by Rusk, Day
Leslie leaned back in his chair and contemplated that thought again. Is it really Brannigan I’m thinking about? he wondered. Sometimes the lines between fiction and reality blurred. Was this one of those times?
“Hey Jude,” said Leslie, as his five-year-old, snow white cat and companion, Jude, jumped on his desk. Leslie picked her up and began patting her. It was their routine. She’d allow him to pat her for about a minute before she’d have enough and then retire to the corner of his desk and snuggle in as he turned his attention to writing.
He hit the space bar on his laptop and the computer screen came to life. It was open on a word document, the cursor blinking at the end of the last word he had written, taunting him. Did he have anything more to offer the world of literature, or was he played out?
Leslie watched it blinking. The Supremes and Love Child seemed to be keeping the stress at a manageable level.
He’d faced this taunt many times in the past. In many of those cases he’d succeeded, but not tonight. His mind was elsewhere, as it always was when relationship failure reared its ugly head. He knew why he was a failure at it; he was aware of his demons, yet despite that knowledge, he couldn’t let go; had never been able to.
There’d be no writing tonight; the cursor would stay still. His mind just couldn’t take any more fiction. Instead, he clicked onto a JPEG file and waited for his computer screen to fill with the image of his primary demon. He took a sip from his scotch and stared intently at the man on the screen; it had been so long ago, but it had been a wound that had never healed. He leaned back in his chair, listening to the sounds of his past and allowing his mind to embrace the memories that were in fact his longest relationship and his downfall where personal growth was concerned.
chapter THREE
the SUN rose over the city, offering the promise of yet another day. The denizens of the night - the troublemakers who brought about fear, trouble, and sometimes death - had retired to their lairs to await their time, for they knew night always came back around. Daytime, although promising hope, hid enough horrors of its own, but also served as a filter for the night, cleaning up the ugliness that night embraced and wrought.
Detective Ray Michaels pulled up at Grant’s Grocery, one store in a relatively small chain of independent grocery stores that fought for their market share in Lakeview’s hustling metropolis. He was met with the usual scene, any number of curious onlookers trying to see past the police tape and officers acting as guards, for a glimpse at the mayhem that had brought those in an official capacity here this morning. Some had probably been heading for Grant’s, maybe to pick up something for lunch on the way to work, had run short on half-and-half for their morning coffee, or had just figured out morning was a good time to shop if they didn’t like crowds. Others were probably the curious who were simply passing by on their way to work and just couldn’t resist standing around gawking, like the police were going to eventually fill them in on what had happened, or tear down the yellow tape and give them a guided tour of the crime scene, complete with commentary and speculation. Ray had never understood the appeal of standing outside the yellow tape and staring at nothing; he figured that in some small way, it must make certain people feel like they’re part of something. Of course, he’d never truly know, because his entire career had allowed him to duck under that yellow tape and take in the scene – and many scenes that he wished he’d been kept from witnessing.
“Detective,” said one of the uniformed patrol officers standing guard by the grocery store’s front doors, as Ray pushed his way through the gathered crowd and proceeded to duck under the tape. He’d been in homicide longer than he could remember; one of the benefits was that he very rarely had to flash his credentials; he was well known, and as far as he knew, well liked by his fellow officers.
“Stanton,” he said, recognizing the patrolman from his precinct house.
He entered the grocery store. Standing by the door and front windows were about eight employees and the store’s manager, all talking to one another, no doubt speculating as to what they had found this morning; a few were curiously taking in the activity of the police officers moving around their establishment; for the first time in their lives they were on the other side of the yellow tape.
“Morning, Detective,” said Ernie Tolbin, his division’s newest detective, and as such, youngest. Every time Ray looked at Ernie, he felt old and jaded. Ernie, new to the Detective’s shield, had an aura of hope about him; he had yet to be beaten down by one grisly scene of murder and humankind’s depravity after another, and probably still felt, in some way, that the world and humankind could be saved from itself. Ray envied him that innocence and naivety. He knew it was an illusion, and the kid was eventually going to discover the truth, but he still envied his being at that point where he could still believe. He also knew at some point, Ernie would turn, and he’d either settle into comfortable jadedness, or he’d eventually end up eating the end of his service revolver – that was the true test that waited.
“Morning,” said Ray.
“This way,” Ernie motioned for him to follow and began heading towards the back of the grocery store.
“Shit, if I knew today’s crime scene was here, I would have brought the wife’s list with me. Kill two birds with one stone, as they say,” said Ray.
Ernie, who had yet to warm to Ray’s off beat sense of humor in the squad room, just looked back at him with a puzzled look on his face. As far as he knew, Ray wasn’t married, although he’d heard rumors of at least two divorces.
“You have a ‘to do’ list, Ernie?” asked Ray.
“Not married yet.”
“Smart move.”
