Molly Brown (9 page)

Scanning the room he found his attention drawn to an incident board that practically covered one wall. Crime scene photos, intersperse
d with notes. He counted twenty-two images: eleven corpses shockingly and brutally digitized, and eleven pictures of earnest-looking policemen in dress uniform in better days, policemen who sadly would not be going home at the end of their shift. Connell had seen many brutal sights while on the force, but the sight of so many, gutted and laid out for all to see, managed to shock him and he took a step back.

He hadn’t really followed the news coverage of the hunt for the serial killer. He tried not t
o tune into bad news these days; there was too much of it around. He was still trying to shield Lizzie and Joe from anything that might bring the bad memories back. He knew the cops were no nearer to catching the killer, though. Gerry had told him as much and looking at all the board confirmed that. A map in the center of it showed the location of each murder highlighted in red. The guy was running circles round them, literally.

“You quite finished?” growled Wilson and Connell’s attention swung back to the two men who now stood waiting for him. They wore identical grim expressions, giving nothing away. Connell remembered Rob Wilson as an
okay guy. He hoped he still was and they could get to the bottom of whatever misunderstanding had them both looking at him like he was something nasty they’d stepped in.

They sat across from him, a metal table screwed to the floor between them, a blinking light letting him know that whatever was said would be recorded. He’d been here before, many times, o
n the other side of the table, but he’d never sat on either side without due protocol being followed. No one had read him his Miranda rights. He wasn’t under arrest and yet it appeared that they very much wanted him to believe he was. More fool them if they imagined they had a chance in hell of intimidating him.

They remained silent, staring, trying to unnerve him. Wilson casually reclined back in his seat as if he
had all the time in the world, his shirt stretched taut across his wide chest, perspiration marks leeching from his underarms, the only indication that maybe he wasn’t as cool as he was making out. The older guy, obviously his boss, sat forward studying him, idly tapping a cheap pen on the table top.

Connell let him stare and ignored the tapping. He knew the rules of this game and the first rule - don’t speak first. In fact, if he’d paid any attention at all to Marty’s words of advice
, he shouldn’t be speaking at all.

Eventually
the old guy, named Hamilton if the ID clipped to his shirt pocket was anything to go by, grew tired of the game and slammed a thick manila folder onto the table top. Connell resisted the urge to flinch at the sudden noise. He saw his name on the top of the folder and raised his eyes questioningly.

“Do you know why you’re here, Connell?” asked Hamilton as he opened the file and pretended to scan the contents. Connell knew he wasn’t reading. If he was any detective at all, he would have read the file back to front before he’d come into the room.
Hamilton raised his gaze when Connell didn’t answer. Connell shrugged; he’d no idea why he was there, but the men across from him obviously did.

Hamilton sighed.
“For the tape, Connell, do you know why you’re here?”

“Forget the tape. I don’t know what game you’re playing guys, but I’m calling foul ball. No Miranda, no phone call, no interview
.” He cocked his head defiantly and tried a little attitude to see if that would loosen their tongues.

Hamilton frowned. “A simple question, Connell, do you know why you’re here? We can do this your way or my way. One of tho
se will be to your advantage. You choose.”

Point taken. He wasn’t a fool. T
here was no sense in pissing off the guy who held the keys to the cell, literally. “No, I guess not,” he answered shortly. “You going to tell me anytime soon?”

“You were unable to provide ID when asked t
o do so by uniformed officers. Why was that?”

“You’re joking
, right?” Even Connell didn’t believe that one. “You dragged me down here for that?”

“Why were you unable to provide ID?” repeated Hamilton.

Connell cocked his head and looked at Wilson’s blank face. He really wanted to just get up and leave but swallowed his frustration instead and replied. “I left my wallet at home.”

“And where is home these days?”

“Why? You want me to run home and get it?”

“Did I say that?”

Connell bit back a smartass retort with some measure of control. Why spin it out, why prolong the conversation any more than he needed to? “Upstate. I own some land, keep some horses.”

“A farm?”

“You could say.”

“A farm upstate, and an apartment in the city
... very nice,” said Hamilton coolly.

