptic message stated and played along, ‘ONE year.’
The officer looked over Frank’s shoulder to check ahead before motioning with his non-gun hand to move aside in order for the patrol man to enter. Frank did as commanded. The officer moved past, turning in the direction indicated by Frank’s eyes as if intent to make contact with a fictional foe. Frank saw the man’s body twist both ways as the gun held in two hands searched for a potential adversary.
Closing up swiftly behind, Frank cupped both his hands and clapped them together over the young officer’s ears. The clapping from the left and right hands colliding with the left and right ears caused a momentary deafness; a high pitched noise resonated in the officer’s ear drums. Frank went for the gun, wringing the arm into a hyper extension and the weapon dropped to the floor with a resounding thump. He smothered the cloth over the officer’s face, covering the entire area, before he roughly tied the cloth around the back of the skull to encase it like a mask.
Stabbing the back of the man’s kneecaps with a foot; forcing him to kneel. Using the foot again but this time stamping over the officer’s back. The officer went face to the floor. Seizing both arms from behind and placing his foot square in the middle of the back again, Frank pulled them back against his boot thrusting forwards, into the spine. With the arms pointing away and the torso kept flat, Frank, without any instrument of restraint had full control over the man. The only free limbs exhibiting protest were the feet when they ruthlessly kicked the floor.
Restraining the officer was necessary; the wrap of chloroform would take at least five minutes to take effect. Even with a full bottle, the sweet colourless liquid wouldn’t have an instantaneous knockout effect, the convulsing head and feet acknowledged this.
After what seemed an eternity of resilient resistance, the officer’s body started to show signs of going limp. The flapping feet ceased and the bagged head now bowed towards the floor.
Carefully untying the cloth, Frank lifted the head up slightly and put his hand under the chin. Every so often he felt a puff of air, gentle breathing being the vital sign of life.
Frank removed the cloth from the man’s face; a sweet odour of evaporating chloroform touched his nostrils. He reminded himself of the police car outside, the lights were not flashing. However, the physical appearance of that kind of vehicle in front of a domestic home would bring forth a swell of long nosed onlookers. But as the officer was responding to a reported ‘disturbance,’ although he had arrived on his own, if the man did not report in soon another squad car would be despatched.
Deciding on his next course of action, grabbing both the policeman’s limp arms, Frank dragged the unconscious man across the floor – some of the dust had already found a new home on the back of the uniform. The portable police equipment on the uniform scraped along the floor. Dragging the man to the bathroom Frank began to remove the apparel. The lid on the toilet was up and strands of hair rested loosely on its rim. Frank almost sat on the porcelain bath, but when he saw grey sand covering it he decided it best to stay on his feet.
Donning the officer’s uniform, he made an equipment check. Everything that he could think of was present and in its correct place. He detached the body camera and threw it into the bath with the unconscious officer. The only thing amiss was the police officer’s service weapon – then he spotted it a few feet ahead of the front door where it had been dropped.
Holding his clothes in one hand, he watched the sleeping officer. Without a uniform he looked ordinary, the dark stocked suit had commanded such high authority. Frank needed to decide what to do with him. Should he just leave him laying there, flat on the bathroom floor? The man had seen Frank’s face. He could give his colleagues a composite sketch of what
he looked like. He would be at the mercy of prying eyes wherever he went.
Frank still had the ragged cloth. When using chloroform there were risks attached to it. If a person ingested it for too long it would be fatal; an overdose.
Quieter than a gunshot, he considered.
He put the bundle of clothing down and retied the rag. The tightness much stronger than the previous application, plainly seeing the shape of the officer’s face indented through the cloth.
Frank walked outside to his car and opened the trunk and the compartment within it that stored the spare wheel. From under the fifth wheel he grabbed a garbage bag. Instead of unwanted refuge it contained his travel items.
Firmly pressing the trunk back down, he strode to the strategically parked LAPD vehicle positioned in front of the driveway. Frank pulled out the keys acquired from Officer Clayton’s uniform and opened the squad car’s door – the officer’s name identified by the name badge.
