by Luis Samways
“Yeah. A Mr. Toby Johnson was an intern for the company. Turns out he hadn’t been there long. On his IRS sheet, he had been marked down as working for a rival company six months ago,” Shaw said.
“So he kills an intern, a guy that is generally working his way up from the bottom, and then kills the CFO? An executive?” I asked.
“It appears that way. Maybe he’s got a problem with the leadership of the company. Would make sense, if he is taking out people at the bottom and the top.”
I shook my head. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something just didn’t make sense. Maybe the murders were random. Maybe the killer didn’t even know where the victims worked. I had to get to the bottom of it.
“But what about the CCTV?” I asked.
Chief Shaw looked at me in confusion. I could see the crinkle on his head flex as he frowned.
“What CCTV??”
“The one that shows the killer and the CFO of the company meeting up at a bar. They seemed like they were conspiring.”
Chief Shaw smiled. His fat crinkly head flexed back to a normal red shade of skin.
“It doesn’t really matter now, does it, seeing that the killer ended up killing the damn CFO a while later. Conspiring or not, Mr. Evans is dead, and the killer is still at large,” Shaw said as he shifted his weight a little, like he was trying to stand his ground.
“I think it matters. We could be missing something,” I continued.
“The only thing of importance that we are missing is the damn killer in cuffs,” Chief Shaw shouted.
Thirty-Six
We were hurtling toward the crime scene at a blinding pace. Never before in my career had my heart been so far up into my mouth. I could literally taste the beats as it pulsated in my throat.
“Are you sure?” I said down the cell phone.
To my absolute dismay, we had been called up and told to cancel our trip to Foster Industries. We were told that there was a slight chance the killer had struck again. A mysterious body was found in the park, downtown. It had been encased as a mummy. It had been presented as a piñata.
“A piñata?” I asked into my cell phone.
Santiago was driving. Ever so often he’d shine a look over at me. An expression of misery was peppered on his face. I could tell he didn’t like this case. Neither did I. It was freaky. It had a weird vibe to it. A killer who wouldn’t stop to smell the roses. It was obvious from the get-go that we were dealing with a psycho. A damn madman.
“Are you absolutely sure?” I said as I clenched my cell phone in the sweaty grip of my fingers.
Santiago continued to drive at a blistering pace. I could smell the tires smoking up, even with the windows rolled up. I could see Boston’s skyline vanish and reappear again as we took on inclines and slopes at around sixty miles an hour.
“You reckon it’s the killer?” I asked, not paying attention to the people throwing themselves out of the way as we strayed onto a sidewalk and nearly took out a group of tourists. “More hats?” I said.
With that Santiago sighed. I knew what he was thinking. I was thinking the exact same thing, after all. I hung up my cell and looked at the pale man who sat beside me. His color was draining from his bronzed skin. I could see his nervous twitch making itself known as it usually did on a case like this.
“The killer has struck again. He’s mummified some poor shmuck down at the park. We are too late. It’s all over the news. We have a case. A big case,” I said.
Santiago didn’t say anything; he just nodded. He knew what was needed at a time like this, and that was focus. We needed to focus on the case, not the feelings that we were harboring.
“We’ll get him,” I said, to no answer. I wasn’t sure whether I was stating a fact, or merely expressing a deep-seated wish of mine. I just wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Thirty-Seven
The Mexican was overlooking his masterpiece while it came into fruition. He sat on his stool, peering out the window with a gleeful smile on his face. It was evident that the police had caught onto his game. A swarm of cop cars had rushed the park. Men on foot had started to cordon off the area. Press had started to show up.
Showtime had begun.
He watched in delight as the police started to hustle onlookers away. From his apartment he could see the buzz that was surrounding the area. There was a certain feel to the day. It was a mixture of excitement and pure adrenaline. He knew he wasn’t the only one who was feeling that particular feeling. He opened the window slightly for some air. As the breeze trickled into the apartment, he could hear the excitement outside. People were shouting. The public were gasping. Everyone was enjoying the show. Despite the sad looks on some of the park dwellers’ faces, The Mexican knew they would never forget that day. They would smile and reminisce about how they were there. And none of them knew that the chief puppet master responsible for all of it was watching them. He was surveying them, stalking them.
