Louis Shalako
There was a certain
inevitability about going into the cells this time. He was practically getting
on a first-name basis with the guys on the intake desk. He was quite the old
hand now.
They seized all of
his clothes, his wallet and ID, and made him take a shower. Putting on the
prison garb was the usual thing. Having been worn by a thousand men before, the
fabric felt surprising soft and clean. It might have been washed a thousand
times as well. He wondered what fabric softener they were using.
Not being allowed
socks and underwear, dressing didn’t take very long. He’d always hated rubber
flip-flops, which was probably why the prison system administrators had chosen
them.
There was nothing
quite like being chained to a dozen other felons and hustled down a long, dark
corridor, echoing with voices in spite of not being allowed to talk that much.
People were being shoved on some arbitrary whim into this cell or that. There
was something inevitable about being arrested long after breakfast, arriving
shortly after mealtime and spending half a day in a holding cell during the
processing.
As soon as he got
into a cell, the air rife with vomit, sweat and alcohol. O’Hara was there
looking for him.
“Hi, Mark, how are
you doing?”
“Very well, and thank
you for asking, sir. And how are you this fine day?”
“Okay, maybe we
deserve that. But you have to admit that you seem to discover an awful lot of
dead bodies...”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
The guys in the cell
behind him laughed at that one. The guard unlatched the door and brought him
out. They took him off a short distance, where the guard departed for his post
and O’Hara whipped out his ID and some other papers. They stood a few yards
from the guardroom, the front doors, and freedom.
“Mark. There is some
obvious connection between all of these victims. The dead hooker—Mister
Olivetti, and now our latest victim, Sylvio Rossi. It just seems like an awful
lot of coincidences.”
“Oh, is that who that
was?”
There was something
about the tone and O’Hara grimaced. He supposed it was understandable, and he had
heard worse—plenty worse.
“So what did you know
about him?”
“I’ve never actually
met him, only heard him outside my door.”
O’Hara signed for
Mark in their bloody book.
“Did you arrest the
fat lady?”
“Ah, no, Mark. We
didn’t.”
O’Hara took him out
of the holding area.
“Because honestly, I
found something just a little bit shifty about that one...”
O’Hara had dragged
him, a tight grip on his upper arm but no cuffs, up to his office on the third
floor.
“In my opinion, she
done it for sure.”
O’Hara smiled a tight
little smile, patting his jacket pocket. They sat down like gentlemen.
“Aw, shit.” O’Hara
pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and snapped a lighter for him. “Sorry about
that. Next time I’ll try and have a cold beer waiting for you. Right, Mark?”
Mark sighed.
“I will be looking
forward to that.”
O’Hara gave a hard
little chuckle, not taking his eyes off him. Medical examiners had been
mistaken before, and killers came in all shapes and sizes.
Mark sucked the harsh
smoke in, wondering if he was going to cough. He might want to get used to it.
If things kept up like this, he might as well start anyways. It sure as hell
couldn’t do any harm.
Traffic rumbled past
down in the street below. Pigeons clucked and cooed on the window ledge behind
Mark’s head. If O’Hara didn’t mind, it was no concern of his.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I
can’t say I know what it’s like, Mark, because I don’t. I’ve never been
arrested, I’ve never been in a jail. I’ve often thought it might be good to
have, ah, something like that as part of a police officer’s training. Have ‘em
spend one night in the drunk tank, and you’ll probably never look at your job
quite the same way again.”
“Ah, yes, sir.”
“No doubt you’re
wondering where this is going.”
Mark shrugged
carelessly. As long as he’s sweating, let him keep going. It would be nice to
see O’Hara squirm.
“Want to know
something funny? I’ve never shot anyone. I have never killed anyone, Mark.”
“Argh.” Mark ground
his teeth.
“I’ll get to the
point, Mark.”
O’Hara sighed, sat
back, sucked at his own cigarette, and regarded Mark calmly for a minute.
