Overkill

by Dylan Rust

  While that all had occurred more than one hundred years earlier, the smell from the pigs, horse manure, rats, and poison remained.

  There are just some stains that you can never get out.

  Once the rats were exterminated and the island was clean, city officials decided to send a new kind of trash to the island: criminals.

  The first jail on Rikers Island was opened in 1935.

  It wasn’t meant to last. But if there is one truth in the history of NYC, it’s that there will always be a need to home criminals. Like the rats that invaded the island, the city attracts vermin.

  From day one, Rikers Prison never had a moment of peace. It was plagued with problems. Whether it be the dump fires that made inmates and guards sick or the rampant corruption within the ranks of the correctional staff, Rikers was cursed.

  The ten jails on the rotting island have been home to some of New York’s most infamous criminals: the Son of Sam, Dominique Strauss-Kahn to Bobby Shmurda.

  The prison is a purgatory. It is an island of the unwanted, a place where the worst of the city can be sent away from the glisten and power of Wall Street. It’s the tumor that sits atop Manhattan Island.

  It had been growing for years.

  The van that took Jack across the bridge parked. The doors opened. The officers in the van escorted Jack out.

  As they opened the doors, each officer gagged. Jack breathed it in. He’d spent five years on this island. He was used to it.

  The officers guided Jack to the check-in.

  Once Jack was booked, he was thrown into a small cell. He sat alone in the small, grey room for fifteen minutes before they brought him to an interrogation room.

  Apparently, the warden wanted to have a word with him. The correctional officer said it was something about some poker game.

  Jack smiled.

  52

  The prison guards wore light blue shirts and clipped their ties. On each shoulder was an emblem of the Correction Office of the city of New York. Two guards were in the room with Jack, but he knew more would be watching. Not from behind the one-way mirror, but via security cameras. The interrogation room had four of them, one in every corner. Tax payer dollars hard at work. Jack wondered what smart ass approved the funding for that odd jurisdictional request. Wouldn’t one camera be enough? It didn’t matter.

  The doors to the interrogation room swung open. In walked a familiar face.

  Rikers Warden Worley walked into the interrogation room with a big fat grin.

  Worley wasn’t the warden of Rikers when Jack served his time. The last warden was Don Alberto, an Italian with connections to the Polish mob. Jack didn’t know what had happened to Don, but he’d figured Don was either dead or serving a life sentence in prison for corruption.

  These warden’s were all the same. They were all cut from the same cloth and they never lasted long.

  “Look who the cat dragged in,” Worley said.

  Crumbs from a donut he ate were stuck on his face and shirt. He waddled toward the table and sat down, across from Jack. He licked his lips. He was about to continue speaking, but Jack interrupted him.

  “Mind telling me why you brought me in here? Wasn’t I ordered to be taken straight to solitary?”

  Worley gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. “By special request, I’ve arranged for you to stop by here first. You’re a popular man around here, Mr. Spade.”

  “How much did they give you?”

  Worley smiled. His teeth were yellow and were caked in chewed up chocolate gunk. “I’m going to make your life a living hell. I’m going to enjoy watching you suffer.”

  “Then get to it,” Jack said. “Why are you wasting my time?”

  “Patience is a virtue.”

  “You weren’t so patient in the poker game,” Jack said. “You blew your load early. You pulled your gun and got kicked out because you felt scared, threatened.”

  Both guards looked at each other. Worley didn’t handle insults well. They gripped their batons. Surprisingly, Worley showed restraint.

  “You think you’re so smart,” Worley said. “You’ll learn. They all learn.”

  Jack smirked. “Get to it,” he said.

  “This was Igor’s idea,” Worley continued. “He said this would piss you off, would remind you that you can’t win. Plus, I thought it was an easy way to make some extra cash. Igor’s pays well.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Jack said, he leaned back in his seat in a relaxed pose. “How much?

  Worley licked his lips. “Your little tough act won’t last long.” He chuckled. “I’ve heard what Igor has in store for you. It’s good. It’s real good.”

