By Delahay
I was sitting at my desk daydreaming about my upcoming vacation when I heard the squeal of tires. The sound got closer and more ominous and was followed by a sudden kablooie. Then the grill of a '67 Chrysler Imperial landed on the top of my desk. The most interesting thing about this was that I recognized the car it belonged to. It was registered to one Garnish B. Frackmeyer, the biggest pimp, pusher and lowlife in upper lower Manhattan. I couldn't help but wonder why he decided to drop by. I couldn't recall having any scheduled appointments, and it's not like we run in the same circles, or squares as far as that goes. We weren't friends or acquaintances, or even really good enemies. By the way, my name is Eddy Parker, P.I., and this is, or was, my office. I honestly didn't have any meetings scheduled but you can't plan for surprises. I really didn't have time to figure out what was going on with Frackmeyer right now however. I had something else that needed my attention.
The D.A. had called me in for a meeting yesterday evening to discuss a case she wanted my help with. Since I left the force I sometimes work with the police or the D.A.'s office as a "consultant". That way I can work like a cop without having to follow the same rules and procedures, and, ever since the "Blue Flu" hit the squad, I've been called in more often lately. The D.A. called me because she wants me to try to run a sting on the Carlos family. It seems the old man of the family has suddenly disappeared and the whole situation really stinks. Word is Grandpa Carlos has been misbehaving with the domestic help and acting kind of odd lately but, other than that, no one knows anything.
She called me back this afternoon though, right before Frackmeyer's grill landed on my blotter. It seems a couple of guys from the cable company had made a service call at a house in the 'burbs and ran into a real bad odor and an even worse crime scene. The cops wanted to pin the whole thing on the cable guys but, whatever happened, it went down at least two days before our boys got there. Not to mention the fact that the neighbor had to let them in.
They found her in the bedroom. She had been hogtied, sodomized, and strangled with her pantyhose. There were no signs of forced entry, a neighbor with a key had opened the door for the cable guys. When the door was opened the smell knocked them back, the smell that is often described as the one you never forget. It's true, it is impossible to forget and stays with you for quite some time after exposure. As a side note, it's a great appetite suppressant.
The D.A. wanted me to head out to the crime scene and meet the detective in charge on scene. For some reason she had a feeling old man Carlos had something to do with this murder. Call it a sixth sense, gut feeling or just that something about it seemed hinky to her. Cops have these feelings sometimes and quite often they are right. Maybe they are lucky or maybe it's just years on the job give them this instinct. With her it might have had something to do with the three years she worked as a baby sitter for his children. Whatever it was she wanted me at the crime scene.
I went back by my apartment and got my piece, my badge, I.D., cuffs and asp, then traded cars for the Crown Vic. I turned on the radio and announced a 10-8. H.Q. came back with the address and cross streets I needed and gave me the name of the detective in charge of the case. I grabbed a coffee and a newspaper, hard to believe I even paid for them. The good old days were over, now we even have to buy our own bullets. You can get free ones at the gun range, if you want to make your own reloads. No thanks.
Marge Burns must have drawn the shot straw and caught the case. I, being the fortunate son, was backup. I'd worked with Marge several times before, both when I was still a cop then after I left the force. She was a good, solid cop. The biggest problem with that is, when you've got enough time in to be really good at it, you're too old to do the job without it trying to kill you. Makes you want to start using your car as a battering ram and your gun as a pencil. That's a joke, by the way. Marge gave me a copy of her notes, how we managed before computers and word processors I'll never be able to fathom. At this point they probably don't know I can't spell.
Going through Marge's notes it seemed to be they were smart enough to lose their finger prints and just about all other evidence that might give us some direction as to where to start looking. It was going to be like the good old days, hit the sidewalks and knock on doors. It's always amazing to me how many people can sit in a chair all day looking out a window and not see or hear a thing. But let their neighbors' dog take a crap in their yard and they'll break the record for the ten yard dash getting to the phone to call 911. The cops get more nuisance calls that way.
| Author Notes |
10-8 = car in service
Hinky = something not quite right P.I. = private investigator |
By Delahay
For some reason this cut and paste murder case was turning out to be stranger than fiction. Driving back from the station towards my apartment I kept going over and over again all the details in my mind. I swung into a Taco Bell for a six pack of tacos then to a chill and fill for $10 worth of gas, maybe enough to get me a couple of blocks, and a six pack of beer. Once I made it back to the apartment I spread the report I got from Marge, as well as the notes I made from my own observations, out on the table and started reading over everything again. I got through two beers, half a taco and the report in about 45 minutes then decided to call it a night. I took a shower, shaved and got all warm and snug in my favorite jammies.
