by DS Whitaker
***
Johnnie’s thoughts turned to those first days in the hospital. When he couldn’t speak. Intubated. His hands tied down. Pleading with his eyes to the nurses, “Please kill me,” but no one listened. Not sure of where he was or even who he was. Only wanting out.
He pulled on his cuffs, bruising his skin. Doctor Lou was in his head, saying this was temporary. Be strong. Do the work. Use your choices.
Staying calm was easier said than done. There was nothing in the room to distract him. No windows. Nothing on the walls. He counted the vinyl tiles on the floor. A hundred and twenty-one, not counting the partial ones. In that first month of rehab, he could watch television as a reward for completing his physical therapy. There was something about the cartoons that put him at ease, made him not worry about all the things he couldn’t do or couldn’t remember. Rare times he felt contented.
A song popped in his head from the Rabbit of Seville, “What would you want with a waaa-bit? Can’t you see that I’m much sweeter. I’m your little señorita…” His head bopped to the tune.
Arturo walked in.
Johnnie shook his head. Had he been singing aloud? He clammed up.
Arturo waved and handed him a pamphlet about safe driving in the USVI. “Sorry, it’s all I could find. Robin said to give you something to read. I’ll see if I can get something better.”
Johnnie nodded. “Thanks, appreciate it.”
Arturo nodded and left.
Singing Looney Tunes songs aloud might be advantageous. It would get Tobias’s attention, reducing time waiting around for him. But might help in an insanity defense if things went badly, and that was always a possibility.
He began shouting, “Kill da waabit, kill da waabit…” It was kind of fun. Robin wouldn’t approve, but she wasn’t here. He recited the whole opera, changing voices. Pleased with himself that he remembered so many lines, but also improvising ones he wasn’t sure of. After five minutes, his throat hurt. Yelling was not sustainable. His ears began to ring.
The door opened. The lumbering figure of Tobias entered the room, shouting, “Shut up!”
He quieted but grinned, “Don’t kill da wabbit?”
“This is not funny, you friggin’ psycho.” Tobias closed the door behind him and stood with his feet far apart, in typical alpha-dick style, with his gorilla hands on his wide hips. “We’re going to have a little talk.”
Johnnie sighed. Not another talk. “Is my lawyer here?”
“No, he called. Arriving soon.” Tobias took out a notepad from his shirt pocket and began reading to himself. “What were you doing at the bank the other day?”
“I had a weird dream. I got confused. You know I have a brain injury.” He left out the part about Oprah.
“We received an anonymous tip last night. Mr. Taylor rented a safe deposit box at that bank branch. So, what was so important that you killed him to access it?”
“Who?”
“Robert Taylor. The first victim.”
Johnnie’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “His name was Robert? Wow. What are the chances?”
“You told the bank manager you had a key.”
He closed his eyes. Not supposed to talk, idiot. Not without a lawyer. “I’m invoking my right to plead the fifth.” He’d watched Bart Simpson say that in an episode the night before. But then, Bart also responded to questioning with, “Eat my butt.” So tempting…
“Really? That’s what murderers do. I guess I was right. But why did you do it? For money? Was it self-defense? If you were only protecting yourself, I would understand. Surely, any jury would understand.”
Johnnie stifled a laugh. If Tobias thought this bull-shit ‘understanding’ approach was going to get him to talk, he was delusional. Even a brain-damaged person could see through this nonsense. He shook his head, staring at the vinyl floor tiles. One of them had an old bloodstain. Or maybe it was diet soda. He wondered how it got there and if bleach would remove it.
Tobias sat in the chair across from him and took a calmer tone. “Look, Johnnie, I know you’ve been through a lot. A war hero. I can’t imagine what it was like there. Lots of guys have PTSD or anger issues after something like that. If you cooperate, I can send you back to your sister tonight. I can make this easy on you. Just tell me why you did it.”
