Jeff Sherratt - The Brimstone Murders

“You can save yourself a lot of grief, O’Brien, if you tell us where it is.”

The law stated I couldn’t interfere with the search, but it also said I had the right to keep my mouth shut and not say anything that would aid them. But if I didn’t tell them where the gun was, they’d continue ripping my place apart.

“We found your gun kit and some bullets in the closet next to a cowboy hat,” he said, “But no gun.”

“I was going to ask about the hat,” Butch Something piped up from the corner. “You some kind of cowboy, O’Brien?” He flashed a lewd smirk. “Like to ride ’em bareback?”

I ignored Something’s remark and started for the bedroom.

Ducking my head in, I almost gagged. Everything in the room was in shambles, mattress torn apart, all my clothes scattered on the floor, drawers pulled out and flung around the room.

I stood stock still, shocked to the point of paralysis. Then the rage started to build like pressure in an old boiler. All of a sudden, I lost it. I lurched at Hammer; the two uniforms jumped in and grabbed me before I could get to him. “You son-of-a-bitch, you’re going too far!”

“Cough up the weapon, and we won’t search the rest of the premises.”

I read the threat and struggled to get free of the two big cops that were latched onto my arms. “Goddammit, let go of me.”

Butch ground his cigarette butt on my carpet. “Interfering with a lawful search pursuant to a warrant is a crime.”

“Shut up, Butch,” Hammer snapped. “He’s a lawyer. He knows the law.” Then he said to me, “If you don’t behave, O’Brien, I’ll hook you up.”

I kept quiet, the anger burning inside.

“Let him go,” Hammer told the uniforms. “Now, damn it, O’Brien, where’s the gun? Where did you hide it?”

“I didn’t hide it. It’s at the office.”

“I think it’s here. Or maybe you hid it somewhere. If you don’t cough it up, we’re going to search this place from top to bottom.” Hammer scowled. “We won’t be so neat and tidy this time.”

They were using the gun excuse to go through my living quarters with a scorched-earth vengeance. The warrant only gave them the right to look for my gun, but if they found something else they could use it against me as well. They’d find nothing-but my place would be a shambles. “Hammer, if I was going to hide my gun, do you think I’d be stupid enough to hide it here? Look,” I said, “just cool your heels. I’ll go to the office and get the gun. I’ll bring it right back.”

“Better hurry.”

I heard a ripping sound, and turned. One of the cops was tearing the back off my sofa. “Hey, knock it off. That’s a brand new sofa. Cost me fifty bucks.” I spun around. “Goddammit, Hammer, tell your storm troopers to back off.”

“You’re interfering. Step outside or you’re taking a ride.”

My nerves were stretched tight and Hammer was plucking the strings. One more twang and they would snap. I needed to cool off.

I knew if I stuck around, I’d do something reckless. Being frogmarched to the Downey lockup with my arms cuffed behind my back wasn’t going to help matters. I needed to get out of that apartment fast, go to the office and get the gun and bring it back. If I did, then the cops would have no excuse to tear my place apart.

I jumped in the Vette and peeled away from the curb. By the time I hit Paramount Boulevard the speedometer needle was swinging through its arch, bouncing off 80.

I clipped the light at Florence Avenue and shot up onto the Santa Ana Freeway. Swerving to miss a pickup truck, I almost went into a sidespin, just missing a couple of nuns in a Dodge station wagon going about five miles an hour. I realized that racing around like a madman wasn’t going to help, but I had to get the gun back to Hammer before they did any more damage to my home.

I swerved off Cecilia Street, bounced the Vette into my parking spot, and rushed to my office door. It wasn’t locked. Damn, I was careless. Mabel was always on me about locking up, but I didn’t have time to think about that now.

I charged to my desk and pulled the drawer open-no gun! I rifled through all the drawers, still no gun.

Where in the hell is it? Maybe it was in Mabel’s desk. Maybe she thought she’d feel safe with it. Couldn’t blame her. We had a client list filled with bad guys. That’s how it is being a criminal lawyer, I thought, as I rushed to her desk. I went through her drawers. Not there either.

The gun was gone. I spent the next twenty minutes rummaging through all the desk and cabinet drawers with no success. Someone must have come in here and snatched it. And if someone had taken my gun, what were the odds that it was used to murder Hazel Farris? If it was my gun that killed her, then that meant someone was trying to set me up for sure. Who… and why me?

I had to go back to my apartment and face the heat like a man, like an officer of the court, like a person who believed that our system of justice sooner or later would make things right. Without the law, who was I? Just another two-bit hustler out to make a buck off some poor sap’s misery. But what’s the use? Hammer would be gone by now and my apartment would be destroyed.

I got in my Corvette and drove home.

When I pulled up to the curb this time, sure enough, the cops were gone. The patrol cars had left, but Rita’s yellow Datsun was parked there. I climbed out of the Vette but didn’t bolt up the stairs like before. I felt downhearted, and it would show. I wanted time to improve my attitude before seeing Rita. I was her mentor, after all, and I had to be strong.

As I climbed the steps, I wondered why she’d stopped by. But I was glad she did. Maybe I just needed to see a friendly face, someone on my side for a change.

Reaching the top step, I stood still and thought for a moment. Other than Rita and Sol, I really didn’t have many friends. Oh, there was Bobby Pollard, my buddy all through high school, but when he graduated from college he got a job with an insurance company and moved to Chicago. The last time I talked to him, he tried to sell me a whole-life policy. Double benefits if I got run over by a train.

The front door was open. Rita stood in the middle of the living room, hands on her hips surveying the damage. My TV was smashed, stuff overturned, furniture torn apart. The kitchenette-the bit I could see out of the corner of my eye-had been ransacked and looked as if a tornado had hit it. A tornado named Hammer.

Rita turned when I walked in. There was a moment’s silence, a warm acknowledgment of our friendship.

“Oh, Jimmy, your apartment is a mess.”

“Cops,” I said.

“I know. They were still here when I arrived. Hammer gave me a copy of the warrant. I’m sorry, Jimmy.”

“Hey, Rita, I planned on doing a remodel job anyway, and now it’s done-Early Cop.” I laughed an empty laugh.

“They’re looking for your gun.”

“They knew it wasn’t here. They were looking for something else too, a fishing expedition. But I’m really worried now. I looked in the office, and my gun is gone. Someone stole it.”

“Jimmy, this could be trouble.”

“Yeah, I know. The gun all of a sudden goes missing, and a woman is murdered with the same kind of weapon. I don’t like coincidences.”

“My God,” she said. “Do you think someone took your gun and shot Robbie’s mother with it?”

“I don’t know, Rita. I don’t know what to think.”

“You didn’t just misplace it?”

“Nah, I put it in my desk drawer a few months ago. Haven’t touched it since. But I know one thing.”

“What?”

“If my gun is the murder weapon, as sure as I’m standing here, it will turn up.”