by Brent Pilkey
Another burst of applause saluted the news. Johanson waited for the ruckus to die down on its own before continuing. “The victim will probably be ID’d tomorrow during the autopsy by fingerprints.”
“Why can’t Jack just go look at him over at the morgue?” someone threw out from the back of the room.
“Because the victim’s face is missing. Apparently, someone put a shotgun to the back of his head and removed the front half of it. We’ll have to wait for the results. In the meantime —” the sergeant cracked a very rare grin “— I think we might be able to celebrate a bit tonight.”
More cheers.
“You buying, Sarge?”
“Fuck you, Townsend. All right, that’s it for now. Take ten, then get your asses back here for training. Jack, stay put.”
Once the room was clear, Johanson got serious. “You go home last night, Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“You married?”
“Yeah. Sarge, what —”
“What time did you get in?”
“After three. Why —”
“Can she confirm that?”
“I guess. What diff—” Then it hit him. “You’re shitting me, Sarge.”
Johanson put a hand on Jack’s shoulder, an act of physical contact even rarer than a grin. “I don’t think so, no, but a lot of people will. And some of those people will be looking at you very closely. I know this is good news to you, it’s great fucking news, but all I’m suggesting is that you shouldn’t act too happy about it.”
Jack nodded. “Thanks, Sarge. I won’t.”
“You don’t own a shotgun, do you, Jack?”
“No.”
“Even better. See you back here in ten.”
Jack headed upstairs to the report room, a tiny, cramped room — was there any other type in the station? — off the front desk. A day-shift officer was pecking away at a keyboard.
“Were you at the homicide scene today?” Jack asked without preamble.
The officer looked relieved to have a break from his blistering two-finger typing. “Yup, I was.”
“Did you see the body?”
“Fucking right I did.” His face brightened. “You shoulda seen it. Everything from here up —” he placed his hands just below his nose “— was missing. It was fucking awesome.”
“Was he wearing a Raptors jacket?”
“Yup, he was.” The officer suddenly looked worried, his Aw, shucks, ma’am, ’tweren’t nuttin’ country-boy face pale. “You didn’t know him, did you?”
“No, not really. Last question: was the jacket leather or nylon?”
“Lemme check.” The officer flipped through his memo book, searching, searching . . . searching. Jack wanted to rip the book from his hands and look himself. “Okay, here it is. Leather. It was a leather jacket.” Officer Country Boy looked at Jack hopefully. “That what you wanted to hear?”
Jack didn’t know if he should laugh or panic. “I guess so, thanks.”
Next stop: Major Crime. The door was closed and this time he remembered to knock. No answer, and the door was locked. “Damn.”
“Looking for me, Jack?” Mason stepped out of the stairway down by the Youth Bureau. He had a Subway sandwich bag and a full paper cup in one hand while he dug in his jacket pocket for keys with the other. “Come on in,” he invited when he got the door open. “I was expecting a visit from you today.” He set his lunch on his desk and shrugged out of his well worn leather jacket.
Mason settled behind his desk and took a long gulp of his drink, the ice cubes rattling clearly in the room’s stillness. “I know what you’re going to ask, and, no, we had nothing to do with killing Charles.”
Jack sighed in relief. “I’m sorry, Rick. It’s not that I really thought you —”
“But you weren’t exactly sure, either.” He smiled perceptively around a mouthful of sub. Swallowing, he added, “Shit, man. If I was in your place, I’d be thinking the same thing.”
“Then who?”
Mason shrugged and bit into his sub greedily. Talking as he chewed, he speculated, “Could have been anyone, really. Charles made a lot of enemies downtown with his push to take over the crack trade. It was only a matter of time before someone took a shot at him. I’m just surprised it was done so well. Normally, these mumble-fucks would drive by and empty a clip in his direction, hoping to get lucky. Whoever did this was determined not to miss.”
“Johanson talked to me on parade, implied I might need someone to vouch for my whereabouts last night.”
Mouth too full to speak, Mason nodded, a cynical frown on his face.
“You think I need one?”
