City of Woe Page 2

  Above the body to the right was a billboard featuring a smug Paris Hilton advertising some new fragrance. Another on the opposite wall announced a new CD from some rapper named Playa. A young, equally smug African-American stared out from that ad. Neither Paris nor Playa copped to having seen anything.

  Mallory tugged up the legs of his pants, crouching over the victim, then traced the whole body at a painstaking crawl. Flies buzzed around the corpse, other insects crawled across its cold skin. Someone, probably the killer, had poured a sweet substance over the body to attract bugs and vermin. Mallory grimaced, then admonished himself: detach.

  The back of the head had been bludgeoned. A broken leg lay at an odd angle, suggesting the vic most likely received the head trauma at the top of the stairs then fell. Blood covered the body. The sweet-smelling sticky liquid poured on the corpse was almost definitely bourbon, and had reduced the neck, arms and hips to a feast for flies, ants, roaches, and rats. The latter habitually fled when Crime Scene arrived, leaving only disgusting, telltale bite marks including almost the whole pinky on the left hand. But the bugs had stubbornly remained. They crawled across the vic’s faded black Ozzfest T-shirt, which featured a circular burn at the chest.

  Gunner nudged Mallory. “C’mon Mal, you said we were in and out. Let’s allow these fine detectives to work their own magic.”

  Mallory pulled plastic gloves from his jacket pocket, wrestled them onto his hands.

  “Mal, we need no part of this dead end. The Lieu called you — and me as your loyal partner — because he believes you make his headaches go away. But this one is gonna ruin your battin’ average.”

  “Good.” Mallory started checking pockets, swatting the bugs off in the process.

  Gunner threw up his hands. “Don’t start, Mal. We got plans, kid. There’s lasagna waiting — your in-law’s homemade, Heaven-on-Earth lasagna. And then I’m goin’ out to the Hamptons to nail this old high school crush of mine I saw at the reunion – Donna Marie Callabuffo. We can’t let someone else’s case keep me from that well-preserved piece of ass.”

  “Why take the time to pour liquor on this kid after he was already dead? Was someone trying to light this guy up or attract all these bugs?”

  “Who gives a flying fuck? He ain’t our catch. You hate when they call us in like this, the rest of the squad hates when we get called in like this. Think of everyone’s morale, buddy.”

  The weather was unseasonably warm for April. A distinctly warmer breeze came from the subway entrance. Hot, actually. A dry, thick gust blew out from the blackened grime of the tunnel, greasy and humid. The foul-smelling breeze gave brief life to something directly above the victim. Flapping back and forth in the filthy wind was a once-white concert T-shirt celebrating The Who’s current tour. It was now stained bloody red.

  “That took some effort,” Gunner murmured, “and some balls. Amazing no one saw him tying this thing to the top of the gate.”

  “You noticed the shirt, huh? Nice detective work. For a change.” A voice from behind. Nasal. Annoying. Familiar. “So, what’s the latest from the Twilight Zone?”

  Mallory gazed up at an impossibly thin detective smirking under a thick mustache. He murmured to Gunner, “That’s one.”

  Detective Edward “Tizzie” Dunn was another member of the Manhattan South Major Case Squad. Due to his penchant for arguing vehemently in an increasingly shrill voice, some sergeant from long ago had warned Dunn not to “fly into a tizzie” and it stuck. “Lieutenant Dan called in his best boy, huh? Well, all I can say is thanks. I’m glad I’m not stuck with this loser. It’s better suited to your, ahhh, talents.”

  Mallory’s mouth tightened into a frown. Gunner barely heard him say, “Two.”

  “You gonna close this with one of your creep show theories again, Mallory? Was it another goat sacrificer?”

  Gunner smiled, raised three fingers, then patted Mallory’s clenching fist. “I got this,” he said. Then he raised up his bulk to full height, and looked down on the scrawny, obnoxious sneer of a man. “Detective Dunn, thank your sister for last night. Best anal I’ve had since your mother moved to Florida. Not quite as good at giving head as your Dad though, is she? Maybe your baby brother can give her some pointers. He’s especially dedicated to knob polishing, I hear. Almost as good as you are.”

