Bloody Sunrise: An electrifying psychological thriller

by Gregg Bell

  It had all started at The Wild Bull. It had seemed a typical party night with the guys from the firehouse. Brig, as usual, was egging everyone on to up the pace of getting drunk, challenging guys to drinking contests, but yeah, it was all pretty typical. Until the tequila shots started.

  Denny knew from experience that every drunk was different. Beer was the most predictable and manageable, if there was such a thing when it came to drunkenness. Wine—well, nobody really drank it. That was for wine-tasting yuppies and winos. Then as far as hard stuff went whiskey was the way to go. Again, relatively predictable. You got into dangerous territory, though, like Brig said, when you drank vodka. Think about it—how crazy are Russians? And vodka is all they drink.

  But most dangerous of all on the scale of insane drunks is tequila. A hundred and ten proof, pure Mexican madness made from the blue agave plant deep in the Mexican mountains. You drink it at your own risk. There is no warning as to what may come. You may be going along nicely and then—pow!—you’re a drunken madman, smashing glasses against a wall, dropping your pants for the hell of it or getting on a plane to Tahiti. And not remembering a damn bit of it in the morning, wondering how you lost your wallet, got the black eye and the gash on your knee.

  The strange thing is how little alcohol—well, not little, but it usually took a whole lot more, including of tequila—Denny had in his system when he’d blacked out this last time. He remembered flirting with the waitress with the little ring in her nose at The Wild Bull. And she seemed to be digging it too. Yeah, Brig was doing his party-hardy routine but so, oddly enough, was Orson, Orson usually the designated driver of the bunch. Then Denny decided to go out to smoke the cigarette. He remembered Orson giving him a weird look as he left the bar. It was snowing. Only lightly, but he remembered seeing the snowflakes all lit-up like a diamond-white spray in the spotlight shining down on The Wild Bull sign. Almost like a psychedelic vision. And then that was it. The end. Finito. No more consciousness.

  Now he was supposed to somehow be able to remember what happened. Or so said Loftis. He exhaled, shook his head and strained to remember even the slightest additional thing, anything from that night. But there was absolutely nothing. No glimmer of a face, no faint sound or echo of a feeling. Just the fathomless void.

  The only hope were his friends. And yeah, he’d left The Wild Bull that night with Brig, but still he’d gone back in after smoking the cigarette. And during the interval between coming back in and leaving with Brig, Orson had been there. Orson, the reliable one. Denny finished his pop and dropped the cigarette into the empty can. But then the private investigator Aunt Elizabeth hired said Orson lied that he’d stayed at the bar after Denny and Brig left. And yeah, Orson had been the reliable one, the steady Eddie of the group. If he was lying, who knew if anybody was telling the truth?

  Denny figured he had to talk to him again. See if he might reveal even the tiniest aspect of what Denny had done or said that might trigger a more substantial remembrance. And then find out why he lied. Besides, Orson would be the only one up in the morning. Denny called and arranged to meet him at a local restaurant, the Fairway Pancake House.

  Denny took a quick shower and went down to his car. He noticed tar goo, from whatever the guys had used to replace the windshield, on the roof. He hoped the new windshield wouldn’t leak. But whatever. He drove to the restaurant. At least the streets were plowed and salted and traffic was moving along. The Fairway Pancake House was a decent joint. The owner, Lucille, welcomed cops and firemen. She bragged to customers that Fairway was the safest restaurant in the city. And now that Chicago was officially the murder capital of the country that was no meaningless claim.

  Yes, Orson had been acting crazy, lying about staying at The Wild Bull after Brig and Denny had left, accusing Brig of killing Rashida, hell, of wanting to take Brig out! Yeah, he’d been acting crazy all right. Now Denny would find out why.

  He cruised into the restaurant lot just as a van pulled out of a spot near the entrance. Denny waved the driver back so he could take the space and had another quick hopeful blast of feeling like things again might be falling into place.

