by Rusk, Day
As Leslie sat upstairs and awaited the inevitable, the doorbell rang. This was exciting news. Maybe a pizza delivery guy had gotten lost and needed to give away some free pizzas before they went bad, and he and his family were going to be the lucky recipients. Maybe another family was showing up for a visit, his cousins or something, and there wouldn’t be enough Shepherd’s Pie to feed everyone, so they’d have to go out to dinner. The sound of the doorbell offered up countless possibilities to his young and desperate mind. As such, he raced out to the top of the stairs, just as his father was walking down the hallway to the front door. He wanted to witness the dinner miracle first hand.
What he witnessed instead, forced him quickly back into the shadows of the landing at the top of the stairs. The minute his father opened the door, he was hit hard with the butt end of a pistol, sending him staggering backwards, dazed. Leslie knew is father was a tough man, and wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t gone down on his knees, but his father didn’t have much of a chance; as quickly as he was hit, four men rushed through the door and clobbered him again, this time, knocking him to the ground, bloodying his face. Horrified, Leslie kept silent, watching the men surround his father, as his mother started to scream and his two siblings started to cry. He watched as two of the men grabbed his father and dragged him into the family room. It was only when he heard a voice say, “There’s an older boy. Check upstairs,” that he raced like hell to his bed and his favorite hiding spot. He wanted to cry, but he knew that if he made a sound, he was in trouble.
Leslie cautiously moved to his bedroom door which was halfway open. He was pretty sure he heard the two men heading downstairs, the stairs themselves making that all too familiar creaking noise that it always did when certain steps were hit. Leslie knew each and every one of them, as he’d snuck downstairs many evenings to watch late night TV or play his Nintendo. Despite having heard those sounds, he was cautious. If he got caught now, it would be the waste of a great hiding space.
Downstairs he could hear the sounds of men talking loud; it was easy to determine they were angry; angry at his father.
Leslie quietly made his way to the top of the stairs, keeping to the shadows. Luckily, at this time of day, the sun had gone down, and luckily his father had a thing about the family turning on all the lights and wasting energy. Actually, it wasn’t so much wasting energy, in that he was worried about the environment, but wasting energy in that I’m paying for all these damn lights so why don’t some of you turn them off when you leave the damned rooms.
Seeing how he had memorized the various sounds the floorboards and stairs made, Leslie was able to get to the top of the stairs and down the first couple of them without attracting any attention. From a certain vantage point at the top of the stairs, you could see into the family room. Not the entire family room, but a good deal of it, and the angle was such that he’d never been spotted. He’d sat in that spot numerous times, eavesdropping on his parents; things in the Marshall household seemed to be on a need to know basis, and although his parents didn’t think he needed to know, he thought he did.
“Shut them up, forchristsakes,” he heard one of the men say. At that time he had no idea that man was Morgan Neil. “Shut ‘em up or I’ll shut ‘em up myself.”
Leslie could just see his mother; he’d never seen her look so frightened; she was his mom, she wasn’t afraid of anything. She had her arm around his sister Mary, who was crying, and he assumed her other arm was around his brother; that side of her being obscured from his view, although he could hear Scott crying as well. One of his mother’s hands went across his sister’s mouth, and he figured the other around his brother’s as she tried to muffle their crying. He could hear her trying to reassure them everything was all right.
From his vantage point he could also see his father, his face bloodied, kneeling in the center of the family room. He could also see Morgan, standing in front of his father, a gun in his hand. Two of the other gun men, Harry and Alan Clothier were visible to him, both of them with guns in their hands. The other guy, the one that had come upstairs with Harry, the one he would eventually come to learn was Sal, was out of sight from this particular sight line.
