Blood and Justice (19 page)

“Come in,” the guy said.

“What . . . what do you want?” he asked.

The guy pointed to the couch on the other wall. “Take a seat,” he said.

Farley sat and leaned forward.

“Did Estefano send you?”

“Who’s Estefano?”

Farley’s hat popped up as he scratched his head. He straightened it again and looked at the guy with the gun. Estefano must’ve sent him.

His hand shook. “I told Estefano I wouldn’t say anything. He knows I won’t.” His voice was shaking too.

The guy just stared at him, and then he stood and came a little closer. He kept the gun firmly in his hand. He was just a short little guy. Didn’t look mean at all, but that gun pointed his way was pretty scary.

“You’re not going to sh . . . shoot me, are you?” Farley asked.

Farley watched the guy move the gun to his left hand, and then reach down and pull up his pant leg, and slip a knife from a sheath fastened to his ankle.

“No, I’m not going to shoot you,” the little guy said.

“Then . . . then, what do you want?” He was really trembling now.

The knife sliced through the air. Farley was thrown back as the weapon slashed his face, a deep cut across his cheek and through his left ear. Blood gushed from the wound. He brought his hand up in a useless attempt to stop the bleeding.

The knife was still now, but the razor sharp tip hung menacingly a few inches from his face. He didn’t move. The blood flowed.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” the guy asked.

Farley didn’t know what to say. He just shook his head.

The little guy gritted his teeth. “Things have a way of catching up with you, you know.”

Farley stared. “Call Estefano,” he pleaded. “Estefano will straighten this out. Please.”

“I told you, I don’t know any Estefano.”

Farley stared, wide eyed. He watched as the gun was leveled, pointed at his nose. He watched the little man’s finger tighten on the trigger. He sat frozen as the gun exploded. He felt his head shoot back, and was vaguely aware of a spray of red in the air.

The last thing he remembered was hearing the echo of the shot, and then flopping over sideways, his head finally resting gently on a fluffy white pillow perched at the end of the couch.

Saturday, August 13th, 4:46 PM

JEREMY crouched down. He cocked his head, his eyes intently fixed on the ruined face of Randolph Farley.

Blood was still dripping from the gash across his face, now mingling with the flow from the neat hole just above his nose. His eyes were wide, but unseeing, glazed over like breath on a mirror.

Crimson saturated the pillow beneath his head. It dripped silently onto the cushion of the couch, making its way down to the tiled floor.

Jeremy reached out and touched the gentle flow of red coming from Farley’s cheek.

He drew his finger back and looked at the moist spot, not unlike the color of a deep red wine. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, and then brought his finger to his tongue, savoring the taste of Farley’s life.

He held his breath and shuddered violently for a few moments, and then breathed out heavily and opened his eyes.

He stood to his feet and smiled, and then suddenly turned and walked quickly to the door. As he left, he used his shirt and carefully wiped any fingerprints from the knobs on both sides of the door.

The hallway was empty. His footsteps echoed off the wall and tiled floor as he ran. He eased open the door to the stairwell. He heard footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs.

He ducked back and ran quickly to the elevator. It was on the first floor, and when he stabbed the button, it immediately began to rise.

As the elevator door slid back, he rushed inside, just as the stairwell door opened. The elevator doors slid shut, and he could feel his stomach drop a bit as it descended.

He watched the door glide open, and he peeked out into the lobby. Nobody around. His stubby legs carried him hurriedly to the exit door, and out, and down the walkway to the street. He mingled with a few pedestrians, and hurried home, a tight smile on his face.

Chapter 29

Saturday, August 13th, 5:05 PM

JAKE searched for his old VCR, packed away in a box somewhere in the storage area, underneath the basement stairwell. He finally found it, lugged it upstairs, and set it on a chair next to the television.

It took him awhile to find the right cables, but he finally succeeded in getting it set up and in working order. The remote was missing, however.

He was surprised a place like Mortinos would still be using such a near defunct method of recording and was glad he’d kept this old machine packed away.