  The restaurant had a line just inside the doors, people crowding in to stay out of the cold. The place was bright, half-globe lights showering the booths and tables with yellow glow. Waitresses hustling about, people talking, plates and cutlery clanking, the hum of the heating system. Denny saw Orson in a booth, waving to him, so he quit the line and headed over. He had to wait for a busboy to finish sweeping the carpet with one of those roller-sweepers, pitched his parka into the booth and slid in across from Orson. “Hey.”

  “Hey, Denny.”

  “What happened to your eye?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. It just gets all red when I get pink eye. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment after this. He’ll give me some antibiotic drops. So how are you doing?”

  Denny shrugged. “I’m okay too but I’m still trying to figure out what happened the night Rashida was killed.”

  Orson widened his eyes. “I told you what I overheard Tucker say.”

  “You know what...” Denny’s anger flashed and he found he was raising his voice and resolved to lower the volume. “...I’m sorry but you can’t keep talking that trash, Orson. Hey, because Tucker said something doesn’t mean it’s true. The guy is full of all kinds of hot air and besides, you might get Brig in trouble.”

  Orson had a self-satisfied look on his face. A waitress came to their table. They ordered.

  “All I told you, Denny, is what I heard.”

  “And what you heard may not be what happened.”

  “Well, Brig—”

  “Orson, what is up with you, all you can talk about is Brig Brig Brig.”

  “That’s because...” Orson shut up and his eyes seemed to be tracking something.

  “What?”

  “Don’t look now but here comes the Prince of Darkness.”

  Denny didn’t want to look but how could he not? He turned. Detective Washington and another cop-looking black guy were headed their way.

  Denny turned back to Orson. His head was spinning. He felt sure he was going to be arrested.

  Orson nodded to the cops. “Detectives.”

  Denny gawked at him. What the hell?!

  Washington stood at their table. “Guys.”

  Denny looked up at Washington and nodded, but he was determined not to say a word.

  “Any progress on the case?” Orson asked.

  Washington rubbed his chin. “We’ve got several strong leads.” He looked at Denny as if to say, No thanks to you. “I expect we’ll be making an arrest very soon.”

  “Well, that’s cool.” Orson again.

  “Did you have any other information, anything else you could tell us?” Washington asked, supposedly to Orson but the question hung out there for Denny as well.

  Orson pressed his lips together. “Can’t think of anything.” He looked at Denny. “You?”

  Denny frowned and shook his head.

  “Well.” Washington removed his overcoat and held it over his arm. “It’s nice that one of you is helping anyway. There’s a vicious killer out there and I’d like to think that anybody with half a conscience would help in any way they can.”

  “You have my complete support, Detective.” Orson smiled.

  “Yeah.” Washington turned to Denny. “It would be nice to have everyone’s.”

  Denny smiled, but not mockingly. Washington wasn’t going to goad him into responding.

  “But sometimes people don’t help,” Washington continued, leaning in toward Denny and glaring. “Because they have something to hide.”

  Denny bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something.

  The waitress returned with their order.

  Washington stepped aside but only slowly. “All right,” he said, putting his hand out to Orson. “I’ll let you enjoy your breakfast.”

  Orson shook his hand. “Have a good one.”

 
; Denny wondered if Washington would cut him. Washington stood over him, staring. Finally he put out his hand. “Dennis.”

  Denny reached to shake and when he did, his sleeve shrank up his forearm, revealing the scratches.

  The two men shook hands but Washington held Denny’s hand and took his time looking over the scratches. Finally he released his hand with a knowing nod.

  Denny watched Washington walk off with his partner. Surely, he was hosed now. In fact, he was surprised he wasn’t arrested on the spot.

  And what about Orson? Brown nosing Washington like he did? What was up with that? And how did Orson know Washington’s nickname? Hell, absolutely everything was making no sense. Denny’s jaw clenched. “Orson.”

  Orson picked up a bacon strip. “Yeah?”

