Charged - Book One (2 page)

I walked back out towards the elevator, trying not to
limp. And once I made it around the corner I could see it was being
serviced. A maintenance man had a ladder blocking the entrance. I
should have taken the pain killers or at least brought them with
me.

Memories of Richie started to push forward from the
corners of my mind. We did have brief encounters through the years,
usually him trying to hit me up for cash or information, which I
never relinquished. I had many regrets about distancing myself from
him, but he was unstable in more than one way.  

The image of his disfigured skull made me cringe. And
it stayed with me, gnawing into my brain, cementing itself there
along with all the others.

Then I looked at the door to the stairs.

“How much longer?” I said, to the maintenance
man.

“Half hour maybe.”

I let out a long sigh and pulled open the stairwell
door. I leaned on the rail as my bad knee shot out even more pain
step by step. It was only one flight but the muscles in my knee
pulled cruelly when I reached the last few steps. I grew frustrated
because my body could no longer perform the simple task of climbing
stairs. All because I couldn’t shoot a sixteen- year-old kid.

Then the door flew open and a blond nurse paused as
she looked at me. It was obvious I was in pain. I took a few slow
deep breaths as I paused.

“Sir, do you need some help?”

Just what I needed. A witness to pity me.

“No, thank you.”

She started down the stairs but then she turned back
around.

“Have you been discharged? I can get a wheelchair,”
she said.

“I wasn’t admitted.”

Slowly she proceeded down but I could feel her eyes
on me. I waited for the pain to subside before I took the last two
steps and limped out to the main entrance.

LEAVING THE MORGUE, I stepped out into the perpetual
overcast of Seattle. There was a light drizzle which paused only
occasionally throughout the year. You were lucky if you got
fifty-eight sunny days out of every three hundred and sixty-five,
but today the overcast seemed appropriate. But the rain always made
my knee worse. I had to sit down on a bench for fifteen minutes
before I tried to walk again.

I could’ve taken my truck, but parking in Seattle, to
say the least, was a problem. So I took the light rail — a fancy
name for an elevated bus — into downtown, a block from Pike’s
Market. Marie, Richie’s sister, had given me the address over the
phone earlier, but I didn’t need it. I knew the area. Plus, I spent
the last twenty years trying to avoid Richie, so of course I knew
where he lived. Marie called his landlord and asked him to leave a
key under the mat.

When I got there, I limped up the outside steps that
wrapped around the small laundromat to his apartment. Immediately,
I noticed the front door had been pushed off the top hinge and
forced open. Quickly, I unsnapped my holster and pulled out my .357
Magnum. Almost instantly I wished I brought the .22. The 686 Smith
and Wesson had a lot of kick back and would be difficult to handle
with my bad knee.

I slowly slid through the half-open door and searched
the apartment. I honed in on every creak in the floor, every puff
of the furnace and anything else I could hear: a window opening, a
footstep, a breath. I checked the small hallway and two closets,
turning on every light, checking behind every door. I was
alone.

I wiped my sweaty brow on my coat sleeve and snapped
my gun back in its holster. I knew all too well the kind of person
that busts through a victim’s door only a few days after his death
— not the good kind. Not the kind that would hesitate a second
before firing. It was the kind that was insanely desperate,
completely crazy, or really stupid, none of which I wanted to
encounter.

Suddenly, I was brought back by the view of the
dismantled room. The place was demolished. Over half of the drop
ceiling tiles had been torn down exposing the ductwork and wood
framing. The dresser and kitchen cabinet drawers were dumped out on
the floor. The wood paneling on the right wall had been pried off
and left leaning against an old blue sofa. There were pillows torn
open, papers scattered across the floor and the small mattress in
the living room had been sliced open down the center. Someone was
looking for what Richie had and I would’ve bet a million bucks it
wasn’t his in the first place.

I found a blue Ethernet cord protruding from the
living room wall, but the laptop it had been attached too had been
confiscated or stolen. The laptop probably didn’t belong to Richie
either. This was disturbing. Someone besides the cops had been
here.