“You made a big mistake, Dan,” he heard Morgan say, before, to his surprise, Morgan levelled his gun at his father and fired twice. It all happened so damned fast! He watched in horror as two bullets entered his father’s head, at least one of them exiting out the back of it in a spray of blood, skull and brain matter. He heard his Mother scream, as his sibling’s crying went up an octave. It took everything he had, not to react with a scream. As he watched his Father’s body flop to the ground, he heard the same man say, “Finish ‘em all.” He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t look away, as four more shots rang out. He saw two of them hit his Mother, one in the chest and the other in her head, and one hit his sister Mary in the head, the impact of the bullet almost exploding it like a ripe melon. The fourth shot hit his brother in the head, but he didn’t see that.
His young mind was struggling. What had he just witnessed? What the hell was happening? Why weren’t they eating Shepherd’s Pie? This was all wrong!
Even as he was trying to register what he had just witnessed, his mind knew enough to tell him to move. With the same stealth he’d used to walk down those couple of steps, he went right back up them and raced to his bedroom and his bed. He could hear the men moving, heading for the front door of the house, or were they coming upstairs again, looking for him? He had no idea, all he knew was he dove under his bed, rolled onto his back, and grabbed hold of those slates with both hands and his feet and hauled himself up out of sight. He didn’t hear the door close as the four men exited the house; he didn’t hear anything, his full concentration was on holding himself in place under his bed until his young arms couldn’t hold him any longer. He wanted to cry, but he also knew silence was his best friend now.
Leslie leaned against the alley wall, looking at Harry who was looking right back at him. Harry seemed amused.
“You were in the house that night weren’t you?” asked Harry. “We looked everywhere for you but couldn’t find your sorry little ass. But you were there. Where the hell were you hiding?”
Leslie just looked at Harry; he didn’t feel much like talking and still had to figure a way out of this mess.
“Morgan doesn’t like to leave witnesses behind. Figured you needed to go. Actually put out a hit on you. Fucking ten-year-old with a price on his head. Morgan didn’t believe you were at a friend’s house. That’s what your old man told him. Said you were having a sleepover some where’s. We didn’t buy that shit. But you were one lucky bastard. Once the police and the Feds didn’t come calling we just figured you had nothing to tell them. Weren’t the eyewitness they was looking for; or maybe you didn’t see anything. Either way, they moved you away and we just forgot about your sorry ass. I wonder if Morgan would still pay that price, you know, allowing for inflation and what not.”
Harry laughed. Leslie could see he was having a good time with all of this. Leslie had been an eye witness, but it was determined he was an unreliable eyewitness. He assumed the authorities knew there was a hit out on him, and didn’t think, in the long run, in the fragile and damaged state he was in after the murder of his family, and what he had witnessed in his family room when he finally left his hiding spot and went downstairs; what he had seen before he had called 911, that he’d make a good or reliable witness against Morgan and his cronies. It’s always a gamble putting a kid on the witness stand, and in his case, they must have figured he wouldn’t make the grade.
“So you’re a reporter now,” said Harry. “Someone in the family going legit. Not like your old man, huh. He certainly wouldn’t have allowed me to get the drop on him like this. That’s why we had to surprise him at your house; only way to get done what needed to be done. Your old man was a real bastard, he was.”
Leslie had no idea what the hell Harry was talking about. He’d helped kill his Father and
his family, what did he know about them?
“What are you talking about,” he finally managed to spit out.
“Your old man. Dan Marshall. Fucking nutcase that one. Fucking psycho.”
Leslie was stunned; what was this asshole talking about? He could see Harry noticed his confusion. Through the damage he had done to Leslie’s face, he could no doubt still see the surprise on it; Leslie never did have much of a poker face.
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” said Harry. “Jesus Christ, you have no idea, do you?”
Leslie was at a loss for words.
“Morgan and your old man. They were fucking partners,” said Harry. “You think Morgan’s a bad ass, a killer, you should have seen your old man in action. Fuck, I guess you were too young. What happened to your old man, hell, he did the same to others. Like I said, fucking psycho.”
Leslie had heard enough. “You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about,” he said.
Harry didn’t even flinch. “Got yourself a bit of the old Marshall temper now don’t you,” he said. “Listen arsehole, your old man was a shit. No good. He and Morgan was partners, but you know how it goes, some partnerships work out and some don’t. Sometimes it’s a good split and sometimes not so good. Sometimes it even gets a little bloody.”
