Martyr's Inferno

by Scott Gamboe

  Krista frowned. "Is it normal to release so much information this early in an investigation?"

  "No. Our captain is a nice enough guy, but he's pretty full of himself. I think he keeps a collection of his newscasts at home."

  The screen turned blue for a few seconds before another news broadcast began. The same studio reporter relayed the latest information on the case. "According to Captain Bates of the Bloomington Police Department, the cause of death was determined to be a single gunshot wound to the back of the head. Police said the victim, William Parks, was shot at another location.

  "Divers have recovered a small revolver from the lake, just off the dock. The serial number had been filed off, so other means of identifying the owner are underway. An extensive search of the lake has revealed no other bodies, although blood found on the dock was a different type than that of Mr. Parks. Investigators are operating under the assumption that missing Bloomington Police Officer James Hunter is still alive. He has been named a 'person of interest.'"

  Jim's eyes narrowed. Again, the screen went blue, but Krista grabbed the remote and paused the playback. She placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I want you to brace yourself. The next two segments are going to be difficult for you to watch."

  Jim nodded, so she started the video once more. This time, the reporter spoke only briefly before the scene changed to coverage of a press conference. Captain Bates, backed by two senior administrators, stood at a podium, the department logo displayed on the wall behind him. He gripped the edges of the podium tightly. The twitching of his jaw betrayed the anger he was trying to hide.

  "We have a new development in the William Parks homicide. The bullet fired into the back of his head was positively matched to a duty weapon owned by Detective James Hunter. We have issued an arrest warrant for this officer." Jim's employee photo replaced the video feed from the press conference.

  "Anyone with information about his location should call the police immediately. Do not approach him. He is considered armed and dangerous."

  Jim ground his teeth together as the scene changed again. Can this get any worse? This time it was Matt who was being interviewed. "I am speaking to Officer Matt James of the Bloomington Police Department. You have lived with Detective Hunter for several years. Did today's announcement come to you as quite a shock?"

  "Absolutely. You think you know someone, and then . . . I tell you this, and I hope he is watching. I will hunt him down, and I will bring him to justice."

  The screen blanked out another time. "There is just one more," Krista said with a soft voice.

  Jim pressed a clinched fist against his forehead. It was all he could do to keep his rage in check. "Go on. I think I'm ready for just about anything at this point."

  The screen flickered to life once more. "There is another development in the ongoing homicide case involving Bloomington Police Detective James Hunter. An arson investigation into the burning of his former residence has revealed a hidden storage area inside a wall in his bedroom, containing over twenty pounds of marijuana. Captain Bates of the Bloomington Police Department announced that he is in the process of issuing another warrant for the arrest of the missing police officer."

  She tapped the power button on the television. "That broadcast came last night, so you're up to date. I don't know what to say. I had hoped you could go to someone on your department for help, or even the state police. But with all things considered, I think that's a really bad idea."

  Jim chewed on a fingernail and stared at the blank television screen. "So Matt has been with Tony all along. I wonder how long they have been working together." He folded his arms across his chest. "No matter. You're right, of course. I can't even go the Feds with this. I'm going to have to work behind the scenes."

  "What about the dead guy in your trunk? Who do you think he was?"

  "I know exactly who he was. Willie Parks was a marijuana distributor, and a fairly big one, as far as Bloomington goes. I'll bet Tony was trying to move in on his turf. He saw this as a way to dispose of a competitor and make me look like a dirty cop at the same time. It was probably Willie's drugs they planted in my car and at the apartment."

  "What will you do, then?"

  Jim shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure. I'll never prove Matt was the one who shot me. I do have you and Richard as witnesses, but no court will take the word of two members of an organized crime family over that of a police officer. What I have to do is prove a connection between Matt and Tony. I'd guess Matt is probably aware of Tony's big shipment, even if he doesn't know what it is. Maybe they'll be together when it comes in. If I can get video of them working together . . ."