I didn’t call the cops. By the looks of the place, he
didn’t have much to steal.

Aside from the mess, the studio above the laundromat
smelled nice enough. The smell of fabric softener lingered
throughout the tiny living space. But it was sad to think that
Richie lived like this, on a dirty old mattress on the floor. We
had such good times together as kids. I started to remember a lot
of things, but I immediately pushed the memories back into the
recesses of my mind. I didn’t want to remember everything. I didn’t
want to remember her.

After thirty minutes of rummaging through papers and
past-due bills, I was getting frustrated. I headed into the tiny
back room he apparently used for storage. In the dim light, I could
see brown boxes ripped open and a pile of dirty clothes in front of
them. I tossed a few half-empty boxes to one side and then I saw
it.

There was a brand new patch in the wall. The tiny
storage room was drywalled, unlike the living room and kitchen. The
paint was even matched to the exact color. I knew that Richie was a
whiz with construction and since the cops had found nothing — well,
nothing that was leaked by reporters — I figured I’d knock a hole
in the wall and see what I’d find.

I turned on the ceiling light, which made it even
more noticeable. He must have been in a hurry, because I could see
a crack in the center of the patch, which meant the mud had been
put on recently and too thick. The patch had sucked up a lot of the
paint; it needed more than the few coats he’d put on. But the crack
wasn’t large enough to catch your eye unless you were looking for
it, maybe a quarter of an inch wide. Not really something you would
notice unless you had done some construction yourself. Plus,
patching any holes in this dilapidated apartment seemed odd in
itself.

I pushed my hand into the wall and some of the mud
was still soft. It had been patched in the last couple of days. I
didn’t question my actions until my hand was already in the wall.
Then I paused, thinking this was a bad idea and I recalled
everything I knew about Richie.

He wasn’t that bad. He just made bad choices. And he
wasn’t a killer. He was just incapable of coping. I couldn’t blame
him for that. With that thought, I continued to push my hand into
the wall and I pulled out a small, crumpled blue sheet a little
larger than a pillowcase, like a toddler’s bed sheet. I started to
unravel it. I figured it was a wad of cash or stolen wallets or
drugs. Then something rolled out of the sheet, making a light thud
on the stiff carpet. It was a little metal box. Nothing I
recognized.

Great. I just loved it when things wrapped in sheets
rolled out of them, rubbing off any viable prints. I let out a sigh
as I examined it. It was about three inches long, two inches wide
and maybe a half-inch thick. I picked it up and it was lighter than
I expected, not solid. I looked for a screen or a way to open it,
but there was nothing.

I sat on the couch with the little silver box in my
hand and a hideous image of Richie’s skull flashed in my mind. I
shook my head slightly, trying to focus on the box.

What did you get yourself into?

The difference between shooters and slashers was
about ten levels of crazy. Slashers were desperate, isolated,
removed from reality, delusional. Or worse, real sickos, the ones
that enjoyed it, smiled at it and were aroused by it, even when the
victim was small, young and helpless. The kind that tortured their
victims and all you could do was try to find that link, that one
lead so they couldn’t do it again. I didn’t miss that, not at all
and yet here I was.

It was disappointing that I didn’t see how his body
was laying in the alley. I had no way of knowing if it was
strategically placed or just discarded which would’ve given me a
hint of what I was dealing with.

I thought of Richie again. What I didn’t understand
was if Richie’s death was over this little box; why not just beat
Richie senseless for the location of it? Why kill him before you
got it back? I knew Richie, or at least I did back in the day and
even though he had more guts than anyone I knew, he would rat on
someone in a heartbeat if his life depended on it. He would’ve
given up the box. So why didn’t he get that opportunity?

The box didn’t look important to me, but you didn’t
conceal it in a wall if it wasn’t important. And someone wanted it
bad enough to tear the paneling off the walls and slice Richie’s
head open as if it were going to be inside of it.