Swallowing, Mason wiped mayonnaise off his lips. “Well, you certainly have reason to kill him and you were working last night, right? Now, the guys from Homicide aren’t all idiots and they’ll know there’s a whole host of suspects out there, but in order to appear impartial and open-minded they’ll have to take a look at you, if for no other reason than to cross you off as a suspect.” He chewed on his sub for a few seconds. “Karen was home when you got in last night, right?”
Jack nodded.
“Went straight home from work? No side trips to the girlfriend’s or anything like that?”
“Straight home. Got there around quarter to four.”
“And Karen can attest to that? Not that a wife’s word is the greatest alibi, you understand. Somewhat of a biased position. As long as the marriage is still good, that is.” A cocked eyebrow changed that last bit into a question.
“Yeah, we’re good.”
“All right. Let’s see. . . .” Mason hunted through some papers and came up with a printout of a radio call. “Here it is. A call for the sound of a gunshot came in at 3:27. Almost half an hour after you booked off work. Someone could argue that gave you plenty of time to drive around, find Charles and surgically remove his head from his shoulders with a shotgun. Drive home like a demon and still be in bed by four or so.”
He tossed the paper back onto the pile. “You didn’t tell anyone else about that little meeting you had with Charles, did you? If Homicide found out about that little tidbit, you’d jump to the top of the suspect list. Shit, you’d be the only name on the list.”
Jack shook his head emphatically. “Just the people who were here. No one else.”
“What about Manny? Could he have mentioned it to anyone?”
“He said he’d keep it to himself and I believe him. I’d trust him with my life.”
“Don’t say that too lightly — you just might be.” Mason leaned back in his chair and sipped his pop, using the straw this time. He abruptly banged the chair back down on its four feet. “Tell you what: after work last night, you came here and we shot the shit for a while. You left around 3:30. It’s better than relying on Karen’s statement and it puts you at the station at the time of the shooting.”
“Thanks, Rick, I appreciate it, but why are you doing this for me?”
Mason waved away the thanks. “I know what it’s like to have Professional Standards or Homicide sniffing around you. It’s a pain in the ass you can do without. If they ask, tell them we talked about the charges against Charles and why they were dropped ’cause you were still pissed off about it.”
Jack smiled. “But not pissed off enough to go kill him.”
“You’re a smart lad. Now fuck off and let me work. Oh, and Jack?” he called when Jack reached the door. “Two things: first, this conversation never took place and, second, now you know why you should knock before coming in.”
The shift passed by in a swirl of emotions, the headiest being relief. Charles was permanently out of the picture and along with him went the threats against Karen. True, she would be royally pissed if she ever found out a threat had existed, but he figured he could justify his silence.
Manny was ecstatic over Jack’s good fortune and never complained when Jack stood mutely at calls, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. As the hour of eleven approached, they asked for and got
the okay to go one and one — taking an hour of time off at the end of shift in lieu of banking the lunch hour they had not been able to take — and made a beeline for the station.
Jack grabbed the duty bags while Manny unloaded the shotgun. Between his duty bag, lunch cooler, soco kit and camera and taking out a shotgun, Manny had to make at least two trips to load and unload the car if he was working solo. Jack held the door open for his partner, who trundled past like some overloaded, clanking Sherpa.
Jack ran into Jenny outside the report room.
“Coming out tonight?” she asked. “Reason to celebrate.”
“Not this time. Think I’ll just head home and share the good news with Karen.”
“In shape, intelligent and considerate. Why are all the good ones taken?” she mourned.
“Maybe we just seem that much better because we are taken,” he suggested, shrugging.
“Maybe,” she agreed reluctantly, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “But you’ll let me know if you ever become available, right?”
“Absolutely,” he promised and darted into the change room when he felt himself blushing. Jenny’s laughter chased him in.
The lights were on when Jack pulled into the driveway just before midnight. He would have been home earlier, but he had stopped along the way to pick up flowers again. Same store, but this time the flowers looked fresh. He sat behind the wheel listening to the engine ticking as it cooled off in the autumn air. How do I break good news like this? Great news, hon! Guess who was murdered today at work? Jack laughed at himself. Probably not the best approach. Screw it, I’ll wing it.
