by K'wan
“Listen, Grady, I can explain—”
“Save it,” she waved him silent. “I got the short version on the way over here. The plan was for you to come in and negotiate the deal while tactical teams moved into place, then leave and let them do the rest, not go John Rambo and shoot up the damn place! Jesus, Wolf, sometimes I think you’re trying to get yourself kicked off the force.”
“All I’m trying to do is good police work,” Wolf told her.
“Since when did making things up as you go along become good police work? It was a simple buy-and-bust and you turned it into a shoot-out,” Grady scolded him. “And speaking of buy, where’s the buy money? They said the briefcase was empty.”
“The buy money is in the car. What, did you think I stole it?” Wolf asked sarcastically.
“That’s not what I meant, Wolf. It’s just that everything has to be accounted for or it falls on me.”
“Whatever you say, sergeant. The money is in the car. You’re more than welcome to count it to make sure I didn’t pinch anything off the top.”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Wolf, I know you think I’m busting your balls, but I’m just trying to look out for you. With the rash of reckless police activity against the public, they’re really cracking down trying to save face. You can’t keep at this lone-wolf thing.”
“Look, the important thing is we accomplished our goal by taking another scumbag and his drugs off the streets. That was the game plan and I got it done; I don’t see what the big deal is about how I got it done.”
“The big deal is that you not only put your team in jeopardy by jumping the gun, you put civilians at risk!” Grady said heatedly. “How much of this cowboy shit do you think those people downtown are gonna take before they bury you in a hole somewhere and hand your mama a folded flag along with their condolences?”
“They can do what they like, but it isn’t gonna change how I do my job. If I have to knock a few heads to get it done, then heads will be knocked. This is the fucking jungle, not the golf course. They’re playing for keeps and so am I. When the brass decides they wanna climb from behind those nice desks and get out here in the trenches, then they can tell me how to work these streets.”
“James,” Grady called him now by his first name, “I come from the same thing you come from, so don’t try it with me. You’ve already dodged one bullet by the skin of your teeth and the next fuck-up is likely to have you out on your ass or brought up on charges. I know how hard it is trying to make a difference out here, but pissing on the rules isn’t going to help.”
“I’m not pissing on the rules, I’m just rewriting them,” Wolf said smugly.
Grady was about to respond when a uniformed officer walked up and whispered something in her ear. A sour expression crossed her face. “What do they want with him?” she asked, not hiding the fact that she was annoyed.
“I don’t know, ma’am. I was just told to relay the message,” the officer answered before leaving.
“Everything okay?” Wolf asked.
“Why don’t you tell me? Your presence has just been requested at the scene of a homicide.”
Wolf scoffed. “I don’t answer to homicide, I’m narcotics. So tell whatever lieutenant is requesting me that I don’t get sent for like some lackey.”
“It wasn’t a lieutenant who sent for you. This summons came from Captain Marx directly.”
CHAPTER 2
It was just before dawn when the call came in. A basehead looking for a discrete spot to blast off had crept in through an open back door of the building and discovered the body. He called it in to the police, hoping to get a reward to put toward his next high, but all he got was detained for questioning. A wall of uniformed officers ringed the perimeter, keeping everyone at a safe distance so as not to contaminate the crime scene. Since word got out, the block had turned into a circus of media and concerned citizens wondering about the heavy police presence in the normally quiet neighborhood.
The black-on-black Escalade drew more than a few curious stares when it rolled to a stop at the curb, twenty-two-inch chrome rims twinkling in the morning sun. 2Pac’s “All Eyez on Me” poured through the sound system when the car door swung open and Detective Wolf oozed from behind the wheel. He’d made a pit stop along the way over to change out of the clothes he’d been wearing at the bust and was now dressed in a black sweatsuit with a black bandanna tied around his head. His whole aura screamed thug, and the crowd gave him a wide berth as he approached the crime scene.
A ruddy-faced youth in a baggy blue uniform, who had obviously seen one too many reruns of NYPD Blue, moved to cut Wolf off. His face was sour and his hand lingered near his gun when he spoke. “Move it along, homie. They ain’t giving away no free turkeys today, this is police business.”
Wolf took a long drag off his cigarette and let the smoke spill from his nostrils. “I see you got jokes,” he laughed. “Stand aside before you find yourself disciplined for trying to be a comedian.” He reached to lift the police tape, so he could duck under and enter the crime scene, but the officer grabbed him about the wrist. Wolf’s eyes traveled up from the officer’s hand to his face. His lips drew back into a sneer, making him look every bit of the animal he was named after. “I’ll give you until the count of three before I put you on the news.” His hands balled into two tight fists.
“You threatening me?” The officer now gripped his weapon, his other hand still holding Wolf’s wrist.
“One . . .”
Another blue shirt approached. “What’s going on over here?”
“Two . . .”
“Stand down, officers,” a gruff voice called out before Wolf could finish his count. A pale man, who looked like he hadn’t been getting enough sun, emerged from the church doorway. A thick salt-and-pepper beard almost completely hid his upper lip. The captain’s bars on his white shirt glistened in the sun as if they were made of real gold.