Connell shrugged. Okay, so maybe this was something to do w
ith what Marty had alluded to, that some folk still weren’t sure which side of the line he was on. Maybe they thought he was fiddling his taxes. “Hey, what can I say, I have an eye for property.”

“And what is it that you actually do for a living, Connell, since the termination of your police career?”

So that was the way they were going to play it. He kind of expected it from Hamilton who only knew about him from what he’d read or been told, but he expected more from Wilson. They’d worked together. Wilson knew him.

“Since it was terminated, by me,
I’ve been raising stock and doing some work for Gerry Gesting. You got a problem with that?” He controlled his voice, keeping it calm, but inside his mind was tripping over itself, trying to second-guess what was coming next.

“Do you know a man called
Henry Musgrave?” asked Hamilton.

Connell shot him a glance and
couldn’t hide his surprise or interest. “Sure I do,” he gestured to the file with a nod of his head, “as you’d know if you’d read my file. He’s a cop who traded sides and paid the penalty.”

“And what do you t
hink the appropriate penalty is for a cop who trades sides?”

Is tha
t what they thought he’d done - traded sides? Is that how they thought he paid his bills? He swallowed the acrid taste that bubbled into the back of his throat. “Hey, that’s for a judge to decide, not me.” Musgrave was doing time, he knew that much, and he didn’t expect he’d be having much fun, sharing a cell alongside all those felons he’d helped lock up.

Hamilton blinked lazily, watching
him in silence for a moment and continued. “Harvey Sutherland, you remember him?”

Connell narrowed his eyes. He
had to concentrate, but sure, he remembered him. He just didn’t know where Hamilton was going with his questioning. “Yeah, I worked with him when I was in uniform.” He’d been a cheap bully, from what he could recall, not unlike the officer who’d picked him up earlier. Not a nice guy.

“Why did you hand in your badge, Connell?”

Whoa, but he was good. Shifting the emphasis so that Connell really didn’t know what he was being questioned about. The thing was, though, Connell knew exactly what he was doing, even if he hadn’t yet worked out why.

“I decided to raise horses instead.”

“So it had nothing to do with your issues with authority?”

Connell shrugged. “Maybe.
”

“Or your aversion to some cops?”

“Only bad cops and I think everyone should have an aversion to them. You get what I’m saying here, Hamilton? You’re either against them or you’re with them. There’s no middle ground where corruption is concerned.”

Hamilton nodded. “So what you’re saying is you feel strongly that corrupt police officers deserve everything they get.”

“Pretty much.” That’s why he was working for Gerry; it wasn’t just the money.

“What do you know of a detective named Leon Scott?”

Connell smiled and touched a hand to the bruising on his temple. “Oh sure, I know Scotty. Now there’s a poster boy for a corrupt policeman if ever there was one. You want to go drag someone in off the street and kick the shit out of them, then you couldn’t go wrong starting with him or his partner.”

“So
you think he deserves a good ass-kicking?”

Connell caught the cautionary bell in his head before he stepped fully into that gaping hole. “No, but that’s what they gave me.”

“And why would they want to do that?”

“I have no idea. B
ecause they’re crazy, because I’m investigating the crap they’re currently swimming in? Ask them.” He shook his head “Of course you won’t ask them, will you, because, you think you’re all whiter than white. That’s why Gerry has to get guys like me to sniff about in all the shit you create.”

Hamilton ignored Connell’s attempt to bait. “Why are you investigating Gibbons and Scott?”

“Because they’re up to something, and Gerry Gesting asked me to. He’s on his way down here. Why don’t you ask him, if you’re so interested?”

Hamilton smiled. “I’m more interested in you at the moment, Connell.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. In particular, I’m interested in why your wallet, which you say was left at home on the farm, was found last night at the scene of a crime.”

“What scene, what crime? So I dropped my wallet, big deal.” He owed Spidey an apology.

“And I’m interested in why your car was also spotted at the same location.”

“Maybe if you tell me where that is, and what it is you’re actually talking about, we could make some progress.”

“Okay, Connell.” Hamilton sat back in his chair and Rob Wilson opened a file of his own and sat forward.