Ernie led Ray into the back room, where police officers from the division’s crime scene unit were hard at work, along with Detective Bryan Stork, Ray’s partner of five years.
“You’re late,” said Bryan as he noticed his partner coming through the swinging doors.
“What can I say, takes me longer to get ready in the morning,” Ray said with a smile. “All of this beauty doesn’t come together on its own. Takes time, partner.”
Bryan just chuckled. “If you call that beauty, I’ve got to question your powers of observation, Detective.”
“I take it the victim’s still dead? Didn’t pop to life waiting for me? So, what we got?”
“Body in the trash compactor,” said Bryan.
“Trash compactor?”
“I kid you not. C’mon, take a look,” said Bryan leading Ray over to the open metal doors of the store’s cardboard trash compactor.
Ray turned to Ernie. “You see this kid?”
Ernie nodded his head, Yes.
Ray could see Ernie was shook up by the scene, keeping his distance from the open doors of the trash compactor; he was sure if he had been just a little earlier and had witnessed Ernie’s first look into the contraption, he’d probably have been able to see the light in the young Detective’s eyes turn just a little bit darker. He still sensed hope in the kid and admired his fortitude, but was sure it wouldn’t take too many scenes like this one to turn the tide; at least the kid was going to go down swinging.
Ray took a moment to look at the remains of the body in the trash compactor. What had once been human was now a bloodied, almost indecipherable mess. If it wasn’t for all the blood and crushed bones visible in the mess, from this angle at least, it would have been hard to determine that the thing lying in there had once been human. Ray had seen a lot in his career, and could also honestly, and unfortunately, point out this wasn’t the most disturbing.
“Damn, that’s a body?” he said quietly.
“Yeah, that’s a body,” said Bryan.
“Human mulch. M.E. on her way?”
“Running late, just like you. Should I put two and two together?”
“You’ll always get three, partner,” said Ray. “Anyone unaccounted for who works here? Didn’t show up for work this morning? Or is this some sort of accident? In which ca
se why in the hell are we here?”
“According to the store’s manager, everyone is accounted for,” said Ernie. “Those who weren’t scheduled for work today, he’s contacted by phone. Everyone’s alive and well.”
“So where does that leave us? Figure somebody went to all the trouble to break in here and throw someone into the compactor? Seems like a lot of work. Easier ways to take someone out or dispose of a body. Jesus, this is going to be a headache to identify. What the hell’s left in there to go by?”
“Way I figure it Ray, we got ourselves a suicide,” said Bryan with a smile.
“How you figure that?”
“Check this out.”
Bryan moved to the trash compactor’s controls, still dangling innocently several feet away. He turned them around for Ray to see. Duct taped to them was a severed hand, cut off at the wrist; one finger raised and resting on the large green ‘start’ button of the controller.
“Our culprit,” said Bryan. “Figure it belongs to the body in the compactor.”
Ray laughed. “Case closed then boys, looks like suicide.”
Detectives Ray and Bryan headed back to the station house shortly after the Medical Examiner arrived at the crime scene. There was no reason for them to stick around; she had work to do and for the time being no one who worked at the grocery store was saying anything of value. Ray was sure the shock of finding a dead man in their trash compactor had rattled them; they’d need some time to calm down before he and Bryan could make any sense out of what they might be able to offer to the investigation. Based on the hand on the trash compactor controls, Ray was sure it wouldn’t be long before they knew who their victim was; and was pretty sure he might all ready have an idea as to who was responsible.
The hand on the controls was a message. The means of the death itself, he didn’t doubt was also a message; and only one man delivered such messages in his town – Morgan Neil.
Ray knew exactly how this case was going to go down. Nobody at the grocery store was going to know anything about the break in; but, then again, based on their investigation, there didn’t appear to be a break in. No signs of forcible entry of any kind, which only meant that someone had left one of the back doors to the store open for the killers to enter. Everyone would deny it, but when they dug deep and hard enough, they’d probably come up with one of the store managers or employees dealing with either a drug or gambling problem. One of them was in over their heads with the wrong people and had finally been asked a favor in return for forgiving their debt or at least creating a sizeable dent in it; or maybe just to save their own life. They’d eventually break and confess to being asked to leave the back door open and may even give up who had asked them for the favor. Chances are, however, they knew whom the ultimate favor was for and wouldn’t offer up any solid information; it was one thing to clear a debt, but another to use that trade off to stamp your own death certificate. Actually, Ray wouldn’t be too surprised that within a week or two, one of the employees of Grant’s Grocery would turn up dead; maybe hit by a car, pushed in front of a subway train; something simple and convenient like that, which would allow them to write off the death as an accident.
