Chapter 5
The elder Dugan intermittently let out an erratic series of grunts, an acknowledgment that the stitches in his side were still fresh. Driblets of blood made their way past the bandage and added to the stain on the otherwise white hospital gown. As the three of them continued down the gray stairwell of concrete and metal railing, their hastened footsteps echoing off the walls, Benny struggled to fasten the top of his pants on the run. Once accomplished, with his brother's help he managed to get the jacket on just as they reached the main floor. With a push on the door, it opened into an empty hallway.
The light of day came through the glass door just a few yards away. The lettering under the metal bar at its center said something to the effect that the door is alarmed and could only be used in an emergency. Naturally, no member of the trio took notice of this detail. Even if someone had taken the time to read the warning, the momentum of the moment left little room for a change of consensus.
Abernathy went first, followed by Benny's younger brother. The sound of the alarm did freeze the elder Dugan for a just second, as if reminded of consequences for some past transgression come back to haunt him.
The rest of the party had reached the far end of the building when a lack of footsteps caused Marion to turn back. They were near the service entrance, his brother grimacing five yards back as he tried to catch up. An alcove within the wall caught Abernathy's eye. He went to peer inside the opening. When he turned back, Benny had caught up with them. Abernathy smiled at the two of them. Marion caught the message before Benny.
“Wait in here while I get the van.” Marion ran off while leaving Abernathy to escort his brother into the closed off area at the rear of the building.
Benny wrinkled his nose as he sniffed the air. The aroma of the dumpster held none of the antiseptic qualities that the building's interior possessed. Abernathy just shrugged and said “You get used to it after a while.”
There was something strikingly therapeutic about riding away in the van, even if it did clearly state 'City Morgue' in big black letters on each side. Somehow, Benny thought it would smell of death, but no odors lingered from past occupants. Thankfully, there also wasn't the smell of alcohol or antiseptics or any of the other odors associated with the medical arts. Perhaps that's why it smelled of freedom. Hospitals, even doctor offices, gave Benny the creeps. Their tell-tale smells were only to veil the underlying lurid things that took place behind closed doors. And today, all he remembered was collapsing in the bus terminal restroom only to wake up in a strange white room. He had been naked except for a hospital gown and a tube falling from a hanging bag as a mysterious potion was being injected into the vein of his arm. Perhaps those circumstances were a far cry better than dead, but still waking up in those surroundings was unsettling to say the least. But now in the van, with at least his own pants back on, he smelled no discerning odors and there was something reassuring about that.
Benny sat up front in the passenger seat while Simon Abernathy rested comfortably in the back. Unlike Benny, Abernathy, riding on top of the gurney, seemed to find an elevated sense of comfort, spiritually speaking. The smile on his face gave clear indication that he also took solace in the comforts not afforded to him these last few months back in his cardboard box.
For Benny Dugan, the day's events had begun at warp speed, right up until falling into the rabbit hole that altered the exit out of his dead-end life and into something more like the twilight zone. Suddenly it was late Saturday afternoon. The bank had closed for the weekend. Even in his original plan, Benny hadn't counted on leaving the city with the cash anyway. If anything went wrong, he wanted the money safely tucked away. Of course, he hadn't planned on leaving with his current entourage either.
The original plan was simple enough. Get on the bus. Take it to the rest stop. Disappear in the blaze of an explosion. Then hike to the next town. There he would take a cab and disappear from the DelGatti radar. Or at least fly underneath it making it back to the hotel by the bank and wait while his faked death made the news. On Monday morning, he'd call Marion, have him meet him, and together they would ride off into the sunset.
That was the plan before embarking on an alternate fate starting with discovering Marion's shocking secret. Now, Benny's confidence was a little shaky, but his entourage saw a silver lining to his unraveling scheme.
Abernathy had turned over the key once they had a deal. He would triple their money. Guaranteed. It was nothing short of fate as the opportunity of a lifetime waited for him by the end of trading on Monday. Here was a sure sign from the gods of coincidence and destiny. They had delivered unto him a key hidden in a shoe as the answer to his prayers. And if those same gods instead delivered him unto yet another cruel punchline in the game of life, then at least it wasn't his money to begin with. But he wasn't a cheat.