He dug the tapes from the bag. There were three of them. They were marked “Rear East”, “Rear West”, and “Cash”. The tapes could record six hours each if you ran the recorder at slow speed.

He sat on the floor by the VCR, slipped the “Rear East” tape into the machine and gave it a push. It whirred and hummed, and then sucked the cartridge in, and clunked once. He touched the play button.

The back of the store appeared on the television. He could see from one side of the store, across to the other. The view was clear near the camera, but became hazy as it stretched toward the other side of the store. There was a timestamp on the bottom corner of the screen. It read 8/12 12:03. August 12th.

He wanted a view of the packaged meat counter. That seemed to be on the other side of the store, at the back. He popped the tape out and tried the “Rear West”. The timestamp said 8/12 12:02.

The time of death was approximately 1:00 PM, so that might be cutting it a bit close. He yawned, sat back, and watched.

Shoppers were going back and forth, doing what shoppers do. He saw a stock boy up on a ladder piling up packages of something. He leaned forward a couple of times when he saw someone with a cane. False alarm.

Finally, at timestamp 12:34, his interest was drawn to an old woman walking slowly into view. The picture wasn’t all that clear, but he could tell she carried a handbag in one hand, and a cane on the other.

He leaned in. That must be Mrs. Bellows.

She stood at the fresh meat selection a moment, and then walked away. A second later she turned back and approached the meat again. He couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed likely this was the point where she must have taken the pork chop. He made a mental note of the area where she was standing. Second case down, near the center. He could make a physical check of the store later, if necessary, to see whether that was the pork section.

He watched her move on, and then she disappeared from sight.

He hit the eject button, and fed in the tape labeled “Cash”. He fast-forwarded it until he saw 12:30 on the screen, and let it play at regular speed. There were about a dozen checkouts, but the camera was nearest the pair of ‘8 items or less’ counters. He could see shoppers coming in and out. Cashiers were busy, and some of the counters had boys bagging purchases for the customers. He saw the short little man who was on the ladder, wearing a Mortinos cap, whom he recognized as Jeremy Spencer. He walked past the camera’s view toward the front of the store.

At timestamp 12:36, he saw her come into view again. She went straight for the second counter, a couple of items tucked in her arms. He watched her pay, and the articles were bagged. Then, he saw her drop the purchase into her handbag, and leave the store.

No one seemed to be following Mrs. Bellows or even taking any interest in her at all.

He watched everything over again, looking intently for anything that might appear suspicious, and then finally, sat back and shut off the machine.

All he had proved is she’d been there, paid, and left again.

Saturday, August 13th, 5:30 PM

HANK was at home having some much-needed R&R when he received a call about an incident on Benson Street. He sighed and climbed from his easy chair, picked up his keys from the counter, made sure he had his badge and gun, and made his way out and down the stairs to his Chevy.

Traffic was light and he made it to the south end of Richmond Hill in a few minutes. As he swung onto Benson Street, he could see several cruisers parked in the lot of a squat, three-floor apartment building. Number 366. He pulled up beside them and climbed from his vehicle.

The building was taped off, and there was a uniformed officer at the front door. He recognized Officer Spiegle.

Spiegle spoke to Hank as he approached. “Hey Hank, looks like we got another one.”

“Hi Yappy. Yeah, it appears so.”

Spiegle opened the door for Hank, and he entered the lobby and made his way up the stairs. The hall was taped off. Entrance to and from the first floor was tightly controlled. A cop was leaning against the wall, inside the hallway, and he lifted the tape for Hank. He went down the hall to apartment 102. The door was open and he looked inside.

Crime scene investigators were there, making notes, fingerprinting, packaging evidence, frowning, studying, and talking. Photos were being snapped. The city medical examiner was leaning over the body. Her assistant was holding a clipboard and sucking on a pen.

Hank stepped carefully into the room, steering clear of evidence cones as he approached the M.E.

Nancy Pietek glanced at him as he approached and smiled grimly. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Hank.”

“Hi Nancy,” he said. “It’s always nice to see you. Could be under better circumstances, though.”

She stood. “This one’s a real doozy. Blood all over the place.”

