Five Knives_A Will Finch Mystery Thriller

by D. F. Bailey

  He saw a tear run down her cheek.

  “I need to know two things, Jojo. See-See’s last name and his address.”

  She drew a long breath. “You’ll post bail for me?”

  “If it comes to that, I’ll try.” He knew it was conditional, but he didn’t want to lie to her. “And if you’re charged and go to trial for something that rolls out of what happened in the apartment last night, I’ll tell the truth about you if the judge calls on me.”

  “You will?” Her voice trembled with surprise as if no one had made an offer to help her before.

  “Don’t doubt it for a minute,” Finch continued. “I’ll be compelled to tell the truth. And I won’t commit perjury — which is good news for you.”

  A moment of silence opened between them while she considered her situation. Finch didn’t know which way she’d go.

  “Jojo, I need See-See’s last name and address.” He hesitated and decided to press her one more time. “Give me those two things, and I’m here for you.”

  She released a long sigh. Finch thought she might have been holding her breath for the last minute while he laid out the deal for her.

  “Look, I don’t know it.” Her face turned away. “Everyone just called him See-See.”

  “All right. Okay. It’s not a problem.” He glanced away while he adjusted his thinking. “Then what about his address?”

  “I don’t know. I know the street, but not the number. Down in the Mission on Cesar Chavez. At the end of Van Ness, where the two streets meet up. It’s one of those old, nice-looking buildings with three floors. Green, with white trim. It’s apartment seven.” She hesitated and then added, “He keeps the key above the door.”

  Finch made a mental note of the location and apartment number and nodded to her. “You’ve made the right choice, Jojo.”

  “Have I?” She brushed her hair aside again and gazed into his eyes. He saw something new in her now, a sign of hope that would haunt him for a long time.

  ※ — SEVEN — ※

  JOJO WAS RIGHT about See-See’s apartment building. Ornate, colorful — but obviously worn and in need of some significant repairs. Finch figured it was once a tidy Victorian boarding house, one of the few that survived the 1906 earthquake. It had broad window frames that surrounded the bay windows that rose in four columns from the street up three stories to a flat rooftop. Unlike a lot of buildings in the Mission — now transformed by the money and energy of the Bay Area tech revolution — it hadn’t been gentrified. At least not yet.

  The building had two street-level entrances that stood about thirty feet apart. Both were gated and locked. Will climbed up the three steps to the north gate and examined the lock mechanism. It required a push button code which he knew he wouldn’t be able to crack.

  He decided to play a waiting game. He pulled the hoodie over his head to block the steady drizzle of rain and stepped over to the crosswalk lamppost. It was late afternoon, almost six o’clock, and he hoped someone would soon be coming or going from the building. He wasn’t disappointed. Five minutes later a short, squat woman laden with three grocery bags passed him and crossed the sidewalk to the far entrance. Two children chattering in Spanish trailed behind her.

  “Vamos, niños,” she called to them.

  Finch inserted himself between her and the boys.

  “Can I help you with that?” he asked. When she glanced at him with a puzzled appearance, he said, “Puedo … ayudarte … con eso?” His Spanish was barely coherent, but she appeared to understand him and smiled.

  “Si, señor.”

  He took her bags while she pressed the lock combination on the keypad. Then she herded the boys ahead of her, and they raced up the staircase.

  “Gracias,” she said and took her bags and began to climb upstairs.

  Finch followed her then eased the gate back into its frame. The lock clicked shut. On the wall opposite the gated door, a building directory showed that apartment seven belonged to Seamus Henman. Finally, he had a full name. He eased along the first-floor hallway, a dark space heavy with stale, musty air. A single overhead light bulb barely illuminated the corridor. The quiet clatter of dishes, pots, and pans — the sounds of people preparing their evening meals — sounded through the old wooden doors that lined the hall. He reached the door that held a small rectangular metal plate with the number 7 embossed on its surface. Finch stood a moment and listened for any interior noise. He heard the faint sounds of rock music in the background.