Across the street in an open doorway an onlooker, dressed in a flapping gown which was animated by the wind, peered at Frank. Using one hand he put the two fingers to his eye brow and hacked them outward; offering the prying eyes an undeserved salute by an ‘officer of the law.’
Leaving his vehicle behind Frank took the patrol car. No other cars with matched markings appeared, giving him more time to dispose of the vehicle. The police would send another squad car to the house. When they decided that the continued ‘no response’ from Officer Clayton’s car became unsettling another unit would be deployed. They will find an old modelled car with contradicting plates and a half naked corpse in the bathroom.
Abandoning the car was perhaps foolish but unavoidable, his DNA would be inside. They didn’t have his on file but now it will be documented – awaiting a future match. The fictional private investigator business cards were in the glove box also. All they had were the words; Frank Childs, the burner phone number and the address of a commercial building in Hollywood Boulevard.
He had left the officer’s gun at the house, for its serial number could be traced. The holster that came with the uniform now carried his firearm.
The disappearance of Shaun and the emergence of the police put a block on the progress of his other objectives. Both incidents highlighted another party’s involvement – someone had spoken – Malcolm Harris the logical explanation. But, could there be someone else who knew of his intentions. He had little data, so no safe conclusion could be drawn. No more freedom to acquire the information he needed. He had the passport in the black plastic bag and a gun in the holster.
Where next?
Chapter 45
Surrounded by curtains, their height reaching that of a maze hedge, told to wait, unable to look for an exit just yet. Lying in wait on a rough leather reclining bed, Lewelyn sat up uncomfortably, paying attention to the conversing voices outside. Analysing their discussions, working out when they would see him. The key words he picked out were ‘shoulder,’ ‘dislocation,’ ‘gentleman’ – he wanted something to look forward to and stop seeing the jagged blue curtains.
They had given him an opioid drug to lessen the pain. It did relieve the hacking, but not the boredom. A hospital wasn’t a very relaxing place to wait in. If you didn’t have anything to entertain yourself then all you could do was gaze at plain mundane featureless walls and turn your head whenever a moving nurse or doctor walked by. But shrouded by curtains, Lewelyn did not even have a painted wall to stare at, all he had for company were his thoughts.
His mind cast back to the lethal slaying of a police officer and the frustrating disappearance of a key witness. Forsythe gave him the basics on the murder. When responding officer James Clayton had not reported in units were dispatched to his last known location. They found inside the house Clayton’s service weapon and the officer‘s uniform-less body, with some kind of rag covering his face. Apparently the rag was soaked with chloroform. It had been purposely left on so Clayton would unknowingly continue ingesting the lethal liquid, resulting in a fatal poisoning. James Clayton’s patrol car was missing, but another car was found at the scene – it was being analysed at a feverish pace by the technicians.
Lewelyn, not at all surprised Shaun had fled, when potential incarceration was mentioned the double had seized up, fixated on the idea. When you think ‘prison,’ immediately after it the word ‘escape’ runs inside your head.
He kept checking to make sure there weren’t any holes in him. The four rounds in the door made him over-inquisitive. Why did Malcolm Harris need that gun? Was it a precaution, in case he had some unexpected guests – for instance him and Forsythe? Maybe it was for this elusive ‘Frank Childs’. Pretending to play ball, let him get rid of Shaun first, then when Childs got to Mulholland he’d ….
The thought process interrupted by the scraping of metal rings, the separation of the curtains opening just enough for somebody to enter. Someone who’s face Lewelyn could not see because they already turned their back to him in order to draw the curtains back together. The gap closed, sealing Lewelyn once more within his isolated environment.
‘How’s the shoulder, dummy?’ a woman with hair as black as tar asked.
You’ve got to be joking, was the first thought to come to Lewelyn.
Although a temporarily awe struck by her unexpected appearance, Lewelyn noted she was dressed in loose clothing, more suited for desert climates. The sun she lived under had clearly deepened her complexion. A half-moon birth mark patched over her eye and upper cheek.