Building a case against Morgan was next to impossible. At one time he’d been a street thug, but had risen through the ranks and learned how to protect and insulate himself. He might not have been anything more than a muscle bound and murderous psychopath when he started out, but he had grown into his profession and become wiser with old age, which only served to make him that much deadlier - and a little more bullet proof. The police had to play by the rules but he didn’t; because of that the odds always seemed to be in his favor. For instance, Ray was sure that although the body had been tossed into the trash compactor at Morgan’s request, Morgan would have an air-tight alibi and probably wasn’t within ten or twenty miles of the murder scene. He’d never risk putting himself there; not with the network of killers he had cultivated over the decades. No, building a case against Morgan was next to impossible, but they would attempt to do so once again; that was the job.
It didn’t take them long to discover their body was that of Joe Weldon, one of Morgan’s oldest buddies and a high-ranking member in his crime organization. Word was all ready out on the streets regarding Joe’s death. As Ray had suspected, this murder was a warning; Morgan wanted the word spread that he was firmly in charge of his organization, and not afraid to clean house no matter whom was suspected of betraying him. And that was the word on the street; Joe had been trying to oust Morgan and take over his empire. He’d paid the price; which also meant he and Bryan would be showing up at a number of other gangland-style slayings over the next couple of weeks. Joe wouldn’t have been trying to take out Morgan alone. He obviously would have enlisted some turncoats to help him - unwittingly having turned to one individual who had squealed to Morgan. Joe would be the first to go, but there’d be more cleaning house on Morgan’s agenda. They'd seen and experienced it before. It was funny just how predictable organized crime figures could be in the way they conducted business.
The thought of a rash of murders didn’t trouble Ray as much as it should have. The way he figured it, it would only be a bunch of gangsters and low-lives killing one another, which in a way helped them clean house and save the courts and prisons from over-crowding; and, with each murder Morgan ordered, there was always the possibility of a screw-up. Morgan had been leading a charmed life up till now, but sooner or later he’d take it one step too far and somehow provide them with the evidence they needed to finally put him away for life. If a few low-lives had to die to make that happen, that was a price he was now willing to pay.
It was shortly after it had been reported back to him from the streets that Joe was the owner of the severed hand that the M.E. came back with the same conclusion, having run fingerprints. They had their victim and they knew exactly where to look for their suspects. He and Bryan would hit the streets and do the leg work required to find out who was in the back of the grocery store that night and would do their best to convince those individuals, when finally caught, to give up Morgan; they’d do the same old song and dance, hoping this time they’d get where they wanted to be, but deep down Ray knew they’d probably be facing failure. Morgan was smart; and in this case he hadn’t been afraid to advertise the murder; use it to his ends. It clearly demonstrated one thing, he was not afraid of the police or their investigation. He wasn’t worried and that was what made him so dangerous.
chapter FOUR
obsession IS never healthy; Leslie knew this more than many. Obsession which leads to inaction was worst. Of late, however, he had been harboring thoughts of action. It was improbable, yet they still filled his mind, entertaining him. He had no idea what kind of a man it would take to embrace what he fantasized, but knew he fell short in that category. He wasn’t all he hoped he could be and that bothered him. Some might argue he was a better man than he hoped to be, but that didn’t really matter, because deep down inside him – deep, where the very core of one’s being is preserved, he wanted to be that lesser man and capable of acting upon his desires. As far as he could figure it out, being that individual would probably be a lot less painful than being the better man.
Leslie hesitated at the door of the meeting room, starring at the sign he had seen countless times before. Moving Forward – Survivors of Violent Crimes, it read in its nondescript font.
Survivors of violent crimes indeed; more like victims who were unable to do anything more than sit and whine about what fate had served them. It’d been a while since he had attended a meeting. At first, the group had been good; he hadn’t realized how powerful it was to be able to talk to others about what haunted him; to open up and do so in a safe environment. In many ways, it was also a revelation to know he wasn’t the only one experiencing the guilt and nightmares that had plagued him over the years and decades, the memory of his torment never far from his day to day thoughts, and as vivid as if he were reliving it in reality all o
ver again.
The group had done a lot to help Leslie, initially; he figured it accounted for the longevity of his relationship with Donna. Her understanding and support, along with the group, had brought him some emotional stability, but it had been short lived. Something in him wanted more, but what?
As Donna encouraged him to open up even further, as did many in the group, he came to suspect he was getting nowhere. Sure, he was expressing his feelings and being told that was all right and even healthy, but when he sat down and thought about it, it seemed like he was locked in a circle where there was going to be no resolution. At one point talking about it had been enough, but somewhere along the way, its impact and comfort had begun to diminish. That’s when things went wrong with Donna. She was under the impression he was seeking help and receiving help - on his way to mending those old demons and fixing himself. Instead, what he realized was he was getting absolutely nowhere. Talk was talk, but it would never satiate the desires that taunted him deep down in his soul; desires he was unable to act upon, but desperately – desperately - wanted to.
