by Luis Samways
“Wake the fuck up!” he screamed as he flung his fist into the drywall next to him.
He was pacing by now, like an animal caged by rage. He was staring at his prey, still wide-eyed, yet out of it. He decided to slap Jesse Foster around the face. Maybe that would wake him up.
“Wake up!” he screamed as he let out a barrage of slaps at the captive man’s face.
Jesse Foster opened his eyes to the sight of The Mexican staring daggers into him.
“Bueno, you’re awake. I was afraid I was going to have to do something rash then,” he said as he started to nod his head in a trance-like state.
“What do you want with me?” Jesse Foster managed to mutter as he struggled with the restraints that bound him.
“What do I want?” laughed The Mexican. “What do I want? Every single bit of you mailed off to your damn family! Now shut the hell up and let me get to work!” he screamed as he grabbed a saw from his workbench beside him. The derelict building they were in was screaming its empty tone of silence. It was soon filled with the tones of savagery and bloodshed. It would soon be evident that the police should take The Mexican seriously. Sooner rather than later.
Nineteen
I watched in horror as “my guy” showed up on the CCTV as clear as day. I say “as clear as day,” but it wasn’t. It was far from clear. I knew it was him, though. I could tell. He had the exact same hat and was wearing the exact same clothes. I was certain it was the guy Mullins and I had run across at the donut shop.
Santiago smiled as he saw my expression deepen. I could feel the cracks in my forehead flex as I frowned at the low-res image on the monitor.
“So, you’re adamant that this is the guy. You are absolutely sure, Frank?” he asked as I stared at the scraggy CCTV screen.
It was sucking me in deeper than I would have liked. All I could see was red. The big red sombrero the shooter was wearing. It was exactly the same hat I’d seen. It was the exact same shape. I knew those kinds of hats were very customizable. It was rare to see someone wearing the same one, down to the shape and texture. It was just plain uncommon.
“Get Mullins down here. I’m positive this is the guy. He saw him, too. I wouldn’t be wrong about a thing like this. I’m telling you. He’s the guy.”
Santiago just looked at the screen in doubt. I could see his skepticism from a mile away. He practically stank of it.
“I’m telling you. It’s a lead,” I said, sounding flustered and unhinged.
I reached for another pill and swallowed it dry.
“I’m not sure whether you’re supposed to take those heartburn pills so excessively. They can give you gas,” said Santiago.
“Oh, well,” I muttered as I continued to study the CCTV.
I had a slight empty feeling making its way through my mind. It was as if a black hole was eating away at my brain cells. I was feeling weak. I knew these were the symptoms of an oncoming episode of the voices. I had to drown them out by any means. That was why I was eating my medication like it was candy. I needed out of this trance. I needed out of my shitty condition. Sometimes it was just too much.
I heard Santiago’s voice break me from my haze.
“Yeah, we might have a lead. Frank is adamant he recognizes the shooter. Says he saw him yesterday on patrol. Something about the big red hat. Yeah, I’ll tell him,” Santiago said as he talked into his expensive-looking cell phone.
I watched him slide the screen lock. He popped the phone into his jacket and shot me a look. I knew this was going to be a struggle. No one took me seriously. They only took my police work seriously when I was caving someone’s head in. At least, that’s what it felt like. The time I actually manage to help my colleagues out is the time they begin to think I’m not suited for the job. Too many bad things have happened, yet they keep me around. Why? It boggles my brain. Why keep me around if I’m so damn dangerous? Why keep me around if no one is going to take my leads seriously?
“So?” I asked as I started to feel a little more unstable. I decided to stop looking at the monitor. It was giving me eyestrain.
“Chief Shaw wants you down at the station. He wants a word.”
I nodded.
“Let me guess. He doesn’t believe me?”
Santiago smiled.
“It’s not that. He does believe you, it’s just Mullins has come across a body.”
My eyes widened with excitement.
“A body? How? When?”
Santiago patted me on the shoulder. I could sense he was holding something back.