I turned on the T.V. and began to think that the more we pay for our service the less we get for it. Magic Broom! Happy Maid! Special Sponge! 2:05, 2:09, 2:14, 2:20, that's it, I thought, I need to get to sleep. I turned off the T.V., rolled over, and shut my eyes. Unfortunately, without all the distractions of the day to hold my attention, all I could think about were questions about the case. Since there was no sign of forced entry, how did the perp. get in then back out? Was it someone she knew? Did he have a key or did she let him in? But the biggest questions of all are always the "Whys"? Why did they kill her? Why there? Why her? Usually if you can answer that you know "Who"? So far I didn't have any answers, just a lot of questions. At this point I seemed to be adding three and three and kept coming up with seven.
Oh Hell! This wasn't working. I tuned the T.V. back on. Grill King! Kitchen Magic! How to become a millionaire in five easy steps! Instant hair, just choose your color and spray it on! 3:01, 3:07, 3:15. Instant Wine! Super Blender! Is there no more low than this crap? Instant Food, just add water! Ugh, gag. 4:09, 4:18. This was no use. Maybe some push-ups would help.
1,2,3,8,12,19...that'll do the trick, all right. Yes sir! I can see the sheep already. Hmm, who calls for a cable appointment then either kills themselves or gets themselves done in I wondered. Of course this girl didn't kill herself. Or if she did she was very unique in being able to hog tie herself first, but this is where my mind was wandering at this point. Did someone want to make sure the body was found? I'd have to remember to ask Marge if anyone checked on who made the call. Nothing was making any sense at four or five o whatever in the morning, absolutely no sense.
Yawn, beep, beep, beep. Damn! 6:30 a.m. already. Did I get any sleep at all last night? I wasn't even sure about that right now.
I didn't waste minute of that night did I? If I thought there was a chance in Hell of dozing off I'd have called in sick and gone back to bed, even if I am my own boss. I guess I'd be taking a hit for the Blue Flu.
Suddenly there was someone beating on the front door, and I meant beating. Thank God for big city locks! I looked through the peep hole and immediately recognized the gray uniform of the city magistrates' office.
I opened the door and the guy said, "Eddy Parker?"
Before I could think better of it I said, "Yeah."
He said, "Sign here," and I had no choice but to sign. It was a summons from Municipal Court. Apparently my office had gotten in the way of a '67 Chrysler owned by one Garnish Frackmeyer, pimp, pusher, douche bag.
I made a cup of coffee just like my ex used to make. Two tablespoons of instant coffee and half a cup of boiling water, it could wake the dead or kill anyone not already there. My phone went off just as I took the first sip. My son had set it up for me. It plays "Sympathy for the Devil" by the Rolling Stones. People say he inherited my sense of humor but I don't know what they mean by that. It was Marge, she wanted me to meet her at the Waffle House near the station.
On the way there I grabbed a paper from the guy on the corner as usual. I don't know why I do this, it's not like I ever read the damn thing. There's never anything in them I want to see anyway. Marge was waiting for me when I got to the restaurant. It seems our Jane Doe was one Nancy Carpenter and she had recently inherited $3.5 million. I don't know about anything else but that smelled like motive to me. Marge followed up that tidbit of information with, "But no one seems to be able to locate the money."
| Author Notes |
Still very much a work in progress. This if my first, tentative attempt at writing a book. All comments welcome but, if at all possible, be kind. I have supernatural powers and I'm not afraid to use them.
Not really but don't tell the dog. She thinks I'm pretty cool. |
By Delahay
It had been a little over twenty-four hours since we had caught the case and we were pretty much where we started. Except for establishing a possible motive we hadn't gotten anywhere since identifying the victim. We hadn't found anyone who benefited from her death, no disgruntled ex-lovers, neighbors, friends or enemies.
The tip line the police had set up had only gotten the usual psychics and serial callers with useless leads we had no choice but to follow up. At times it seemed the tip line was just something disgruntled individuals used to try to sabotage our case for their own amusement. I mean it seems as if they could get something right about the case if they are going to call in; like maybe a name, description, gender, the date or time, anything. Not that I'm complaining. I just wish they would leave some pertinent information about themselves. Then, maybe when I had the time, I could track some of these people down and have a talk with them.