  Dunn spat out consonants, saliva spewing from his lips. “You c-c-can’t—”

  Mallory cut him off. “If we’re done playing the dozens, maybe we can play detective now? Why don’t you start by filling us in?”

  “You — he can’t talk to me like that!”

  “I can. I did. You lost,” Gunner said.

  Mallory edged past Gunner, stepping uncomfortably close to Tizzie. “Embrace the life lesson, Tizzie.”

  Dunn’s lips twitched. “Somebody needs to teach your partner—”

  Mallory and Gunner turned as one, walked up the stairs. Mallory made sure he spoke loud enough for the other detectives and the brass to hear. “Detective Dunn, of course we will respect your desire to keep investigating this case alone—”

  Tizzie’s voice became shriller than usual. “I welcome your assistance, detectives. Here’s what we know—”

  The partners listened.

  “We believe the victim, identified from his driver’s license as William Hill of Brooklyn, received a fatal head trauma from behind, fell down the stairs during which he received several other injuries. Torso was then burned, and subsequently soaked with liquor, probably post-mortem. Other wounds include numerous vermin bites to neck, and arms.”

  Mallory nodded. “What’s the story with the T-shirt flag?”

  The annoying detective glanced at it, then back at Mallory. “That’s one of the reasons the Lieu called you. Yeah, I know I’ve got to sign off on this case because I’m technically the primary, but this one’s made for you.”

  Gunner glanced from the flapping T-shirt to the body then to Tizzie. “He go to the show?”

  “How did you know—?”

  Mallory pointed up, Gunner answered. “The Who played the Garden last night. He was there, right?”

  Tizzie laughed. The sound was harsh, like glass breaking close to the ear. “Who told you? The stiff? A voice from beyond?”

  Mallory sighed. “Stick to the facts or we’re out.”

  Gunner picked an evidence bag off the stairwell ledge which held a complete ticket.

  Tizzie shrugged. “Ticket’s whole. So he didn’t make it. Detective work, baby.”

  “You gotta get out more often, Tizz. They don’t rip tickets at the Garden anymore, they scan’em.” Gunner held up the ticket, pointed to a bar code. “More efficient. And fans get a collectible. I have a box full of ripped-in-half tickets at home from the good old days. Zeppelin. Dylan. The Who. If they were whole, I’d probably frame’em.”

  Mallory smiled at his partner. “What, you too old to go to shows these days?”

  “I saw Led Zeppelin for eight bucks. Now concerts cost over a hundred. Forget that.”

  Tizzie waved the discussion away. “Look, whatever with the ticket.” He turned to Mallory, conciliatory. “We all know the Lieu thinks you’re Babe Ruth on these cases, but, sorry pal, this is a dead end.”

  Mallory shrugged. “Nothing I can do about it. Lieu said the call came from the commissioner’s office.”

  Tizzie nodded, smirking. “Mayor stuck his head up his ass bragging about how safe the subways are, then this hits the fan? I hear he went nuts. Wants an arrest immediately. I’m sorry, man, it was out of my hands before I knew it.”

  Mallory shrugged again.

  “You got everything you need to work your weird mojo?”

  Mallory bristled. “I don’t work mojo, I work cases. To do that on this one, I need to confirm this kid’s name, home address. Who knows if the license is legit? And I need the names of any friends with whom he might have gone to the show.”

  “‘With whom.’ You crack me up.”

  Mallory and Gunner sta
red at Tizzie until he cleared his throat, started up the stairs. “On it. I got no problem handling that end of the investigation. I just don’t want any part of the weird bullshit. That’s all you.”

  Mallory looked around. Seemed like a run of the mill murder to him. He, then Gunner, followed Tizzie up the steps, to the street. “What are you talking about? You’re freaked out by the T-shirt?”

  Tizzie smiled, held up another evidence bag filled with index cards. “Nah, this is what shoves this case officially onto your turf.” He handed the bag to Mallory. “From what we could tell reading them where they were laying, observations, bits of an account of what happened.”