  He rose unsteadily to his feet and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Okay, we need to find out what is coming in, and when and where Tony's expecting it. Do you think Rich could find some of Tony's people?"

  "Let's find out."

  #

  The car was not exactly what Jim would call "inconspicuous." The large, black Buick had dark tinted windows. It was trimmed in shiny chrome, with aluminum alloy rims. The "new car" scent was so strong it was almost overpowering. He was surprised some aggressive young patrolman hadn't pulled them over already. His face itched from the glue holding his beard in place, but he was determined not to keep scratching it. Jim was in the rear seat, wedged between two heavyset men in crisp business suits. He assumed both were armed. Rich sat in the front seat giving directions to the driver. With his oversized sunglasses pressed firmly back on his still-swollen nose, Jim directed his attention to where Rich was pointing.

  "Over there. He's one of Tony's errand boys."

  The Buick pulled to the curb. While the driver waited behind the wheel, the other four exited. They approached a short man wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans. He would be their fourth contact of the afternoon, the other three having proven fruitless. When he saw the group approaching him, he shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked away. Rich snapped his fingers. One of his henchmen overtook their target. He grabbed him by the shirt and spun him around.

  "Going somewhere in a hurry, Bobby?"

  "Hey!" He yanked his arm back. "What do you want?"

  Rich folded his arms across his chest and stared down at the shorter figure before him. "My name is Richard Marcel. I'm looking for my brother, Tony. Where is he?"

  "I ain't seen him in weeks."

  Richard sighed and shook his head. He stepped slowly to the side while his two men closed in. Despite Bobby's vociferous protests, one of the men grabbed him by the arms. The other punched him in the stomach. He grunted as the air whooshed from his lungs. The man who held him allowed him to fall to his knees on the sidewalk, coughing and gasping for breath.

  Rich knelt down and pulled Bobby's head back by the hair. "Now, did that jar your memory, or shall we try that again?"

  He nodded forcefully and gasped while he recovered his voice. "I . . . I don't know where he is. But I know someone who does."

  "You had better not be lying to me, son. If you are, they won't even find your body."

  "I ain't lyin', I swear!" His voice came in wheezes, but he gave the elder Marcel directions to find someone who he said would know how to get in touch with Tony. He didn't know the contact's real name, but he said his street name was Iceman.

  Richard regarded Bobby with a cold, appraising eye, then rose to his feet. "I'll be in touch, Bobby."

  They returned to the Buick, where Rich relayed the directions to the driver. Jim stared out the half-open window. He ignored the light banter between the thugs in Rich's employ. He had just seen a side of the criminal world that he had not even known existed in his town. Organized crime figures roamed the streets at will. They harassed and intimidated people in order to get what they wanted. And Jim suddenly found himself in the middle of it, unwilling to participate but unable to stop them or think of an alternative.

  "What's wrong, Hunter?" Rich asked. "You don’t approve of our methods?"

  Jim sho
ok his head. "It's not my style. When I want information from one of these mopes, I interrogate them. Or threaten them with arrest. Now here I am, a police officer, working with the mob to extort information from people."

  "You don't have the time to play softball with these guys. Tony's shipment is due in a few days, a week at the most."

  "I know. The irony is, it was Matt who told me that if I wanted to crack this case, I had to quit playing by the rules. Now here I am, breaking the rules, and it's Matt I'm trying to catch."

  The Buick turned into a narrow alley and stopped near a loading dock. When the doors opened, the reek of stale garbage washed over them in a wave. Jim tried to hold his breath until he passed the rusting trash dumpster. According to Bobby, the alley was where Iceman ran his operation. Jim closed his eyes. He could feel another headache coming on. He focused his thoughts on the investigation. Hard work would relieve his tension.

  "That's far enough."

  Jim froze. He looked for the source of the voice. Both of Rich's men had pistols in their hands. They slipped to opposite sides of the alley. Rich stood out in the open, hands on his hips. He showed no outward signs of concern. After a few moments, two men armed with large semi-automatic handguns stepped out of concealing doorways in front of them, while two more closed on them from the rear. On the fire escape above them, a tall, fat man with a thin mustache leaned over the railing.