It was eleven a.m. I had just finished cleaning my Sig Sauer 226 when the phone rang, it was Marge. She had tracked down the missing money. It had been transferred from Nancy's bank to a Nantucket savings and loan. The money was transferred at four forty-five, Monday afternoon, August 18th. That's one colored piece in our all white jig saw puzzle. At this rate we'll finish by Christmas. Knock on wood.
Shortly after Marge called, the phone rang again. This time it was my friend Buddy Fields. Buddy and I went to the same high school and did the typical teenage boy type things together. We got in school yard fights, had a garage band, skipped school, learned to drink beer and chase girls. After high school, we both decided to go to the police academy and graduated together. Then he fell from grace, went over to the dark side, and became a lawyer.
I had gone to Buddy about the Frackmeyer lawsuit and showed him the paperwork I had been served with. He read the summons then laughed for an hour, no kidding. Well, he laughed for a few minutes then snickered for a long time after that. Then he said, "You can afford me right?", laughed again and asked me what my desk was worth. He also wanted to know if the police had done a field sobriety test on Frackmeyer. When I told him I had no idea, he pointed out that I needed to call that very minute to find out, and make sure one was done if it hadn't already been taken care of. Buddy also mentioned he would speak to the judge about dismissing the case. He said, "I think we can finally show Frackmeyer how the justice system works.
Buddy was calling to tell me he had dug up twenty-seven outstanding warrants on our friend Garnish Frackmeyer. I guess no one had mentioned to old Garnish that this P.I. worked for the D.A.'s office, and all kinds of nasty little things could come crawling through the cracks if he came after me. This lawsuit wasn't going to be an easy payday for Frackmeyer.
Buddy told me he had already arranged to have a hearing before a judge to try to get the suit dismissed. He had also heard something interesting from an informant of his. It seemed a real nut job who had a long history with Frackmeyer planned to settle an old score when Garnish showed up at court. This guy intended to shoot Mr. Frackmeyer right in front of the courthouse. Buddy had already relayed the information to the cops and was told they would take care of everything. This wasn't going to do a thing for our open murder case but it was good to know the cops had something under control. I think what our open case needed at this point was some good, old fashioned, black magic.
| Author Notes | Getting the Frackmeyer problem taken care of so the murder case can be the main concern. |
By Delahay
Garnish Frackmeyer had a prize-winning idea, that is, if they gave out prizes for stupidity. He had in his attic a box of useless junk from WWI that his grandfather had left him. One of the priceless items he had was a "bullet-proof vest". Anyone with half a brain, which left Garnish about a fourth of a brain short, knows that the only truly bullet-proof vests, or really, bullet resistant vests, were made after Viet Nam. But this vest was the key to Garnish's brilliant plan to disappear and make everyone believe he was dead. He had no idea that word had gotten out that someone really wanted to kill him, and the cops planned to stop them.
Garnish had the perfect fool to make his scheme work. Otto Smith had a truly two digit I.Q. and he'd do anything for money or something that would make him feel big in his own zip code. Here was a chance for him to get both with no risk! All he had to do was sit in the gallery of the courtroom, wait for Garnish to stand up when he is called, pull out the forty-four Magnum Garnish had given him,and shoot Garnish in the shoulder. Garnish figured he couldn't get hurt because he would be wearing the vest. Unfortunately for him, he had no idea just how clueless he was about a few minor consideration. Such as just how powerful a forty-four magnum is, and how completely useless a WWI era flak vest was for stopping small arms fire, even when it was brand new.
Garnish was ready for his day in court but had been really surprised at how much his 'bullet-proof' vest weighed. He was also surprised at how much it looked like some rats had been chewing on it. He was still confident that his plan was going along smoothly, though, when he saw his old friend Otto sitting there.
Now the police knew Garnish like a bad dope deal or a working girl and were ready for whatever was going to happen. Of course, they had no idea that what was about to go down was all planned by Garnish in the first place. Not that it would have made any difference in what happened.
The bailiff called for Garnish Frackmeyer to approach. When he stood up, so did Otto with the forty-four. Otto aimed carefully, then shot Garnish right between the eyes. The S.W.A.T. team responded by putting several dime-sized holes in poor old Otto, with their frangible rounds. The police use these rounds because they don't keep going after hitting someone, reducing the chances of hurting or killing anyone they didn't plan on. Of course, Otto didn't plan ahead like that and, after killing Garnish, his bullet kept going and hit the lady standing behind Garnish, making a mess out of her arm. She survived, a little worse for wear, but neither Garnish or Otto was so lucky.
| Author Notes |
World War I vests were 'flak vests'. They may have done a little to stop small shrapnel but not much more. They were also extremely heavy.