“At eleven-fifteen last night, a member of the public was caught taking a piss.”

“Big deal, so I’m here for urinating in the street?”

Wilson gave him a warning look and continued. “In attempting to find an unobtrusive place to relieve himself, he happened upon the body of a male Caucasian in the alley adjacent to the public library. Subsequent inquiries have resulted in the identification of the deceased as that of Detective Leon Scott. Time of death has been estimated at approximately eight-thirty the same evening. A thorough search of the alley revealed your wallet. A subsequent witness testimony put your car in that alley on two separate occasions on the same day.”

Wilson paused for a breath. Connell stayed silent.

“Although we have yet to receive the official pathology report, we know that Detective Scott was killed by a single knife wound to the heart. Post mortem, the same knife was used to slice open his abdomen and evacuate his intestines from the body cavity. The same method was used on all the victims outside on the board you saw. All of those victims were policemen. All were suspected at some point in their careers of corrupt or illegal activities. All, you would agree, have paid the ultimate penalty for their misdeeds. At least three of those victims, by your own admission, were known personally to you, Connell.” Hamilton sat forward again. “So, Connell, perhaps you’d like to tell us what you were doing parked up in that alley ...”

Chapter Ten

Connell cocked his head questioningly at Wilson and got nothing but a blank stare in return. Gerry had better start putting out an effort to clear this up soon or this whole thing was going to spiral out of control.

“Cat got your tongue, Connell?”

Swinging his gaze back to Hamilton, Connell narrowed his eyes and considered his position. His gut and bowels were doing major gymnastics, his heart rate was spiking dramatically and there was a virtual chorus of ringing alarm bells going off in his head. He needed to take control and keep it. Any impending coronary would just have to wait.

He took a long breath, slowed himself down and tried to put things into perspective.

So they’d found his wallet, big deal. They hadn’t charged him with anything, didn’t have a leg to stand on evidence-wise, if truth be told. But God, they had plenty of circumstantial, and if they were hell bent on finding someone to take the blame, he had absolutely no doubt they could make it fit, even if they had to squeeze real hard to do it.

No wonder the guys outside had
cold-shouldered him, hardly surprising Wilson was giving him the evil eye. The fact was, though, someone was going around gutting bad cops, and if he was being honest, he kind of approved.

“I told you, I’m working for Gerry Gesting,” he eventually replied. “He asked me to check out Gibbons and Scott. That’s what I was doing, investigating. Gerry can back me up.”

“And what did you suspect them of?”

Suddenly
Connell didn’t want to go giving everything up. He wasn’t sure which information was important enough to hold back as insurance, just in case, or which was even more crucial to hold onto, to protect his case. His case? Why was he even bothered about the case when his own hide was on the line? But he was bothered and it gnawed at him silently. Something else was going on here. “This and that,” he offered guardedly.

“You’ll have to do better than that. Where’s your report?”

Connell shrugged. He’d never been big on reports. A few things jotted in his notebook, a little more on the back of an envelope ... he could hardly class it as a dossier. “My report is for Gerry. You want to see it, speak to him.”

Hamilton ste
epled his hands on the desk top and changed tack. “Why were you meeting with Frankie Vasin this morning?”

Connell forced a smile. “He wants to buy my apartme
nt. He’s a property developer. That’s what he does.”

“Amongst other things,” added Hamilton.

“You’d have to ask Frankie about that,” Connell replied, “or ask Gibbons, he might be able to tell you about the other things.”

“I’m asking you, Connell.”

“And I told you, we met to discuss property.” Connell smiled again, even though he knew he probably shouldn’t. He was skating on thin ice and should really quit with the game playing and just come clean about everything. Hamilton ignored him. It appeared he was playing a game of his own.

“What were you doing in the alley, Connell?”

“Getting the shit kicked out of me.”

“Huh?”

“You could ask Gibbons about that as well, and while you’re at it, ask him about the sawed-off he carries in the trunk of his car. If you’re real quick about it, you might even find some DNA evidence on the stock where it made acquaintance with my head.”

