Frank Zafiro - Some Degree of Murder

“Where’s Rowdy?”

“At the fun house.”

I pushed Brian’s face back into the toilet. His hand reached up and flushed the toilet. As the water ran from the bowl, I lifted his head up.

“What’s the fun house?”

“It’s where he takes his girlfriends.”

“That's where he takes them to kill them?”

“He doesn’t kill anyone, man.”

“Where’s the fun house?”

“Why should I tell you?”

I slapped Brian hard and then grabbed his right arm by the wrist and elbow. With a sharp thrust, I brought my knee up against his forearm. He squealed but I didn’t feel it give. Brian clawed at my back as I hugged his arm to my chest. I dropped all of my weight across the rim of the toilet bowl and heard the sharp snap of a broken bone. Brian howled in pain.

I stood and let Brian cradle his arm while he cried.

“Tell me where Rowdy is or I’ll continue to break things until you do.”

“It’s on the corner of Wales and Magnolia.” Spittle flew everywhere as he spoke.

“Where the hell is that?”

Brian shook his head in a frenzy. “Off Sprague and Napa. In that area.”

I slapped his face to get him to focus. “What’s it look like?”

“It’s an old office building. No one uses it anymore.”

I pulled out Fawn’s picture from my jacket. “You ever see this girl?”

He nodded frantically. “Once.”

“Where did you see her at?”

“Rowdy introduced me to her. Said it was his new girlfriend.”

I grabbed his throat. “Did you fuck her?”

“No,” he gagged, “that was Rowdy’s girl.”

My fingers wrapped around his throat. “I think you’re lying, kid.”

“I swear.”

“You wanna live?”

“Please,” he begged softly and let the tears flow.

“Don’t tell anyone I was here. Not the cops, not a doctor, not your priest. Got it?”

Brian nodded frantically.

“You got a basement in here?”

He nodded and I released his throat. I stepped out of Brian’s way and let him walk into the kitchen. He opened a door on the far side of the room and reached out to flick on the light. With both hands, I shoved him down the stairway. He flew down the stairs and stopped suddenly with a loud crunch.

TOWER

“Brian who?” I asked Janice, yelling into the cell phone mic on my visor. I was headed north on Northwest Blvd and traffic was thick.

“The address reverse directory says Osmond,” she answered. “You want this guy’s history?”

“Yep.”

“Some minor thefts and traffic is all I see.”

“Any gang affiliation at all? BSC associate or prospect?”

“No.”

“Sex crimes?”

“No, nothing. His license is suspended, though.”

“Okay. Thanks, Janice.”

The traffic light changed as she disconnected. I sped up and started passing vehicles. Brian Osmond was not a biker or even an affiliate, but he knew Rowdy.

3124 West Fairmont was a blue-shingled house that had the look of having belonged to Brian’s parents or grandparents. That is, it had been well kept up for years, but not so much lately. The grass was long and the garden hose unfurled. A yellow Chevy Caprice was parked in the driveway. The gate to the back yard stood open and I noticed motorcycle tire marks in the grass near the gate.

I knocked on the screen door. There was no answer. I pulled open the screen door and knocked on the front door. It swung open on my first knock.

Cautiously, I pushed it the rest of the way open with my left hand, drawing my Glock from my shoulder holster with my right. The living room was a mess. Wood and glass from the coffee table had been shattered and covered the floor. A broken lamp hung off the front of an end table from its own cord. Looking past the living room, I saw a similar scene in the kitchen.

I crept into the living room. I thought about calling for backup, then dismissed the idea. Not enough time.

I swept through the living room and the kitchen and saw no one. On the refrigerator, I spotted a long smear of bright red blood.

The two bedrooms were clear and untouched. I pushed open the bathroom door carefully, expecting to find a dead body in the tub. The room was empty. I saw some blood droplets on the wall and water spilled around the toilet.

Wandering back through the kitchen, I spotted another door. I eased it open and saw a staircase behind it. A basement. The light was off and I couldn’t see anything beyond three or four steps down. I kept my gun trained on the darkness and felt around on the wall with my left hand until I located a light switch. I turned on the light.

A man’s body lay in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs.

My heart raced. I forced myself to go slowly down the stairs, keeping my gun at the low ready and watching the body and the rest of the basement at the same time. The basement stairs creaked loudly with every step.

A moan came from the body at the bottom of the stairs, making me jump. As I reached the final stair, I could see the entirety of the small basement. A washer and dryer were pushed into the corner. A few boxes were visible underneath the stairs themselves. That was it.

I kept my gun aimed at the guy, probably Brian, until I’d checked his hands and his waistband. Then I slid the pistol back into my holster.

Brian moaned again. I squatted, reached underneath him and helped pull him into a sitting position. He was holding his right forearm and yelped, his eyes shooting open.

“No more, man! Fuck! No more!”

“It’s okay, Brian. He’s gone.”

“Who the fuck are you, man?” he asked, almost crying.

“Detective Tower, River City Police.”

He slumped, visibly relieved. I examined his face. Both sides of it were swollen, though the left side considerably more than the right. That eye was probably going to swell shut. The skin was still red and angry. Wet blood flowed slowly from his nose in a steady stream from both nostrils down to his chin. Numerous abrasions covered his face and he held onto his right forearm gingerly.

“Lean back against the wall.”

He did so with some difficulty.

“You want some water?”

“No, man. I just want to curl up and fucking die.”

“You aren’t going to die.” I looked over his injuries again. “Did Rowdy do this?”

“Rowdy’s my friend.” He winced and held his forearm, tearing spilling down his cheeks. “Oh, Jesus, man, he broke it. I know he broke it.”

“Who broke it?”

“Some fucking guy. Call an ambulance, man, before I die!”

“Brian!” I said sharply, snapping my fingers in front of his face. “You’re not going to die. And I’m not calling an ambulance until we’re done talking. The longer you screw around, the longer it’s going to hurt.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me!”

“No kidding.”

“You’re the police! You can’t do that! I’ll sue you if you don’t call — “

I reached out and gave his forearm a hard slap.

“OH MY FUCK!” Brian yelled. “That hurt!”

He scooted into the corner and held his forearm, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Sick son of a bitch,” he said between them.

“Who did this to you?”

“Some guy I never met before. He called about Rowdy’s hog for sale and I set up a meet with him at two tomorrow. Then he just shows up here-“

I held up my hand, stopping him. “Wait a sec. How many people called about the bike today?”

“Just this one guy. Then he showed up here.”

“How long after the phone call did this guy show up?”

“Less than five minutes. I thought that was kinda weird, but I didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, because inside of two minutes, he was beating the shit out of me all over my house.”