They didn’t suspect a thing. The police were too busy doing their usual damage control. They were trying to shut out the press. They didn’t want The Mexican’s work to spread on to the news. They didn’t want people to know the truth, but he knew a way around it. He knew how to keep everyone’s attention.
He stretched in his seated position. The sound of his joints clicking into place ricocheted off the cold atmosphere that caked the damp apartment. He cracked his neck a few times. He was starting to feel giddy again. It was nearly time for phase two. Everything was falling into place. There wasn’t a damn thing anyone could do about it. Not even the almighty God of religious men could stop him in his tracks. He was confident of that. He was certain that he was unstoppable. All that was missing was the final piece. The jigsaw was nearly complete. A picture was forming. And it was a masterpiece. Picasso would be proud.
He started to clear some stuff off the window ledge. A few empty mugs that were once filled with coffee. He had used them for surveillance when he scouted the park for the possible location for his masterpiece. He cleared some party plates off the windowsill. They had smudges of grease on them, evidence of corndogs and Boston’s finest hot dogs. He then picked up the final piece of trash that was located on the ledge. It was a business card. It had pictures of balloons on it.
Party essentials, all you will ever need for a good time, the card read.
The Mexican smiled at the flimsy business card. He tucked it away in his jacket pocket. He then bent down and picked up a rifle that had been lying at his feet. He cocked the barrel and had a look through the scope. The view from the scope brought the park below into a closer perspective. He could see people’s faces clearly now. He could see the expression on the policemen’s faces. He could see his old friend Jesse Foster wrapped up in masking tape, half exposed from a few baseball bat swings.
It amazed him that people would hit a man-shaped piñata in a park, just because a sign told them it was okay. Were people really that brainless and sheep-like?
“I guess so,” he said to himself as he leaned into the window and got into position.
Thirty-Eight
Santiago pulled into the parking lot; I heard the wheels screech as we turned into a corner and stopped. It was a secluded spot. It seemed as if the police hadn’t quite yet made it. I knew they were at the park, but their presence wasn’t evident from where we were sitting. I looked out of the passenger window and spotted a few buildings. An alleyway was parallel to us. It looked dirty and grungy. I spotted a few residential buildings. A few apartments, maybe some offices. I always made a habit of taking in my surroundings. It could be the difference between life and death.
“Man, oh man,, here we go,” I heard Santiago whisper as he grabbed his gloves from the glove compartment. He threw me some spares.
“Always loved latex,” I replied as I snapped mine on.
“You didn’t end up saying, but is it bad? I mean, the crime scene — is it bad or is it just, you know, a normal one?” Santiago asked.
I looke
d at him for a second. I wasn’t feeling all too well myself, but he didn’t exactly look fit for the job. I could tell the work was really getting to him. By then, we had been up for a long time. I hadn’t known the feeling of a pillow under my head for two days. I was sure Santiago was missing his.
“Well, Shaw said some dog walker found some kids hitting a massive piñata at the park. The man found it strange, but apparently the piñata was surrounded by balloons and looked like some sort of party setup. The man called the police when he spotted some fingers seeping out of the piñata costume. Apparently the victim is a life-size statue. Our killer worked on him pretty well. He looks the part apparently,” I said, grabbing some pills from my jacket and popping them into my mouth dry. “Apparently it’s a work of art — that’s what Shaw is saying. Looks like our guy is responsible. The statue has a red sombrero on its head.”
Santiago nodded. He looked as if he could do with some pills himself.
“Why all the Mexican culture?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” I replied.
“Why do you think he is obsessed with everything Mexican? Do you think it means anything?” Santiago asked as he lit up a cigarette.