The Dugans accepted the gamble for their own reasons. Benny wanted Marion's dark secret kept buried, especially since DelGatti now had all the leverage he needed to hinder Dugan's plan of making off with his money. Simple blackmail involving implications in a gruesome murder. That surely was what he must be planning.
Without going into details, Marion pleaded with his brother that he was no murderer but he knew who was. He told Benny not to worry. He would fix it. But why trust the gods of fate to act on their behalf when all they needed was for Abernathy to kept his mouth shut? Then no one could prove that either Dugan ever had the contents of the red hat box in their possession. Marion, on the other hand, wanted something else from Abernathy.
Come Monday, they would all go to the bank. The Wiz would set up the buy when the market opened. By lunch, there would be enough money for all of them. Until then, it was back to the hotel down the street from the bank, and quietly wait.
The clerk behind the counter looked puzzled for a moment. Dugan's face was all too familiar from their last encounter, but something else nagged at him. It was like the man experienced a deja vu of some sort and he was trying to process it, but couldn't for the life of him figure out the connection. Didn't he hear the name in some other context today? Something he heard on TV? It just wasn't registering. The TV is always on in the back room. Probably just his mind playing tricks on him. Regardless, there was something odd about this particular guest's return.
“Back so soon, Mr. Dugan?” The clerk tried to keep up appearances that he actually was glad to have him back. Besides, he did pay in advance and with cash. Not a bad tipper either. However since his last stay, which strange in itself had only ended a few hours ago, Benny's appearance had become slightly less noble. More than slightly perhaps. One had to wonder how a man goes from properly dressed, albeit in a less refined set of threads, to sporting an outfit of an open back white gown, complete with suspicious red stains, haphazardly stuffed into his trousers. The clerk also kept a wary eye on Benny's two companions as he completed the process of issuing a room, as if waiting for the pilfering to begin even before granting access to unlimited towels and little bars of soap.
Benny just tried smiling at the man, even if that smile was only something that hovered on top of an underlying grimace. He fought back the pain where the hole in his side had been the intended recipient of the medication which no longer flowed into his arm. In hindsight, leaving the drugs behind during their escape was something he wished he had thought through. The doctor said the wound wasn't as serious as it could have been. He'd definitely survive. He just needed rest. That's what he wanted now. Painless rest.
Marion read through his brother's expressions when he struggled to remove his pants and lie down on one of the two double beds the room offered.
“Simon, I noticed a liquor store around the corner.” Marion pulled out his wallet and handed him a twenty. Turning to his brother Marion asked “What kind of booze do you like these days, Benny?”
The look he gave in return said pretty much everything that needed to be said, but he mustered enough strength to tell him “Whatever's the strongest.”
“You heard the man, Simon. Go get something for him, please.”
Abernathy held the twenty dollar bill in his hands. He didn't react much at first, except to look down at the currency. It had been a while since he held a bill greater than a one or the occasional five that the rare person would offer to him, most likely more for their own spiritual salvation than for any intended benevolence to the recipient. Perhaps it was a weakened self-esteem that fueled a heat he felt across his backside, the source of which surely must be two sets of eyes staring at him in judgment to the wisdom of placing such trust. When he looked up from his hands and into those eyes, all they seemed to say was 'Well, what are you waiting for?'
“Maybe pickup a few fresh bandages as well” added Marion as he handed Abernathy a second twenty. Whispering now, he said “Just help him with whatever he needs, then let him rest. But keep an eye on him. I need to go out for a while. If there's any trouble, call me.”
“So, where are you going?” Abernathy wanted to know. “And when will you be back?” There was a lot more at stake than forty dollars and the last thing he wanted was Benny dying on his shift.
“I've got to go in to work” Marion told him. “Clean up a few details.”
Then, as if suddenly reminded of a nearly overlooked detail, Marion pulled a small package from out of his pocket. He tore it open and told Abernathy to hold still. Something resembling a hairy worm was in Marion's fingers as he reached for his unwitting accomplice's face. Abernathy pulled back.
“Trust me” Marion calmly said and held the item, and its identifying package, out for inspection.
“What's this for?” Abernathy demanded.
“Just humor me a second.” Marion applied the fake mustache, then pulled out his camera. He snapped off a few head shots and re-pocketed the camera. “I'll explain later, but when I get back, I have a little favor I'll need you to do for me.”
