SHADOWS OF DEATH: Death Comes with Fury (and Dark Humor) To a Small Town South of Chicago

by Carl S. Plumer

What he didn’t know was that Flower had already been moved to a different location.

  For “her own protection.”

  “Flower’s missing.”

  “What do you mean, she’s missing?”

  “I mean, they took her. Moved her.”

  Almira stared at Ricky. Conner stared at Ricky. Ricky stared at Almira and Conner.

  “So, what are we going to do?” Almira demanded.

  “I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” Conner said. “We’re going to find her.”

  “Okay, how?”

  “One way or another.”

  “I meant, how specifically?” Almira rolled her eyes. “What’s our first step?”

  “Hospital.”

  “Already been there,” said Ricky Martin. “Wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

  “I’ve got it. Almira, you go to the hospital. You have a way of getting them to tell you things. Ways outside of Ricky’s limited range of charm.”

  “Got it.”

  “Ricky and I will head over to the police station. They love us there.”

  Silence.

  “Of course they don’t, but they just might want to know where Flower is, too,” Conner added quickly.

  “Surprised they didn’t have a cop guarding her room, come to think of it,” Almira mused.

  “Yeah,” Ricky Martin agreed. “Or had me in one of their cages, since I’ve already been convicted by the public. Guess they figured I wouldn’t attack her ’again’?”

  “I don’t know. I’m heading back to the hospital, see what I can find out. Where should we meet up?”

  “Um, uh. Library.”

  “Why the library?”

  “I have no idea. They have tables and it’s pretty empty so people might actually leave us alone. If we go to a restaurant or a coffee shop, we’ll get the treatment right away.”

  “Good plan, then,” Almira said. “Outta here.” She waved and was off.

  “Okay, see you soon.” Conner turned to Ricky. “Let’s get going.”

  The two turned and walked in the opposite direction from where Almira had headed. They turned at the next corner and strode up to the intersection. When the light changed, they continued through and then made another right at the next corner. The police station towered midway along that block, on the left.

  “This will probably not go too great,” Conner suggested, as they neared the station.

  “No kidding,” Ricky said. “Worth a try. Worse they might do is tell us to get the hell out.”

  “Or arrest us. Oh, speaking of which, you don’t have anything on you do you?”

  “You kidding? Everything I had went up in smoke when my car was destroyed. What about you?”

  “Haven’t even tried to score since this all started,” Conner said. “I feel like everyone in the whole wide world is watching us.”

  “They probably are,” Ricky said, as he strong-armed the heavy police station door and held it for Conner. “Which way?”

  “I’m thinking if we go to the front desk, they’ll just stall us,” Conner said. “Cops and plain clothes are all going up those stairs there. Let’s act casual and try to blend in. If anyone asks, I’m Detective Meehan’s son.”

  “Why you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why can’t it be me?” Ricky Martin said.

  “You’re just a little too well known, don’t you think?”

  “How about this then: Meehan called me in. For more questioning.”

  “Hmmm, I suppose that could work,” Conner said.

  They were about halfway up the stairs when a uniform headed down the steps said, “Can I help you two?”

  “No thanks,” Ricky said. He shook his head to the side to get his hair out of his eyes.

  “I wasn’t giving you boneheads an option. You ain’t supposed to be on these stairs unless you work here. So: out.”

  “I’m Detective Meehan’s son!” Ricky Martin shouted, his eyes wide, his face turning red.

  “You? First of all, you’re white. Meehan’s black.”

  “So? I’m adopted.”

  “Second, you look like that kid suspected of being a serial killer. I mean, exactly like that kid.” The officer leaned into Ricky, like a Venus fly trap about to bite. He cast a shadow over the shorter teen.

  Conner looked at Ricky in disbelief. Way to go, Ricky, he thought. You went off script immediately.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot. Ironic, right? Me and that kid could almost be twins.”

  “What about you?” the cop said, turning his attention to Conner.