  “What does Igor have on you?’ said Jack. “What kinda shit does a fat bastard like you get up to in a club like the Dacha House? Under age girls? Illegal narcotics? Necrophilia?”

  Worley’s face went red. He shot up from his seat. His belly brushed against the table. He almost tipped it over. “Listen here,” he said. “You’re the god damned cop killer.” He pointed his sausage-like fingers at Jack. “ It doesn’t matter what Igor has on me. No one but Igor knows. No one but Igor will ever know. But every cop and citizen in this city knows you killed a cop, knows you killed those federal agents. You’re scum. SCUM!”

  Worley straightened his shirt and took a deep breath. He sat back down.

  “Save it,” Jack said. “I’m going to be here for a long time, right? You should save your energy. It’s not healthy for a fat fuck like you to get yourself so worked up. Heart attacks are the number one killer in America.”

  “Why you little, fucker!”

  Worley jumped up, but the two guards pulled him back before he got too close, before he could wrap his sausages around Jack’s throat.

  “Call them in,”Worley said. He gnawed at Jack and spewed saliva all over the interrogation room.

  The two guards were nervous. Worley had instructed them not to let him touch the convict. The men who were waiting for Jack wanted him clean. They’d paid good money for fresh meat.

  “Call them in,” Worley said. “Call them in!” He stamped his feet on the ground like a petulant child. “If you don’t, I’ll kill this man myself.”

  One of the guards grabbed his radio and called them in.

  Jack’s wrists and ankles were cuffed. He didn’t have much mobility. He was at the mercy of the warden and his cronies. He surmised that the men Worley was talking about were cops. They’d most likely paid Worley some cash so they could have one last visit with Jack before he was taken down to solitary, teach the cop killer a lesson, get revenge for their fallen brother.

  He was right.

  As quickly as the officer put away his radio, two NYPD cops walked in. Jack knew they were cops not because of how they were dressed, but because of the their sidearms. Each had a Ruger Police Service Six. It was a vintage NYPD gun. The force stopped using them in the eighties. They were relics. These assholes most likely had bought them to feel tough.

  “Hey shit head,” one of them said. He had a cleft chin.

  “Yeah,” the other said. He had blonde hair.

  “Why do you think we’re in here?”

  “Because your corrupt pieces of shit who take the law into their own hands and have forgotten their oath to serve and protect?” Jack responded.

  The two NYPD cops rolled up their sleeves. The cleft turned to the warden and nodded.

  “Have fun with your play thing,” Worley said. “Remember, you can’t kill him.”

  The warden snapped his fingers and left the room along with the two prison guards. The door shut. The two NYPD cops in the room with Jack took off their jackets.

  The green light on each security camera turned off.

  “You don’t want to do this,” Jack said.

  “Shut up,” the blonde responded. “You killed our partner. You killed Rivers.”

  “Hate to tell it to you,” Jack said. “But your man, Rivers, was working for Igor Grekovitch.”

&n
bsp; “Fuck you,” the cleft said. “Half the force is working for Grekovitch.” He walked up to Jack and slapped him across the the face.

  Jack looked into the cleft’s eyes. Poor bastard was sweating, was nervous. Too nervous. He wasn’t used to taking the law into his own hands. The way he slapped Jack, too, felt odd. His palms were as wet and moist as his forehead. These were honest men committing their first crime. Sure, they’d paid off a corrupt warden, but one of their associates had just been killed. And killed allegedly by the man they were beating right now. It wasn’t right, but it didn’t make them evil. It just meant that were pieces of shit. Jack was tired. He didn’t want to take these assholes on. Beating up idiot cops wasn’t his thing.

  “You’ve made your peace,” Jack said. “You hit me. Now back off. You know the warden here is corrupt. I’ll pay for my sins soon enough. You know that.”

  The cleft spit on the ground. “Fuck you,” he said. “You’re going to pay for your sins now!” He smacked Jack in the face again.

