The Cleanest Kill

by Rick Reed

  “I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m not ‘after’ Deputy Chief Dick, or his family. I don’t even know his family, but I’ve heard good things about the Captain. My job is to find the truth. To find Max and Harry’s killer,” Jack said. “This is all background information. You’ve asked other people these same questions a thousand times.” He wanted to say: “You screwed up two murder investigations because you’re a dick.” Instead, he asked Olson a question he already knew the answer to. “Do you recall what caliber of weapon killed Max or Harry Day?”

  Olson sat silent. Jack sat silent. Liddell was a ghost. Finally, Olson sat back in his recliner and said, “Max was shot with something big-bore. His head was exploded like someone blew up a watermelon. We never did know. Like I said, we never found the weapon. And there was never a shell casing. Mattingly must be yanking your dong.”

  Not what Mattingly said.

  “What about Harry?” Jack asked.

  “Harry was shot with a .357 magnum. We found a bunch of different spent casings on the floor. Surprise, surprise. He was shot in a gun shop where there was a little shooting range in the back. Anyone could have dropped the casings. We didn’t have any of that fancy equipment like on CSI. The coroner said it was most likely a .357, and we found some of those on the floor.”

  Again, not what Mattingly had told them. Jack remained silent.

  “Mattingly made sergeant just before Harry was killed. He thought that gave him extra rights to wander around in a crime scene. I was a sergeant too and detectives were in charge at a crime scene. He wasn’t too happy when I threw his ass out. He wasn’t crime scene. He wasn’t a detective. I didn’t need him and I told him to get his ass out, but he kept snooping around like he was Columbo or something. He always thought he was smarter than the detectives.”

  “Did Mattingly find anything when he was snooping?” Jack asked.

  “He had a spent bullet that he said he found on the floor. He insisted it was from the gun that killed the guy. I don’t remember what caliber it was. I just put it in an evidence bag with the rest of the shell casings we found. The floor was littered with them. This was a gun shop. Am I right?”

  Jack agreed it was a gun shop.

  “Well, Mattingly was still climbing the ladder. He was testing for lieutenant, if I remember right. Yeah. He was wanting to be a lieutenant. More weight to throw around. I didn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth then and if I was you, I wouldn’t believe him now. Once a liar, always a liar. Am I right? You know I am.”

  Jack asked, “Do you think Sergeant Mattingly had it in for you and Captain Dick?”

  “I didn’t say that. Did I? Personally, I wouldn’t piss on the man if he was on fire. But hey, what’s that they say? Live and let live. Am I right? You know I am.”

  “I believe you,” Jack lied. “I don’t trust him, either. I couldn’t tell you that right up front. Am I right?” he asked, using one of Olson’s expressions.

  Olson responded with a chuckle, “You know you are. You know what? You’re an asshole, Murphy, but you’re a pretty fun guy. We could have been friends in the wayback.”

  Jack forced a smile and thought, “Not on your life, you worthless, lazy, lying piece of filth.”

  “Okay, let’s kick this up a notch,” Jack said. “You were a good detective. You’ve still got detective blood in you. I can see it. You’ve got this place locked down like a fortress. Nothing gets by you, does it?”

  “Quit yanking my dick and ask your question.”

  Jack asked, “The robbery and murder of Harry Day? What did you think that was about? Your honest gut feeling.”

  Olson’s eyes took on a cautious glint. “You have to remember that was—what? Thirty, forty years ago? You was still shitting your diapers. Didn’t your old man tell you about it? He was there. I remember him being there.”

  “All my dad taught me was how to drink scotch and win fights,” Jack said and Olson grinned. While he was on a roll, Jack said, “Dad would always say, ‘Drink up, Jack. There’re sober kids in China.’”

  Olson thought this was hilarious. When he stopped laughing he said, “Yeah. He was a drinker, your old man was. And not the cheap stuff, either. You might say him and Jake Brady were scotch-a-seurs. You know. Like connoisseurs. Anyway, I remember when we’d all be at Jericho’s Tavern telling stories; your old man would get a bottle of Blue Label and sniff the cap before he’d let the bartender pour it. What a card. He was a good cop. Everybody liked him. He wasn’t a pain in the ass like you.” Olson laughed like he’d told a big joke.