  “I’m, um, I’m, um.”

  “Interesting. Tell you what. I’ll call Meehan, see if she’s expecting you.”

  “She’s not. I’m playing hooky, okay? That’s why I’m so nervous. I just wanted to tell my Mom in person before I headed home.”

  “Hmmm. Not sure I buy that.”

  “Look, she’ll kill me if she finds out any other way. This is the third time this semester. But this time I got a real good reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “No, that’s for my Mom.”

  For a painfully long moment, the cop stared at Ricky Martin.

  “You can go with me, if you want,” Ricky said, suddenly brave. “You can watch me tell my mom and you can witness her get furious with me. But I can’t stand here any longer chatting with you. Every minute that goes by means one minute closer to my Mom’s cell going off and a teacher telling her what happened.”

  “Which was what? Tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Well, I guess you ’can’t’ keep walking up these steps then, either.”

  “I threw my lunch tray at this dick that was bullying me at lunch. Got beef gravy and mashed potatoes all over him. I’m not really playing hooky. I’m running for my life.”

  The cop let a smile escape, but closed down right away. “All right, get the hell up the steps. But next time stay out of police headquarters.”

  “Will do. Thank you, sir.”

  “You are one lucky bastard,” Conner whispered to Ricky, when they had reached the top of the stairs.

  “You’d call this lucky? I think I’m about the unluckiest dude in history. Now we are going to talk to a cop who hates us, who thinks I’m a serial killer, and who has a vendetta or something for all of us. I’m so lucky I’ll probably be in jail before dinner.”

  “True,” Conner said, laughing out loud. “I didn’t consider it that way, but you’ve convinced me.”

  Ricky Martin hit Conner in the shoulder as hard as he could, which wasn’t that hard, but it got the point across.

  Meanwhile, Almira was having a few problems of her own. Mainly, that no one at Kantaby General would even acknowledge that Flower had been in the hospital at all.

  “Well, this is just stupid,” Almira said, almost spitting the words. “She’s been here for the past six days. In intensive care.”

  “I have no information on that.”

  “This is bullshit!”

  “Young lady, I am going to have to ask you to please watch your language.”

  “I apologize. But you can understand where I’m coming from, can’t you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “My best friend is missing. She was in bad condition and now she’s disappeared. For chrissakes, I don’t even know if she’s still alive, or what!”

  The woman stood up and slammed her hands onto her desk, leaning on them. “One more outburst, and you’ll have to leave.”

  Almira stared at the woman behind the glass partition in disbelief. Not because her eyes were slightly crossed, and not because the woman was clinically obese. But because Almira couldn’t believe that someone sharing the same planet as her could be so damn dumb and so fuckin’ unfeeling.

  “Look, let me go over this one more time— “

  “Is there a problem?”

  Well, Dr. Handsome, when did your shift start? Almira thought.

  “This young lady hear is conf
used, Dr. Hajdari.”

  “How so?”

  “She seems to think that a friend of hers was admitted here. That she was in ICU, and that now she’s disappeared. Quite ridiculous.” The woman folded her arms over her enormous bosom triumphantly. She waited for what she believed would be the inevitable confirmation from the good doctor.

  “What’s the patient’s name?” he asked.

  “Something ridiculous. ’Tree Farmer,’ or something.”

  “Flower Gardener,” Almira corrected, shooting the woman a look that nearly melted the glass between them.

  “I’ll take it from here, Mabel.”

  Mabel’s jaw fell open, and her lower lip visibly flapped. “But, doctor, there’s no record of this flower child. I checked . . .”

  “That’s all right. Come on in, miss. I’ll meet you on the other side. Mabel, would you be so kind as to buzz our young guest through?”

  “Whatever,” Mabel said, a pout on her face. She pressed the button under her desk, blasting a harsh sound into the waiting room. She pressed it like she was sending an SOS message: dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot. Not holding it long enough for Almira to grab the handle and exit the room.