  Denny saw that Washington and his partner were at the far end of the restaurant. “What in the hell was that all about?”

  Orson put the bacon down. “What do you mean?”

  “You were talking to Washington like he was an old friend!”

  Orson shrugged. “He’s a cop, Denny. I was just trying to help him out.”

  “How did you know his nickname?”

  “What?”

  “How did you know Washington’s nickname is the Prince of Darkness?”

  “I don’t know, I must’ve heard it somewhere.”

  “Where?” Denny grabbed the edge of the table.

  “I don’t know. Lighten up, will you? Probably somebody at the firehouse told me. Why, what’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is there are lives on the line and you’ve been acting like a loose cannon.”

  “I’ve just been trying to do the right thing.”

  “In a very strange way.”

  “How, strange?”

  “Like being on a crusade to convince people Brig killed Rashida.”

  Orson rested his forearms on the table, looked Denny in the eye and said softly, “I think he did.”

  “There you go again. I’m telling you, man, you need to stop that nonsense.”

  “But I think he did.”

  “Hey, I think the Bears stink but I’m not on a mission to convince the world.”

  Orson frowned and sipped his coffee.

  Denny came back at him. “Let me ask you this—did you tell the cops Brig did it?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You’re the only one I told.”

  “And accusing Brig at the firehouse in front of Powell doesn’t count?”

  “Okay, so you, Brig and Powell.”

  “I don’t know, I’m beginning to feel like I don’t even know you anymore.” Denny blew out a long exhalation, looked at the ceiling, then back at Orson. “So why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “Because who knows if they’ll be able to nail him?”

  “But why not try?”

  Orson shrugged. “Because I think we should handle it ourselves.”

  Oh, here we go again, Denny thought. Orson’s vigilante justice. Denny stared at him. There was no reaching this guy anymore. He looked around. “You want to off Brig?”

  “Whatever you decide, Denny.”

  “Oh, okay, tell you what, Orson, I’ve decided, and I’ve decided that you are out of your fricking mind.”

  Washington and his partner were walking by. Washington locked eyes with Denny and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Denny wanted to tell Washington to go to hell but he managed to restrain himself. Still he could feel his body trembling and his heart skip a beat.

  * * *

  From the restaurant Denny drove straight to Aunt Elizabeth’s. She was busy. No surprise there. Pretty Gabriela was attired nicely in a peach sweater, buttoned only at the top, subtly highlighting her lovely breasts. God, what a pleasurable diversion she was after what he’d just been through with Washington and Orson at the restaurant.

  Denny smiled at the secretary. “And so how are you?” Such pretty brown eyes, long lashes.

  “I’m good.” She smiled back, but only appropriately.

  Gabriela was quickly falling into the slot of being one of those confusing women who were impossible to read. The question being: Did her being nice to him mean something or was it meaningless because she was nice to everyone? Yes, he was going out with Summer, but there was nothing wrong with talking to a pretty woman, was there? “And so, you’re really busy?”

  She nodded. “Always.”

  “Yeah, I suppose that would be the case working for Aunt Elizabeth.”

  A slightly forced smile. “She should be done with her call soon.” As in, Quit hitting on me. You have zero chance.

  Still he couldn’t let it go. He was captive to her beauty.

  The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

  “You’re not going to answer?”

  Gabriela shook her head. Denny loved the way her hair swung about her face, so feminine, so sexy. The answering machine kicked in and someone with an extremely heavy foreign accent left a message.

  Denny laughed. “I have no idea what that person just said.”

  Gabriela laughed too. “He wanted to know if we’d received his survey for a real estate sell he has coming up.”

  Denny leaned on her desk. “That’s amazing. You must have super-sensitive hearing.”

  She shrugged. “Not really. You just get used to it.”

  “I don’t know about that—I think you have super powers.”

  “Well.” She looked at him. “It helps to pay attention, to be mindful.”

  “Ah, you sound like a meditator.”

  “Every morning.” She brightened.