“And you’re not going to guess what he found!”
“Fuck sake, spit it out,” I said, sounding as annoyed as I knew I looked.
“Well, Mullins came across an abandoned van. It was called in earlier this morning. Inside the van was a male victim. The report coming in matches our kidnapped victim from here.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“The guy is dead? How is that good news?” I asked.
“On his head, the killer placed a miniature party hat. A red one. A kid’s sombrero.”
I immediately felt my blood curdle as I imagined the scene.
“Fuck. That’s a bit spooky,” I managed as I took a deep breath.
“Looks like your guy is our number-one suspect. As you said, it’s highly unlikely someone innocent in Boston is strolling around with a big red sombrero. It looks like the hat is a calling card.”
I nodded in agreement.
“Calling card? For what?” I found myself asking.
Santiago just shrugged.
“I don’t know, McKenzie. Seeing that you are so obsessed with the hat, I’ll leave that up to you to figure out.”
My head began to spin. Damn voices were coming, I could feel it.
“I guess so,” I said under my breath. The taste of coffee was making me feel thirsty. My mouth was feeling dry.
Takes a killer to know a killer, the voice in my head said.
Santiago and I left the café. I didn’t manage to grab another coffee. I was more concerned with the fascist voice in my dome, mocking me, irritating me, controlling me.
“Screw this,” I said quietly as the Boston air hit my face.
Santiago caught my glum look and nudged me on the shoulder. “Cheer up. You’re smelling like roses at the minute. I’ll be surprised if the chief doesn’t want to suck you off for this!”
I managed a laugh, even if it was a pathetic one.
We got into Santiago’s car and made our way down to PD.
Twenty
Nick Evans was bored. He was contemplating drinking himself silly once more. He had decided against that sooner than he had thought. A slight murmur of responsibility ran through his head.
“Look at me being all responsible,” he muttered as he stared at the bar’s shutters, peering through the dark windows from the outside.
“Goddamn, hurry up,” he said, looking at his watch.
He was experiencing some severe claustrophobia. He didn’t like being enclosed and trapped. It felt as if he didn’t have anywhere to go, which was a fact, seeing he as was locked inside a closed bar. There was no telling when the owner would get there. He didn’t even know what day it was. He had lost track of everything. He could be locked in for days. Maybe it was Sunday. Maybe the owner was at church. Maybe the business had foreclosed, and he would never get out of there.
It was safe to say that Nick Evans was panicking. He had a lot on his mind, after all. He had just witnessed his childhood friend sell everything they had worked for. The business was gone. His job was gone. In his mind, his friend was also gone. Gone from distant memory. No longer a factor in his life. He didn’t have time to be wasting on the thought process of Jesse or their failed business.
It was history anyway. Old history that Nick Evans was sure wouldn’t repeat itself. He wasn’t looking to open any businesses anymore. He wasn’t looking for anything but revenge. He was fed up, and he needed someone to take it out on.
&n
bsp; “Yeah, I bet you’re suffering, you son of a bitch,” Nick laughed to himself.
His cackle echoed off the empty bar.
“Goddamn it, someone fucking show up already!”
He looked at his watch.
“Five o’clock?” he said out loud. He was dismayed at how much time he had actually spent locked away. “This is a fucking joke,” he sputtered as he grabbed a bottle and threw it at the mirror standing behind the bar. It shattered into a billion bespoke pieces. He wasn’t interested in the damage he was causing. He was more interested in finding a way out.
It hadn’t panned out well before. He had spent more than three hours looking for an exit. The bathroom didn’t have a damn window. He wasn’t too pleased with that fact. It pissed him off. He could get the place closed down for that. He was thinking that a lawsuit was in order.
“Locked up with no exit” would be his case.
He had also noticed that the front door was heavily bolted from the outside. Not to mention the shutters were stopping him from just breaking a window and jumping out of the front. The shutters were too large and heavy to move. There was no way of accessing them without a key to the security panel beside the door. Nick had bashed the box a few times, but it was useless.