“It obviously means something to him. I’m sure we’ll find out when we nail the guy,” I said.
Santiago laughed. He had a slight frown on his face. The poor man looked like he was just about done.
“What makes you think we will catch him?” he finally asked.
“We always do. That’s what makes me think we’ll catch him,” I replied.
I knew I was grasping at brass rings. I know we don’t always catch the bad guys, but damn it, I won’t let anyone think differently. The cops don’t always win, but the majority of the time, we come out smelling like roses. Other times, we come out smelling like shit, after being dragged through a no-win case, on shit pay, with even worse benefits.
“To be a cop is to be a good guy. We do this because someone has to be the good guy, right? If we didn’t do this, the world would be run by bad guys,” I said.
Santiago tapped his cigarette into the ashtray and went for another drag on his smoke. He blew some smoke rings and then looked at me. His brown eyes told a sad story. A story that not even my fucked-up mind could comprehend.
“The world is run by bad guys, Frank. Being a cop doesn’t change anything. It is what it is. Bad guys will still do bad things. What makes someone a good guy makes the next man a bad guy. Balance - sometimes it plays a part. Sometimes it doesn’t. It’s all relative,” Santiago said as he flicked his cigarette out the window and rolled it up. He took the keys out of the ignition and opened the door.
I wasn’t quite sure how to react to Santiago’s philosophical thinking. I didn’t think it would make a difference if I said anything positive to him. His mind had gone to a certain place, a place I was all too familiar with. Maybe it was best if I let him dwell on it. Maybe it was best if I didn’t say anything.
“Crime scene time, my friend. Let’s show this asshole how we party,” I said.
I didn’t get a response from Santiago. He was already out of the car, pacing down to the park. I watched as he disappeared, leaving me in the car, collecting my thoughts.
“Don’t wait up,” I said as I got out of the car and went for a mild jog. Maybe I’d catch the bastard up if I got a sweat on.
Perfect, absolutely perfect.
Thirty-Nine
The Mexican was minding his own business when he first spotted the two men making their way out of the parking lot below him. He tailed them through the scope. One of the men seemed more eager than the other. He was walking at a fast pace in front, while the other, more interesting man was lagging behind. There was something about that particular man that fascinated The Mexican. He didn’t know what it was, but he was sure it was important.
“Why hello,” he muttered as he trained his scope on the man with the long coat.
He knew both men were homicide detectives. He could tell by the dead eyes they possessed in their skulls. He could also tell by their clothes. They had parker jackets on. They weren’t flashy, or scruffy, but they did have a sense of style that only men who deal with death can appreciate. Take The Mexican, for instance: Flashy was his middle name. Maybe that was because he was the “bad guy.” Either way, the men below him could dress well, and he appreciated that about a man, no matter if they were the enemy or not. Dress-sense is dress-sense, after all.
“Don’t scuff those shoes, Officer,” he said as he watched the lagging man’s shiny shoes glisten in the Boston cold. They must have been well-shined, because the sun was hiding in the early morning sky, so any light that caught them would find it hard-pressed to make them suckers shine. He appreciated that. He liked good shiny shoes.
He momentarily trained his eye off the scope and caught a glimpse of his own shoes.
“Outdone by a damn detective,” he laughed to himself as he shunned his old-looking boots.
He watched as the lagging man finally caught up with the man in front. They looked as if they were in conversation. Both of them stopped and started to argue, or at least talk passionately. A smirk creaked across The Mexican’s lips. He switched on his red-dot laser.
“Ding-ding-ding, we have a victim,” he said as he cocked the weapon and aimed.
Forty
I was annoyed at Santiago. I had finally caught up with him and wanted to give him a piece of my mind. The cold Boston air was aggravating my sore throat. My knees felt weak as I thought about the crime scene that surely lay ahead of this confrontation with my partner. I wanted to talk some sense into him. I wanted him to straighten up and stick his chin out. I wasn’t one for gloating or sulking, but when there is a job to do, it pays to be level-headed, or I wouldn’t be taking my pills daily, suppressing my problems. I would embrace them, let them feed off my tortured soul.