Around six in the evening was the time when the daily clatter and shuffling of feet, gurneys and file cabinets slowed to a din. Most other remaining activities by those who continued to occupy the morgue's labyrinth of corridors were virtually benign. This was no less true on a weekend night, although as the hours wore on into the evening, on occasion the serenity would become interrupted by what lurked in the darker side of life, and the death it brought through those doors.
Six o'clock was also the time that Marion normally began his shift. It looked like this would be his last. The dark halls and quiet of the night, his companions for the evening tucked away in their refrigerated beds, offered all he needed to balance the otherwise life of solitude he came to prefer. Something in the realm of the macabre for anyone else had seemed like his heaven more than a hell. But beginning with that fateful night a few weeks ago, an inner turmoil of confusion stirred, leaving Marion a little unsettled. The loner wondered if he had allowed his psyche to be clouded by his own dark side that twisted the line between good and bad, right and wrong, not to mention morality versus whatever might be construed as otherwise.
The night in the park across from the Temptation began as any other normal night, at least as normal for anyone who hides in a morgue van to spy on a prostitute, a fantasy love affair that existed only by the bounds of distance. What came next was the equivalent of his bubble of a world having been grabbed and shaken by the violent arm of life he had so intently avoided. When the dust settled, what was up became down and all rules of civilization collided with a sudden burst of passion that cared not of logic. She was gone. But did she have to be? No, came the answer. No, not for him. And after all, he didn't kill her. That was when he ran back to the van only to return a moment later with everything he needed to save Angel from disappearing out of his world. He would never have to be deprived of gazing upon the face of the one he loved. Better yet, he would be able to stare into her mesmerizing eyes without the aid of binoculars The body, on the other hand, would've been just too much to hide.
What he didn't count on was how hard it would be to deal with the internal struggle that came the next day, knowing full well her killer was right there in the next room with the other cop while they all anticipated the arrival of his brother Benny. He had already taken DNA samples, processed them and the results waited in the official file. But until they had a suspect to compare against, the results pointed to no one. He should have done the right thing that morning, but the associated guilt of what he had done kept him silent.
That was then. Now Angel was being taken from him again. Damn the morality. He was nothing short of steaming mad. Tonight, a wrong would be righted. Make that two wrongs.
“Yo, Dugan” came a familiar voice.
“Hello, Franklin. Isn't it time for you to go home?”
Joe Franklin worked in the office. He normally left before six, but tonight he had been delayed while searching the daily records.
“I'm on my way out,” Franklin said, “but I'm glad you're here.” He gave a hard look of concern when he explained. “Look, Marion. I received a phone call from a Red DelGatti a little earlier. He was requesting a death certificate for a Benny Dugan. Is that a relative of yours?”
“Yeah” Marion said as calmly as he could. Cool as a cucumber as if brothers die every day. “My long lost brother.”
Franklin didn't understand how a brother could be so unfeeling, but then again he already knew Marion Dugan for the odd duck that he was. “Oh. I didn't know you had a brother.”
Marion just smiled, hoping the man would just go away, but then Franklin told him the rest.
“The thing is, the story this DelGatti gave about an explosion and DNA identifying the body doesn't seem to be in our records. What do you know about it?”
“Yeah, I know about it” Marion was quick to admit, and the rest just came easy. “As soon as I found out, I told them I wanted to handle it. I have the tests results and plan to finish the paperwork tonight.”
“Oh. OK then.” Franklin stared in awe at the numbness which Marion exhibited while divulging his knowledge. To Marion, the words sounded like a plausible explanation, however strange the circumstances of a sibling's death may have appeared to his co-worker. Shaking his head, Franklin turned and pushed the door open. “See ya, Dugan.”
With Franklin gone, Marion let his brain go over this new lot of information. It came together quickly. Yes. This could work to his advantage. Originally, he had concocted a role for his new friend Abernathy to play. He needed the picture to create the fake ID. Name: Danny Simpson. CSI and Morgue Special Agent, Disease Control Division. 'Sorry, Mr. DelGatti, but we have information that in your possession is a certain body part we desperately need back. It carries a highly contagious and deadly disease.' Or something like that. He had been still working on the details. But now, the details of his little scam were quite clear.