  Finally, no doubt due to some unseen (by Almira) scowl from Dr. Hajdari, the buzzer held for a long enough stretch for Almira to open the door and pass through to the other side.

  “So, let me tell you what’s been going on.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  Almira and Dr. Leutrim Hajdari—or “Lou” as he preferred Almira call him—entered in his office after a short walk through the hospital. They had exchanged first names and pleasantries on the way.

  “First,” he said, sitting down. “Let me assure you that Flower is doing fine, that she’s recovering. That she’s in a safe place.”

  “Okay . . . ?”

  “However, I have been given orders not to tell anyone where she is, I’m afraid.” He smiled with his lips, but his eyes were cold.

  “Orders from who?” Almira asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” The smile vanished.

  “Hospital big-wigs?”

  The doctor sniggered. “No.”

  “The police?”

  “No.” He smiled again.

  “So, higher than that. FBI?”

  “Seriously, I’ve told you more than I should. I merely wanted to reassure you.”

  “Bullshit,” Almira said. “CIA, then?”

  “You should go now,” the doctor said, standing. “It’s been nice talking to you.”

  “Higher than the CIA?”

  “Your line of questioning of me, as your elder, as a professional and a surgeon, is disrespectful. I must object. Now please leave before I call security.”

  “It’s Homeland, isn’t it?” Almira smiled wryly as the doctor’s eyes widened at the mention of the Department of Homeland Security. My, oh my, has this gotten big. Won’t Ricky and Conner be surprised? “Can I see her, at least? Please, you have to let me see her! I need to know that she’s all right.”

  Two uniformed security guards appeared at the door. They walked menacingly towards Almira.

  “Okay, okay. You don’t have to get rough. I’m going,” Almira said, moving her hands up and down as if she were banging on an invisible piano.

  The security team grabbed her just the same, one man per arm.

  “Easy, guys,” she said. As they escorted her out the door, Almira turned to Dr. Hajdari and said, “I’ll find her, you know. I’ll find her if it’s the last thing I do!” Almira spit on the tiled floor of his office.

  Dr. Hajdari was on the phone to his contact at Homeland before she had even turned the corner.

  By the time the security team had successfully escorted her down the elevator and out the front door, a black SUV was already there waiting for her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Armageddon Time

  “Well, let’s get this over with.” Ricky was about to knock on Detective Meehan’s door when it swung open. She stood there with one eyebrow raised.

  “What are you two doing here?”

  “We have a couple of questions we’d like to ask you,” Conner said, as Ricky stared at the woman, unblinking.

  “Isn’t that my line?” Meehan said.

  “We’re looking for Flower. They’ve moved her, you see.”

  “What do you mean, they moved her? You mean to another room? Another floor? That’s normal.”

  “But I was just there,” Ricky said. “She’s not in the building and no one will say where she was taken.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Detective Meehan thought for a moment, peering at the boys, her head slightly tilted. “Wait here.”

  She marched down the hall and entered the office of her superior, Sergeant Brent Wilcox.

  “Do you ever knock?” Wilcox asked.

  “Are you ever busy?” Meehan answered.

  “Of course I am,” Wilcox said as he placed his putter against the wall and walked back behind his desk. “Just taking a short stress break, as if it’s any of your business.”

  “Doesn’t bother me.” Meehan said, smiling. “Hey, Brent, I want to ask you something. You know that homicide I’m working, right? The big one.”

  “The one with that group of teenage suspects. Let me clarify. Those non-gang teenage suspects.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, what’s the question?” Wilcox said, sitting down behind his desk.

  “You know about the girl in the hospital, in intensive care?” Meehan said.

  “Right. Had the name of flower for her name, I believe.”

  “Well, actually, her name is Flower.”

  “Okay, right. What’s up?”

  “Well, have you been keeping track of her? Anybody guarding her or anything like that?”

  “No, not really,” Wilcox said. “She was moved to a private room. I’ll have someone parked outside her door in the next hour or two.”