Hamilton studied him silently, reached out, closed the file with a resounding slap and narrowed his eyes. “So what you’re saying is that
Gibbons and Scott followed you to the alley, beat up on you and warned you off?”

“Yeah, that’s about it.”

“Why didn’t you report them?”

Co
nnell rolled his eyes, “Because sometimes you gotta let out a little line to catch a big fish.”

“But you were pretty pissed at them?”

Connell saw where he was leading. “Not especially. Not enough to disembowel one of them, if that’s what you’re saying.”

Hamilton frowned.
“So, why were you in the alley?”

He’d been in the alley chasing down the kid, t
he kid that nobody wanted found, the weird little runt who was hiding from someone, the little girl with no friends who was relying on him to keep her safe.

“I was on the phone,” he said, pushing all thoughts of Molly to the back of his mind.

“Talking to ...?”

“Calling home, letting my significant other know when I’d be back. Check my phone records if you don’t believe me.”

“Your significant other, correct me if I’m wrong, but would that be the girl at the center of the ruckus that cost you your job? Mrs. Jones, wasn’t it, the rogue agent’s daughter?”

Connell glared at him.
“Could be.” Hamilton smiled slyly and Connell realized he’d just given him one hell of a freebie. He’d just revealed his Achilles heel.

“You have an interesting group of friends, Connell.”

Connell shrugged. “At least I have friends. How about you?” He didn’t much like the way this conversation was arcing back to his past. His gut protested too and he stifled a wince as it twisted mercilessly.

“Sure I have friends, all law-abiding
, as it happens. But you know what, Connell, I can honestly say, hand on heart, that no one’s laying six feet under because of me or any of my friends. Can you say the same?”

Connell didn’t answer. He held the man’s gaze and swallowed down the taste of something nasty which was threatening to bubble to the surface, along with his stomach contents.

“Were there any witnesses to the attack?” Hamilton continued, no doubt content that he’d rattled Connell’s cage sufficiently and happy to let him stew a while longer.

Connell cleared his mind, thought again of Molly and shook his head. “No.”

“So, pretty much your word against his?”

“Not if you check the shotgun stock.”

Hamilton considered him a moment longer before turning to Wilson.

“A word, outside.”

They gathered their things and left him sitting alone at the table, stewing in the crap that he found himself knee deep in. He watched them through the glass door, heads together, deep in conversation. And beyond them his attention was drawn once again to the incident wall. He couldn’t make out the details, just the general layout.

Okay, so he knew three of the vi
ctims. Big deal, they were cops - he’d been a cop. Probably most of the guys in the incident room knew the victims also. Musgrave was meant to be in jail for his part in the killing of three FBI investigators. How he came to be the victim of a serial killer in the middle of New York, when he should have been languishing in a cell, was interesting. Sutherland, he hadn’t seen for years, but from what he recalled of him, if anyone was due a little non-elective abdominal surgery, Sutherland probably fit the bill. And then, finally, Scott. Okay, not his favorite person, far too handy with his feet, but his sudden demise was just a little too convenient. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think Frankie was tidying up loose ends. Frankie was no serial killer but that didn’t mean that Frankie didn’t know any serial killers.

The guys ha
d moved away from the doorway. Something was going on. The majority of the detectives had left in a big hurry, with a flurry of activity and noise. Maybe they’d finally uncrossed their wires and headed out to look for the real killer. Taking advantage of their temporary lack of interest in him, Connell got to his feet, sauntered to the door and studied the wall through the glass, trying to make out the other victims.

They all looked pretty much the same in the crime scene photos, gutted and waiting for some poor bastard to come and scoop up their innards. He wondered at the mind of the killer.  Murder was one thing, multiple murders another, but this guy was something else.

He focused on the map; so many murders in such a small area. He wondered how the guy did it without leaving any trace, any clues. Connell was interested, despite his reluctance to get involved, and his interest took him through the door and across the room. There were only a couple of guys left, in addition to Hamilton and Wilson, and nobody was paying any mind to him. Supposing he had been the killer, he could have walked out the door with a load of evidence without anyone being the wiser. No wonder the guy was running circles around them.