First, he would create the file, including copies of his dear departed brother's death certificate. Second, there was the matter of another file, the one of an open murder investigation. It already contained the DNA test already having been run with a sample from the corpse’s body. They just needed a suspect and his DNA to be proven a match. Marion also ran a second test with a discarded item of Brogan's. He would write an anonymous letter, one instructing just from whom to collect a DNA sample, one that was guaranteed to be a perfect match, then make sure the document fell into the right hands come morning. Brogan would be defenseless by his own costly mistake. Even though he was assigned to the case, he had let his partner Harriman investigate the crime scene. Brogan wouldn't be able to add speculation that he contaminated the crime scene if he hadn't been there. At least not after the fact.
And then there was the last order of business to conduct, one which utilized Marion's computer talents which he had parlayed into a little hobby exercised from time to time, just for fun. However tonight, they served a higher purpose : create Abernathy's fake badge and Benny's new identity. Nate Mason, formally known as Nate “Scruffy” Mason wouldn't be needing it anymore.
Nurse Megan Call
ahan was a woman who had been at her job at City General Hospital for twenty years. She, along with most of the others assigned to the ward, had grown comfortable in the mundane rigors of her duties that moved at a pace commensurate with the non-life threatening wounds she attended. With as much grace as could be accomplished under the pressure put upon her, her fingers ran across the keyboard moving from one screen to the next in a frantic search for information, any information that she could use to defuse the detective's near abusive demands for an answer. “There doesn't seem to be any record of his release” she finally had to admit to Brogan.
“How can this be? How easy is it for a patient to just walk out of here without anyone noticing?”
Brogan towered over her as Nurse Callahan, all of five foot two with a disproportionate girth, cowered behind the computer monitor, hunched down in her chair, as if the added distance such a posture afforded would help protect her. There wasn't much else to say. She looked up to him and admitted sheepishly, “It happens.”
Unbelievable, that's what Brogan thought. The scene proved to be only the first in a series of stops that day to mount his frustration to increasingly greater heights.
The next stop was back to the bus terminal. The woman behind the counter, with no less ability to navigate the system than the nurse back at the hospital, but with a demeanor considerably more attuned to dealing with the likes of Brogan, informed the detective that, yes, a Benny Dugan did have a reservation on route 1202 that morning. And yes, it was scheduled to stop at the scenic turnout. “That was pretty awful wasn't it detective? At least the bus had pulled away before Dugan got blown to bits.” She just shook her head, relaying her dismay at the details of just another tragic story that had made it on the news, as if it didn't mean anything more to her than any story of a massive bus accident in the rural mountains of Peru.
“But was he on the bus?” That's what Brogan wanted to know.
“I guess so. They were able to identify him weren't they?”
“That's the story, but don't you people account for your passengers, some check in procedure, ticket collection or something?”
“Yeah, I would think so.” she said. The look on her face said she was a little unsure as if the question ever arose before. After punching the keyboard again, she added “Huh. I guess they don't computerize those records. After all, no one has ever hijacked one of our buses before. She checked the system one more time. “Nope, no record of that either.”
Unbelievable. He was getting nowhere. Maybe he should have another chat with the bum, he thought. Maybe Abernathy saw or heard something else during his encounters with Dugan.
When he reached the now abandoned habitat, formerly the home of Simon “the Wiz” Abernathy, his neighbors, having already claimed the salvageable items left behind, informed the cop that their friend had apparently, with all the strange goings on as of late, moved on to greener pastures. Considering the state of the neighborhood, he didn't question the logic of a move of venue.
Brogan was now desperate. He drove to the Temptation Hotel knowing full well Dugan wouldn't be there, but maybe, just maybe somebody knew something. Only what he found when he got there was not the same brothel he was used to. Usually a place with an upbeat attitude, even if acted out for its patrons, on this day a dark and somber atmosphere pervaded as the girls grieved at the news of their pimp's demise. No one had seen him since leaving for the special party the night before. The girls that had accompanied him last night told Brogan they had returned only after the Hogan brothers realized Dugan was missing. This was one little detail that DelGatti had failed to mention. Why was Dugan on the run from DelGatti? It wasn't about Angel. It was something else. Too many unanswered questions kept clouding his head.