  The blonde laughed.

  Jack’s ears rang. He gathered himself and looked at the cleft. He had to give the asshole the benefit of the doubt. “Stop,” he said. “You’re an NYPD cop. Are you in Igor’s pocket too?”

  “No,” the cleft said. “But we don’t give a shit about that. Igor keeps to himself. As long as we stay away from him, we’re good.”

  The blonde looked at the cleft and then back at Jack. He was confused. He wasn’t expecting the cop killer to bring up their moral responsibility. He was expecting an animal, someone untamed, wild, kind of like the way the media portrayed him. He wasn’t expecting him to be calm, reasonable.

  “If you’re not in Igor’s pocket then back away now,” Jack said.

  “Shut up,” the cleft said. “Shut up!” He slapped Jack again.

  There was more ringing in Jack’s ears.

  “Wait a minute,” the blonde said. He walked up to his partner. “This doesn’t feel right. This feels wrong. We should leave.”

  “Shut your mouth,” the cleft said. “This asshole killed Rivers.”

  “You made an oath to serve and protect,” Jack said. “Who are you serving right now? Who are you protecting?”

  The cleft walked up to Jack, his hand raised. The blonde grabbed the cleft’s hand before he could hit Jack again.

  “You can’t seriously be falling for this bullshit can you?”

  “He’s talking sense,” the blonde said.

  “He was a cop, years ago. He threw in his badge and went off and killed somebody. You know his story. Are you really going to listen to him for moral advice?”

  “I don’t know. I…”

  “Who wins by my being here?” Jack said. “Me or Igor Grekovitch? You saw Igor up there with the mayor.”

  “Shut up,” the cleft said.

  “He’s right,” the blond said. “The boys at the precinct have been talking and they were saying that was…”

  The cleft pushed the blonde away.

  Jack continued: “I know you think you’re doing the right thing. Getting some cheap revenge on some asshole who killed your partner, but it won’t make you feel any better. It’ll just open up a door that you won’t ever be able to close. I’ve seen cops open that door. They never come back once they walk through. You beat me to a bloody pulp, you brag to the boys back at the station. The next thing you know, one of the corrupt assholes in the precinct tells you about so and so who knows a guy who knows a guy. They offer you a job. Easy money they’ll say. Next thing you know, you’re in Igor’s pocket.”

  The cleft collapsed to the ground. He was weeping. The blonde consoled him.

  “It doesn’t matter what I say happened to Rivers, I know you won’t believe me,” Jack said. “But if you’re good cops, which I think you both are, I know, deep down, you’ll know you’ll get nothing out of beating me. You’ll just feel empty, broken. You know that whatever hell I’m facing is enough, because that’s what a good cop would know. They’d know that Rikers is punishment enough. That justice is all that matters. And believing in justice is enough.”

  The blonde looked at Jack. “He gets it,” he said. “We both get it. Rivers was our fishing buddy. When he went missing a few weeks ago. We just thought it was another one of his drunken benders. When we found out you killed him, we asked around the office…”

  “You asked who know the warden at Rikers,” Jack said.

  The blonde nodded.

  “You figured you’d beat me silly. Send a message. Well, who are you sending a message to? To your dead partner? He ain’t listening. To the rest of your crew down at the precinct? If you’re good cops, you’ll be too scared to tell anyone else. I can tell your nervous. You’re both shaking, sweating. This is unusual for you both. I can see this is out of character. I can see your driven by a rage deep down that is unsettled because all you want is justice and all this world seems to give you is corruption. You’re trying to quell that imbalance. I know that feeling.”

  “Fuck you,” the cleft said. “You don’t know us. You don’t know…” He wiped away some tears. “You don’t know us.”

  “Oh, I know you. I was you. And revenge gets you nothing but a one-way ticket to Rikers. Get the fuck out of here,” Jack said. “Get the fuck out of here before you decide that its easier to be a bad cop, before you can’t turn back. You paid off the warden, you gave me a few slaps. You’ve made your peace. Get out. Get out before you get tied up in this shit.”