At the sight of the captain the young officer released Wolf’s arm and took a step back. Both he and the second officer stood straight as boards, trying to look the part of model law enforcement in the presence of their superior.
“What the hell are you doing?” Captain Marx asked.
“We were just trying to keep the crime scene clear of rabble-rousers like you asked, sir,” the ruddy-face officer spoke up.
“You’ve got one more chance to call me by anything other than my name and I’m gonna put your lights out,” Wolf warned the young officer.
“You raise your hand in the presence of your captain and I’ll make sure you spend the next six months sucking fumes at the Holland Tunnel while you’re directing rush hour traffic, detective!” Captain Marx snapped.
“Detective?” the two uniformed officers said in unison.
Wolf pulled out the gold rope chain from inside his sweat jacket and flashed the badge hanging from the end of it. “Detective James Wolf.”
“Lone Wolf James,” the second officer spat, as if the words tasted like ash in his mouth. James Wolf had quite the reputation amongst his peers and superiors.
“My friends call me Wolf, and we ain’t friends, so Detective Wolf is fine. Now get the fuck out of my way so I can do my job.” He ducked under the tape and brushed past the two officers.
“Must you make a grand entrance every time you go somewhere, Jimmy?” Captain Marx asked, leading him up the church steps.
“I prefer Wolf or James, if you must. And I get my grand old entrances from my daddy,” he said with an easy smile. His father, James “Jimmy” Wolf Sr., had been a blues singer in the late ’70s and early ’80s. He loved to sing, but he loved cocaine more, and it was his first love that put him in an early grave and left James Jr. and his mother alone and struggling. “So, what’s so important that a police captain calls on a wretch like me at the crack of dawn?”
“Don’t get cute with me, Wolf. Under these bars and this white shirt I’m still the same guy who used to knock your skinny ass around the ring w
hen I was training you,” Captain Marx reminded him. Many years prior, Wolf was one of the young kids who had joined the boxing program at the Police Athletic League where Marx volunteered as a trainer. Back then Wolf was barely one hundred pounds, but he was faster than any man Marx had ever seen. He could’ve been a great fighter, but didn’t have the discipline to focus more on boxing than the streets.
“I hit a lot harder now than I did when I was fourteen,” Wolf told him.
“I guess one of these weekends we can climb back in the ring and see what you’ve learned, but that’ll have to wait. Right now, let’s focus on police business.”
“What’s going on, cap?” Wolf asked, suddenly feeling uneasy about the look on Marx’s face. Clearly, whatever he had brought Wolf there to see had him troubled, and it took a lot to trouble a man like Captain Marx.
The captain didn’t bother to answer. Instead, he turned on his heels and walked inside the church. Wolf stood there for a few moments, staring up at the stonework of the church. Standing in the massive building’s shadow made him uneasy. His gut began churning. It was as if his feet simply touching the steps of the church soiled them . . . made them unclean, like him, and with every step he took toward the arched entrance, the corruption spread.
When Wolf crossed the threshold of the church, the first thing he noticed was the smell. It was a combination of mothballs and death. He ignored the detectives and uniformed officers whose eyes followed him as he trailed Captain Marx into the chapel. Once there, it only took a second for him to spot it. Every other eye in the room was turned to it too. There was a series of flashes as a medical examiner snapped pictures of the crime scene from different angles. Suspended above the altar of the church was obviously what had Captain Marx so rattled.
The victim was a Caucasian man who looked to be somewhere in his late fifties, though it was hard to tell for sure considering his condition. He was suspended from the ceiling by chains, like a side of beef in a butcher’s freezer. Wolf could see where the steel hooks snaked beneath his skin, stretching it so much in some spots that it looked like it was about to tear away from his body. The blood-soaked white collar around his neck said that he was a priest, or at least he had been before someone strung him up. Now he was just meat dripping onto the wood floor.
“Nasty piece of work, isn’t it?” Captain Marx said.
“More like sick! Who would carve up a priest like that?” Wolf asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out. Father Fleming was a good man. No enemies to speak of.”
“You mean no enemies that you know of. Nobody gets dusted for nothing, especially not a priest. What kind of fucked-up individual would do something like this?”
“I was hoping that you could tell me.”
“Me?” For the last few years Wolf had been working in narcotics. Homicide wasn’t his bag.
Before the Captain Marx could clue him in, they were interrupted by two approaching men. The first was dark-skinned, with a tapered Afro and wearing a wrinkled green suit. The second was a tall Latino man dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt. Gold badges were visible on both of them.
“What’s he doing here? This isn’t a drug case,” Detective Brown, the one with the Afro, said.
“Blood always brings the wolves out,” Wolf responded, just to get under the detective’s skin. There was no love lost between the two.
“Well, no pets are allowed in here, so why don’t you let your master take you for a walk, dog,” the second man, Detective Alvarez, said before crossing his heavily tattooed arms.
Wolf’s brow furrowed. He was being tested. “If you’re trying to be funny, I got a joke that I wanna share too, only you have to step outside for me to tell it.”
“What’re you gonna do, shoot us and try to put it down on the books as righteous, like you did your last partner?” Detective Brown said scornfully. It was a low blow and he knew it.