“So, where have you been?”
Benny ended up lying down on a sofa in the front room of their two room hotel suite. The light was off while he attempted to get some undisturbed rest. A bed in the next room held a sprawling Simon Abernathy.
The man who still liked to be called the Wiz had made himself comfortable by lying next to the one he was charged with looking after while Marion took care of business. The Wiz had commandeered the TV and settled on a Saturday evening low budget B-movie. After an hour, his composed posture crept steadily into a free-form stretch of arms and legs until he came to resemble some abstract live performance art, complete with musical score emanating from deep within his throat and nasal passages as he slept.
Benny couldn't take Abernathy anymore. Luckily the little hole in his side steadily continued to heal and movement became less painful. He had made his way into the front room where he must have managed to fall asleep on the sofa even without straining to pull out the hide-a-bed. When Marion returned around ten o'clock, the light that abruptly rushed into the room from the hotel hallway, along with his brother's unveiled footsteps, broke the dream where Benny stood on top of a dumpster, a huddle of hobos surrounding the perimeter. Had the dream reached its conclusion, he would have suddenly remembered the backpack just before disappearing in an explosion.
“I had to take care of a few things before morning” Marion replied to his brother's inquiry as to his disappearance over the last few hours.
“You went to work?”
“Yes” he said matter-of-factly. “And no.”
Benny gave his brother the same look that he had offered a number of times through the years, the look that comes with the lack of understanding of his brother's mysterious ways.
“Here” Marion said as he handed his brother a manilla envelope.
“What's this?”
“It's the new you.”
Benny removed the contents by allowing them to spread across the vacant half of the sofa. As he spread out the pile, his new persona came into view. A driver's license, Social Security card, and other forms of ID. Benny's picture appeared in all the appropriate places but the name on all the documents was not his own. At least, it hadn't been until now.
Abernathy woke from his slumber, no doubt filled with his own set of dreams. However his, unlike Benny's which were filled with metaphor of anxiety and fear, most likely placed him in a world of long neglected bliss. The third member of their newly formed gang appeared in the doorway.
“Just what is all this?” Benny still wanted to know.
“You're dead, remember” his brother reminded him. “This is the new you.”
“What's going on?” Abernathy piped in, still groggy from sleep.
“Here, Simon.” Marion tossed him another envelope. “I have something for you too.”
Benny held the driver's license in his hand and examined the information. “Nathaniel Mason” he read aloud, although quietly and mostly to himself.
Abernathy took out an ID card with his picture that Marion had taken earlier. The card identified him as Danny Simpson, CSI Agent. The fake ID was confusing to him. What did Marion have up his sleeve?
Abernathy's attention abruptly shifted back across the room. The question took a backseat to another when after a momentary delay, the name, uttered under Benny Dugan's breath as he held the new driver's license, made the final journey from Abernathy's ears to his brain.
“Nathaniel Mason?” There was a sense of shock as well as concern in his voice. “Nate Mason, as in Nate “Scruffy” Mason?”
“Why?” Marion calmly asked, but maybe a little worried now that he picked the wrong guy. “Do you know him?”
“Yeah. He lived at the bus station, that is until a few days ago when he wandered off and never came back.”
“I'm afraid your friend was found this afternoon. Looks like a heart attack. They did a search on Mason based on the ID he had on him, but there was no known address. The morgue figured he was homeless from his appearance. I took the liberty of expediting the matter. I faked a signature of a relative and filled out a release for the disposal of the body. As far as his identity, I didn't think he would be needing it anymore.”
Abernathy, resigned that Marion's ac
tions were of no consequence considering what he knew of Scruffy, turned back to the ID in his hand. “And what's with this?”
“That concerns the little favor I said I would need you to do for me as part of our deal.”
“So, you had a busy evening, I see?” Benny said.
“Yeah. I also took care of Angel's murder investigation. It won't be unsolved very much longer. I never told you, but I was there that night. I saw Detective Brogan kill her.”
“Brogan? But I thought... that is you had her, uh, you know, head.”
“Yeah. That's a little longer story, but not to worry. Brogan's DNA was on her body, and come morning, that bit of information will be in the right hands.”