He stood
casually propping one elbow on the water fountain and studied the locations marked in red. There were eleven different addresses in fairly close proximity to each other. The bells in his head were starting to peal ominously but he couldn’t quite get what it meant.

He turned at the sudden sound of shouting, furniture being knocked aside, men running and saw as in slow motion Gibbons launch himself past Wilson, weapon raised.

“Connell, you’re a fuckin’ dead man,” he roared. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he fought past Wilson to get at the man he blamed for his partner’s death.

Connell swung his bewildered gaze to Hamilton, saw the words of warning forming on his lips and instinctively stepped back. Gibbons was
grappled from behind by Wilson in a fairly neat tackle. The force of the joint momentum of two heavyweights carried them forward and they barreled into Connell who hit the water cooler with his full weight, knocking it from its housing, exploding the glass and its content.  Connell hit the floor, felt the force of the explosion against his back, and stayed right where he was until the ringing in his ears subsided.

“Connell!” Wilson climbed over Gibbons in an effort to get past, leaving the thrashing mass of outrage to be subdued and disarmed by the men behind him. He rolled Connell over and when he realized his back was spotted with blood,
pulled him roughly to his feet out of the water and shattered glass. “You okay?”

Connell winced. He
could feel shards of glass pricking his skin and yanked at his dripping shirt. “I told you that guy was crazy. Help me get this damn thing off.”

Wilson roughly tore the shirt from his back and tossed it in a sodden heap on the floor. Connell’s back w
as flecked with cuts of various sizes and depths, some bleeding, some smarting, more of an irritation than anything else. Just one more thing to ruin his day.

“We need a paramedic in here. N
ow!” Wilson yelled and somewhere in the background Connell was aware of movement, commotion, as Gibbons was manhandled away. He took little notice, just sat where he was put, dripping wet, and waited for someone to come and patch him up. He took notice when the commotion stopped, raised his head and brushed wet hair out of his eyes, to find Hamilton, Wilson and, better late than never, Gerry Gesting, all staring at him.

“Hey, Ger
ry, about time you showed up. You missed all the fun. Your guy Gibbons tried to drown me in the cooler.” Connell tried to crack a smile but it died on his lips. He was just a little weary at how the day was turning out. He’d had such high hopes when he had kissed goodbye to Lizzie. Things just weren’t panning out the way he’d envisioned them. He wished he’d stayed home and finished what he’d started on the kitchen counter. The memory put a little spark back in him, a little attitude. “You know, guys, my mom told me it’s rude to stare, and if you want the truth, it’s freaking me out a little too.  What’s going on? None of you have ever seen a guy without his shirt?”

Gerry broke the trance
. “What have you been doing now, Tommy?”

Shrugging painfully, Co
nnell raised a ghost of a smile. “Spending time in the cooler, Gerry.”

Gerry shook his head
. “That’s not what I meant.”

Connell flinched as the paramedic started to
attend to the cuts on his back. “You mean, why am I holed up here, carrying the can for every serial killer in town? You better ask these clowns, Gerry, because I’m fucked if I know. I’m just minding my own business - well, minding your business actually - when I’m hauled in here like some one-man vigilante and water-boarded by your number one suspect.”

“That’s not what I meant either.”

Connell shook off the medic, waving him away impatiently “Well, you better tell me what you do mean, because I’m about ready to walk out the door.”

Gerry exchanged a look with Hamilton and Wilson
, and taking Connell firmly by the arm, he propelled him back into the interview room. When all four men were seated and the door was closed, Gerry fixed Connell with a look that said in no uncertain terms he wanted no wisecracks, no smart mouth and definitely no games.

“How did you get that mark on your chest, Tommy?” he asked.

“Huh?”

Gerry knew all about the shooting, knew he carried the sc
ars from it. “You’ve got a short memory, Gerry. You forget how we met?”

Gerry shook his head
. “I’m not talking about the bullet wound. I’m talking about the burn on your chest, Tommy. How did that happen?”

Connell found his hand drawn to the area subconsciously. “Some weirdo zapped me.”

“Where was that, Connell?” asked Hamilton, and Connell shot him a glance.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just answer the question, Tommy,” said Gesting.