  We’re buddies now.

  Jack said, “So no one back then, at least none of the real cops, thought Captain Dick was covering Max’s murder up?”

  “That’s right.”

  “When my dad passed, I found Bankers Boxes full of notebooks, tapes, pictures from the job, all kinds of stuff. I put a lot of it in storage. I’ll have to drag it out and see if he had notes on those cases. Maybe he kept something. Did you keep any of your notes or tapes or pictures—that kind of thing?”

  Olson’s expression slipped, but he recovered quickly. “Yeah. You should see if Jake kept any. When I was done with the job, I was done. But your dad—he might have kept some stuff…”

  His words trailed off and he began rubbing his thumb across the curled finger on his right hand, his eyes fixed on the wall. He stopped rubbing and said, “I knew some guys that kept stuff. It was more political back then. You know? Some guys kept things for insurance so they could stay on a certain shift, or keep the same partner, or just to keep their job. You know?”

  “I can understand that,” Jack said. “Did you keep anything…for insurance?”

  Olson adjusted his position and cleared his throat. “I wasn’t talking about me, was I? But hey, if you find anything embarrassing about me in your dad’s stuff, don’t spread it around. I used to drink him and Brady under the bar. You may not think it to see me now, but I was a ladies’ man back then. Broads like the badge and gun, danger and passion, bad-boy stuff. Am I right? You know I am. And I had aplenty of passion. I could tell you stories.” He chuckled.

  Jack waited.

  Olson said, “I do remember something, though. May be nothing. I didn’t think it was suspicious back then, but hey, you got my noggin working.”

  “What’s that?” Jack asked.

  “Mattingly was first on the scene at both of the murders. Max and Harry. And he spent a lot of time at Harry’s house while Harry was at work. That was after Max was killed. I know that to be true, because I seen his car out there sometimes. What if he was doing more than comforting the grieving mother? Am I right?”

  “You think?” Jack said.

  “You know I am. You know how cops are. Any hole in a storm and all that. I heard stories. The man would do a snake if he could hold it still. He’d do a knothole. Maybe he was putting it to the missus and Harry found out? Harry was a gun nut. Who knows what a guy like that might do,” Olson said, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger again. “Harry goes off on Mattingly in the gun shop and the shit hits the fan.”

  “Amelia Day?” Jack asked. “You think Mattingly had something going on with her?”

  “He was a real pussy hound, is all I can tell you. Hell, if he’d plant evidence at a murder scene and then make up a story, maybe he wasn’t just trying to get the glory. Maybe he’s the one that killed Harry? Am I right? You know I am.”

  “You just said Mattingly was the first officer on scene at Harry’s and at Max’s murder. Earlier you said you were first at Harry’s,” Jack said.

  “Yeah. I did say that. Maybe I got it wrong. It’s been a lifetime ago.” Olson pushed himself up straighter in the recliner. “I remember now. I was there at the gun shop after Mattingly. I remember I was close by. Maybe I’d just left headquarters. Anyway, Harry’s gun shop was right downtown. Mattingly was working west sect
or, not south, so he shouldn’t have been anywheres near the downtown area. Him and Harry was supposed to be friends, so I didn’t think anything about him being there back then, but now you got me thinking I was wrong.”

  Olson took a deep breath and let it out all at one time. “Anyway, I got there pretty quick and Mattingly told me Harry was on the floor. Gunshot in the head. We thought it might be a robbery because the cash register was emptied, the drawer was still out, and there was change all over the floor behind the counter. We searched, fingerprinted everything, talked to anyone and everyone. I ran all my snitches, but I came up empty.”

  “So, Mattingly was there when you got there and the register was on the floor. Right?”

  “Yeah. Mattingly called it in and I arrived before the troops. Did he tell you I was there when he got there? Why, that lying sack of shit!”