“Well, that will make DelGatti happy. Brogan has been extorting money from him for years.”
Interesting, Marion thought. Every little bit helps.
Brogan awoke Sunday morning to a slight headache. He climbed out of bed feeling like one of the walking dead. The portrait in the mirror did nothing to alter how he felt. The view served only to confirm it. Sleep had not come without its perils. His mind had not been able to close the door on the world that seemed to spin out of his control, a strange feeling for a man who thought he held the world, at least his corner of it, firmly by the balls. Now it seems that DelGatti was the one putting on the squeeze. That was bad enough, but morning had not managed to clear his head of the nagging questions that came with DelGatti's demands.
At this point he felt nothing would be better than to find Dugan lying dead somewhere. That would at least tie his problems up in a neat package that he could deliver. Then he could collect another package with the sole intent of making it disappear. Feeling the pressure, a sense that fate would somehow play in his favor didn't offer a promising vibe. Maybe that was why the obvious alluded him until now.
The news said the authorities had DNA evidence from the explosion. When he remembered this little nugget of information, he called the morgue. After a few minutes on hold, the person on the phone told him that the evidence had been processed and he should come down to the morgue. His partner Harriman was already on the way.
Leave it to Harriman. Too good of a cop for his own good. Now he needed to hurry downtown. Brogan cupped his hands together and splashed cold water on his face. The griminess was still there, only now, having washed away the film over his eyes that the devils of night leave behind, the shadow of death within those eyes showed through ever brighter.
The van came to a stop just down from the gate to the DelGatti compound. The street saw little traffic except for those who lived in the nearby lofty residences adjoining the gangster's property. It was a neighborhood where everyone learned to mind their own business, even when a white van with 'City Morgue' in big black letters painted on the side pulled up and parked in their midst. The driver crouched down low and stayed behind the wheel. The passenger side door opened, and a man in a cap got out carrying a legal sized envelope. He ran his finger across his lips, feeling the unaccustomed fur for one last check that it was firmly in place. Then he walked over to the gate and pressed the button on the call box. There was only a brief delay before his presence was acknowledged.
“Yeah. Who is it?”
“Danny Simpson. I'm with CSI and have what you requested from the morgue. Benny Dugan's death certificate.”
Well, that's some kind of service, DelGatti thought, though the strangeness of such an accommodation from a government service did not go unquestioned. Still, he pushed the button on his computer and the gate buzzed open.
Sammy Hogan escorted the visitor towards Red DelGatti's office. Abernathy was playing his part pretty well, even as nervous as he was. The thug however was the one man he hoped would be conveniently absent. There would be too much explaining if DelGatti's goon recognized him. So he walked confidently, just thinking of Superman. He tried to look calm and smiled as Hogan turned to gaze over his shoulder a few times while leading the visitor down the hall. Sammy Hogan looked quizzically at him, then finally asked “Have we met?”
Uh, oh. Did he recognize him? Stay cool, Abernathy told himself. “Maybe. You ever been to the morgue?”
“Yeah. A few times.”
“That's probably it then.”
Hogan seemed satisfied. Abernathy felt relief and no small amount of awe in the effectiveness of such a little disguise. A fake mustache and a cap. Hell, why not. Superman did it with only a pair of glasses.
“Does every request for a death certificate come with delivery service?” DelGatti asked after checking the man's credentials. “Besides, it seems like an odd job for a Crime Scene Investigator to carry out.”
“I'm here as a favor for the morgue boys. They asked me to drop it off since I was coming anyway.”
“Oh? For what other purpose could you possibly need to see me?”
“It's come to our attention that you have a missing piece, as it were, of evidence we need to convict a Detective Brogan on murder charges.”
“Yeah?” DelGatti gave a disdainful look to Sammy Hogan, the one who had, obviously none too discreetly, brought the box to him in the first place. “How do you know this?”
“We've had surveillance on Brogan. We know he is a dirty cop and has been extorting you. If you could give us the box, we can promise Brogan won't be bothering you again.”
DelGatti thought it over. If Dugan was dead, he didn't want the damn box anyway, or more specifically, what was inside. Getting Brogan off his back would be an unexpected benefit.
Five minutes later, Simon Abernathy was back in the van. He removed the itchy disguise along with all the tension his body kept pent up while he gave the performance of his life.
