Tag: detective (Page 1 of 2)

If you haven’t read part 1 yet, this will make next to no sense.

When we left our story last time:

As I got to the entrance to the alleyway and ducked the yellow crime scene tape, the scents of feces and urine joined the smoke.  Rotting garbage made its appearance, further assaulting my nose as I entered.  The sun was high over head, if filtered by high clouds, and it was easy to see the stained concrete and the graffiti on the walls; as well as the door to the warehouse, jimmied open.  It was on my right about thirty yards ahead of me.

And now to today’s installment:

I started towards the door,  hearing only the sounds of traffic and my shoe leather scraping on the worn concrete.  As I passed the dumpster something stirred loudly.  I instinctively spun, my .38 finding its way into my hand as I crouched and aimed at the sound.

It was only a cat.  It went running away from me down the alley.  I breathed as deeply as I dared in the fetid air and stood, keeping the .38 low but in my hand.  I did not want any more surprises.

I reached the door without further incident and peered into the gloom through the partially open door.  I could see nothing.  I backed against the wall next to the door, held my .38 at the ready and pushed it open.

Following a rush of smoke scented air, nothing moved.  I turned and entered the building slowly, leading with my pistol, ready for any movement or confrontation.  As I walked further into the building the gloom increased until I could hardly see.

I took out my lighter and spun the wheel, igniting the familiar yellow glow.  The flame’s light barely pierced the gloom, but it was enough to keep me from walking into fallen roof beams and from stepping into piles of burned refuse.

The smell of humans, unwashed and uncaring was everywhere.  Sweat and the reek of stale urine were nearly overpowering, if tempered by the sooty smell of smoke. There was no one here now that I could see, but the night must have seen the place filled.  It was still dry under the partial roof.   I walked further into the building looking for some clue relating to the late Nelson Moran.

My lighter was getting hot and I extinguished it, wishing I had brought the flashlight from my car.  As my eyes adjusted to the gloom I began to make out shapes, neatly arranged on the floor.  These must have been where people slept.  There were piles of cardboard and newspaper, orderly and arranged in precise rectangles, each to his own space.  This looked to be pretty well organized.

I walked over to a window that was covered by a piece of dirty canvas and peered out a small tear.  I only saw the empty street.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”  A voice said from behind me.  “You don’t belong here.”   I spun around, my .38 still at the ready, and looked for the source of the voice.  I said to the darkness, “I’m looking for Nelson Moran.”

“He ain’t here.  He’s dead across the street.  And you gonna be the same.”  I heard the tell-tale snap of a semiautomatic pistol being cocked and dove to the floor as the first shot exploded into the darkness.

I rolled and tried to gauge the direction of the shooter.  Another shot rang out.  This time the muzzle flash ruined my night vision, but gave away his position.  He fired again.  I rolled to my left, steadied, and squeezed the trigger on my .38.  A scream followed by a thump answered the bark of my pistol.  I stood and struck my lighter again.

Feeble light filled the space around me as I picked my way towards the fallen man.  I thought he must be dead, but I held my gun ready knowing that he could just be playing possum.  As I neared him, I knew he wasn’t playing.  Sirens started and were getting louder as I rolled the body over with the toe of my shoe.

I had hit him cleanly in the chest.  He was dead.  Shell casings all around him and a statement from me would establish self-defense.  I wasn’t however, on the best terms with the police chief right now.  I didn’t need another incident like the one that took my badge.

The memory came back unbidden and nothing else mattered at the moment.  There I was, dazed, waking up from being knocked out.  I looked around trying to get my bearings.  My gun and nightstick were gone.  Probably taken by the guys who assaulted me.  I stood, controlling a wave of nausea and turned to find a body at my feet.

I would have thought him asleep if not for the pool of blood he was lying in.  I turned him over and saw the ragged holes in his chest.  Placed just the way they had taught us to shoot at the Academy.  I vaguely remembered someone rushing me with a knife.  Had I shot him?  I may have.

I smelled my fingers.  Cordite.  The smell of burnt gunpowder was in the air. I had recently fired my gun that was now missing.  I looked down at my clothes.  My uniform was unrecognizable.  It was torn to shreds and all emblems had been ripped off.  No one could ever know me as a cop.

Tune in next week for part 3 of Jackson Malone!

If you haven’t read part 1 yet,

Or even Part 2, this will make next to no sense.