Before Wolf realized what he was doing, he lunged for Detective Brown. The two detectives began tussling, with Wolf wrapping his hands around Brown’s neck, trying to choke the breath from his body.
“Enough!” Captain Marx tried to pull the men apart, but they were locked onto each other like pit bulls. It took the combined efforts of Marx and Alvarez to separate them.
“Smile, officers!” someone called out. When they turned around, a photographer who had slipped into the church began snapping pictures.
“Who let him in here? Get that son of a bitch out of here and confiscate that damn camera!” Captain Marx raged. Two uniformed officers grabbed the photographer and dragged him from the church. “Have the both of you lost your fucking minds?” He looked back and forth between the two scrapping detectives.
“Your boy has got a smart fucking mouth,” Wolf said, staring daggers at Detective Brown.
“Then why don’t you come and close it for me?” Brown challenged.
Wolf took a step in his direction, but Captain Marx blocked his path. “Don’t push your luck with me, Jimmy. I’m still your boss.”
“James,” Wolf grumbled.
Captain Marx ignored him and turned to Detective Brown. “Why don’t you take a walk and cool off.”
“You can’t be serious,” Detective Brown said.
“Captain, with all due respect, this is our crime scene,” Detective Alvarez declared.
“And it’ll still be your crime scene when you get back,” Captain Marx replied.
Detective Alvarez wanted to argue, but he knew it would be pointless: Marx outranked him. “Come on, you know we ain’t got no wins when it comes to the captain’s pet dog.” He patted Detective Brown on the chest, and led him to the door.
Detective Brown was so angry that you could almost see steam rising from his head. Before he left the chapel, he stopped short and stared at Wolf. “One of these days the captain isn’t going to be around to save your ass. If you’re not careful, you might find yourself the victim of friendly fire, just like Dutton.” He winked at Wolf and left the room.
“Are you intentionally trying to get yourself kicked off the force?” Captain Marx asked Wolf once the other two detectives were gone.
“Hey, if I have to lose my job because I won’t let assholes like Brown disrespect me, then so be it.”
“So what, you gonna sock everybody in the chin who says something hurtful to you? If that’s the case, you’re gonna have a whole lot of fighting to do.”
Wolf snorted. “I been fighting all my life, that ain’t nothing new. You of all people should know that.”
“Yeah, kid. You’re a fighter, and I’ve seen you put quite a few people on their asses, but there’s one you’ve never been able to beat.”
“Bullshit, I never lost a fight in the ring!” Wolf countered.
Captain Marx placed his hand on Wolf’s shoulder. “I’m not talking about the ring, kid, I’m talking about that ghost you keep swinging at and can’t seem to hit. When are you gonna let it go?”
Wolf wished it was that simple. He wished he could put what he was feeling in the bottom of a file cabinet with the official report, that he could wash away the evils of the job in booze like most cops did, but blood didn’t wash off him so easily. “I know you didn’t call me here to discuss my service record. What gives, captain?” he asked, ignoring the question.
“I was hoping you could help give me some insight into what we’re dealing with.” Captain Marx nodded toward the dead body. “At a glance, how would you call it?”
Wolf walked to the edge of the police tape and examined the body. “The blood splatter patterns are what I would look at first,” Wolf began. “You see the way the ones around the body are drying already and the ones pooling under the body are still wet? They’re older, and from the way they’re spraying away from the body,” he pointed to the faint splotches of blood just beyond the police tape, “I’d say he was hung on the chains while he was still alive. His throat was cut later. The killer wanted him to suffer, which means it was pers
onal and not some random killing.”
Captain Marx nodded. “Very good. It’s nice to know that there’s still a cop hiding somewhere beneath that chip you’re carrying around on your shoulder.”
“Okay, so somebody whacked a priest, my heart is bleeding. I still don’t see what it has to do with me. Like your boys said, I’m narcotics and they’re homicide. Let those two idiots work the case.”
“They are going to work the case, but I need you to solve it. And the quicker the better,” Captain Marx said with a nervous edge to his voice.
Wolf picked up on his superior’s uneasiness. “Captain, what is it about this murder that you aren’t telling me?”
“I fear that the chickens may be coming home to roost,” Captain Marx answered in a defeated tone. Before explaining further, he led Wolf to a quiet corner away from the crime scene. He spared a glance over his shoulder before reaching into his pocket and producing a plastic baggie, which he discretely passed to Wolf.
Wolf examined the strange flower inside. It looked almost like a water lily, only it was as black as night. “What is it?”
“Temporarily misplaced evidence,” Captain Marx said with a sly grin. “It’s a Nelumbo lutea, also known as the American lotus.”
“I’ve seen lotuses before, but never a black one.” Wolf handed the flower back to Captain Marx.
“I have, and I’ve prayed that I’d never see one again. I’ve only seen one up close once in my life before this, and it was at the scene of a multiple homicide, even more fucked up than this one. We were looking for a little girl who had been kidnapped by a Mexican cartel. Thanks to an anonymous tip we were able to track them to a warehouse out near the airport. Now keep in mind that these were highly trained and ruthless killers, so when we go in we’re already expecting the worst, but none of us expected what we encountered when we got inside.”
