Frank Zafiro - Some Degree of Murder

Several minutes passed while I reclined. The motorcycle had been moved since I was there the first time and a For Sale sign was put out. If I had waited, Rowdy would have returned and I could have ended it before now. Hindsight is a dangerous game to start playing so I shook it free from my head.

With a quick tug, I sat the seat up straight. The neighborhood was quiet as I walked towards the house. The front lawn was yellowed, the hangover of a winter thaw.

At the door I heard the sounds of television blaring loudly in the house. The broad must have been deaf. I pounded on the door and it jerked open.

A haggard looking woman opened the door with an unlit cigarette dangling out of her mouth. She stood about five-foot five and maybe broke a hundred and ten pounds. Her eyes squinted like imaginary cigarette smoke was burning them. She wore red stretch pants and a white t-shirt which had long since yellowed. “He’s gone,” she said with a raspy voice.

“Who?”

She looked past me and searched around the neighborhood. “Your partner. He’s gone.”

I smiled and shrugged at her. “I don’t have a partner.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. “You ain’t a cop?”

“I need to talk to Rowdy.”

“Why?”

I thumbed in the direction of the Harley. “About his bike.”

She eyed me for a moment before shaking her head. “I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“I don’t think you’re here for the bike. You want him for something else.”

“Where’s he at?”

“I didn’t tell no cop about Rowdy and I sure as hell ain’t gonna tell you.”

I put my hand on the door and felt her resistance.

My voice dropped a couple of octaves and I leaned forward into her face. “I need to come in and talk to you about Rowdy.”

She stabbed her finger in my chest. “You come in and I’ll call the cops.”

“Now you like the police?”

“What?”

I snapped an uppercut punch into her stomach, doubling her up and causing her to let go of the door. With a quick step I was inside the house with the front door closed behind me.

“You mother-,” she gasped.

I smacked her hard across the face and spun her completely around. She fell in a heap. I helped her to her knees as she still cradled her stomach.

“What’s your name?”

“Marion,” she whispered.

“Do you know what I’m good at, Marion?”

She shook her head.

“Hurting people. I’m really good at that. Do you believe me?”

She nodded as trickle of blood ran from her lip.

“Where is Rowdy?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“That’s not an answer I can use, Marion.”

Her eyes widened as she realized the situation her son had gotten her into.

“Does Rowdy have any friends?”

“I don’t know.”

My hand cracked against the side of her face and lifted her from her knees. She tried to scramble up, but I caught her by the throat and shoved her against the wall.

My face was inches from her ear. “Do you remember what my talent is, Marion?”

She nodded frantically.

“Who is Rowdy’s friend?”

“B-B-Brian,” she stammered out.

“Brian what?”

“Brian, oh god, I dunno.” She closed her eyes shut hard and waited for a blow to come.

I squeezed my hand around her neck to get her to open her eyes up.

“Where does Brian live?”

Tears flowed down her face.

“Where does Brian live?” I slowly repeated for her.

“I can’t. He’s my baby.”

I punched her hard in the ribs. Marion screamed for a moment before I covered her mouth with my free hand.

“If you scream, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

She nodded, panic-stricken. Tears streamed down her cheeks and over my hand.

“Where does Brian live?”

I lifted the hand over her mouth. “Over on West Fairmont. Something like 3124.”

“Something like 3124 or definitely 3124?”

“I dunno, it’s on the refrigerator.” She pointed into the kitchen.

Still holding Marion by the neck, I walked her into the kitchen and over to the refrigerator. On the avocado green unit were papers and magnets everywhere. Photographs were interspersed with the papers.

“Where’s the address?” I asked with a shake of her throat.

She pointed to a ragged piece of paper.

“You were right, Marion. 3124. Good memory.”

I saw a picture of Rowdy and another long-haired kid. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Brian.”

I stared at the picture for a moment and squeezed around Marion’s throat. Her hands grasped at my hand.

“Do you want to live, Marion?”

She nodded with tears streaming down her red face.

“Do you have any rope?”

After tying up Marion in the basement, I checked out the house and found Rowdy’s room in the back corner. Hung on the walls were pictures of heavy metal bands, a rebel flag and pictures of his BSC brothers. Dirty clothes were strewn about the room and the bed hadn’t been made.

In the living room, I found the keys to Rowdy’s Harley, which were on a Playboy key ring.

I placed a phone call to the Davenport and asked for my room. Gina answered on the second ring.

“Don’t say anything,” I said quickly.

She waited quietly.

“Pick up your car at the first house you told me about. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“The keys will be under the seat and the doors unlocked.”

“Okay.”

I hung up the phone and walked out to Rowdy’s bike. It took me a couple of kicks but I got it running. I drove it over to Gina’s car and left the keys in it.

TOWER

“What can you do with it?” I asked Adam.

He looked at the number I handed him, his brow furrowing. “Well, first off, it’s a cell phone. That’s the bad news. The good news is that maybe it’s in our records somewhere.”

I frowned. “That’d be great, but…”

“All it takes is for the owner to have ever given it just once to any cop in the county and it’ll be in here.”

“Like I said, it’d be great, but…”

“Huh. No record found.” Adam glanced up at me. “That’s all right. We’ll just have to get into some technical wizardry.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Adam typed furiously at his keyboard. I looked around the small room. Tucked away in the basement of the police station, the Special Services Unit had all the gadgetry necessary to run a modern day police department. Surveillance, video recovery, computer encryption, you name it. Adam was a police officer for four years, but when this civilian position came open, he resigned from RCPD and took the job. Rumor was that he made even more than top rate patrol pay. He was probably worth it, too, though I knew that most of the time his work consisted of trying to clean up video surveillance tapes from convenience store robberies or department store shoplifters. It was a waste of talent.

“The key is going to be keeping him talking,” Adam told me, sliding across the room in his chair to a small bank of equipment that I didn’t recognize.

“Huh?”

“Whoever answers the phone. You have to keep them talking as long as possible.”

I watched him flip a couple of switches and make adjustments to the equipment. It reminded me of the engine room in the old Star Trek series. “I see.”

Adam looked over at me. “No, you don’t.”

“You’re right, I don’t. How are you going to trace a cell phone?”

Adam smiled and slid back over to the computer. “All cell phones operate off of cell towers. I can narrow down which tower in about ten seconds.”

“That fast?”