When we left our Story last time:

… I would have thought him asleep if not for the pool of blood he was lying in.  I turned him over and saw the ragged holes in his chest.  Placed just the way they had taught us to shoot at the Academy.  I vaguely remembered someone rushing me with a knife.  Had I shot him?  I may have.

I smelled my fingers.  Cordite.  The smell of burnt gunpowder was in the air. I had recently fired my gun that was now missing.  I looked down at my clothes.  My uniform was unrecognizable.  It was torn to shreds and all emblems had been ripped off.  No one could ever know me as a cop.

And we join the story, already in progress…

I could hear sirens wailing in the distance and getting closer.  I had to decide what to do quickly.  I could be linked to the case even if I ran; if it had been my gun that had shot him.  All of the firearms in the department had ballistics records on them.  They were sure to check.  Even if I found all of the bullets they would suspect a cop.  They knew how to cover their track.  I thought my best course of action would be to cry self defense and stay and wait for my brothers in blue to come.  I sat down hard on the cement next to the body.

I never was exonerated.  There was no proof of anything but the fact my gun had killed the man.  I couldn’t prove self-defense.  I couldn’t prove anything.  I was fired immediately. Kicked off of the force never to return.  At least I didn’t have to go to jail.  I know what they do to cops in jail.

I snapped out of my revelry and back to the present.  I got moving fast.  I flipped the cap on my lighter dropping it into my pocket, and moved quickly toward the glowing outline of the door, exiting back into the overcast sunshine of the alley.

My gun disappeared back into it’s holster as I exited the alley, turned right and walked quickly down the street towards a diner I had passed earlier.  The sirens had almost arrived at the warehouse as I ducked inside “Vic’s”.

I sat at the counter and ordered coffee trying to pick up something, some clue from the warehouse.  Then it hit me.  The guy I had shot said “He dead across the street.” Before he began blasting away.  Why was that so important?  I finished my coffee and left Vic’s, walking fast to avoid the police that were milling around the warehouse.

My next stop was the library.  I went directly to the newspaper archives and dug around looking for the news account of the murder.  Across the street was the key.  I knew it.  I perused articles about the murder until I found it.  Moran was not killed in the fire, but in the house across the street from the warehouse.  I headed there next.

As I arrived I saw that a small brick house that sat on a large lot directly across the street from the warehouse.  This was the murder scene, the place where Nelson Moran was killed.  Why had I not thought of that before?  I must have heard it somewhere.

The house was still covered in yellow crime scene tape and discarded coffee cups when I started up the front walk.  I  noted a rusting realty sign that hung from a bent metal stand.  As I approached the porch and ducked the crime scene tape, a young officer emerged from the front door.  “Area’s off limits buddy.  Move along.”  He told me in a bored voice.  He didn’t want to be here either.

“Relax.” I said as I displayed my Private Investigators badge.  “I’m here working for the family.  I just want to look around.”  “I dunno.  I’m not supposed to let anyone in here without permission.  We are working on this case.”  “I understand, but the family has asked me to take a look around.  C’mon I know you are bored.  We can look together.  I won’t even touch anything.”  “Okay, “ he finally relented, “Just for a few minutes.”  “That’s all I’ll need.” I told him as I mounted the steps and followed him inside.

I crossed the threshold and motioned for the officer to be quiet.  I needed to think, to hear what the house could tell me.  This house had been unoccupied but partially furnished by the Realtor who was trying to sell the house.  I could hear the canned laughter of a television program playing in another room, where the officer must have been “watching” the place.

I entered a small hallway with worn linoleum on the floor and noticed the smell.  It was the same stench of unwashed bodies that permeated the warehouse across the street.  The homeless must have lived here also.  That is probably why Nelson Moran was here that unfortunate night.

I turned left and entered a living room that was dominated by a huge bay window.  This window took up most of the north wall.  I walked over to the window and looked out.  This was a perfect view of the warehouse across the street.  An arsonist may have liked this view as his handiwork burned.  But I was not on that case.  This room had been lived in, the carpet worn thin in several spots, but it was relatively clean.  Not exactly brimming over with clues.

If I didn’t find something, this case would be over.

Join us again next week for the next chapter of Jackson Malone!

And if you liked this story you may enjoy Death With A Vengeance, my previous Fiction Saturday story, available here as an e-book!Thanks for reading, see you next week

-Justin

If you haven’t read part 1 yet,

Or even Part 2,

Or even Part 3,

Let alone Part 4,  the following will make next to no sense.  Now that you are caught up, On with the Show!