Harry just looked at him; Leslie could see he was enjoying this.
“We had to off your family,” continued Harry. “Only way to sneak up on ole Danny boy. Do it at home where he never brought his work. That, and Morgan wasn’t sure if the psycho Marshall gene wasn’t going to be passed down to his kiddies. You see, Morgan’s smart that way. Don’t leave anyone behind who might come looking for revenge later.”
“Fuck Morgan,” was all Leslie could think to say. This dialogue had given him some time to regain control of his thoughts. His mind wasn’t busy getting ready to register the latest pain Harry was serving up, preoccupied with telling him to roll and cover his head. He was also thinking about the gun he had stashed in his coat pocket; the gun he had failed to reach for so far. It was there; it might also be his only way out of this mess. At some point, he figured, he had to go for it, but when? If he fumbled with it, he’d be as good as dead; at the same time, now that he was here, facing one of the men who had murdered his family, could he actually pull it out and shoot the man? It was one thing to sit in his office or at home fantasizing about this moment, but another thing to actually be in that moment.
“Holy fuck,” said Harry. “Is that what this is all about? You lookin’ for revenge? You fuckin’ kidding me?”
Leslie’s entire attention was on the weight of the gun in his coat pocket. It was calling to him; tempting him. He didn’t know what to do.
“Fuck no,” said Harry. “You? Revenge? You’re too much of a pussy for that. Look at you? Hell, your little shit of a sister would probably have grown up to be more dangerous than you. Who knew such a pussy could spring from Dan Marshall’s loins?”
Harry laughed some more. Leslie had just about enough of this guy; he was pissing him off. How dare he run down his family; talk about his sister. He needed to do something.
“Oh, shit, that hit a nerve, didn’t it,” said Harry. “As long as we’re reminiscing arsehole, let me share this with you. Kids that young, their heads kind of pop and explode when you pump one into them. Fucking brilliant, in a bloody sort of way.”
Harry looked at Leslie, the smile leaving Harry’s face.
“I can see the anger in your eyes, boy. You want to hurt me, don’t you? Want to kill me. I don’t suppose you came out here to do that without a plan; without a weapon. Which pocket you got it in boy? Right or left? Now’s the time to go for it; I mean, what the fuck are you waiting for?”
Harry stared intently into Leslie’s eyes. Leslie held his gaze, all the time willing his hand to go for the gun in his pocket. Harry knew about it, but if he was fast enough, he could probably kill the bastard. He had to do something, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to make the move. He had no idea what was holding him back; fear maybe?
Harry finally laughed again.
“I ain’t got time to deal with you, arsehole,” said Harry. “Can’t be bothered. I’m guessing letting you live is better than putting you out of your misery. Word of advice, though, you come snooping around me again and I’ll send you straight to Hell to see your father. Got it?”
Leslie didn’t answer and Harry didn’t expect him to. Harry simply turned and started walking towards the entrance of the alley. As he did so, Leslie heard him mutter, “Fuckin’ pussy.”
Leslie watched him walk away; down the alley and out. At no point had he reached for his gun. Instead he just slumped to the alley floor, wallowing in his failure.
Leslie stayed slumped in the alleyway for quite some time; as far as he figured, he belonged there amongst the trash. He had come to do a job and had failed miserably. Even as Harry seemed to glory in what he had done to Leslie’s family, he hadn’t found the courage to pull out his gun and shoot. Some would say that was because he was civilized; he wasn’t an animal like those who had committed such a despicable act, but that wasn’t the case. He knew the urge to kill; he felt the hatred within him; he just lacked the power and courage to act upon that anger and hatred.
Leslie finally managed to find his way home. Thankfully he parked his car in the underground and took the elevator up to his condo from there, so that he didn’t have to explain to the night Doorman just what the hell had happened to him.