“Fuck!!!!!” he screamed, louder this time.
After a few more hours, he had given up. He was lying on his back in the middle of the bar. The floor there was also sticky. The black concrete had a slight breezy feel to it. He could feel the fresh air riding up his back. He had a placid look on his face. He couldn’t quite be bothered to show any more emotion. He was all tuckered out. He was beyond annoyed. He was ready to sleep again. After all, it had just become nighttime, and it would mark the second evening he had spent in the bar. Granted, the night before had been a lot more fun, but it seemed that him falling asleep in the toilet had cost him a lot more than a few more scars on his liver.
Suddenly there was a noise. It had awoken him. He had fallen asleep. He quickly looked at his watch. It was 9 p.m. It wasn’t that late, but he figured he was bored shitless, hence him falling asleep at such an early time of the evening.
He sat up in anticipation. Could this be his rescue? Could he finally be out of his captivity?
“Hello? Anybody there?” he said aloud. His voice sounded squeaky. It was nearly breaking under the silence. He figured that he was scared. A lot more afraid than he had first realized.
A few beads of sweat were making their way down his back. They made him jiggle in anticipation. Then the locked door next to the bar had unlocked, and someone stepped through it. A man holding a crate of JD plunked the crate onto the counter and winced as he held his back. He then spotted Nick looking blankly at him.
“Goddamn it! Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my damn bar?” the man asked as he stepped back, nearly knocking the hanging spirits off the shelf as he clambered in fear.
“You locked me in. I was here last night. Fucking fell asleep in the toilet. When I woke up, the place was shut. I couldn’t get out. I’ve been here since last night!” Nick found himself spewing as he sat up, angrier than he had ever felt before. Even angrier than he felt toward his former friend Jesse.
“Oh, man. That sucks. So sorry about that. Have you taken anything from the bar?”
Nick immediately clenched his fist as he walked toward the clambering man.
“Of course I did. I had to drink something. I only took water. But if it’s money you’re worried about, you should take into consideration the letter you’ll be receiving from my damn lawyer.”
The man looked at Nick and slumped his shoulders in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know you were locked in. Let me fix you up some dinner.”
Before the man could move and Nick could react, a gunshot was fired. The man behind the bar hit the deck. Nick gasped in horror. A figure made its way through the door next to the bar.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” the voice said.
Nick breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh, it’s you. What the hell did you do that for? Never mind, did you sort Jesse out?” he asked the man with hat.
“Yeah. All that needs sorting is you now,” he said.
Nick frowned. Before he realized what was about to happen, it was too late. The Mexican had shot him between the eyes.
“Buenos noches, perra,” he said as tucked his gun away and got to work.
Twenty-One
We stepped into Chief Shaw’s dingy office, and I was the first to sit down. My legs were betraying me. They wanted to stand, but I wanted to sit. My head was a little slanted to the right. I felt as if I had a weighted-down brain inside my skull. It was pressing down on my central cortex, crushing my neck inward. In other words, I felt like shit.
Shaw could see my lack of health as I fiddled around with his desk, scraping my thumbnail against the corner of the wood, chipping away at it like a dust mite would.
Santiago followed; he sat down and raised his leg over his knee, and sprawled back into the rickety seat that occupied the ill-furnished office. The smell of tobacco and whiskey welcomed me into consciousness as I eyed the Chief as he waffled through some papers. He was too busy to notice me and Santiago glaring daggers at his rudeness.
“So?” I said aloud, feeling impatient and high-strung.
Chief Shaw looked up at us over his rimmed reading glasses and puffed out his fat cheeks.
“So, McKenzie, you pulled through, just like I knew you would. You see, you have a knack for this, don’t you? Star detective and all,” he said, focusing back on his papers.
“A knack? I would call it more of a common sense factor, sir,” I replied, not receiving the double-edged obtuse compliment very well.