This is meant to end the side story of Garnish so I can concentrate on the case. |
By Delahay
Once again I was in the office until about nine p.m. Lately it seemed like all I went home for was to change clothes, shower, and shave. For the hell of it, and to bug people, I decided to grow a beard. Besides, I was old enough now for it to make me look distinguished, or so various men's magazines and commercials have been trying to convince me.
The phone rang, a disembodied voice said, "You don't know me."
I replied, "After such a short conversation, I'd have to agree with. Would you like to get better acquainted?"
He said, "No, 'cause you be da police and they ain't nothin' but trouble."
I told him, "Well, Mr. Johnson, I'll pretend that you blocked your caller I.D. before you called, you can do that you know, but that's not important right now. By the way, I'm not really a cop, you know, not anymore. I just work with them sometimes now."
Mr. Johnson said, "You cool for da police."
Wondering how I could find out just what this guy was calling about, I asked, "Well, what can I do for you Mr. uh, Smith?"
"Hey, I give you good info, I can get some cash right?"
"I'm sure we can work something out Mr. Smith, if your information helps."
"Hey, dat cool! Thing be, in da alley, da alley behind where da white girl done got kilt, dere be one of dem little station wagons bin parked dere eber since."
"Well that could be some news Mr. Smith and it's an unbelievable shame any time anyone gets killed."
"Mr. Parker, dey say youse cool, an' I guess you is."
"Thank you, Mr. Smith. If you get any more information, give me a call. Just tell anyone who answers that you're Mr. Smith.
"Dat be real cool, an' you can call me, Rennie Johnson."
"O.K. then. Goodnight, Mr. Johnson."
First thing in the morning I managed to get hold of Marge and related last night's conversation with Rennie Johnson. We agreed to meet behind the apartment at about eight thirty. Even that early, the temperature was already climbing toward brutal.
We found the 2002 Mini Cooper, and it did not take long to spot the blood on the steering wheel, gear shifter, and door locks. Marge put in a call to C.S.I. and they had fingerprints for us within an hour. When the prints were run through A.F.I.S., they came back as being from three different people, Nancy Carpenter, Rastafarian Neola, and Jerry Sanderson, A.K.A. Biscuit. Rastafarian and Biscuit were from around Atlanta, Ga. It looked like a road trip was in our future. With a little luck and the good graces of God, we may actually have finally come up with a real lead.
I got my office assistant to pull up a map to Atlanta. When I saw the map I thought I might lose it when I saw that N.Y.C. to Atlanta is eight hundred and eighty-two miles. This wasn't going to be a road trip. More like the Lewis and Clark expedition.
| Author Notes |
C.S.I. Crime Scene Investigation
A.F.I.S. Automated Fingerprint Identification System. A nationwide fingerprint data base. A.K.A. Also Known As. An alias. For anyone outside the U.S. N.Y.C. is New York City. |
By Delahay
The next day Marge was able to requisition us a car for our trip to Atlanta. The Cop Shot set her up with a '94 Mustang with an interceptor package, so we were going to have a radio, lights, and an abundance of speed capability. We might not need all that cool stuff but, hey, you never know.
We had our shit together and were on the road by nine thirty a.m. I was driving as we headed for I-78 W to travel into New Jersey. We'd be traveling on I-78 through Pennsylvania, then get on I-81 S to travel through the edges of Maryland and West Virginia, onward through the western part of Virginia, then down into North Carolina. We were journeying into the deep South. This could be an interesting trip for a guy who grew up in the Bronx. Heck, the only time I'd ever left the state of New York was to go down to the Jersey shore a few times.
We hadn't gone very far, we had only just gotten past Newark and I was already nodding. I checked the clock on the dash and discovered I had only been driving for about thirty minutes. Damn, I was hoping Marge wouldn't notice, but then she asked, "Hey Eddy, how about a cup of coffee?"
"What? I wasn't drifting was I?"
"Well, I'll put it this way. If there were some kind of bounty on drunk bumps, you would be up to about $1500. Why don't you pull over for a few minutes and I'll pour you a cup of that coffee I mentioned."
I said, "sure", and took the next exit ramp, then pulled into a truck stop.
She opened the thermos of coffee she'd brought with her, poured me a cup then said, "Why don't you drink your coffee and I'll take the wheel for a while?"