He ventured, ‘I’m just going to ask the obvious question – what are you doing here?’
She had her hands behind her back and stayed rooted at the end of the bed.
‘You’re surprised to see me? In this modern age? You should know by now, dummy, that the world’s become a hamlet,’ the woman showed Lewelyn the screen of her phone. On it was a map of a section of Los Angeles and a marker with his phone number on it.
‘All right. But why, Sara? Why did you come all this way? It’s not like I got shot or anything.’
Sara gave a full smirk, seemingly enjoying the moment, ‘You got shot – at though. You’ve always been one for modesty and understatement haven’t you?’
Lewelyn really wanted to roll his eyes, but couldn’t alter the entertained smile he wore.
‘I’m not going to win this am I?’ Lewelyn paused. ‘Should I stop digging a bigger hole?’
Sara moved forward and sat on a chair close to Lewelyn, ‘Oh please carry on. I’d prefer it if you kept making excuses. I enjoy breaking them down.’
‘Does it hurt?’ Sara asked.
‘They’ve given me some drugs to numb it. That concern I hear?’ Lewelyn cheeked.
‘No. I just wanted to know whether I should cash in on the life insurance.’
Always had to have the last one-liner, Lewelyn thought. He was happy she didn’t notice the depreciating bruise on his other cheek – he wasn’t one for explanations right now.
Lewelyn gently flexed the fingers attached to his wounded arm and touched hers, ‘Thank you.’
Sara comforted them with her steady touch.
‘How’s your dad?’ Lewelyn wanting to make conversation.
‘The same. Still bitching about the political sections. Yours?’
‘No. Still getting the endless ringing.’
Sara was about to reply when the curtains opened once more. This time a man unknown to both with a heavy set chest opened and closed off the cordoned area.
‘Afternoon. Can I help you?’ the man enquired of Sara.
‘Oh don’t mind me. You see I’m this man’s secret lover and I want to make sure he’s comfortable.’
Don’t go red. Don’t go red. Don’t laugh, Lewelyn kept telling himself. He couldn’t see any colour arising in the man’s skin, but the mouth seemed to move at all angles.
‘This is my wife. I’m sorry you had t
o experience her open minded imagination,’ Lewelyn explained. He could see Sara kept her over joyful happiness to herself.
‘Ah right. Well that is fine. But unfortunately Mrs Lewelyn I must ask you to wait outside while I attend to your husband,’ choosing his words very carefully.
‘No problem. If you need help popping the joint back in I’m pretty good with a hammer and chisel,’ Sara, about to go outside, she changed her direction and walked to the side of Lewelyn’s bed. ‘Just in case I forget later.’ She bumped a fist into Lewelyn’s cheek, no force in it – he didn’t feel anything. ‘That’s for not calling me.’ She left the curtained world.
Just before the curtains closed Lewelyn saw the tablet in Sara’s hand, no surprise since she always seemed to have the digital book with her whenever he saw her. He couldn’t see the title, but clocked the initials of author’s name at the top of the screen: H.R.H.
Shaking his head with a crack smile, Sara’s one and only author; the reason she had her own dairy farm in Africa. Lewelyn didn’t read that often, when he did have time to read, which was usually on vacation, where he temporarily shut off, he’d always look online for a book written by M.C. Quill.
Lewelyn’s attendee did not take the chair, wishing to stay level with his patient.
‘Hello Mr Lewelyn. My name is Amit and I am here to look at your shoulder.’
Automatically Lewelyn replied, ‘Feel free.’
As if he forgot his meeting with Sara, Amit put the clipboard on the bed side. He said, ‘First remove your shirt. I need to see your shoulder.’
With infinite difficultly, Lewelyn struggled to remove his lightly blood stained shirt. Drawing the good arm out of the shirt’s sleeve, then his head, before gingerly sliding it gently off the injured shoulder Lewelyn sat, naked at the torso, with the exception of a single string of lace hanging from his neck. Around its bottom loop a golden wedding ring.