“Well, whatever you call it, you came through. I’ve been thinking. Maybe the suspension was a little harsh,” he continued as he stacked the papers in an orderly manner.
“Harsh? I don’t know. You made quite a convincing argument,” I said, throwing a sideways look at Santiago as I smiled.
“Be that as it may, I can’t let my star detective face a blemish on his already colorful sheet of good deeds.”
My face wasn’t exactly hiding the fact that I was pissed off. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my smokes.
“Sir, with all due respect, you can shove your sheet up your ass.”
Santiago started to chuckle as he grabbed a cigarette off me and chucked me a light.
“Okay. Duly noted,” Shaw muttered as he sat up and looked me straight in the eye. “You may not like compliments or critiques, but the fact of the matter still remains, you are one hell of a detective. You know the homicide game as well as anyone else. You have a keen eye for detail. You knew who the perpetrator was before we even knew. Judging by your history, that is a common formula. You tend to identify what many cannot fathom. I don’t know if that is due to your ailments, or your training. Frankly, I couldn’t care less. You are reinstated with full benefits from now on. I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but learn from your lesson. You will not step out of line again, or your sheet may end up burning, and so will you. It’s time to rein in your ill manners and get to doing what you do best. Don’t let your potential go down the drain. Keep up the good work.”
I raised my hand like a kid in class. Shaw nodded in annoyance. He didn’t feel like falling for my bait.
“Does that mean I can’t kill anyone now?” I said in a juvenile tone. Santiago didn’t hold in his laughter this time.
Shaw stuck me the finger and smiled. His smoke-stained teeth looked as awful as his pungent breath smelt.
“Fuck you, McKenzie.”
“Duly noted,” I replied.
After a few more minutes of light-hearted comments, the real business got underway. We went through various ideas behind the red-hatted murderer. Santiago didn’t really speak much. He was a little more worried about the identity of the murderer.
“So you’re sayi
ng this guy is Latino?” he asked.
“Judging by the CCTV, the man doesn’t look white. So my guess is either he is of Hispanic decent or native American,” Shaw said as he sipped on some hot coffee that was ordered into the office.
I, too, was cradling a coffee. Santiago was still getting bent out of shape on the race of the murderer.
“Could be a tanned white guy. You know some white people can tan well,” he said.
It was starting to become obvious that Santiago was feeling a little close to the case. I decided to bite my tongue. Shaw didn’t, though.
“Look, Detective Santiago. It doesn’t matter what race this guy is. All that matters is we catch him. I couldn’t give a shit if the damn man was bright purple and wore polka dots. All I care about is the advancement of this case. Not how bronzed he is.”
Santiago nodded his head sternly. It wasn’t like him to become that worked up about something so minute. I decided to stick up for him. It didn’t get me anywhere, though.
“Before you say another word, Frank, remember what I said earlier on. All this b.s. has to stop. We have a case to crack. We found a body in the back of a van. He was murdered for a reason. Once we get an ID on him, we will know more. Stop focusing on the mundane and get to examining the facts. You and Santiago are off to the café again. Maybe we can get a bit of inspiration from the paperwork the victim was wading through when he was kidnapped.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You left the evidence down there?” I asked.
“Yeah. We figured we would preserve the scene until we got a break,” Shaw replied.
“A break? I wouldn’t call the body a break. Maybe some DNA on our sombrero-wearing friend would be classified as a break. Fuck paperwork. I say me and Santiago visit the damn van where he was found.”
Shaw shook his head in defeat. A slight look of pain came across his face. He looked as if he was battling some pent-up feelings underneath his rolls and rolls of Irish-American fat.
“Fine. You two get down to the damn van. The body has been moved to the morgue. If you want to pay the body a visit, then be my guess. Autopsy won’t be conducted until tomorrow.”
I smiled at Shaw and gave him a wink. He didn’t take kindly to it. He waved Santiago and me off. We were heading for the morgue. I was excited. I always liked the look of dead bodies. Don’t ask me why, but suspended animation was always a favorite subject of mine.