The coffee hadn't made me feel any perkier so I agreed and swapped seats with her. I finished my coffee as she drove onto the entrance ramp then lay my head back and closed my eyes. When I resurfaced I was surprised to see that darkness surrounded the car. I could feel the low vibration of the car and hear the rumble of the 351 Cleveland engine. As I glance over at Marge I caught a glimpse of the speedometer, she was holding it steady at 90 m.p.h. I don't think I'll ever figure out all of her surprises.
She asked, "you awake?"
I said , "I think so, where are we? I see a whole lot of nothing out there."
"Somewhere in Georgia," she replied.
"What time is it?"
"Ten-ish"
"Why didn't you wake me up to drive a long time ago?"
"Well, to be honest, I've been having a good time. There's something about being in the middle of nowhere and you're the only car on the road. It's like some kind of strange time travel. It's been quiet, no traffic and no reception on my phone. By the way, have you ever heard of boiled peanuts? I swear I've been seeing signs for the things everywhere. Why would anyone boil peanuts?"
I thought about that for a minute. I seemed to have some vague memory of someone mentioning them in a story they told about a trip somewhere in the South. "I think it's some kind of snack for red necks. I don't think I want to try them, if it's all the same to you."
I asked if she wanted me to drive, but she said it wasn't much farther. We drove on in silence for about another forty-five minutes before we pulled into the Highway Patrol Station that was our destination. As we walked through the door, the deputy who was manning the front desk looked up from his newspaper and said, "Hey, y'all must be the folks from New York."
After the introductions and preliminary chit chat were over, Marge asked the deputy if he had any information on the two men we were looking for. He replied, "Yeah, sorry but I've got bad news. Looks like y'all drove all this way for nothing. Those two boys are dead."
| Author Notes |
Interceptor package: Cars designed to be used as police cars usually have one of a few different packages of options. This one would have a bigger engine, a heavier suspension, bigger radiator, maybe run flat tires, better acceleration, and better breaks.
Drunk bumps: The reflective plastic bumps sometimes glued to the line between the driving lane and the shoulder of the road. They will get your attention if you drive over them. Boiled peanuts: If you ever travel through certain southern states, you will see many signs advertising boiled peanuts. I have no idea why. I was given some to try one time by a co-worker, who actually seemed to like the things. They tasted the way old mop water smells. Y'all: Contrary to what some people in the U.S. seem to think, I have never used y'all, or heard it used, when speaking to one person - unless one is speaking to one person and referring to that person and others. It is a contraction of 'you all', but is frequently used when only talking to two people. |
By Delahay
Marge and I had driven to Georgia to find the two guys whose fingerprints had been found on Nancy Carpenter's car. When we got to the Highway Patrol station to speak to the Sheriff, we were informed that they had been killed in a car wreck the day before. How these two had come to be driving a Porsche was a mystery to all of us since neither of them could ever hold a job for very long. Apparently, the Sheriff had tried to call us before we got there, but it must have been at a time when we were in a dead spot in the service area since Marge's cell phone never rang. The Sheriff was telling us about the death of our suspects.
"Sure wish we could have caught y'all before y'all drove all the way down here. I'm sure the little lady couldn't have cared to ride in a car all that way. I know how the missus gets sick to her stomach anytime we go on a long trip.
I don't recall if I told you, but the car those boys wrecked was registered to a Raymond Carlos out of Newark, New Jersey. I knew they never could have afforded a car like that, neither of those boys ever had two quarters to rub together to make fifty cents. I always figured, if they got the money to buy a car that would run, they'd wreck it in a couple of days. Hard to believe they beat that record so well.
I guess y'all will be heading back home now, nothing much left to see here. I'll send my report up to the New York police as soon as I get it put together. There's a Holiday Inn just up the road a piece if y'all plan on staying the night.
Would y'all do me a favor when you get back to home? Would you send me a post card, maybe one of the Statue of Liberty? You can send it to Major Tommy, "Bubba" Waldrops, 959 Confederate Ave., Atlanta, Ga. I like to collect post cards from people I meet from out of town. The Missus likes the ones with famous places on them."
After the Sheriff finished his sermon, Marge and I thanked him, shook his hand and went back out to the car. Neither one of us wanted to start the trip back to New York just yet, so we decided to check out that hotel the Sheriff mentioned.
We stopped and grabbed some barbeque on the way to the hotel, you can't visit the South without eating some barbeque. We got it to go and ate in my room once we got checked in. After Marge finished she went next door to her room and, I imagine, went right to sleep. It had been a long day and she had done most of the driving.