  He tried the door. Locked. Then he knocked lightly. No reply. He held his lips a few inches from the door and whispered, “See-See. I have a message from Jojo.”

  He waited for twenty, maybe thirty seconds. He pressed his ear to the door and heard the haunting rhythm of an electric organ. He now assumed that Seamus was either inside and would not respond to any visitors, or he’d left the apartment — or more wisely, left San Francisco.

  Finch glanced at the top of the door and swept his fingers along the wood frame. A bronze key fell into his hand. Just as Jojo had predicted. He slipped it into the single cylinder lock and stepped into Seamus Henman’s world.

  “See-See?” The lights were off, the curtains pulled shut. “I need to speak with you.”

  Again, no reply. He closed the door.

  He inhaled deeply and smelled the musty aroma of stale food. Now he could identify the music coming from a second room. The instrumental section in the middle of the Doors’ melancholy dirge, This Is The End. He took a moment to gather his wits. He opened his courier bag, found his flashlight and latex gloves. He tugged the gloves over his hands and clicked on the light.

  As he swept the light across the room, he surveyed a small, box-like apartment. To the right of the living room stood a kitchenette. To the left, an open door revealed a three-piece bathroom. Beside it, a second door led into what Will assumed was a bedroom. He moved into the kitchen area and quickly assessed the appliances. A two-burner stove top, a half-size refrigerator, a sink stacked high with dirty dishes. A pile of paper plates and discarded food scraps littered the countertop. Next to the sink sat a knife block that held only one knife and a sharpening rod. Beside the knife block the remains of a T-bone steak buzzed with five or six flies. He brushed his hand above the meat. The flies danced into the air and immediately returned to their feast.

  He crossed the living room, a cramped space furnished with unmatched pieces. A stained sofa. A coffee table cluttered with discarded Fritos corn chip bags and empty Miller beer bottles. A faux-wood plastic stand holding a forty-inch flat screen Samsung TV. Whatever money Seamus Henman had saved — he’d invested it in the TV.

  The background music shifted to Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit. Finch stepped toward the source of the music, apparently a ‘60s FM rock station. The bedroom door was ajar, and Will nudged it open with the tip of his flashlight. Next to the bed stood a bedside table. On the table sat a mid-size Sony boombox blasting Grace Slick’s rising voice: “Feed your head, feed your head.”

  Opposite the bed, a small man sat duct-taped to a straight-back wooden chair. The chair stood in the middle of a pool of blood. It took a moment for Finch to comprehend the horror confronting him. His first reaction — a gasp for air as his lunch rose from his stomach and burned toward his esophagus — propelled him to the bathroom. He gasped again and then choked back his spew. Then he recovered his composure and leaned against the sink and gazed at his face in the mirror.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he asked himself. He shrugged off the question. He knew the answer. This was his chance. His turn. The corpse strapped to the chair in the bedroom was bad — but no worse than what he’d seen in Iraq. He focused his attention on his eyes staring back at him. After a few seconds, he was prepared to return to the bedroom and examine Seamus Henman’s remains.

  He leaned on the bedroom doorframe and studied the gagged and bound corpse. The body had bled out. The flesh on the neck and face had become an opaque veneer that revealed the narrow
, blue tracks of the victim’s lifeless veins.

  “What a mess,” he muttered as he braced a hand against the wall to steady himself. He knew he would have to find a telephone and call the police. Detective Staimer. But first, he had to ... what? An inner voice tried to suppress the effects of the adrenalin coursing through his veins. Be rational. Document everything, he told himself.

  He pulled his Canon Powershot from his bag and returned to the living room. He switched the camera to the video function. Holding the flashlight in one hand and the camera in the other, he made a three-sixty sweep of the room. He followed the same procedure in the bathroom and bedroom where Seamus sat bound to the chair.

  Then he reset the camera mode to single image. He drew a breath of courage and eased as close to the corpse as he could without stepping into the pool of blood. He held the camera about five feet from Seamus and adjusted the lens so that it provided a crisp view of the mutilated body.