Stepping inside, he called out, “Karen? You upstairs or down?” He kicked the door shut behind him and toed off his shoes. “Karen?” He took two steps into the front hall and sharp pain exploded behind his right ear and everything went black.
His eyelids flickered and the pain greeted him enthusiastically. Groaning, he rolled onto his stomach and felt carpet beneath his hands. When he tried to lift his head, his belly heaved as the pain radiated in great nauseating waves from a spot behind his ear. Clamping his teeth shut, he fought the urge to puke and waited for the pain to subside to a more manageable level.
Jack thought he heard someone calling his name. Karen? Maybe, but everything sounded fuzzy, as if she was phoning from far away and there was a really bad connection. Gritting his teeth and telling himself he would not puke, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, his head hanging between his arms.
Slowly, he opened his eyes to a world of vague and distorted images. Were those his hands? He wiggled his fingers, and the shadowy blobs moved appropriately. He felt the carpet under his hands. Carpet meant the living room. He remembered being in the front hall when . . . when what?
He could hear Karen calling his name. She sounded like she was crying, but he couldn’t focus his thoughts. What was going on?
Something smashed into his ribs, lifting him off the floor and dumping him on his back. His head seemed to hurt less with this new agony in his ribs. Jack clutched his side and stared at a spinning ceiling, willing it to slow, to stop.
A dark shape blocked out the revolving ceiling. A face? It had to be a face because words came out of it. The words were fuzzy, but he could understand them.
“I’m surprised you’re awake so soon. You must have one fucking thick skull.”
Hands grabbed his shirt and hauled him to a sitting position. His head and ribs tried to outscream each other.
“Get up, you murdering son of a bitch. Get up.”
Whoever was behind him was pulling on his shirt and Jack helped as much as he could; he sure as hell didn’t want to fall down. When he reached his feet, he was spun around on wobbly legs and thrown backward. He braced for a painful impact but landed on the couch. It still hurt, and he cried out, but he could have landed on the floor or coffee table.
That dark shape was in front of his eyes again. “Wake up, motherfucker.” Something hit the side of his head. A slap. Another slap, this time from the other side. “I said, wake the fuck up!” Two more sharp blows in quick succession.
Jack’s vision cleared. The pain in his head was still trying to burn conscious thought from his mind, but his eyes slowly cleared. And he could see who was slapping him.
Anthony Charles.
“Surprised to see me, motherfucker?” He gripped Jack by the hair and jerked his head back. “Thought you killed me, didn’t you? Well, I got fucking news for you, motherfucker. I ain’t dead, but pretty soon, you will be. You and your little bitch here.”
Charles moved aside and there was Karen, duct-taped to a dining room chair between the two wing chairs. She was terrified, and rivers of tears coursed down her cheeks, red from where Charles had hit her. She was wearing one of his old blue police shirts.
Oh, God, Karen, you were waiting up for me!
Jack tried to soothe her. “It’s okay, honey. Everything’s going to be fine. Trust me.”
Then Charles was between them. “Trust you? Why should she trust a murdering fuck like you?”
Murder? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Slowly, carefully, Jack swung his head side to side, the closest he dared to shaking it.
Charles leapt at him, smashing something hard against Jack’s head. Jack cried out and crumpled sideways onto the couch. Charles hauled him upright again. His vision was spinning wildly, and he felt himself slipping away, but Charles wouldn’t let him go. He grabbed Jack by the throat and pinned him to the back of the couch. With his other hand, he jammed a gun against Jack’s cheek.
At least I know what he hit me with. A morbid little voice deep inside Jack chuckled at the thought.
“Don’t lie to me! Don’t fucking lie to my face!” Charles ground the gun barrel into Jack’s cheekbone. His eyes were wide and wild, beyond reason. “You killed Sean, you fuck! You killed him!”
Sean? Suddenly everything made sense to Jack. Everyone, even Jack, thought it was Charles who had been killed. The gloves, the leather Raptors jacket.