I had slept almost the whole trip down and had too much on my mind to sleep anyway. There were too many questions and not near enough answers. I don't know about anyone else but I was wondering what the Carlos family had to do with this mess. When Marge first called me she said she thought they were involved somehow. The biggest question I had was, where did those guys get a car registered to old man Carlos, and did that have something to do with how they died?
| Author Notes | Not a whole lot happens here but we do get a tidbit about the two suspects and a possible tie to a New Jersey crime family. |
By Delahay
The trip back from Georgia was pretty routine after the letdown of not finding our suspects still alive and well. I wondered about that rather convenient "accident" they had managed to get into just when they were being looked into for murder. I wondered what the forensic report would have to say about what caused that particular accident, or if the autopsies on our two boys might give us any interesting facts. We were going to have to wait for those reports to make their way to New York to find out.
The day after we got back to New York, Marge and I both got an ass chewing from her commander, the D.A., and the Chief of Police, for a wasting the time and money on our little jaunt. I decided I should spend some time in my office taking care of the mountain of paperwork I'd been planning on taking care of, "when I got the chance". I'd spent about an hour digging through paperwork and going over my notes when I got an unusual phone call from someone I'd never heard of before, but he knew a lot about my case.
"Mr. Parker", he said, after I answered the phone, "I'm Wayne Sanderson, Biscuit's brother. I think you've heard about my brother, right? I got your phone number from Tommy Waldrops. He said I should give you a call, and I don't know who else to tell this to, but two or three weeks ago or so, Biscuit started hanging out with this Rastifarian dude. Then about a week ago, they went up to New York to meet with a Mr. Carlos, some guy Biscuit heard was hooked up with the mob up there. Anyway, Biscuit said this guy Carlos had a daughter, or step daughter, that was kind of different. You see, she didn't care much for men, if you know what I mean. I guess what I'm trying to say is she didn't much like being with men, but she had a thing for other women. You know what I mean, don't ya'?"
I assured Mr. Sanderson that I had a good idea what he was getting at, and asked him what else he might want to tell me about.
"The thing is", he continued, "the way Biscuit understood it, what with the position Mr. Carlos was in and all, he would be in trouble with his, um, "associates" I guess you'd call 'em, if anyone was to find out. Find out about this girl I mean. I don't know if they would kick him out of the mob, or what would happen, but I guess he'd be in some kind of trouble."
I was thinking this guy Wayne had a gift for understatement. The mob liked to keep up appearances of what some people like to call "Family Values". Just the appearances you understand.
"So, anyway, the way I heard it, this girl, she tried to keep to herself and mind her own business most of the time. She didn't tell people her real name or who her daddy was. She called herself Brenda Carter some times and other times she used the name Nancy Carpenter. But I guess some of the wrong people heard about her and old man Carlos was getting kind of worried, or so Biscuit told me. So Mr. Carlos met up with Biscuit and that Rastafarian and made a deal with them to take care of the girl. I don't know nothing about this Rastafarian or Mr. Carlos, but Biscuit, he never was quite right. I don't believe he'd hurt a fly on his own, but he would follow anybody who'd tell him which way to go. I'm thinking they killed that girl for Carlos, for that fancy car they were driving and some money. I had a look around Biscuit's trailer after I heard what happened to him, and I found twenty five thousand dollars hid up under his mattress. Biscuit never had more than twenty dollars in his pocket at a time, I can't think where else he might have got that kind of money. Now I've been getting hang up calls for the last couple of days and I'm getting kind of worried. I'd really like to keep that money but it ain't worth dying for."
By Delahay
Great things often bring disappointing results. I wasn't about to go out and buy party favors, but something, somewhere, in the back of my brain told me I wasn't being hosed, this might be the real thing.
Would Carlos really have had his step daughter whacked for being, say, different. Well, word has it, good word, little evidence, he ran over a pimp for shorting him ten dollars. Of course, that was never proven, the pimp in question couldn't remember who ran him down. There seem to be a lot of people around here with short memories.
Carlos has a temper and is quick to use it. He blew three fingers off his left hand trying to get a pipe bomb on a neighbor's car before he was eighteen. It seems to me some people, shrinks call them sociopaths, are born without a conscience. He had worked as an apprentice butcher and a mechanic for Anastasia, but he was out when that crew went down. No one was brave enough to rat him out either. Another rumor that floats around alleys and back rooms of bars is that he took night courses at N.Y.C. in chemistry. It would explain a hit on one of his old enemies. Someone had mixed calcium carbide in a glass of water, put a thirty watt light bulb in a microwave, emptied a silverware drawer in it, then taped the door shut and plugged it in with a timer between the microwave and the wall. Even the slab was gone, forget about any evidence. Two people were never identified. It's something you don't want to think about next time you drop the kids off with Granddad.