  The blonde helped the cleft up. They were both shaking. They walked out the door of the interrogation room and didn’t look back. They were too scared.

  Jack exhaled. Those assholes could’ve done a lot of damage and no one would’ve cared. His ear was still ringing, his face was still raw. A small price to pay for decency, for peace. He could tell they were torn. The last thing New York needed was two more corrupt cops.

  The doors to the interrogation closed, the green light on the security cameras turned back on. Morley and the two prison guards walked back inside. They looked stunned. They’d expected to find Jack beaten, to find blood on the walls and teeth on the ground. Instead, Jack, the cop killer, the guy the two nervous NYPD cops had paid over five grand each to have a personal meeting with, was in one piece. His face was a little red, but that was it.

  “Fucking pussies,” Worley said. He sighed. “Alright, bring him to the showers and take him down to solitary.”

  The two guards nodded. They pulled Jack up.

  “A few days down there oughta give you some time to reflect. Then, when you’re done, the real fun will begin.”

  Jack didn’t give Worley the satisfaction of responding. He just stared at the warden, studied his every move. He’d have to play along. At least, for now.

  53

  Three days later…

  It was raining, but there was still snow on the ground. Tall, bare trees casted haunting shadows over the procession. The pallbearers held Luka’s casket and marched toward the grave site. His mother’s veil hid her face. She inconsolably wept. Assistant director Clarence Edward put his arm around her.

  Claire put her binoculars down.

  She was half a mile away in a rental. She’d picked it up from a car rental service that didn’t ask for identification. She knew about the service because she knew a few agents in the bureau who were investigating it. She took advantage of her knowledge. She broke the law. But that didn’t matter. Igor’s blight over the city needed to be extinguished at any cost.

  She had to do what Jack would have done.

  She’d kept a low profile since the escape from the hospital.

  After she saw the press conference withe the mayor, the commissioner and Igor, and the interview with the assistant director she decided to wait. She had to assume that all the other agents on the investigation were dead. And since Jack was in Rikers and since she didn’t have any living family members, she decided it best to stay low and wait.

  She wanted to be one hundred percent sure t
hat her next move was the right one.

  The first thing she did was go to a pharmacy. She bought some gauze and pain killers. She bandaged up her swollen ankle and hobbled to her apartment. She didn’t go inside. The NYPD had cordoned it off with yellow tape. She didn’t go up to them.

  Instead, she went to a bank and withdrew as much money as she could from the ATM and got herself the rental and got herself a motel room. She placed her ankle in a bucket of ice water and went over everything. She didn’t have her laptop so she didn’t have access to the bureau’s database. She didn’t even have her cellphone. All she had was her memory.

  With a black marker, she mapped it out on the motel room wall. She organized her thoughts. She started from the beginning.

  She’d first heard about Igor Grekovitch when she was a data analyst in DC. The agents at the New York office wanted her to focus on a recent acquisition Igor had made. He bought a shipping compnay; Loscovitch Logistics.

  The agents thought Igor had purchased it as a front to launder money. They wanted Claire to go over every shipping contract, form, and receipt. They wanted to see if she could find any irregularities.

  But Claire found nothing. There was nothing suspicious about Loscovitch. It was as legitimate a business as any other. She concluded that while the Grekovitch Gang was almost certainly involved in nefarious business on account of various testimony and the spike in missing persons cases in Litlle Odessa, Loscovitch Logistics was a shipping company and nothing else.

  She filed her report.

  Assistant Director Clarence Edward was impressed with her work. He reached out to her boss in DC and arranged an interview with her in New York. He offered her a promotion.

  Claire accepted.

  Clarence put her on the Grekovitch Gang.

  She went over every bit of information the bureau had on Igor. And just like when she looked in Loscovitch, she found nothing.

  If not for the dead gangster on Shooter’s Island and the pink bear, she would have still been going over financial records.

  But Igor’s clean records had all been a ruse.