  As he photographed each wound, he described what he was witnessing, speaking aloud as if the words gave substance and reality to what otherwise seemed like a phantasmagorical nightmare. He knew that if he talked deliberately and accurately, he would remember the details when it came time to write the story for the Post.

  “A serrated knife, a breadknife possibly, inserted below the right ribs, likely penetrating the liver.”

  He repositioned the camera and took another photograph. “A broad blade, possibly a meat cleaver, in the stomach.”

  He paused to draw a breath and then continued to shift, click the camera, and describe each laceration. “A carving knife in the victim’s upper left ribs, probably penetrating the heart. A filleting knife drawn across the throat from left to right and set in place below the right jaw. A short paring knife buried in the left ear.”

  When he’d captured the final image, he sat for a moment on the unmade bed and gazed mindlessly at the upright cadaver before him. Finch could see that Seamus Henman, sitting bound in the chair, was not a big man. No taller than five-six. Maybe shorter. Someone had gagged his mouth and strapped him to the chair with duct tape. It wouldn’t have taken much force to hold him down and then wrap the bands of tape around his wrists and ankles. Once that task was completed, the rest of job required only basic butchery skills.

  “My God,” he said as he imagined how the murder had played out.

  Finch drew a hand over his face. He stared at the digital clock sitting on a three-legged stool next to the bed. 6:47. He’d planned to meet Cecily at Kiraku restaurant at eight. Not now. He knew she’d understand, but this was a sensitive time for her, and he didn’t want to overwhelm her with his problems.

  Careful not to disturb any evidence, especially the uneven ring of blood on the floor, he stood up and slipped back into the living room. A small table with collapsible wings stood next to the window. On one end of the table sat a landline telephone.

  Under the phone base, he noticed a sheet of paper that had been creased and doubled over. He unfolded it. It was a fax transmission showing a gray-scale head-shot of a man staring directly into the camera lens. Finch studied the rectangular face. Beneath the narrow forehead, a pair of uneven eyebrows rode a heavy ridge, perhaps a bone deformity, that welled above his eyes. His lips were plumped as if he were about to spit on the floor. A Kirk Douglas dimple punctuated the middle of his chin. Something familiar about him puzzled Finch, but he couldn’t resolve it.

  At the bottom of the image, Finch could barely make out a ten-digit fax number. Apart from the numbers, there was no other text of any kind. He took a moment to focus his camera lens on the fax sheet and captured several images. With each shot, he made tiny adjustments to sharpen the definition of the face. He knew the result would be imperfect. A photo of a fax of a picture. In other words, a copy of a copy of a copy.

  When he realized he couldn’t improve the images, he folded the fax paper and put it back under the telephone. He took a second or two to ensure that it sat in the exact position where he’d found it. Then he stood and considered what to do next — to guarantee that he wouldn’t be caught up in the murder as a conspirator or some other felony.

  For a moment he imagined the telephone was a time machine. He knew he had to pick up the phone and call the police. Knew that he’d wait here for them to arrive and what he would say. Then he would be subjected to a long line of questions and he would have to explain himself. His circumstances. His motivation and innocence. The only unanswered question was, when would he initiate this series of pre-destined events?

  Right now, he finally decided. Just get it over with. From his shirt pocket he drew the business card that Detective Staimer had given him that morning. He sat at the table next to the phone, called into Central Station and within a minute was connected to Staimer.

  After he made the first call, he dialed the number to his apartment phone. After six rings the answering machine clicked in.

  “Hi Cecily, it’s me.” He realized that his voice was a mere whisper. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Look, something’s come up on this story I’ve been working on. The Post has hired me. Good huh?” He injected a note of pride into his voice. “But the story’s much bigger than I thought. Much bigger.” He paused and decided that was all she needed to know for now. “I’m pretty sure that I’ll have to go back to Central Station for another talk with the cops. Call Bisk and tell him what’s happening. Tell him to be on-call in case I need him. I’ll be home as soon as I can after that.” He considered how to finish. “And Cecily, I’m going to need your help to do some internet research, all right? I’ll give you the details later. Okay, that’s it for now. I love you,” he said and then added, “And the baby.”