When we left our Story last time:

Nelson Moran was still dead.

The next day came too quickly.  I was back in my office when I called one of my old friends in the police department.  It seemed that the insurance people had finished with that they needed and the crime scene cleaners were there now.  The police presence was finished.  The house was back on the market.   The competition should be underway tonight.  I was going down there to find out the truth.  Or die trying.

And now for today’s installment of “Jackson Malone”

I arrived at the warehouse on 1^st and 32^nd just after dark, dressed as a homeless person.  There were several homeless people sitting around smoking, some drinking, and some just talking with one another.  Many were talking about their spaces in the warehouse and Jimmy, the guy that was shot there the day before.

“He deserved it, you ask me.” One man said.  “He always flashin’ his gun around.  Somebody finally give him a taste of his own medicine.  Vance is pissed though.  I’d hate to be the guy what killed Jimmy.  You don’t kill one of Vance’s guys and not pay.”

Vance.  I had heard that name back when I was on the force.  He was a gang leader and apparently his gang included homeless people too.  This Jimmy that I killed must have been important, or Vance wouldn’t have cared less.

I hadn’t heard anything about that shooting yet.  The cops must have known. They were on their way when I ducked into Vic’s.  Oh well.  No longer my problem.  I had another case to solve.  This one has money involved.

I wandered some more and overheard much the same type of conversation.  Then I stumbled along a conversation about the rumble tonight.  “Contest” is what they were calling it but it was more a gladiatorial exhibition.

The men would fight until submission or knockout.  The winner gets the house for the night, a woman, and the opportunity to fight for a spot in Vance’s little army.  That could be quite profitable.  These men who had nearly nothing would welcome this opportunity to make it big.  No wonder this “contest” was so popular.

An hour or two later Vance and his lackeys showed up.  It seemed that he ran the “contest”.   A circle formed in the front yard of the house.  Far from the hundreds that the cop had told me about last night, but there were near 80 as I could guess.  Vance began to speak and tell these men of the glory that could be theirs if they win in the ring.  He was very persuasive.

Two men entered the ring and began to fight.   Soon one went down and the fight was over.  Cheers for the violence, cheers for the competitors, it was a wonder the cops hadn’t been called for the noise.  Challenger after challenger came and went until one was left standing.  Vance congratulated him led him towards the house for his prize.

As they passed a man next to me said, “I hope they don’t do him like they did that other guy the other day.”  “What happened to him?” I asked.  “Got his brains beat out by Vance’s goons ‘cause he burned down Vance’s drug warehouse.  We could sleep there and make drugs so we had a good place to stay and a bit of money.

Then that dude goes and burns it down.  Damn shame.  I hate sleepin’ on the streets.”  I couldn’t believe my luck.  I had just found out the key to Nelson Moran’s murder and the arson of the police warehouse.  What better place to run a drug lab than a police warehouse.  Last place the cops would look.

Unless there were cops in on it.  There almost had to be.  But that was for Internal Affairs.  I had to get to a phone before Vance and his goons left.

I saw a pay phone down the block and across the street from where I was.  I thought it was far enough away to not be seen calling from it.  I worked my way through the crowd and down the street to the phone.  I sat down heavily on the ground and acted drunk as I watched to see if anyone was watching me.

I could see none of the windows in the house meaning they couldn’t see me either.  No one was paying any attention to me.  I stood and dropped change into the phone.

“Sergeant Stebbins.” A tired voice answered when the line connected.  “What can I do for you?”  “Hi Art.  It’s Jack.  How are you?” I replied, relieved that a friend had answered.  “Hey Jack.” He replied.  “Everybody is looking for you.  They heard you were out by that warehouse where that guy got shot yesterday.  That have something to do with you?”  “Sort of.” I said.

“I am down here now though.  I know who burned down your warehouse and who killed Nelson Moran across the street.”  “What?!?” came the incredulous reply. “You know who did that?  Who?”  “Gangs and drugs Art.  Gangs and drugs.  Vance’s Gang.  Send some cars.  No sirens, these guys will run.  There are a few of them and a whole potload of homeless guys hanging around.  I am at the booth down the street.”  He tried to reply but I hung up the call and rejoined the group milling around the warehouse.

Join us next week for the finale, Part 6 of Jackson Malone!

And if you liked this story you may enjoy Death With A Vengeance, my previous Fiction Saturday story, available here as an e-book!Thanks for reading, see you next week

Justin