William Bernhardt - Murder One

“Is this a frisking,” Ben asked, “or are you giving me a physical?”

The officer to his left “accidentally” cuffed him on the jaw with his elbow.

They dragged him inside the cell block. “Stand on those footsteps, asshole,” the jailer said, pointing to a set of yellow prints painted on the floor. Ben complied. “Lean forward.” The jailer searched him again, just as thoroughly, if not more so.

When he was done, the jailer barked, “Take off your clothes.”

Ben squirmed. “On our first date?”

The jailer kicked him in the back of his knees. “Take off your goddamn clothes.”

When Ben was naked, and the officers had let him stand around exposed long enough to humiliate him, they tossed him a pair of the orange coveralls that were standard attire for all inmates. Then they dragged him to a small cell.

Ben noticed that the cells on either side both had someone inside. One if not both of them were probably plants, he realized. He would have to be careful with what he said.

The jailer removed his cuffs. Just as Ben began to stretch his aching arms, the jailer twisted his right arm around and pinned it behind his back. He shoved Ben forward till his face was pressed against the hard bars of the cell.

“I hope you’re enjoying this,” Ben grunted, though he could barely move his mouth. “ ’Cause I’m going to be out of here before the second shift arrives.”

“I don’t think so, creep,” the jailer whispered. “We have special rules for lawyers who help cop killers. The wheels just don’t seem to turn as quickly.”

“All I did was my job,” Ben said. “Why are you doing this?”

The other man’s voice hissed in his ear. “Joe McNaughton was my best friend. He and his wife are my kids’ godparents.”

Ben closed his eyes. So what you’re saying is, this stay isn’t going to be quite as nice as a night at the Ramada Inn.

Without warning, the jailer whirled him around and pounded him in the gut, hard. Ben doubled over. The jailer followed up with another blow, then another. Ben fell to his knees.

“I’m hitting you in the stomach because I don’t want to leave a mark. If you tell anyone about this, I’ll say you had to be restrained while attempting escape. And every man on the force will back me up. No one will speak up for the creep who helped kill Joe McNaughton. But you’ll get some extra time for attempted escape.”

He opened the cell door and kicked Ben inside. Ben crashed against the opposite wall of the tiny cell, banging his head against the concrete.

“Get used to being treated like this,” the jailer growled, as he locked the cell door behind Ben. “It ain’t gonna get any better. And you’re gonna be here a good long time.”

5

KIRK DALCANTON COULDN’T DECIDE which he thought more feeble: the spindly rotted staircase or the decrepit old man leading him up it.

“Last tenants I had in here, they didn’t give a damn about anyone or anything except themselves.” The elderly man could only manage one step every thirty seconds or so, which made the ascent even more painfully slow, not to mention hazardous. “And maybe not even themselves. Tore the place apart. Left in the dead of night and never paid me a dime. You’re not going to do that, are you, son?”

“No. No, I mean, I wouldn’t. I’ll pay in advance, if you want.”

“That’d be all right, sure. Not that I don’t trust you. But you know how it is.”

Kirk wrenched a wad of cash out of his pocket. For once, he was flush, at least by his standards. He grabbed about a hundred bucks and shoved it into the pocket of the old man’s ratty cardigan. For a dump like this, that ought to last him a month.

“I appreciate that, son, I do. Gets harder and harder to get good people, if you know what I mean. Quality folk. Not like it was in the old days. Back during the oil boom, even before. Then I had a list of people as long as your arm wanting to get in here. I couldn’t rent space fast enough. People wanted to be near downtown, where the action was. Wasn’t considered a bad neighborhood back then. Nowadays, all the yuppies and high-flyers run south and everyone else follows them and pretty soon I don’t have anyone I can rent to except crack heads and pimps and people who disappear in the dead of night and don’t pay their rent.”

Kirk batted his eyelashes, trying not to fall asleep halfway up the stairs. You’re bo- ring ! old man, he wanted to shout at the top of his lungs. But he decided to restrain himself. At least until he signed the lease.

“Here we go,” the landlord said, as he crossed the threshold at the top of the stairs: “Only one room up here, and that’s yours.” He opened the door and flung out his arm, like he was presenting some breathtaking view. What he was actually displaying was a dump. Possibly the worst, most horrible-looking dive Kirk had ever seen in his life.

Kirk stepped inside and took a quick inventory, trying to keep his face from revealing the disgust and revulsion he felt. Exposed wooden planks that passed for a floor, many of them broken or even missing. Bare white walls, with off-color blotches that showed where filthy words had been whitewashed out. There was an exposed sink with a cracked mirror overhead, a toilet in a tiny dark closet. That was what passed for the bathroom.

He saw a chair but no table. Where was a man supposed to eat? There was a bed; he supposed he should be grateful for small mercies. But if there had ever been springs in that mattress, he couldn’t tell it now, and the tattered bedspread had a smell that made him gag. This was far worse than the place where he’d stayed with his sister, and he’d thought that was a real rat’s nest at the time. He’d seen better places than this in the worst parts of Stroud—and that was after the tornado hit.

“I’ll take it,” Kirk said.

“Well, wonderful,” the old man said. “I’m pleased. Truly pleased. I have a good feeling about this.”

You wouldn’t, you stupid old man, Kirk thought, if you had any idea what I’ve been up to lately. Or what I’m likely to be doing in the future. But of course, you don’t know anything about that. You just see a chance to get your bony little fingers on a quick hundred bucks. That’s what you have a good feeling about.

“What’s this place like when it gets chilly out?” Kirk asked. This was more than just an academic question. A serious cold snap was expected any day now.

“Well, it’s cold, naturally. What would you expect?”

“Does the central heating—”

The landlord started shuffling toward the door. “My recommendation would be that you get one of those space heaters. Maybe a bottle of cheap wine. Snuggle up to them when night falls. Keep you good and warm.” The man turned slightly and actually winked. “And it’ll be a hell of a lot cheaper than a woman, right? Although, on this street, not by much.”

Sleazy old goat, Kirk thought bitterly. What did he mean by that? What was he suggesting? Why would he want that kind of woman? Or was he implying that he wouldn’t want any kind of woman? Was that it?

All of a sudden, Kirk hated the man. He flashed on that book they’d made him read in high school— Crime and Punishment, right? Took damn near forever for Kirk to finish that one. Boring book, but the guy in it had the right idea. If this landlord didn’t disappear soon, he was going to end up dead, too.

“If I need anything, who should I call?” Kirk asked.

The old man shrugged his spindly shoulders. “God?” He flashed a withered smile, then closed the door behind him.

Wiseass, Kirk thought, as the old man thankfully disappeared from his sight. First the comment about women, then the smart remark about God. Did the decrepit creep have any idea what had happened? Did he know that God had stopped answering Kirk’s prayers?