Going by the laws passed in 1994, and if we can get anything Wayne Sanderson has said by the Hearsay Law, Carlos is good for three counts of homicide, conspiracy to commit homicide, and probably, a handful of misdemeanors. With any luck, and if the F.B.I. doesn't get wind of an easy target and try to take over our case, it could be a short walk to Sing Sing for old man Carlos. Of course, one way we could be pretty sure we could nail Carlos to the sidewalk, would be to let Georgia handle the prosecution. If memory served me right, just California and Georgia really enforce the three strikes law, and Georgia had a seventy-one percent conviction rate last I'd heard. I knew I'd rather see Carlos doing sixty years for real than a few months of nothing if the Feds thought they could flip him on his cohorts.
Thinking about this reminded me of a boy who ended up doing life in Huntsville, Texas for getting caught with one joint three separate times. I don't think he's the kind of hardened, habitual criminal that the three strikes law was meant to get off the streets. Then there was the pervert who only got six years for raping and killing a fourteen year old girl. They let him out after three years he found Jesus in jail. It can make you a little bitter when you think about it.
There were some people handing out pamphlets at the mall a few weeks ago. After a brutal day and one too many trips to the morgue to see what was left of a kid who got on the wrong side of a gang, I just wasn't in the best of moods to listen to what they had to say. This Caspar looking dude came up to me and asked me if I knew Jesus had died for my soul. I couldn't help myself, I replied, "I didn't even know he was sick." He seemed offended by that, but at that point, I didn't really care. I'd like to see that guy go on a ride along on a gang massacre.
By Delahay
Wow! What a way to wake up, or down, depending on your perspective. I hit the floor so hard, at first I thought it was an earthquake. I was under the coffee table and television was askew. When I regained my wits, I realized I had fallen off the couch where I had apparently gone to sleep the night before while watching some crappy movie. I got up, went to the bathroom, and got another shock when I looked in the mirror. I was so stunned I almost fell into the bathroom. When had I turned into my grandfather? I hadn't shaved for a few days and the scruffy beard adorning my face had grown in Santa Claus white. That would have to go. I'd been going for distinguished, not dead. I took care of that as quickly as possible and tried not to think too much about my birthday coming up next month.
After I scraped the overnight grunge off of my teeth and took a fast shower, I stepped out of the bathroom to hear my phone ringing. "Good morning", Marge said, far too cheerfully to my still somewhat muddled frame of mind. "I've got some information on a location for our favorite guy."
"You do? Where might he be?"
"Well, according to one of my more reliable c.i.'s, he's squatting in a loft on McDougal, in the Village."
"Sounds like this might be out of our league, you plan on inviting S.W.A.T. to the party?"
"That's the idea. Pick you up in about an hour?"
"Sounds like a plan."
Marge picked me up and, bless her, she'd brought me some coffee and a breakfast sandwich. We were on our way to be on scene as S.W.A.T. executed an arrest warrant on Carlos.
"Marge, what do you think about that call I got from Biscuit's brother Wayne? Seemed to me he was cooking without all the burners on, if you know what I mean. Maybe it's a "family thing", or meth, or schizophrenia, but he was speaking pure word salad. He could have just been scared shitless after what happened to his brother, but some of what he said made a little sense. I'd be scared shitless too in his place. With 50 g's out there, assuming both of those boys were paid 25 thousand each, someone's going to be looking for that kind of money."
As she pulled to a stop behind a police van parked about a block away from our destination, Marge turned to me and said, "I think we both have the same idea about what happened there. Carlos was cleaning up some loose ends.
What did you think of that coroner's report I got from Georgia?" she asked me. It looked pretty hinky to me. The coroner down there seemed to think our boys were dead long before their car hit that light pole, caught fire, and blew up. And did you get a look at the list of chemicals they found in the wreckage? I remember when cars just had things like gas, oil, and antifreeze. Looks like these new ones have nitric acid, potassium nitrate, potassium chlorate, and a whole laboratory of other things I can't even pronounce."
Marge told me she had a friend who'd been with the BATF for the last twenty years. He said that car had to have had eight to ten pounds of C-4 in it when blew up. Apparently, there were also traces of something called Clark. Her friend told Marge that Clark was and old World War II recipe for poison gas, something like Ricin, and those two boys were long gone before that explosion hit them. Thank God for small mercies, huh?"