“So what are you
trying to tell me.”
Mark’s stomach was
gnawing away at his backbone and it seemed as if O’Hara had carefully
calculated as to how best Mark Jones might somehow be absent at meal-time...every
God-damned time.
What was carefully
implied but clearly unstated in his tone was simple.
You miserable son of a fucking bitch...
I’m going to get you if it’s the last thing I ever do.
Sir.
As if reading his
mind, O’Hara grinned. Tentatively, but an upwards lip-stretch it undoubtedly
was.
“Okay, Mark. Sylvio
died approximately eighteen to twenty-four hours before you found him. What
that means...”
Mark sat up.
“Ha!”
O’Hara nodded
soberly.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!”
O’Hara flushed
slightly.
“Er, yes, Mark. You
were in custody at the time of the killing. Which means, one would suspect,
that you would probably be wondering where your pants are...right about now.”
“Ha!”
“Anyways, I was
wondering if you had gotten around to the welfare office? I suspect you did, as
you had a bit of cash on you when you were brought in. Ah...a fair amount,
actually.” O’Hara shook his head. “There’s no better alibi than the one
provided by the cops themselves, when you think about it.”
He grinned at that one.
“If it’s any
consolation.”
“Can I go home now?”
“Sure, Mark. But
there’s just one thing I wanted to say—”
“Like, fuck you,
pal.” Mark’s face was flushed with blood, and yet the cops were simply running
true to form.
They had to go by the
book, and he was the nearest thing to a suspect they had. He understood that
much.
Sooner or later,
they’d make something stick, and it was all so God-damned unfair.
“I’m sorry, Mark, I
really am. But our uniformed officers are just doing their job.” He bit his lip
and then went on. “Honestly, if you had a good lawyer, you could probably get
some money out of the city for this. The problem, for a guy like you, is that
any half-ass attorney wants five hundred or so just to start a file. There are
court fees, various expenses and they got you coming and going. The trouble is that your welfare cheque hardly even
covers the rent, eh?”
Mark sat there
fuming.
“Look, you’re a
convicted felon. And you keep finding bodies all over the place. You have to
admit that.”
“Sure. Yeah.
Sometimes it’s best just to forget it.” Mark sighed, deeply. “Look. If you
don’t mind my asking—”
“Yes?”
“What killed him,
anyways?” Mark hadn’t seen any blood, no wounds or trauma in his quick look.
“Ah. Cause of death.
His neck was broken. Obviously, we’re treating it as suspicious. It’s possible
we’re supposed to think he climbed in there himself, and somehow pushed the
button, but there’s just no way. The thing won’t start up unless the door is
closed. Probably homicide. It’s hard to see it as an accident. There are one or
two bumps on the head as well. Most likely incurred at the time of death. The
way I see it, someone grabbed him from behind, gave his head a quick twist and
then they stuffed him in the dryer...he was still warm and kicking and he
probably hit his head on the way into the dryer. It would have been best to
kill him in the basement. The killer might have heard someone coming down the
stairs or whatever. Who knows, we might actually stand a chance on this one...”
The problem with the
laundry room was that the basement had a utility room, usually locked, but
Sylvio’s keys were missing along with his wallet. There was also a back door at
the end of the hallway with a panic-bar type of latch. While theoretically,
people in the alley couldn’t get in, not without a key, anyone that wanted to
could get out. There were times when people propped the door open with a rock
or even a comb or a pencil or something. The police were investigating. So far
they had nothing.
“Ah. Okay.”
There was a long
silence as O’Hara studied the man in front of him. Mark stared right back, face
long and hard, that bottom jaw forward as far as it would go.
“Anyways, I really am
sorry. Hopefully that helps.”
O’Hara got up, and
extending a hand, indicated the door. Mark put his head down, kept his mouth
firmly shut, and stood.
It was time to go
looking for those all-important pants.
(End of Part
Fourteen.)
Thanks for reading.
Here are some
books from Louis Shalako.
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