He headed right for the bathroom and proceeded to strip down to his boxers. His face wasn’t in the best of shape and bruises, dark blue and purple, that didn’t look normal or healthy on the human body, had started to form in the numerous places Harry’s foot and fist had connected. He was breathing all right, so he figured he’d gotten lucky and Harry hadn’t broken any ribs, but it was still painful to move. Reporters for the entertainment section of the Lakeview Examiner just weren’t accustomed to taking such an ass kicking.
“FuckFuckFuckFuckFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!” he screamed at himself in the mirror. Why hadn’t he killed the bastard? WHY?
Leslie took a moment to let the rage out; it was such that he didn’t even notice the pain it caused him as he swore at himself in the mirror. After a couple of seconds he regained his composure and sat down on the toilet. As he sat there replaying the events of the night in his head, he took note of his jacket, lying on the bathroom floor. He reached for it and pulled the gun out of the pocket. It was as simple as that; he had the damned gun in his hand. It had slid out easily.
Leslie looked at the gun in his hands; examining it. It was the answer to all of his problems; why had he let it fail him. Defeated he let the gun and his hand fall down between his legs, as his whole body slumped; he had failed; he was defeated; it was as simple as that.
chapter NINE
there ARE any number of reasons why people kill. In his thirty-plus year career with the police force, Ray had observed just about every one of them, or so he thought. In many cases, the crime was one of opportunity and emotion. Someone hadn’t set out to commit the ultimate sin, but somewhere along the way, someone had aggravated them, and it had gotten to the point where they’d lashed out - lashed out in such a way that the other person ended up dead. They hadn’t planned to kill, and really didn’t want to, but their actions, embraced in the heat of the moment, have led to another person’s demise. As far as he could tell, that was often the most obvious case and the easiest to solve. A crime such as that involved very little thought and generally no planning on the killer’s part, and often, when they realized the end result of their rage, it wasn’t hard to get a confession.
Of course, throughout his career there had also been many premeditated murders. These could involve a husband and wife, where one of them was unfaithful; business partners, where one of them was greedy; or more likely, those all ready living on the edge, travelling amongst the city’s lowlifes, and killing one another over greed, d
rugs, or just a general disdain for life; the kind of individuals, like Morgan Neil and his crew, who considered life cheap and disposable. Again, these cases were often easier to get to the bottom of, well, except those committed by Morgan and his crew, who knew the value of covering their asses. Overall, while murder was a fact of life in the big city, solving murders, well, that wasn’t as hard as some thought. Now, solving murders and making sure you had all the facts sorted out legally, so that some hotshot lawyer couldn’t come along and find a loophole or something to free the killer, that was another matter all together – and that was beyond Ray’s scope. He just collected the evidence and made the arrests, after that it was up to the District Attorney and his office to finish the job. If he were to put it in baseball terms, he and his crew hit the ball and got their runner to third base; it was up to the D.A. to hit it one more time and drive them home. That wasn’t always the case.
When you live with murder on a daily basis, you have to find an outlet to clear your mind; to take you away from the horrors humans commit - which you get to see up close and personal - and help you realize there’s still beauty and good in the world. Ray had found his coping mechanisms. He’d never married; he’d been determined not to walk down the aisle unless he was sure it was the right thing to do; over the years, he had seen many friends get married, in his opinion, because they had been together for so long that breaking up and starting over seemed like too much work, but getting married something that was expected of them – the next step, so to speak. So they married. He’d never wanted to settle, and didn’t. Over the years he had dated many wonderful women, but just not the one. Presently he had been seeing the same woman, Darlene, for just over a year. These relationships helped him cope. His job demanded a lot out of him, but unlike the police detectives who populated prime time TV, who seemed to always be on the job, abandoning their loved ones and family, he strove hard to find the personal time to spend with the woman in his life. Sure it seemed glamorous to say you worked all the time and was committed to the job, but the truth of the matter was, that was how you ended up burnt out. He had discovered, very early on, that if you didn’t step back from the job, and allow yourself that me time, you’d be less effective at it. That time helped to clear the mind and offer perspective when you refocused the next day on the task at hand.