  “Did Mattingly search inside the shop with you?” Jack asked.

  Olson changed the subject. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but…”

  Jack waited for him to continue.

  “I bought a couple of guns from Harry. He sold them cheap to cops. Cop discount. But I never saw the place doing much other business. I couldn’t see how he kept his door open. Unless he was buying hot and selling cheap. Know what I’m getting at? Am I right? You know I am.”

  “You’re saying Harry was buying stolen weapons and selling them?” Jack asked.

  Olson’s response was a shrug.

  “So—what—you think someone killed him over the guns? Someone he was buying from?” Jack asked.

  “You know how word passes around the criminal element. Somebody may be thinking, ‘Hey, this guy’s got stuff I want and I ain’t got no money,’ and so…” Olson made a gun out of his finger and thumb. “Pop. Now I got something too.”

  “So now you don’t think Mattingly was the one who killed Harry?” Jack said.

  “Hey. I don’t know who killed the guy. I’m just telling you possibilities, is all. Maybe him and Mattingly were dealing in guns. One of them got greedy. There were lots of guns. We didn’t know how much was missing because Harry was a terrible bookkeeper. Accidentally on purpose, if you ask me.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Jack said. “You’ve still got a good mind for this stuff,” he said. “Help me out here. Do you think Max’s and Harry’s murders were connected?”

  Without hesitation, Olson said, “The only connection I see is Mattingly. He was always there first.”

  Jack didn’t bother to point out that Olson had just said he was at Harry’s murder scene first. He let Olson run out the rope.

  “When Harry was killed, it was pretty late at night. The shop should have been closed, but Mattingly would have had access because they was friends or partners. And—Harry’s old lady and that daughter, Rainy or Rita or something, was making noises about Max’s murder being done by a cop. Maybe Mattingly wanted to scare them all into shutting up, and when that didn’t get her attention—pow, Mama’s dead. You see where I’m coming from here? Am I right? Damn straight, I’m right.”

  Jack had to admit it. Olson had a point. Only it was the top of his head. The man wasn’t even a good liar.

  “Her name is Reina,” Jack said.

  “Yeah. Reina. She grew up to be a doctor. But I guess you knew that with her getting shot up and all. Hey, not meaning to change the subject, but that Channel Six babe is some kind of hot, ain’t she? I know I ain’t much now, but I was a mover back in the day. I could tell you stories. What I wouldn’t give to be five years younger.”

  Try forty years.

  “We can swap stories next time,” Jack said.

  “Yeah,” Olson said with a nervous chuckle. “Sure. You don’t have time for an old fart’s stories of conquest. I get it. I’ll just say this: That family has had nothing but bad luck. You’d better keep a guard on that girl, Rita.”

  “Reina,” Jack said again.

  “Yeah. Rainy Day. She’s got some name, don’t she. Reminds me of that Mick Jagger song, ‘Ruby Tuesday’—you know that one?”

  Jack nodded.

  “Well, someone don’t seem to like the Day family. Know what I mean? Maybe you should check on the whereabouts of a certain sergeant when these tragedies seem to happen?”

  Jack said, “One more question, Sergeant Olson, and then we’ll leave you alone. Did you attend the autopsies on both of the victims? Max and Harry Day?”

  Olson sat quiet for a moment.

  “I went to Max Day’s. Still have bad dreams about that one. I even went to the funeral service. You know. See who shows up and that. Nothing, except I saw Mattingly there. What the hell was he doing there? I didn’t have to go to Harry’s autopsy. It was obvious he’d been shot in the head. That was the cause of death. Me being there wouldn’t have made a difference. We never caught the guy that did it, so it wasn’t important.”

  Jack wondered why Olson was lying about going to Max’s funeral service. He hadn’t signed the remembrance book and Mattingly had said Olson wasn’t there. But somehow Olson knew Mattingly was at the service. Had he been watching Mattingly?

  “So, did you take pictures at Max’s service?” Jack asked.

  Olson made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Taking pictures of everyone at a funeral hoping to see some creep hanging out watching. Bah. That only works on television. Am I right? You know it.”

