David Putnam - The Disposables

“What other thing? Why is Homicide involved? What am I being charged with?”

The nasty Mack returned, “Don’t play dumb. It’s not gonna to work.”

“I’ll ask you again. What am I being charged with?”

He sat back, gave the-cat-that-ate-the-canary smile. “Kidnap and murder one, multiple counts, six to be exact. And here in California it rates the death penalty.”

I was numb. The revelation didn’t faze me. I laughed. “Who are all these folks I am supposed to have killed?”

“Okay, we can play it your way. Ned Bressler’s one. He’s also the one who tripped you up on all the others.”

“Ned Bressler? What are you talking about? When did I purportedly commit this heinous crime against society? Not that Bressler qualifies as a human.”

Mack didn’t answer, a wise move when interviewing and trying to get something, anything to get a wedge into the suspect.

“Tell me, Detective Mack, how was I supposed to commit these murders with a crack team of Sheriff’s Violent Crime detectives following me twenty-four seven?”

“I’m not going to lay the entire case out. I’m not the fool you think I am. There is strong physical evidence you killed Ned Bressler. And, according to your employer and friend, John Ahern, aka Jumbo, you had plenty of motive.”

“There can’t be any evidence because I haven’t laid eyes on Bressler for the better part of a week.” I didn’t want to give it to him, tell him about the train heists if they didn’t already know about them. I didn’t think it would bode well for my case. The murder rap was all smoke and mirrors.

“So,” I said, “in the words of all the famous criminals who have gone before me, put up or shut up.”

The light that ignited in Mack’s eyes scared me. On his flat pie-pan face a wide, ugly smile slowly materialized. He reached over to the brown accordion file, his meaty hand disappearing inside, and came out with a gun in an evidence bag.

My mind spun trying to hook onto the possibilities. What gun could they possibly have?

Mack kept it out of reach, “It’s not loaded so don’t even think about it. We lifted your fingerprints off it.”

The.45. It could only be the.45 I took off Q-Ball, the one in the trunk of the root beer-brown Plymouth the BMFs had staked out. The one Vanfleet took a beating over. Sure, that gun would have my prints on it. The only gun I could think of that I had touched in recent history. But I didn’t kill anyone with it. But from where I sat, the distance, coupled with the plastic bag obscuring the black metal, it did look like Q’s.45.

“Is that Q-Ball’s gun?”

Mack’s smile didn’t waver. After a second, his head moved from side to side. “So you’re saying you know whose gun it is? You cop an insanity plea, they might put you in the booby hatch for the rest of your life. Shooting Ned Bressler and lighting all those folks on fire, who wouldn’t believe you were absolutely batshit?”

“What the hell are you talking about? I didn’t burn those people. I was trying to help Robby find the guy, remember?” I had broken my cool and had said far too much. Mack knew it. He leaned forward. “Robby had an idea it might’ve been you firing up those poor people, burning them to the ground with a can of gas. Think about it, you even led us on a wild-goose chase, giving us the Grape Street Crips. Looks bad, real bad. You can’t take this to the box, a jury will crucify you. Tell me now, and I’ll do everything I can to get you the booby hatch, Patton State Hospital for the criminally insane, should be a piece of cake.”

He continued to talk. I sat back and let all the events that led up to this spin around in my head. What linked me to all of these murders? The gun in the plastic bag? How so? The others were random, no links, killed with gasoline. None of it made sense.

Mack’s words registered again, “Robby knew you were into those train heists. That’s why we were on you. A high-profile case with a lot of heat, a lot of pressure from the FBI, the theft of interstate cargo. It was his idea to get close to you. He just didn’t know how to approach you. Then the liquor store shooting, a perfect intro to present the ruse to get you to help him. He always said keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Not long after that, Robby started to put it together. That liquor store where you worked was right around the corner from one of the fire victim’s. Closer if you went out the back door. Nobody would know you were gone.”

Mack violated the cardinal rule of interrogation: never give more information than you receive. I let him talk.

“We ran the timeline with all the killings against our surveillance log. The times you lost us and went out of pocket, matched. For the most part anyway, each of the killings. We got you, man, we got you locked up tight.”

“You don’t have me. Because I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Bullshit, you got priors. You forget what you’re on parole for?”

“I can shoot holes in your timeline. You’re going to look like a bunch of buffoons. Your whole case is going to break down.” His timeline would in fact break down. It had to. But to do it, I would have to come clean with every place I’d been during those times. In every instance, when I went to intense countersurveillance mode, I had been en route to a criminal caper, either taking a kid out of a hostile environment or out with Jumbo on a job or, on occasion, going to the safe house to check on Dad. To clear myself I would have to implicate and damn myself to life in prison. They had me boxed tight. I asked, “Where did you find that gun?”

“I’m not at liberty to give you that information. Homicide will be here soon.”

Mack wasn’t supposed to be talking to me at all, not with Homicide on the way. He thought if he broke me down, there would be something in it for him.

“What kind of gun is it and who’s it registered to?”

Mack gave a little squirm as he tried to decide if it was worth giving it up. He knew it was a major interrogation point. He weighed the pros and cons.

I gave him a little nudge. “You give me something, I’ll give you something.”

“It’s an H &K.40-cal registered to Jonathon Kendrick.”

He said the name of the registered owner with emphasis like it was supposed to mean something. It did. Back in the far recesses of my brain, I knew the name, only couldn’t pull it up. It was there and vitally important, and I couldn’t pull it up. The anger made it worse. I tried to relax. It would come to me later. I knew the way my mind worked. In similar instances, out of a dead sleep, I’d sit up in bed as the answer bubbled to the surface. I needed it right away. This information was critical to what was happening now. This time he had not mentioned the kids. Why had he not thrown them into the pot to raise the stakes? Maybe he thought too many charges would spook me into silence. Why muddy the water anymore than it was. Ned Bressler, the perfect patsy nobody would miss.

“I gave you something. Now hold up your end.”

“Kendrick? Who’s Kendrick?”

“No. You said you’d give me something.”

I needed some extra time. I needed out. Like Dad always said, never depend on anyone except yourself. And the only way to help myself was to create a little wiggle room.

I looked at Mack and said, “It’s Tuesday, isn’t it? I need to take a piss.”

Mack looked as if I’d slapped him in the face. He sat back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Being an active member of the BMFs was like being in a street gang but only more organized. Robby Wicks was the leader, the brain of the operation who thought way out ahead of everyone else. For instance, if you were on the prowl poaching in LAPD’s area, in their low-income public housing projects, which was strictly forbidden by the sheriff’s executive staff because, “LAPD can patrol their own shitholes,” and the “shit went south,” Robby had a remedy already in place.