Don’t say a word. Staring at the floor wasn’t holding its original appeal. A melody popped into Johnnie’s head. Pirates of Penzance. He’d been an extra in his high school production. He surprised himself by recalling it. But his memory worked that way. Sometimes odd bits from decades ago would come back in full; and other times, he’d come to a dead stop completely forgetting where he was going. He started humming with his eyes closed to concentrate; then sang in a whisper, trying to get the words in the correct order. “For I am a Pirate King. And it is, it is, it is…” He had to think of the next line.
Tobias frowned. “What’s that? Speak up.”
“…A glorious thing to be!” Johnnie sang the next part loudly, “To be a Pirate King! Hurrah for our Pirate King!” He swayed in his chair, shouting at the ceiling. “With a pirate head and a pirate heart, away to the cheating world go you!”
Tobias stood and walked to the door. He yelled into the corridor, “Take this psycho to his cell. Now!” and exited swiftly. The heavy door shut with a resounding clang.
Johnnie stopped shouting and grinned. This singing stuff was as good as insect repellent. He wondered what would have happened if he took singing lessons instead of joining the Marines. But his dad had called theater sissy stuff. Or was that an episode of Glee? The night nurse at the Miami VA hospital loved that show and played reruns on her phone.
A couple minutes later, Officer Arturo escorted him to a cell at the back of the building. There were two eight-by-eight-foot cells with iron-bars. One cell held a dark-skinned drunk guy wearing a flowered shirt, sleeping in the corner. The other held a younger man, white with a grotesque spray-on tan and a crew cut, wearing a cut-off T-shirt revealing massive muscles and a thick gold chain. Johnnie decided to call them Flower Man and Chain Boy. Arturo put him in with Chain Boy.
Arturo said, “Your sister will be back when your lawyer arrives. Tobias won’t let a doctor come in, sorry. I can bring you a book tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? How many days would he be there? “Thanks, Art.” He sat on the wood bench furthest from the other guy.
Arturo whispered, “Johnnie, your sister Robin? Is she single?”
Johnnie smiled. “Art, are you thinking of asking her out?”
Art looked sheepish. “Yes.”
“Hey, go for it, man.”
Arturo smiled and exited, locking the cell door.
Chain Boy sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees, and nodded. “Yo, man. What you in for?”
He wasn’t in the mood to chat but found himself answering, “Murder. And you?”
“Duuuude! What? Who did you murder?”
Chain Boy seemed impressed. In a stony voice, he replied, “I didn’t kill anyone. It’s a misunderstanding.” Johnnie stared at the ceiling. There was a crack in the concrete about two feet long. He wondered if the ceiling would cave in. With his luck, it wouldn’t surprise him.
Chain Boy chuckled. “Riiiiight.” He tapped his nose. “I got you.”
“No. Really. I’m innocent.”
His cell mate grinned, “Yeah, and I didn’t ‘assault’ that cute bartender last night either.”
Johnnie grew still, unable to breathe, but his cheek twitched. “What bartender?”
“At the Yellow Bird place.”
His nostrils flared. “Yellow Parrot? Mandy?”
“Yeah, dude. Parrot. Mandy, Sandy… I don’t know. Long braids. Juicy ass.”
Johnnie slowly exhaled, his muscles tense, his brain on fire, eyes blinking. He sprang towards Chain Boy, his hand around his throat, squeezing, wanting to rip out his larynx. “You piece of scum!”
Chain Boy swatted at Johnnie with his fat, stubby hands.
“Dude, get off!” He wiggled off the bench. Johnnie lost his grasp. His opponent pulled him to the floor, climbing on top, punching him in his already damaged ribs. He grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it in a way he learned in the Marines, or so he assumed. With a few strategic moves, Chain Boy was face down on the concrete floor, Johnnie straddled him, holding the man’s arm at an unnatural angle.
Johnnie yelled, “Motherfucker. I should break your arm.” Just a little more pressure would do so…
Arturo ran up and unlocked the door. “Crosswell! Let him go.”
Johnnie looked up. Arturo strode toward him with a taser. The barbs hit his shoulder blade and electricity shot through his brain. He rolled to the side, convulsing. Through half-lidded eyes, he saw Arturo drag a jittery Chain Boy to the other cell.
Before he passed out from the pain, he had only two thoughts.
I should have broken it in three places, and Robin can’t find out.