  “Don’t bother, she’s already been moved out of the hospital.”

  Wilcox’s eyes went wide. “What did you say?”

  “She’s gone. According to my sources, she’s been relocated right out of the hospital. Her and all her medical records, including admittance.”

  “Oh, goddam it, not again.”

  “What do you mean, ’not again’?”

  “Government agents,” Wilcox said, pounding his desk. “They pulled this on me once about two years ago. Had a guy here, a Palestinian. He’d been in a car wreck. They just swooped in and took him away. Terrorist Act, they had declared, when I finally got hold of anyone to tell me what the hell was going on.”

  “Well, what the hell do you think is going on this time?” Meehan asked.

  “I haven’t the foggiest,” Wilcox said. “But I’ll tell you this: this thing is bigger than you or I thought. When the Feds get involved, it’s a big ugly web, crammed with secret goings-on.”

  “Do you think we’re dealing with terrorists here?”

  “Could be, could be,” Wilcox said. He pursed his lips for a second and then went on. “Seems ludicrous, but my sense of disbelief has deteriorated significantly over the past few years. I mean, look at Timothy McVeigh. And Columbine. The Boston Marathon. All of our homegrown horrors . . . ”

  For a moment, the two cops stood in silence.

  “Let me make some calls,” Wilcox said. “See what I can find out.”

  “Thanks, boss. I’ll be in my office. Working on my backhand.”

  “Okay, sit tight,” said Detective Meehan, returning to her office.

  The two young men twisted in their chairs to look at her. She stood at the doorway, so they remained in their contortions.

  “What’s going on?” Conner asked.

  “We’re going to get your girlfriend. Working on the details right now.”

  “You trust us?” Ricky asked.

  Meehan looked at them for the first time since she had returned to her office. “What do you mean?�
��

  “What do you mean, what do I mean?” Ricky Martin countered. “There’s all this talk and accusations, especially from your office, that I was the one that hurt her.”

  “Yeah, I know, sorry about that,” Meehan shook her head as she started for her desk. “Look, the circumstantial evidence was pretty strong against you, you have to admit.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Ricky Martin argued. “I’m the one who called the cops, for crying out loud!” Ricky pointed to his chest with his thumb. “I found her like that. I saved her life. If I was the killer, wouldn’t it make sense to let her die?”

  “I know,” Meehan said sheepishly. “I know.”

  “So, how come in the eyes of the world, I’m a dirtbag and not a hero?” Ricky asked.

  “That will change,” She sat down at her desk and peered right into Ricky’s eyes. “Stay in the present, where the police—that is, me—believe you couldn’t have done it. You didn’t do it.”

  “Do you . . . ” Ricky stopped talking.

  “Do I what?” Detective Meehan asked.

  “Did you rule me out because you don’t think I’m capable of murder?”

  Meehan laughed. “Male pride! My God. Okay, to answer your question: strength-wise? Sure, you could have done it. But you’re not the murdering type. And the person who did this to your friend is a sociopath. No feelings for the pain of others. My impression of you is that you are none of these things.”

  She smiled at Ricky.

  He fidgeted in his chair.

  “If you prefer,” Meehan said, “I can give you the test.”

  “The test?” Ricky’s cheeks turned crimson. “What test are we talking about?”

  “It’s called the Sociopath Test. For the most part, it’s a set of simple questions. Also, there are some pictures you would look at, and I would gauge your reaction. Horrible pictures. But we’ll skip that section, in the interest of time.”

  “What kind of questions?” Ricky said. Sweat appeared on his forehead like dew on a window.

  “Questions about your early childhood. Relationships. Empathy, or lack of it. That’s about all, really.”

  “Okay, well, like what?”

  “Have you ever intentionally inflicted pain on an animal for the purpose of seeing the animal suffer?” Meehan asked him without setting it up or hesitating. “You know, set fire to a cat, pulled the legs off a frog. That sort of thing.”