David Jackson - Pariah

It has begun, and it cannot be undone.

The next killing is inevitable.

Despite their increased numbers, they are quieter than usual.

Normally, at a scene like this, there would be jokes and laughter and general chit-chat. About how fucking cold this Christmas is going to be, about how the latest caps on overtime suck, about how shitty the current police recruitment policy is. But this time it’s different. This crime involves a Member of Service. A brother. There is a need for reverence here. The audience gathers around the mouth of the vacant lot as if about to sing a hymn or utter prayers.

Detective Second Grade Callum Doyle approaches the throng with some trepidation. Anyone not familiar with him might puzzle over the slight bounce in his step on such a solemn occasion. Closer inspection might offer a hint that Doyle is not full of the joys of winter. If they can tear their gaze away from his startling emerald eyes, they might notice the slight crookedness to his nose — another relic from his boxing days.

He makes a quick scan of the surroundings. This section of East Third Street is mostly residential. Low-rise tenements, their faces zigzagged by fire escapes. Building lights are on everywhere. Despite the freezing weather, a bare-chested man is hanging out of a fourth-floor window, binoculars trained on the scene below. A cordon formed from sawhorses connected by yellow crime-scene tape keeps the gathering public at a respectable distance. Pressed against the tape, two elderly spectators fill plastic cups from a steaming thermos. Doyle wouldn’t be surprised if they’d brought sandwiches too.

Seeking protection against the bitter cold, he burrows his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, then turns his attention back to the people on his side of the barrier. He keeps his head high, knowing what certain elements are thinking. He’s ready for them — possibly too ready. He warns himself not to be too eager to react.

His mind begins to sift the various officials here into categories: the uniforms, the night-watch detectives, the Homicide dicks, the Crime Scene team, the Medical Examiner. And then there are the detectives from his own tour, none of whom is supposed to be on duty for several hours yet. But when something like this happens, word gets around quickly and sleep is demoted to an unnecessary luxury.

As he reaches the periphery of the crowd, faces glance at him and swiftly turn away again. There are whispers, nudges. Doyle feels his intestines forming reef knots.

First to venture toward him is the lieutenant. Morgan Franklin — Mo to his friends — is tall and wiry and approaching fifty in a nosedive, but all of this belies his strength and aura of authority. Doyle has often wondered what it is about the man that causes others to hang on his words and swing at his command.

‘Cal,’ he says, the simple greeting carried on a white puff of breath.

‘There’s no mistake, then?’ Doyle asks.

Franklin shakes his head. ‘I wish there was.’ He looks up at the cloudless sky. ‘This is gonna be tough on you. In more ways than one. You know that, don’t you?’

Doyle just stares. He does know it, but hearing it from somebody else’s lips hammers it home.

The assembly parts like the Red Sea, and a squat man emerges and shuffles over. Norman Chin, MD, has stiff black hair that sticks out like the bristles of a toilet brush, and the magnifying effect of his glacially thick glasses lends him the appearance of a demented owl. But Doyle knows that behind the geeky facade lies a tough Brooklynite whom one derides at one’s peril.

‘Who wants the report?’ he asks the lieutenant.

Doyle chips in. ‘Me. I’ll take the case.’

Franklin looks at him. ‘You sure? Could be a poisoned chalice.’

‘He was my partner. I knew him best.’

Chin pulls his lapels together and stomps his feet. ‘Can we toss a coin here or something? This cold, my toes are about to snap off.’

Franklin thinks for a moment, then nods his assent.

‘Okay,’ Chin says, and turns to face Doyle. ‘Cause of death in Parlatti’s case was three gunshots to the right rear side of the head. Cause of death for the girl was probably also three shots to the head, but from the front.’

‘Probably?’

Chin shrugs. ‘I’m covering my ass. She had the crap beaten out of her. The injuries she sustained might have led to her death. Whatever, the three slugs in her brain didn’t cure her.’

‘Can you give us anything on the weapon?’

‘Small caliber, judging by the holes. Powder burns on the skin of both victims, suggesting close range. Oh, and no exit wounds, indicative of low-velocity ammo. If the slugs haven’t deformed too much, the lab will be able to tell you more. What I do know is that there’s no sign of any cartridge cases near the bodies.’

‘Jesus,’ Franklin says, and Doyle knows they’re thinking the same thing: that this has all the hallmarks of a professional hit. Blowing somebody’s head off with a Magnum.44 is for amateurs and opportunists, since it has the disadvantage of alerting everyone within a five-block radius to what you’ve just done. Besides, it’s messy. You want a swift, efficient and quiet kill, then use something like a.22 at close range. With the peace and tranquility of your neighbors in mind, fit the gun with a silencer and use low-power shells. It might seem like a pussy’s weapon to you, but two or three of those projectiles bouncing around somebody’s dome still gets the job done — no muss, no fuss.

‘Were they killed here?’ Doyle asks.

‘I’d say so. Doesn’t look like a dump job. Nah, I’d say they were whacked here within the past two hours.’

‘What about the girl? Find anything there?’

‘She’s a user. Track marks on her arms and legs. One of your uniforms thinks he’s seen her before, on the streets. Thinks she’s a local pross.’

Shit, thinks Doyle. What the fuck was Joe Parlatti — who was married, no less — doing on a vacant lot with a known hooker?

Chin seems to have read his mind. ‘There’s no sign of any sexual activity immediately prior to death. But I can’t rule it out totally. I’ll know more when I get ’em back to the ranch.’

‘And the beating she took?’

‘Again, no signs that Parlatti did the deed. His knuckles are clean, and I couldn’t find any gloves. What I did find was his wallet still in his pocket, his detective shield in his left hand and a pocket flashlight in his right hand. Battery must be dead because the switch is on.’

‘Okay, thanks, Doc. Any chance you can bump this one for us?’

‘Already top of my list. Watch this space.’

Chin walks away, muttering something else about his frozen extremities. Franklin says to Doyle, ‘You wanted the case. Go work it.’

Doyle heads into the crowd. He receives a couple of sheepish nods, one or two grunts. Nobody for a high five then, he thinks.

He has worked with these people for a full year now. He was beginning to think he had finally become accepted. Now this.

‘Who found them?’ he asks nobody in particular.

Evasive silence. Then: ‘You taking this, Doyle?’

This from Schneider, a bull of a man with a stiff carpet of slate-gray hair. Doyle recalls remarking that it looked as though his head had been dipped in iron filings and a magnet pushed up his nose.

‘That okay with you, Schneider?’

Schneider smiles viciously and chews his gum. Doyle looks around at the others, challenging them to declare any allegiances. It takes a while for one of them to pipe up.

‘Kid over there. He’s a student, on his way home after a party. Feels the need for a piss, looks for somewhere away from the street. .’