  "Richard Marcel. What brings you to our fine city?"

  "Do I know you?"

  "No. But I know you. Tony sends his regards, by the way. He regrets that he can't be here, but business has its demands. You understand, I'm sure. He sent me and these four associates of his in his stead."

  "What do you want?"

  A stubby finger pointed down at Jim. "Him. Dead. Other than that, Tony says the rest of you can leave."

  "I'm afraid not."

  "Come one, Mr. Marcel. Don’t make me upset your brother. I'd hate to be the one to tell Tony his brother was killed in a foolish attempt to protect a cop. Especially a cop who is after Tony. Where is your family devotion?"

  A shot rang out from the far side of the alley. One of Tony's men screamed in agony and slid down the wall. The alley was instantly filled with a hailstorm of bullets that ripped through the air in both directions, ricocheting off the brick walls. Jim dove behind the trash dumpster as the whine of a bullet passed just over his head. He stayed behind cover for a few seconds, in the hopes that Richard's people would have the full attention of the three remaining men.

  The wound in the back of Jim's head pounded as he launched himself from cover. He raced to their rear along the wall and took the stairs to a loading dock two at a time. Without slowing, he leaped over the railing. He landed on a man who had just brought his gun around. The momentum of his fall knocked them both to the pavement. The gun skittered away with the sound of metal on pavement.

  CHAPTER 8

  With his left arm locked around his foe's torso, Jim reared back and delivered a punch with his right, eliciting a cry of pain. He felt the grip around his neck loosen, so he struck again and again. Blood flowed freely, but the man would not yield. A blow to the side of Jim's head brought on a wave of dizziness and nausea.

  Gunshots continued from the other end of the alley as the two men rolled back and forth across the filthy ground. Jim's strength was waning. His blows no longer had the force they once did. He tried to knee his opponent in the stomach, but the man brought up his leg and blocked it. With a sudden lurch, the man's fingers locked around the barrel of the pistol. Jim lunged out and pressed his weight against his foe's gun hand. He tried to jar the weapon loose. Despite his efforts, the man brought his other hand up. He struck Jim in the head and took the gun in his free hand.

  In desperation, Jim released his grip around the man's body to place both hands on the arm with the gun. The muzzle slowly rotated in his direction. He reared back and drove his forehead into the man's nose. A spray of blood erupted as the gun tumbled free. Jim reached out and wrapped his fingers around the pistol grip. He rolled away, brought the weapon up, and fired twice.

  For a few moments, he lay unmoving on his side as he stared at the supine form just a few feet away. Blood oozed from two gaping holes, one in the chest, and the other in the forehead. More gunfire wrenched him back to reality. He scrambled to his feet but had to lean against the wall for support. The alley spun crazily around him. Briefly, he wondered if he had aggravated his concussion with the head-butt. After a few vertigo-filled moments, he flicked the revolver's cylinder open to count his remaining rounds. Three shots left. With his left hand extended to the side for balance, he staggered along the litter-strewn asphalt.

  One of Richard's thugs lay in a crumpled heap beside the Buick. It appeared he was not breathing. The driver slumped on the ground in front of the hood. A trail of sticky blood led away from the gaping wound in his temple. Richard and his other henchman worked to flank the remaining gunman, who had taken cover in a recessed doorway. Jim crept up to the trunk of the Buick. He leaned out to his left and slid along the passenger side of the car. He positioned himself to keep the heavy metal of the engine block between himself and the shooter.

  Near the front of the Buick, he eased up over the hood and waited. Richard dashed forward, his pistol blasting. The shooter reflexively followed him. Jim took careful aim and fired. He was rewarded by a bright splash of blood on the bricks behind the shooter. His target flew back against the wall and slid out of sight.

