Carol O’Connell - Shell Game

„Not while he was still useful. If I’d reported every little piece of metal in his hide, they would’ve shipped him Stateside.“

„And you wanted him dead.“

„Well, I couldn’t ship him home, could I? Private Malakhai was a damn murder machine. And it’s not like he was a real American.“

„He wore the uniform.“

The old man was clearly exasperated. „You still don’t get it, little girl. You know why Hitler used gas chambers? He wasn’t being efficient. He mechanized death to lessen the shock on the troops. That bastard knew what hands-on mass murder would do to them. They’d all be like Malakhai. It would gut their souls. A whole generation of hollow boys would never be able to go home again. It would poison the seed of a whole damn country. And Hitler would be the king of nothing.“

„All those medals.“ She was taking more pride in Malakhai as an opponent. „Medals for wounds, medals for valor.“

„The boy was insane!“ The old man made a weak fist, frustrated that she could not grasp this simple fact. „And pathetic. Sometimes tears would roll down his face at the damnedest times. He wasn’t crying – no emotion in that one. It was a mechanical thing. The tears would just come and go with no reason – like the machine was broken. Even then, his eyes were so cold, so – “

„Were you jealous of him?“

That made the faux general angry. He turned away, and now she was sure of it. She leaned closer to his bed. „Were you afraid of Private Malakhai? Is that why you wanted him dead?“

„I was never afraid of anyone. And I’m sure as hell not afraid of you, girlie.“ He raised his head and aimed the spittle well.

Mallory started. A glob of mucus was sliding down her cheek. In stone-cold anger, she moved her hand toward him. He cringed, eyes rounding with surprise and fear. The little tyrant of the nursing home was not accustomed to reprisal. Her hand slowly dropped to pick up the corner of the bedsheet. She used it to wipe the slime from her face.

Braver now, assured that she didn’t intend to harm him, he shook his head in mock disappointment. „You’ve got the same cold, empty eyes, little girl. But you’re not in Malakhai’s class.“ More spittle flew from his mouth with the sputter of words. „I bet you’d like to take a turn at me.“ One hand rose in a defiant claw. „You wanna pull out all my tubes and wires, bring down the old general, right? Well, you just – “

„Wrong,“ she whispered, leaning close to his ear as she reached into the breast pocket of her blazer. He was staring at her hand, his face full of dread. Did he think she was going for her gun? Now that truly was a delusion of grandeur.

„One more question.“ She pulled out a computer printout and unfolded it. „I have your service record here – from the telephone company.“ She held it up for him to see. „In 1950, when you were repairing a phone line, you were bitten by a dog – a little dog. Did they give you a medal for that?“ She rose from the chair and looked down at him. „No?“

Whatever Roland had been about to say, it was forgotten. She had finally shut his mouth. Getting the last word was her art, and getting even was wonderfully satisfying – but not today.

Mallory watched the old man shrink back from her, burrowing in the bedsheets, growing smaller in every way. Was he frightened? Yes. Perhaps he believed she would rat him out to the hospital staff – that his days as an esteemed general were over.

He was terrified.

And yet she took no joy in this. There was only a vague feeling that she could not readily identify as pity, for she had little experience with that emotion; it did not fit into her philosophy. She had less personal experience with guilt, and felt none as she turned her back on the soft weeping from the old man’s bed. Roland was forgotten by the time she passed through the front door and walked toward the parking lot.

Well, it had not been a total waste of her time. She understood Malakhai a little better. According to Emile St. John, Louisa’s violin concerto had become part of the magic act after World War II. But that was only a prelude to the real insanity. The fully formed delusion of Louisa had been created in the next war.

And now she knew why he had signed up for the North Korean conflict of the fifties. It was yet another opportunity for an interesting death. But instead, he had been taken prisoner. His war records for that period had been more complete, detailing the year of solitary confinement in a cell – no, a box – five feet wide by five tall. After his release, he had passed the following six months in a veterans hospital, recovering from the trauma of torture – and playing cards with a woman who wasn’t there.

Detective Sergeant Riker stood by the wall of steel drawers, where corpses were tagged by toes and filed away. He watched Mallory slip the.357 revolver into her holster. The less satisfying weight of her police issue.38 was now resting in the knapsack at her feet. It had not occurred to her to thank him for retrieving her favorite gun from Lieutenant Coffey – along with her winnings from the suckered cops in uniform.

Well, she was smiling. That was something. And she had not counted the bet money, which might imply some measure of renewed trust.

Chief Medical Examiner Slope put on his reading glasses and consulted a clipboard as he moved down the length of the steel wall in company with a morgue attendant. They stopped in front of a locker, and the attendant opened a door to roll out the body Mallory liked best.

Riker buttoned his coat as he walked toward the corpse on the locker bed. The cold air lessened the odor of dead meat and chlorine. And now he was looking down at all the signs of a full autopsy. Cruel cuts ran the length of the gutted torso. Each organ had been probed and weighed. The chemistry of fluid and tissue had been checked. Even the skull had been violated to get at the brain, and every orifice had been savaged – royal treatment for a dead junkie. It had been this corpse’s great good luck to belong to Detective Mallory.

The unflayed sections of skin mapped out a small, mean life. Riker could count all the ribs of this addict who had loved heroin more than food. The hands were marked with crude drawings of snakes made with ink and pinpricks. This self-mutilation spoke of extended time in a lockup, perhaps one of the many drug treatment centers his uncle had paid for. The face was frozen in the interrupted whine of a pulled-back upper lip. A more professional tattoo emblazoned the dead boy’s complaint on one shoulder in capital letters, LIFE SUCKS.

Dr. Slope dismissed the morgue technician with a curt nod. Lowering his glasses, he turned to Mallory. „Back from your little vacation?“

Mallory shook her head. „If the reporters ask, you never saw me.“

Riker looked down at the late Richard Tree, better known in broadcasting and print as Crossbow Man. He had been misnamed, for he was closer to a boy. Though his age was listed at twenty-two, the face had failed to grow a beard, only stray hairs here and there, and the pug nose made him more childlike. „So the kid OD’d, right?“

Dr. Slope nodded. „The test results won’t be in for a while. But I don’t think there’ll be any surprises.“

„The arrow wound was made after death,“ said Mallory.

„If you’re going to do your own autopsies, why bother me?“ Dr. Slope handed her the clipboard. „Cause of death – overdose of a longtime user. But you knew that too, didn’t you?“ He turned the corpse’s arm to show her the needle marks inside the elbows. „I found older tracks on the soles of his feet and behind his knees. He was probably hiding the addiction until those veins gave out. I’d say he’s been a needle away from dying for a long time.“