  “Me too.” Denny pushed off her desk. He’d never meditated a day in his life but knew a little bit about it because his mother did.

  “Really?”

  Denny, imitating his mother, brought his hands together prayerfully and bowed to her. “Namaste.”

  She laughed and reciprocated the gesture. “Namaste.”

  “Hey,” he said, glancing at Aunt Elizabeth, “before she calls me over, do you have a scrap of paper and a pen I can borrow?”

  An ambulance went by on the street outside, siren wailing, as Gabriela handed him a yellow Post-it and a pen.

  He tore the paper in half, wrote his number on one half and set both halves and the pen on the desk. He smiled at her. “If you ever want to go to a group meditation together.”

  She looked at him for quite a while. Then she grinned, picked up the pen, jotted her number on the blank scrap and slid it to him just as Aunt Elizabeth came walking up. Denny stuffed the scrap into his pocket.

  “Hi, Aunt Elizabeth. Any chance I could ask a few questions?”

  Aunt Elizabeth didn’t look happy. After frowning pointedly, she motioned for him to follow her.

  He had Gabriela’s number. He was so excited. So he’d never meditated. He could learn. All they really did was sit there with their eyes closed anyway, right? He took off his coat and, smiling, sat on one side of Aunt Elizabeth’s cluttered desk. But as he took in the grave expression on her face his elation quickly tempered. Now Denny frowned—and Aunt Elizabeth didn’t know the half of it. Detective Washington had seen the scratches on his arms.

  She gunned him rapid-fire questions. “Did you find out what was up with your friend Orson? Why he lied? What he did after he left The Wild Bull?”

  Denny shook his head. Those were the things he’d meant to find out at the pancake house but it hadn’t worked out that way. “I tried—”

  “You tried?” A look of intense disapproval flashed onto her face.

  “Well, things came up.”

  “Dennis.” A long pause. “You do realize the seriousness of the situation you’re in, don’t you? You do realize that your life is on the line?”

  No, after getting Gabriela’s number, maybe he didn’t, but it was coming back to him rapidly. “Yes.”

  “And yet you’ve done nothing to help yourself.”

  “I told you something came up.”


  “Something came up,” she echoed.

  Denny raised his hands over his head, revealing the scratches. “Detective Washington saw them.”

  “What?!” She cringed. “I told you not to talk to the police at all unless I was present.”

  “I didn’t talk to him.”

  She shrugged. “You just showed him the scratches?”

  He explained how it happened.

  She sighed.

  “I know.”

  “Dennis, the fact of the matter is more people go to jail for being stupid, than for committing crimes.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know who Martha Stewart is?”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  “She’s a TV personality. Incredibly popular. Well, a while back she was accused of insider stock trading. She was charged, found guilty and went to prison. But she didn’t go to prison for insider stock trading—the case against her was weak. Know what she went for?”

  Denny shook his head.

  “For lying to the FBI.”

  “Okay.”

  “So what that means is you need to be hyper-vigilant that anything you say—anything at all—to the police will be used against you. If they catch you giving conflicting statements, it means nothing but trouble for you, serious trouble. Dennis, for a lot of cops, it’s not a question of finding the truth or solving the crime. It’s about getting convictions.”

  “So, the detective seeing the scratches—I’m basically screwed?”

  “Oh.” She took a long breath and straightened a figurine of an angel on her desk. “I wouldn’t necessarily say ‘screwed.’”

  “But he saw the scratches. Clearly. And I’ve seen enough TV crime shows to realize Rashida probably had the murderer’s DNA under her fingernails because she fought him off.”

  “But that guy wasn’t you.” She burrowed a look into him. “Right?”

  Again, he felt like she thought he was guilty. It was grinding him down. “Right. But what does it mean to me? I mean, at the restaurant I was half expecting Washington to arrest me.”

  “And he might’ve.”

  “So why didn’t he?”

  “Well.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Perhaps he wanted to be extra careful and get a search warrant before he does.”