Marge said she had done a little research and figured there were probably less than a hundred people walking around in this country who might know what that stuff was, much less what it could do or how to make it.
The radio suddenly crackled to life.
"Car 47, we're in position, waiting for your command to proceed."
Marge keyed her mic and responded, "Roger that, you have a go. Proceed to apprehend the suspect."
By Delahay
The squawk of the radio broke the silence that had enveloped the car as Marge and I were waited to hear if the E.S.U. had found and arrested Carlos. "Squad one to base," the disembodied voice said. "We have a deceased elderly male, 294 McDugal Street, apartment C, send a bus and the coroner."
"Car 47, Marge, you copy?" The voice continued.
With a resigned sigh Marge keyed her mic, "Roger that. I'm on my way."
Before we got out of the car, the team leader called again.
"Marge, if you and Eddy are heading up, you might want to come up the back way. We're taping off the front to keep the 'Looky Loos' out of our way."
I gave Marge a disgusted look as we walked to the stairs, "Seems we might have gotten here a little late. I hate it when The Outfit closes a case for us before we really get a chance to know what's going on."
Marge snorted, "Now hold your horses Eddy. Let's find out what's going on before we go making any profound statements, o.k.? We don't know if it's Carlos yet, much less how he died. It could even be natural causes for all we know right now."
I refrained from making any skeptical comments as we started up. I stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago. I had no doubt about whom we were going to find among the dear departed when we got to the scene. And I doubt he died peacefully in his sleep. Call me cynical.
When we got to the apartment, my nose told me we were probably at least two days late to be paying a visit to our man Carlos. It was indeed our guy who needed the appointment with the coroner and I saw right off we weren't looking at a suicide. Whoever whacked him took their time and, guessing from what they put him through, they weren't his friends. The sight that greeted us when we made it to the bedroom brought home the phrase 'horror show' from A Clockwork Orange. I was thinking this looked like the work of zips, who work closely with the mob.
I looked at Marge, "I guess we can cross Carlos off of your most wanted list. No doubt he's headed for warmer territory."
Once again we were going one step forward and three steps back. We were back where we started with a body and no clues. Carlos had been a sociopathic dirt bag and I'm fairly sure if he had made it to trial he would have won a trip to a correctional facility of the Judge's choice. I imagine a shiny chrome and plastic gurney, an I.V. and three, count them, three, chemicals may have been in his future as well. I don't think many people know they use a cocktail when someone gets a lethal injection. First there is a sedative, we want our condemned nice and relaxed don't we, then comes the paralytic, and finally the one that stops the heart.
Looking over the scene we found in that apartment, Carlos may have welcomed the alternative to what someone had done to him. Well, I don't think homicide detectives like Marge will ever have to go looking for something to keep them busy any time soon.
But there was nothing left for me to do here today. I guess the D. A.'s plans for running a sting on old man Carlos are off now, no reason for me to stick around. I left Marge to her crime scene and went to find an officer willing to give me a ride home.
I went to bed that night thinking that everything I'd been taking care of over the last few days had been settled one way or another. Frackmeyer's ridiculous lawsuit died with him, the D.A's case against Carlos died with him too, and the most likely suspects in Nancy Carpenter's death were no longer my problem as well. I guess that goes to show I'm not very good at predicting the future.
Bam, bam, bam! Thump! "Yeouch! Damn it" I stumbled through my apartment to answer the door.
"Hey, good morning," said the man standing in my doorway. "Since you're dancing on one foot and screaming in Eddy Parker's living room, I guess you're Eddy Parker. This summons is for you."
"Gee thanks," I replied and slammed the door. Yeah, that toe is broken. Today is going to be cursed. Ouch, damned table. There's no way I'm getting that foot into my Knapps. So what could this summons possibly be about?
Oh, hell! Is this a joke? Garnish Frackmeyer Jr. seeks the sum of one million dollars for blatant negligence leading to the death of Garnish Sr.? My Ass! The apple doesn't fall far from the tree does it?
I wonder a white beard can be dyed.
This is the end of this particular story. I hope to continue writing about Eddy and Marge if inspiration will strike. I'd like my next title to be "When a Body Meets a Body."
| Author Notes |
Looky Loos - the curious people who congregate at a crime scene
A zip is a Sicilian the mob brings into America to carry out a hit. They're brought in just long enough to carry out a job then leave immediately. |
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