“ I think maybe I've been missing my true calling.” Abernathy said while Marion Dugan looked questionably at his sidekick. “Pacino doesn't have anything on me.”
As they drove away, Marion's face betrayed him as he let seep out a wave of emotion rarely offered in public. He was a happy man. A happy, happy derelict of a man. And it had nothing to do with the thespian arts.
About the same time:
Brogan met up with a waiting Harriman in the outer office of the morgue, just inside the double swinging doors, the same place where the two of them had last waited for Benny Dugan to arrive and identify the body.
“So, what's the story, partner?”
Harriman didn't get up from where he sat on the far side of the desk. He didn't say a word. He took the report in the black folder that rested by his side and tossed it to the other end of the desk so as to lure the man closer. Brogan took the bait, picked up the folder and perused through the information neatly displayed within two sheets of paper. He went from one page to the next and back again. Brogan was stunned by what he saw, so much so that he didn't notice the glint of metal in one of Harriman's hands. Not until it was too late to react did he feel his wrist being firmly grabbed by his now ex-partner.
“Clarence Brogan, you are under arrest for the murder of Angel Donovan. You have the right to remain silent....”
“Hold it, Harriman. Where'd you get this?”
“The tests have been validated, Brogan. There is no doubt. The DNA from hair samples they took from the body at the scene match yours. And you, supposedly, weren't at the scene. At least not for the investigation.”
“How do you know it's mine? I never submitted a sample.” Brogan was flipping back and forth between the two pages, frantically searching for a loophole. When he looked back to what used to be his partner, he had his answer to the question. Harriman held up a small specimen bag, dated and identified with Brogan's name on it. Through the clear plastic, plainly seen was a lone toothpick, like many that Brogan had left behind in his wake.
Brogan's brain sped through a myriad of thoughts and decided what he had to do. What was once something he feared could come back to haunt him, now was his one card left to play. “There's something that you don't know. Benny Dugan was seen trying to dispose of the girl's head that has been missing
. It was just yesterday at the dumpster behind the bus station. Then, the eye witness said, one of Red DelGatti's goons retrieved it from the dumpster.”
“What eye witness? Why are you waiting until now to tell anyone, Brogan?”
“I just found out earlier today.”
“OK. Let's go talk to your eye witness then.”
“Yeah, well....small problem with that, Harriman. He seems to have disappeared.”
“Uh huh. How convenient for you.” Harriman pulled on Brogan's manacled hands and forcefully lead him toward the door.
“Let's go talk to DelGatti” pleaded Brogan. “He'll tell you.”
Not breaking stride, Harriman said “OK, I'll do that. But in the meantime, you're going downtown for safe keeping.
“I guess I'm going to have to start keeping a supply of donuts around here” DelGatti told his guest. “You're the third cop here this weekend.”
“Third time's a charm, isn't that right, DelGatti?” came Harriman's quick attempt at wit. He then proceeded to explain his reason for the visit, starting with what they had on Brogan as well as Brogan's accusations. How Benny Dugan was seen at the dumpster. How one of his men made off with what he threw away. “And now,” Harriman said, “supposedly you have it.”
Brogan's accusations were all true, but to wrap this whole fiasco up neatly with a bow, DelGatti decided a little tweaking in the story was in order, something to go along with the last cop's story.
“Well, Detective Harriman, it's true my boy did bring home a little gift from the trash, for whatever ungodly reason I have yet to figure out, but he said it was Brogan that threw the box away, not Dugan, may he rest in peace. Or should I say pieces.” DelGatti broke into a snicker with a grin that did nothing to alter Harriman's stone cold sober and locked-in serious face. So he continued. “You just missed your CSI associate by a few hours. Simpson. A Danny Simpson beat you to it. He came and took the girl's head.”
“Simpson, huh?” That's interesting.” It was interesting that Brogan didn't share that information. After all, Brogan and Simpson were best buddies. Two proverbial peas in the pod.” OK, Mr. DelGatti. Sorry to have disturbed you.”