  Richard dropped to one knee. He pointed his pistol up at the fire escape above them and fired. A scream of pain echoed through the alley, followed by the sound of flesh slapping against the grated metal platform. Jim clambered up the fire escape to find the man who had originally accosted them. The large man pressed a hand tightly to his thigh. Blood seeped between his fingers as he cried out in pain. Rich climbed up beside Jim. They stared down at the suddenly obsequious would-be assassin.

  Rich grabbed him by the hair and pulled him into a sitting position against the wall. He placed the muzzle of his pistol against the man's forehead. "Give me a good reason not to pull this trigger."

  "What . . . what do you want?"

  "What I came here for. Information."

  "I already told you." His eyes shifted to Jim. "Tony told us to kill him."

  Richard scowled and cocked the hammer back. The man gave a shrill scream. "I already know Tony wants Hunter dead," Richard said. "How did you know we were coming?"

  "Iceman! He called me! He said Bobby warned him that you were in the area!"

  "So you called Tony, and he told you to kill my friend, is that it?"

  "Yeah, that's everything!"

  Richard glanced up at Jim. "That doesn't sound like enough to keep him alive."

  "Yeah, you're probably right." Jim stuffed his pistol into his waistband and swung one leg back onto the ladder.

  "Wait!" Jim had to look away to conceal the grin on his face. Just a few minutes before, this man had played the part of a cold-blooded killer. Now, he was just another street thug.

  ""What, do you have more? Maybe a reason for me not to put a hole in your ugly face?"

  "Y-y-yes!"

  Richard nodded slowly, presenting a deceptively pleasant smile as he threaded a silencer onto the end of his pistol. "Well, speak up. What's your name?"

  "Big Eddie."

  "Okay, Edward. Talk to me."

  "Tony has a shipment going out today. Nothing major, at least as far as Tony is concerned. But he might be there, since it's his first one with a new buyer. Supposed to be about a kilo of coke."

  "Where? When?" Richard snapped his fingers rapidly. "Let's go. I don't have all day."

  While Big Eddie relayed what he knew of the coming transaction, Jim climbed back down the ladder to check on the six men lying in the street. Eddie's four men, the driver, and one of Richard's henchmen were dead. There were several bullet holes in the passenger side of the Buick, which was a problem. The police would be arriving
soon, and if they saw a car in the area with a half-dozen bullet holes, there would be trouble. He had already been framed for one murder. He didn't need to be blamed for several more. His throbbing head spun. He leaned against the car to catch his balance.

  Richard joined him in the street and waved to his remaining gunman. "Leave the guns. We'll wipe our prints off them and toss them in the dumpster. The cops will find them, but they won't be able to link them to us."

  "What about the car?" Jim asked, pointing to the passenger door.

  "Tommy, take these." Richard handed the weapons to his associate. From the trunk of the car, he removed a pair of magnetic signs, which proclaimed the car to be the property of Beckham Realty. He slapped the signs on the front doors, completely covering the battle scars. Police sirens sounded in the distance. The three climbed inside the Buick and drove slowly from the area. Tommy, behind the wheel of the Buick, pulled to the side as a pair of squad cars raced past, their lights flashing and sirens wailing. The officers never even glanced over.

  Jim shook his head. "I trained those guys. I always told them to shut the siren off when they were near the scene of a shooting."

  "It's just as well," Richard said as he scribbled notes into a small pad. "I'd rather know where they are. Okay, gentlemen. We have a drug deal to watch."

  "Do you think Big Eddie will warn them?"

  "No. I took care of it."

  #

  The delay at Customs had put Grigory behind schedule, but not disastrously so. It could have been much worse. Indeed, it almost was. Now there remained only one last task before finding the transportation waiting to take him to his next contact. He had to reclaim the packages.

  He didn't have to wait with everyone else at the baggage claim counter. By the time he had recovered from his "seizure" and convinced the EMT's he was okay, airport officials brought his one suitcase to him. They inspected his belongings and whisked him along through the airport on an electric cart. At his request, the driver took him to the long-term parking lot.