Screw that. I’m a man. I haven’t got time for that. I haven’t got time for me. The case is what matters. And I’ll be dammed if I let Santiago’s mood hamper our efforts.
“Look, San, you need to lighten the hell up. We have a case. We have a killer. You need to get your head screwed on straight. There is no point in dwelling on the specifics. What’s done is done, and you basking in its dirty shadow isn’t going to do any of us any good. You got that?” I said as I stopped him with my arm.
I had grabbed him by the coat. If anyone had spotted us from the crime scene, they would swear we were about to throw down and get into a fight. I felt as if it was necessary to get my message across. So stopping him from walking away from me was the only option. It’s what partners do. It’s what friends do.
“Fuck off, Frank! Don’t talk to me about emotional problems. You have no right. You’re a goddamn mess. You’re always a damn mess. Quite frankly, I’m surprised you can even get out of bed in the morning, let alone do your damn job,” Santiago said as he pulled away from me.
He gave me a stern look and turned his back on me.
“Let’s get this case done with already. Crime scene is awaiting us. Death needs its explanation,” he said as he walked off.
I stood there in shock at his outburst. Usually Santiago is a good-hearted man. A man who minces his words and is as quiet as a mouse. Usually that’s a good thing. Many times I had wondered what he really thought. What he was really thinking. I didn’t like his newfound honesty. It actually hurt. It was grating on me, but as he said, death needed explaining, and it was our job to explain away.
I blew into my cupped hands and felt the warmth caress my fingers. I watched as my partner walked off toward the crime scene. Something caught my eye. A red dot, a flash of light. I squinted my eyes. The red dot had gone. I quickly turned my head and looked around. The windows above us were all blank and dark. I couldn’t see anything. Was I imagining what I had just seen? And then I saw some curtains move. Or was it my imagination again?
I stood there for a minute. I could hear my heart beating in my head. I could smell the coarse s
mells of the park. Pine trees. Leaves. Freshly cut grass. And then nothing. My mind went blank. I turned my head back and saw Santiago reach the white tent in the middle of the park. I decided it must have been my mind playing tricks on me. Lack of food can play havoc with your mind. So can lack of sleep. That’s what it was….that’s what it had to be.
I snapped myself out of my funk and made my way to the park. The small footpath below me seemed to sway from left to right. Man, this day couldn’t end quickly enough.
Forty-One
The meeting had gone well enough — that’s what Olivia Cormack thought, anyway. She had tried her best to comfort the men who had invested in Foster Industries. It was understandable that those men at the meeting were pissed off. She was pissed off for them. She knew how hard it was in the investment world. A lot of people had put their hard-earned money into Foster Industries, just to find out that it had folded and moved on to another country.
She was against the whole idea in the first place, but Mr. Foster was the man who decided what happened. He had the controlling stake, but now Juarez Incorporated had the bull by the horns, and it was officially Olivia’s last day as bullfighter for the company. She could now move on with her life.
She had put in a couple of applications with some firms. All of them were interested in her accomplishments, and wanted her for their team. She was ecstatic about that. She was over the moon, in fact. She couldn’t wait to retire her name badge and move on to better things, much like the company she had spent ten years of her life with was doing.
She pressed the call button on the elevator. It pinged, and a bloop sound went off. The doors opened and revealed a large empty-looking compartment. She walked in and pressed the “G” button.
A moment passed, and the doors welded shut. The air sucked itself out of the elevator. She listened to the mechanical gears above her head get to work. The elevator descended. A few seconds later she was out of it and in the foyer. A nice gentleman at the desk nodded at her, and she nodded back.
She walked through the turnstiles and was on her way home. She was confident that she would fall asleep within a few minutes once her head had hit the pillow. She longed for a bath and an early night.