***
Eight hours earlier…
The bank manager was such a sissy. Crying like a baby when he held his hand over the stovetop’s flame. Thomas expected the task to be harder. But the manager acquiesced quickly, driving them to the bank, disabling the alarm, opening Mr. Taylor’s box.
Thomas Smith rifled through the contents. Garbage. No thumb drive.
He turned to the manager, whipping out his knife and holding it to his throat. “Where is it?”
The man trembled. “What? What are you talking about?” More tears streamed down his nose.
“Stop blubbering, ya wimp. There should be a thumb drive. Did anyone else access this box last week? His wife? Any reporters or investigators?”
“No…not that I can think of.
“Do you keep a log of people who come in?”
“Um. Well, there were a couple strange visits last week.”
“Strange? What do you mean? Who?”
“Um. I…let me think. There was a billionaire from the Bahamas. He talked to his dead mother. Eccentric, but I don’t think he would steal anything. And the park maintenance guy. Croissant? Cross…something.”
Smith removed the blade from the man’s neck, scratching his head with his free hand. “Crosswell? John Crosswell?”
“Yes!” The man sighed with relief. “That’s the one. He didn’t go into the vault, but he said he had a safe deposit key. Acted weird. I reported it to the police. Maybe someone else in the bank let him in?”
He grabbed the man by his shirt collar. “What kind of bank is this? What about security footage?”
“Oh, um, yes. We have footage of the main floor. Come, I’ll show you.”
Thom hissed, “I don’t have time for this crap. It’s got to be Crosswell. Wait, has the camera been recording? Yes, show me.”
They went to a small back room with three security screens and a disc recorder. Thom opened all the drives, broke the discs with his bare hands and picked up the pieces, shoving them in his jacket pocket. He turned to the manager. “I was never here. You will not say a word. Otherwise, your daughter could go missing, if you get my meaning.”
The manager wrung his hands and nodded.
“Good. I’ll let myself out. Count to a thousand and then you can leave.”
Smith walked out the back door, whose alarm was disabled earlier. The alley in the back was dark and his black clothing blended perfectly. He wondered if he should have killed Samuel. Leaving loose ends was sloppy. But leaving stacks of dead bodies around the tiny island would bring more unwanted attention, making his boss unhappy. It was bad enough he had to kill that reporter. But she was young, idealistic, and refused to be bought. That was the trouble with twenty-year-olds. Always so aspirational.
Now that he had his answer, he needed to track down Crosswell, the park janitor, which would be easy. The man seemed like a moron and a pacifist. But first, he needed to apply pressure and have a bit of fun.
He climbed into his SUV and headed to the beach. Multi-tasking was his favorite thing. Why run here and there putting out fires like most fixers when you could simplify your work? Sure, Ray Donovan was fun television but no one could sustain that level of sheer chaos and family drama. Others in his line of business usually burned out in six months. He was in his fourteenth year and still going strong. With his innate efficiency and rule book, he put in fewer hours making more per job and had time to decompress for days at a time. It was a shame they didn’t give out lifetime achievement awards for corporate fixers.
At the beach, he parked, changed his shoes to a size fifteen, three sizes larger, and made other adjustments to his appearance, like donning a ski mask. He scouted for prying eyes. The place was deserted. It was two o’clock and the moon was obscured behind clouds. Perfect.
He opened the back hatch of the SUV and threw the girl’s body—covered in bubble wrap—over his shoulder. At the beach line, he rolled her out, reinserting the machete back into its original slot in her back. He pushed it in with a little hop to apply more force. Smith stood back to review his handiwork and scanned the beach one more time.
Back at his car, he put on his dome light and wrote some notes in the small lined pad. His how-to book was coming along. The chapter on multi-tasking and using the police as an asset would get the reader’s attention. It all came down to using a systems approach and delegating to others without them knowing. And never working in teams. That was a killer. Maybe when this assignment concluded and all the politicians fell in line, he would spend afternoons at cafes, completing his manuscript.
Smiling at his accomplishments, Smith drove back to town. Under the largest cell phone tower, he left an anonymous tip on the police hotline.