  And the baby. He realized that he’d never said that he loved the baby before. Too bad it had to be like this, on a voice message.

  ※

  After he hung up he heard the radio play the whining guitar solo from Neil Young’s Southern Man. Funny, Will thought, for the past ten minutes he’d blotted out the continuous stream of rock from the boombox. All he could hear was the sound of his thoughts. And his heart pounding.

  He stood at the bathroom door and gazed into the living room. For a moment he considered turning off the music, but he knew that Staimer would reproach him for messing with the crime scene. He suspected he had only a few minutes before the police and the forensics team arrived. He drew his camera from his pocket and began to photograph every item that could provide a lead to Seamus’s killer.

  He took a photograph of the phone faceplate that showed Seamus’s number under the plastic veneer. He then captured a series of random images of everything scattered on the table. A dozen samba CDs. A soft pack of Marlboro cigarettes, half-empty. A copper ashtray brimming with inch-long butts. A deck of matches from a club called Burley’s. The current edition of Entrepreneur magazine. Perhaps Seamus had been considering a new line of business, Finch thought. Something to diversify away from child prostitution, blackmail, and murder.

  He turned to the TV stand. Beside the three clickers neatly aligned side-by-side, lay a soft sleeve nylon laptop case. Empty. Finch took a picture of the case and a close-up of the embossed brand on the cover. Lenovo ThinkPad.

  When he heard the heavy knocking at the door, he slipped the camera back into his courier bag and called out. “Just a sec.”

  “Open up, Finch.”

  He recognized Staimer’s voice and turned the lock on the door. Behind Staimer stood a uniformed cop and two others carrying mobile forensic duffel bags. The detective studied Finch for a moment. He shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe he was encountering him for the second time in one day.

  “Good. At least you’ve got gloves on.” He pushed past Finch and quickly assessed the room.

  “In there,” Finch said and pointed to the bedroom door.

  Staimer struck his head into the bedroom and then wheeled back toward his colleagues. A look of dread knit across his face.

  “It’s bad,” he said with
a brisk nod to the forensic team. “I’m going to call in the LT.” He pointed to the man in uniform, “Oberon, guard the door. Nobody gets inside, understand?”

  Oberon clenched his jaw, nodded his assent and stepped back into the hallway.

  Staimer paused as if he’d just discovered something unusual. “Jackson, turn off the damn stereo, would ya.”

  Staimer turned to Finch again.

  “Did you touch anything?”

  Will had to think a moment. “The doorknob.” He made a gesture to show that he’d been circumspect.

  Staimer eyed him with a grimace of disdain. “What else?”

  “The phone.” He pointed to the landline on the table.

  “You can’t use your own phone?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  Staimer blinked in surprise. “So, no phone. Who’d you call?”

  “You.” He shrugged. “And my fiancée. Told her I was going to be late tonight.”

  “I guess you are.” Staimer’s temperament seemed to mellow.

  Finch offered him a weak smile.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  The music from the boom box cut to silence. At once, Finch felt as if a measure of sanity had been restored to the crime scene.

  “All right. You wait outside with Oberon. Then I’m taking you back downtown for another talk. Your chair’s probably still warm from this morning’s visit.”

  ※ — EIGHT — ※

  “OKAY, FINCH, TELL me how you found Seamus Henman.” Detective Staimer’s eyes narrowed to thin slits as he leaned across the table.

  They sat in the same room they’d occupied earlier that morning. Room 3. Nothing had changed. The ceiling camera, the steel table, the chairs, the claustrophobic atmosphere. They sat in the same positions with Finch facing the mirrored, one-way window. If anything had changed, it was Finch’s increased sense of doubt and anxiety. He decided to tell his story from beginning to end without embellishments.