  Gunner was unimpressed. “From?”

  Tizzie theatrically washed his hands. “They seem to be from the killer, narrating the victim’s last moments, up to and including his death. Except at that point, um, the cards actually have the vic telling the story. Then it goes, um, a little beyond.”

  Mallory lowered his eyes to the index cards.

  “Don’t,” Gunner said.

  Mallory opened the evidence bag anyway.

  THREE

  We gather in the dark once more, beckoning the gods of noise and love and power to help us all ascend again. Above me, below me, to either side. And the stage is an altar to that which makes us all feel so alive. Each plays his part. How will we serve?

  Gunner nodded. “This guy — what is the technical word — sucks. What do you think of the handwriting?”

  “Intense. He’s in a hurry to get his thoughts down.”

  Those who channeled our anger, fear, lust, desire at so crucial a time, they will lead our prayers again soon. Half have been sacrificed along the way. Chaos died long ago. Thunder is far more distant now. But the Heart, the Voice, their power still pulses, still nourishes.

  And I am part of them all.

  “Egomania rocks,” Gunner said.

  “He’s swept up in the moment. We’ve all been there.”

  “You see? That’s exactly the kind of alternative thinking that gets us our rep with the squad.”

  “You cried last time we saw Dylan.”

  “You promised never to bring that up.”

  I am the rough edge of the Voice. The righteous anger of the raging Heart. I feel the movements of the faceless dancers. Sense the volume coming from within the screamers. The power is communal, undulating between us like the friction of lovemaking. We embrace it, surrender to it, join together with the band…

  …And become gods.

  Gunner looked at his partner. “Is this guy stalking The Who?”

  “I don’t think so. He wants to give himself to the moment, like when everybody sings along… except this guy’s taking notes about it.”

  “Oo-kay.”

  “You’ve never seen someone writing down a song list at a show? This guy just took it a little further. I’ve gotten ridiculously carried away at concerts too, screaming my voice raw.”

  “They scream at Barry Manilow shows?”

  “Keep reading, jackass.”

  I am who they’ve written about all these years, who they sing about, preach about, uphold as worth knowing: the helpless dancer, the punk, the godfather, the New Boss.

  Every soul-stirring line is embraced again, like old lovers, passion thrusting us together, intertwining past and present, love lost and regained, building, building, ever-building to sweet release.

  It is accomplished.

  Gunner squinted frowning tightly. “Who-lyric references, orgasm references, then a classic Jesus-complex crucifixion reference. Should we make reservations at Bellevue now?”

  Mallory shook his head. “In and of itself, there is nothing criminal or psychotic in these descriptions and no clear link to the murder.”

  “Except for the fact that they were found on and around the victim’s sticky, bitten up corpse,” Gunner said.

  “Minor detail at this point. They could have been planted to throw us off. Could be the vic’s. We don’t know.”

  “So, what do we know?”

  “Not much.”

  Suddenly, the vile thing flies out from the masses. End over end it tumbles, time slowing as it targets the Voice. No mystical dagger here, no Sword of Damocles. To the shame of us all, mortal vanity shatters Eden.

  Gunner scrunched up his face. “To quote Freud: ‘Huh?’”

  “That was Freud?”

  “Definitely. Widen your horizons, man.”

  “This sounds like the event that triggered him. Can you make out what happened?”

  Gunner, sighing, took and reread the card. “I dunno, but something blew his high. Maybe the vic here stood up on his chair, blocked this guy’s view,” Gunner flipped to the next card; the handwriting was significantly more cramped, the writing much smaller.

  “Whoops,” he muttered. “Here we go.”

  I spy him sneaking away. He is a pre-level opportunist, nothing more. Hide in plain sight will he? Leave his seat as if to pursue the guilty? Clever soul. Clever.

  I can be clever too. I can be whatever’s needed. A dybbuk, perhaps. Or a gilgul.

  Mallory exhaled. “Dybbuk? Gilgul?”

  “Transmigrating demons.”

  “English, Gunner.”