With that out of the way, he could get some well-deserved sleep, have a late breakfast, and ransack the idiot’s apartment—all before noon—and maybe go snorkeling later, knowing that the Crosswell guy wasn’t going anywhere.
The app on his phone predicted a wonderful sunny day.
Yes, he should get an award.
Soon enough, he’d have the thumb drive and the codes for the bribe money back.
Chapter 13
Robin squirmed at her desk, trying to concentrate on the papers before her. A vote was coming up next month on a new zoning plan. After the hurricanes, investors sought to change zoning to consolidate tracts of condemned residential properties to build big resorts. The legislature would not turn its back on residents. These proposals were likely DOA.
Dottie burst through her door. “Urgent call. Judge Montrose. Can I put him through?”
She put down the proposal. “Is it about Johnnie?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Yes, put it through.” A couple seconds later, Robin answered on the first ring. “Your honor, nice to speak with you again. What can I do for you?”
“Robin, I have a search warrant on my desk for your brother’s place. As a courtesy, I wanted you to know I’ll be signing it within the next half-hour.”
The air went out of her lungs. “Oh. Yes, thank you for letting me know. If there is anything I can do for you in the future, please don’t hesitate…”
“Goodbye.” The line went dead.
Shit. The diary. She looked through her calendar. A meeting with the Economic Council began in fifteen minutes. She screamed, “DOTTIE!”
Dot reappeared, “Yes, ma’am? What can I do?”
Dottie was always listening in. A few years older, she was a fixture in the building. Her superpowers were knowing every soul on the island, and spreading gossip faster than a peregrine falcon in a race against a Lamborghini. Which was exceptionally fast. “Did you hear that?”
Dot blushed. “I, um. Yes.”
“Take my phone. In my contacts, find Gertrude Brown. Tell her to retrieve John’s diary. It should have a black leather cover, about the size of a steno pad. Tell her to keep it, hide it, until he gets back. She has to get it right now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dottie took the phone and jogged out.
Robin rested her
head on her desk, moaning slightly. Maybe she should have asked Gertie to burn the damned diary. Who knew what kinds of insane rantings were in it? Even Johnnie’s most benign innermost thoughts could trouble a jury, leading to a conviction. Dr. Phillips insisted a daily journal was part of the healing and mood management process. But most patients didn’t get into the trouble Johnnie did. The diary could put him away for life, guilty or not.
Three minutes later, Dot came back, returning the cell phone. “Gertie understands and will get it right away.”
Robin eased her head off the desk. “Thanks, Dot.” She noticed the time on her phone and bolted up. “My ten o’clock economic committee meeting is starting soon. Come get me the second Mr. Greaves arrives.”
Dot nodded. “Can I get you some coffee?”
She straightened her jacket and began gathering materials for the meeting, stacking papers. “Yes. With a dash of secret sauce.”
Drinking on the job was not something she was proud of, but she needed relief. A couple dashes of rum wouldn’t hurt.
But if this kept up, she might need to refill her Xanax prescription, and she hadn’t touched the stuff since her divorce. That was a dark time she didn’t want to revisit. If a jury found Johnnie guilty, she’d likely lose re-election next year. It could all culminate with no job, incredible legal bills, a murderer brother, with no other family to lean on. What would become of her? Maybe she could live off the land like Cudlow. Or drown herself.
She couldn’t think about this now.
On the way to the stairs, she picked up the coffee from Dot, taking a sip. The warm liquid radiated down her throat. “Thanks, Dottie. I needed this.”
Dot smiled. “Go. I’ll hold down the fort.”
Robin smiled back. “I know.” Her eyes teared up. She straightened her back and blinked. “See you in an hour.”
“It will all be fine. You watch.”
Robin took a deep breath and headed to the stairs. She clutched her folders in one arm, and held the coffee with the other, taking each step carefully, unable to hold the handrail. Five steps from the bottom, her foot slipped. She fell backwards, her folders flying off in front of her down the stairs in a spray, her coffee now spilled across her blouse. The mug danced down the stairs and fractured on the floor below. Heat seared her skin and she flicked the liquid downward with sweeps of her hand.