  Olson was right about that. Criminals rarely, if ever, returned to the crime scene to gloat over their handiwork, but it made for good TV.

  “One more question,” Jack said. “Did you ever talk to the boys that were involved in the fight with Max Day at the high school the night he was killed?”

  Olson’s face turned red and he shook a finger at Jack. “I see where this is going and like I said a couple of times now, there wasn’t any evidence of a fight at the cemetery. I’m not saying there weren’t rumors that Max was in a fight at the high school, but a lot of people hated that boy. Anyone could have done it. Don’t you go stirring up the pot. Captain Dick’s had enough of that shit thrown at his family.”

  What about the Day family, asshole? “Thanks for your time, Sergeant Olson. And hey, if you find any notes or anything on either case, you’ll call me? Am I right?” Jack handed him a business card.

  “You know you are,” Olson said, but he didn’t chuckle this time. He got up to show them out.

  “Just one other question, Detective,” Jack said.

  “I ain’t a detective anymore, so you can cut the crap, Murphy.”

  “Okay. Earlier you said you took some pictures of the scene at the cemetery.”

  Olson blinked and then stared Jack in the eyes. “Did I say that?”

  “Yeah, you did. What happened to those?” Jack asked.

  “Hell if I know.” Olson showed them out, hit the button on the remote, and unlocked the gate.

  Jack heard the lock click behind them. When they got in the car, he saw Olson watching them from the doorway.

  “Do you think he’s scared, Bigfoot?” Jack asked.

  “I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts he’s still got the pictures,” Liddell said.

  “That’s a risky bet for you, Bigfoot. But yeah. He’s done something with the pictures and whatever other evidence he has or had. The best thing he ever did for the police department was retire.”

  When they drove away, Olson picked up the phone and punched in a number. It rang once and was answered.

  “It’s me,” Olson said and listened. Then, “Yeah, they were just here.”

  Chapter 27

  Le Merigot was a respectable hotel. The spacious lobby with its glass front giving onto a magnificent view of the Blue Star Casino riverboat said so. It smelled of money and money was respect. The hotel operations manager was a close relation of one of the owners. That meant the manager’s relative was loaded. That made
the boss respectable by blood and he let his desk clerks know it. He expected them not to tarnish his or the hotel’s reputation; thereby his respectability. Many a desk clerk had found themselves out of a job and unable to work at another hotel if they forgot.

  That’s why Bob Werner, a nineteen-year-old, one semester short of an associate degree in hotel management, decided not to push his luck by questioning the self-important prick who had strolled into the lobby and asked for someone by name, but didn’t know a room number. When he told the guy no one of that name was registered, the guy demanded to see the hard copy of the register. The guy must have been in management if he knew the hotel kept a paper ledger of the guests, as well as having one on computer. Bob hesitated briefly before handing over the register. If this guy was in management, he knew the boss and if the boss got pissed off, he could kiss his already tenuous job good-bye.

  The man’s face was slightly familiar and he had an important air about him. Arrogant, cocksure, preppy.

  “If you give me a description of the person…” Bob began, but the man seemed to find what he was searching for and shoved the ledger across the counter without a word of thanks.

  Bob watched the man go to the elevators and punch the call button and get on. When the elevator doors closed he said, “What a prick. One day you’ll all be working for the Bobster. Oh yeah. And then we’ll see who’s what ’n shit.” He then promptly forgot the man and went back to the business textbook he had hidden under the counter.

  * * * *

  When he went to see Dennis James at the Red Roof Inn, the room was empty. He’d given Denny a cell phone and apparently Denny had taken it with him. That was good. He could track the phone.

  This was getting tedious. He hadn’t expected Denny to give him this much trouble. If Dennis James hadn’t been so pathetically predictable he might have even admired the junkie’s attempt to avoid being found, but he didn’t understand why he had changed hotels. All he could think of was that the drugs and drink were finally taking their toll. The man was losing it. The end stages of the addiction. Paranoia and hallucination. The paranoia had saved his life. For a time. But that time was over.