Hank peered at the body, and then turned to her and asked, “Any idea of the cause of death yet?”

She pointed. “If you look here you can see a bullet hole right above his nose. There’s a huge slash on his right cheek, but at this point, it appears the cause of death is the gunshot wound. There’s no exit wound, so it seems to have been a low powered weapon. Maybe a 22 caliber. I can’t tell yet.”

Hank whistled.

She continued, “And look at the soot around the entrance wound. The soot suggests the weapon was fired at close range. Maybe two inches or so. The slightly downward angle of the shot suggests the shooter was standing, and the victim was sitting down when shot. There also would’ve been a blowback spatter of blood. The shooter would undoubtedly have gotten sprayed, as well as the weapon.”

“And the cut on his cheek?”

“It’s fairly deep, but not enough to cause death. The weapon appears to be a sharp knife, with a serrated edge.”

Hank stroked his chin. “Another serrated blade.”

“I’ll know for sure later.”

“Time of death?”

“The neighbor heard a shot and called 9-1-1 at 4:51. Just over half an hour ago. I’m guessing that to be accurate.”

Hank looked around the room. The lead crime scene investigator, Rod Jameson, was directing operations. Hank approached him.

“Rod, do you have any I.D. on the victim?”

Rod consulted his clipboard. “Sure do, Hank. His name is Randolph Farley, according to his driver’s license. This is his place.”

Hank wrote the name in his pad, and then asked, “Do you have any info on the neighbor who called it in?”

Rod pointed vaguely. “104.” He looked at the clipboard again. “The name is Gerald Lastman.”

“I’ll go talk to him. Thanks Rod.”

Rod just grunted.

Hank stepped out into the hallway. Apartment 104 was right next door. He tapped, and the door was answered immediately by a 40ish woman. He announced himself, and she looked at his badge as he displayed it.

“Come in,” she said. “You want to see my husband. Just a minute.” She turned and screeched, “Gerry!”

Hank followed her in and took a seat in the dining area. He set his pad on the table. In a few moments, Gerald approached him. He was a middle-aged man, maybe forty-five or so, and slightly rounded at the waist.

Hank stood and held out his hand. “I’m Detective Hank Corning.”

Gerald shook it. “I’m Gerald Lastman,” he said. “Have a seat.”

They sat and faced each other across the table.

Hank said, “I understand you called 9-1-1. Can you tell me exactly what you heard, and anything else you might add?”

Gerald cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “I was just sitting here having a cup of tea, reading the paper, and all of a sudden, I heard a shot.”

“Just one shot?”

“That’s all I heard. The wife was in the bedroom and didn’t hear anything.”

Hank scribbled in his pad, and waited.

Gerald pointed to the wall separating 104 from 102. “It sounded like it came from next door, so I called 9-1-1. When I told the wife about it, she freaked out pretty good for a while. She calmed down a lot after the police came.” He glanced toward the bedroom. “She seems ok now.”

“Did you hear anything else? Any shouting, or talking?”

“No.”

“Anything from the hall?”

“No. Just the shot. That’s it. But I gotta tell you, it was pretty scary. We didn’t know if maybe a bullet would come right through that wall there, so we just stayed back as best we could and waited for you folks to come.” He paused. “What happened over there, anyway?”

“Sorry to have to inform you, but there has been a murder.”

Lastman’s mouth dropped open. “A murder?”

Hank nodded. “Yes, but everything’s under control now. There’s no need to worry.”

“You caught the guy?”

“Not yet, but we will.” Hank paused, and then asked, “Did you know your neighbor? Mr. Farley?”

Lastman shook his head. “Nope, never met him. Never seen him.”

“OK,” Hank said, as he handed him his card. “Give me a call if you think of anything else.”

“Sure will, Detective.” He stood and followed Hank to the door, letting him out.

Hank made the rounds, interviewing the rest of the residents of the first floor. There were six apartments in total, but no one in the other units had heard, or noticed anything.

As he exited the front lobby of the building, he was greeted by a microphone pushed into his face. He recognized the reporter as Lisa Krunk. A cameraman stood a few feet away, aiming the camera at Hank.