“He was wearing your jacket,” Jack mumbled, his mouth not wanting to work properly.
“I gave it to him, you fuck! I gave it to him ’cause he liked it so much, and you killed him!” Charles howled, a pain Jack understood all too well choking his cries.
“I didn’t kill him. I didn’t even know about it till this afternoon when I got to work. Why would I kill him?”
“’Cause you thought it was me! Me!” Charles dug the gun in again, forcing Jack’s head back.
Staring along the barrel, Jack said as calmly and clearly as he could, “I didn’t kill Sean.”
“Yes. You. Did.” Charles punctuated every word by pressing the gun harder and harder against Jack’s cheek. Jack could feel the bone grinding beneath the metal and the warm trickle of blood as skin gave way. “But now, I’m going to make things even.” Charles tore the gun away and walked over to Karen.
“No, don’t. Please,” Jack begged, but Charles only smiled, an evil smirk, and placed the barrel gently against her temple.
“You killed my brother, I kill your bitch.” He cocked the hammer back and for the first time Jack recognized the gun as a revolver, a big one. There would be no surviving a shot from that range.
“I didn’t kill your brother!” Jack yelled. He lurched forward on the couch, his ribs crying out and his head threatening to burst. He made it as far as sitting up straight, then slid off the couch to his knees. His hands on the coffee table were all that kept him from collapsing face first onto the carpet. Or so he wanted Charles to think. The pain in his head was excruciating, but he could handle it; he’d had worse with his migraines. He could fight through it.
“You think I’m going to believe your lies, motherfucker?” Charles was still distraught but seemed more in control of himself. Jack didn’t know if that was good. “First you frame me, then you almost shoot me in the back and now you want me to believe your lies?”
Karen was silent, an unwilling witness. Her
life hung on her husband’s actions and words.
“You did kill my partner. I saw you.”
Charles laughed. “Just like every fucking other cop. If you can’t catch a brother one way, just make up some lies. You’re like every other fucking white motherfucker out there — can’t stand to see a brother doing good for himself and his family.”
“Doing good? By selling crack?” Jack straightened his arms, then sagged, as if too weak to stand.
“I’ll sell to anyone who wants to buy. White, black, chinks, I don’t care. If a nigger’s stupid enough to use that shit, then he ain’t no good to me.”
“Your mother smoked crack.”
“Yeah. She was a stupid bitch. Five years old and I knew better than her, asked her not to, but she didn’t listen. Didn’t care. Just kept turning tricks for her rock. And look what that shit did to my brother. She did that to him by smoking that shit! Nobody cared. All they saw was a knocked-up nigger getting high. You think if she’d been white nobody woulda cared? Shit! Child Services woulda been all over her, ‘for the sake of the baby.’ But she was just another fucked-up nigger.”
“So you sell to your own kind?” Jack’s hand went to the growing lump behind his ear and came away bloody.
“If niggers are stupid enough to smoke it, I’ll sell it to them.”
Jack laughed, a hoarse, ragged sound. “Your mother smokes crack and fucks up your brother, makes him a retard, and you blame society.” He laughed again, baiting Charles, taunting him. “And you fucking killed him by selling that shit.”
“What the fuck did you say?” Charles swung the gun toward Jack.
Jack drew himself upright on one knee, swaying, one hand on the coffee table to steady himself. Come on, fucker. Closer.
“You killed Sean by selling that shit. You think you could just come in and take over without pissing anyone off?” He barked a laugh, scornful and demeaning. “Somebody was bound to come after you and they got Sean by mistake. I didn’t kill your brother. You did. You killed Sean.”
“Fucker!” Charles came at him, gun held stiffly out at arm’s length as if he intended to spear Jack with it.
Jack lunged, driving in his legs with all the power he could muster. There was a red-orange flash, a deafening blast, and something hot and hard punched into his right shoulder. An instant later he crashed into Charles, taking him around the stomach. They toppled into the chair his father-in-law had so recently berated him from, and then onto the floor.