WHEN I GOT OFF THE LIGHT RAIL, it was brisk and
nearing dusk, but thankfully not raining, which always made my
injury worse. I slid into the cold leather seat of my truck and
headed home. I was only a couple of streets from my place when I
stopped off to grab some beers and I noticed the pain in my knee
had escalated and I was limping more than I was this morning.

Home was one of three apartments above Valentino’s
restaurant. Apartments on top of businesses were pretty common in
Seattle, since all the land was built up. It seemed to me that if
someone wanted to build something new, then something else would
have to be torn down first. At least I didn’t have to worry about
my place, Valentino’s was very popular.

The living space was simple — four rooms, with a
large living room partly filled with old books. I divided half of
the living room into a simple office with an antique desk and
chair. On the opposite side were an oversized leather sectional and
a large flat-screen.

Plus, now that I had Zero, it might be difficult
trying to find a new place. Zero was my trembling, pathetic,
severely over-caffeinated, seven-pound Chihuahua. He was definitely
not my first choice in K-9 protection. Some hundred and
twenty-year-old woman on the third floor died, leaving Zero
creeping around my place. The neighbor left out an occasional bowl
of food for him, as did I. Then, about a month ago, the neighbor
moved out, leaving Zero abandoned.

So, that night, Zero was at the glass door on the
lower level greeting me when I got home. His ears were folded back
against his head, his eyes bulging, staring into my soul as I
opened the door. The fur under his eyes was stained with tears and
he couldn’t have looked any more pathetic unless he started
limping. Then he followed me to my door, waiting for me to invite
him in, looking half-starved. An expression that, I later noticed,
never changed. So I did. 

As I entered my domain, Zero greeted me. He responded
by trembling, as he always did and I triple-bolted the door.
Sluggishly, I moved over to the freezer and grabbed a bag of peas
to ice my knee with. I sat on the couch with a beer, the peas and
the little box I found in Richie’s apartment. There were no designs
on it. It didn’t seem to weigh more than a few ounces. I shook it
lightly and nothing rattled.

I thought about Richie again, considering his
lifestyle. I was relieved at never having to lock him up during my
career and at the same time disappointed that our reunion was what
it was. I wondered who he stole the box from. I felt so limited
with the box in my hand. There were no forensic scientists at my
disposal like when I was a detective. Most of my private detective
work now consisted of, “I think my wife is cheating on me,” “I
think my husband is cheating on me,” “I think my son is doing
drugs.”

After I surfed through forty-something channels, I
came across the news.

“A forty-two-year-old man was found brutally murdered
in the streets of downtown Seattle. There are currently no suspects
and the Seattle police are asking that if anyone has witnessed
anything to please come forward.”

The Asian reporter stood in front of the taped-off
crime scene. It was an alley next to a Chinese restaurant that I
knew. That was it; approximately five seconds of coverage. I guess
he didn’t compare to the six people gunned down two days ago at the
café four streets away.

I thought of Richie. He was a good kid back then,
like an older brother. We spent a lot of time together just hanging
out. We walked to school together and he’d help me with my homework
when mom was working late. I let my mind drift into the past
thinking of all the good old days. Then I remember that one day,
that awful day. It was so crisp in my mind I could actually still
hear it in my head.

Richie was by my side when we found her body. She was
lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. And someone was
screaming. I tried to shake the image out of my head. I didn’t want
to remember. It wouldn’t change anything for Richie if I thought
about it. All I could do for him was find who murdered him.
Quickly, I shoved the memory back down. No, not today. I’m not
thinking about it today. That was thirty years ago.

I continued to search three hundred more channels of
absolutely nothing interesting when someone knocked on the front
door. Slowly, I limped to the door. A woman’s voice called from
beyond it.

“Kegger, you home?”

I’d recognize that sultry voice anywhere. It was
Lolita, the hooker who worked the corner two streets down. I ran my
fingers through my messy brown hair, trying to tame it, grateful it
was still there at forty.