First thing Monday morning, the Dugan brothers and Abernathy went to the bank. They retrieved the money from the safe deposit box and wired it to an account under the name of Nate Mason. Abernathy placed the buy order. For the rest of the day, they would wait it out in the hotel. Benny, while still sore, was getting his strength back. He'd just have to take it easy for a while. The next six hours or so, time was spent keeping a close eye on the trading of stock for Zyman Innovations. For quite a while, only minor activity took place. The selling price went down as much as up. Through it all, Abernathy told the Dugans to kept the faith. His source said the announcement of their breakthrough would be sometime around noon today.
His source proved to be worth Abernathy's trust. By end of trading, the few hundred thousand dollars that Dugan stashed at the bank turned into nearly a million. Abernathy took his cut. One third of a million dollars. He was back in the game thanks to the two men who made it possible.
Meanwhile, Harriman had gone to talk to Simpson. The CSI man appeared to put on a good act. “I don't know what you're talking about” he had told Harriman. But there would be an investigation. Of course, the remnant of Angel wouldn't be found, but DelGatti said he would testify that it definitely was Simpson who came to his place that day. He said he would recognize that mustache anywhere. The prosecution would contend that Simpson committed obstruction of justice trying to cover up his buddy's tracks.
The Dugans closed the trading account that had been opened under Benny's new name. No sense pushing their luck. Two-thirds of a million would last them a long time. Why take the chance of losing any of it. They put most of the money in an interest bearing account and pocketed ten thousand or so for walking around money. And driving around money. They packed the car only with what they needed to get by, mostly what they bought that evening because going back to the Temptation Hotel, or chancing a stop at Marion's place, was a risk not worth taking. The brothers, after so many years, were bonding again. They decided on somewhere near the ocean as a mutually agreed upon place to start new lives.
Marion drove as they pulled away from the hotel. Feeling good, he let a hint of a smile lift the corners of his mouth as his brother sat quietly without outwardly emotion. But then there was a slight rattle coming from the trunk as the wheels bounced over a few bumps. Benny's expression quickly changed, gaving a look of concern. It would be just his luck to have car problems before even passing the city limits. More likely it could have been any number of loosely packed items, or specifically, something being jostled inside a box. “I'm sure it's nothing” Marion said and then turned up the radio before Benny, make that Nate Mason, could give it another thought.
A month later, the brothers were lying in their respective hammocks behind the beach house where they now lived. The gentle breezes blew the sweet smell of the ocean toward them as they sipped cocktails of rum and exotic blends of colorful fruit juice.
Two men pulled up to the front of the house. When they went to the door and rang the bell, no one came to answer. But these men were not the type to give up so easily. Walking around back, they found the two residents enjoying life as if they didn't have a care in the world. However, the sudden appearance of the strangers caused the brothers to abruptly sit up.
“Nate Mason?” one man asked.
Marion had to nudge his brother since he apparently had momentarily forgotten who he was.
“Uh, yes” Benny said. “What can I do for you?”
“I'm Agent Nix. This is Agent Burrows. We're from the Securities and Exchange Commission.”
“Oh?”
“Mr. Mason, we'd like to talk to you about your recent good fortune.”
Both brothers stood there with empty expressions on their faces, truly unaware of what was about to come.
Agent Nix tried reading the men before him. They acted cool as a cucumber, but he'd seen it all before. “I just hope I don't have to remind you of what a serious crime insider trading is.”
“Oh?” The blank stares persisted for a moment. Insider trading? Until Abernathy came into their lives, trading stock was something only rich people did. But the term began to ring a bell. They had heard it many times in the news. And then the realization hit.
Oh, hell. Just Dugan's luck.
###
About the author:
Howard Freedman received the writing bug a little later in life. He has been writing fiction for about ten years, or for about a sixth of his life. (Do the math.) Earlier work is of the short story genre, but later stories became a little more long winded so novelette is probably a bit more of an appropriate designation. Prior to delving into creative writing, his artistic endeavors were focused more on creative photography, as evident of the cover images created for his publications. A good share of his work is somewhat sci-fi, often Twilight Zone-ish but written in a style that transcends the underlying genre attracting a wide audience. Howard lives in Lawrence, KS with his wife and two (currently) dogs.
Through his website, https://www.howardfreedman.com , there is a previous novella in ebook format, a collection of earlier short stories in paperback as well as digital, not to mention collections of his photo-art.
Dugan's Luck Page 6