  “They jump into people, according to Jewish tradition.”

  “You’re Jewish now?”

  “Hey, I’m single, fat, and sloppy. Makes for a lot of reading time.”

  “What, the Torah? Studying ancient tomes now?”

  “Time Life Books. Mysteries of the Unknown, baby.”

  “Ah. Then we’re talking purely facts.”

  “I go out drinking, you have a problem; I stay home and read, you have a problem,” Gunner snapped.

  “It’s time you found someone for more than a quickie.”

  “Can we talk about this later, Mom?”

  Fuck this, I’m outta here. Shit, who the fuck does he think he is, threatening me? I’ll beat that old Limey bastard, I don’t care how diesel he is. I improved the show anyway. When was the last time the old fuck got that passionate about anything? Shit, I made something happen, became part of the show. Fuck’em they can’t take a joke.

  He sings that he’s free? Fuck that, I’M free. I’M FREE. I can do it all. Look at security, not even daring to meet my eyes. Fucking losers.

  This fucking corpse of a station monitor, she’s already sitting in her coffin. I pity them all. They’re pathetic. Old. Dead.

  Me? I’m alive, motherfucker, ALIVE!

  Look at this old man, approaching me. Probably gonna offer me 20 bucks to let him blow me. Anything to feel part of my power.

  Motherfucker is following me. Following ME? I’ll take the old bastard to the stairs and toss the prick down onto the tracks. Fuck you, complementing my T-shirt. So ancient you probably blew Elvis. You don’t know me—

  What the fuck? Motherfucker is steaming! Smoke coming outta his fucking collar! Get the fuck outta here! Get the—

  —SHIT!—

  —He’s—

  —I’m bur—

  It is accomplished.

  Mallory looked from the cards to a stunned Gunner then back to the cards.

  He ran, naturally.

  Fuck yeah I ran—

  And he struggles still.

  Get the fuck outta my head, you weird old fuck!

  But he’s paid the price for listening to the darker voice. This is neither the beginning nor the end. This is The Way.

  Everyone pays.

  Everyone pays.

  They read the cards twice more before Mallory slipped them back into the evidence bag, sealed it. He looked up, meeting Gunner’s angry stare.

  “What, we’re supposed to buy all that?” Gunner growled. “We’re supposed to believe this kid wrote…?”

  “Whoever wrote this wants us to believe the kid wrote his part, yes.”

  “But, Mal, you don’t—”

  “It’s pretty difficult to write while you’re being murdered. Also, the burn marks d
idn’t seem fatal to me. I thought it might’ve been done with a lighter, or even a cigarette. And this says nothing about his getting bludgeoned.”

  Gunner took the bag, held it up to eye level. “So what’re we looking at here?”

  “A greeting.”

  “From who?”

  Mallory shrugged. “Not sure. What do we know? He’s a rock fan.”

  “Aging rock fan.”

  Mallory smiled at his partner. “Why do you say that?”

  Gunner nodded with his head at the cards. “His references.”

  “Can’t a kid know The Who? Q104 plays them all the time.”

  Gunner took out the cards again, flipped through them until he found what he was looking for. “It’s the choices. Kids hear what, maybe three Who songs on the radio these days? ‘Baba O’Riley.’ ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again.’ Maybe ‘Pinball Wizard.’ Would a kid know ‘I’m Free’ well enough to reference it? Or ‘Join Together’? ‘Punk Meets the Godfather’? From the radio, a kid wouldn’t know those songs well enough to casually acknowledge them like that.”

  “How about a kid who listens to his parents’ record collection?”

  “Enough to quote from all those songs? I’m not buying it. This guy’s somewhere in his late 40s, maybe 50s.”

  “And what, he’s killing young rock fans?”

  “Don’t know. But I do know where we need to go next.” Gunner’s eyes gleamed. “We gotta go where this crime started. We gotta get to the Garden.”

  Tizzie came up, cut off their exit, whispering melodramatically. “Not yet, guys.”

  Gunner frowned. “Now you want to mess with us?”

  “Note-boy might still be in the area.”

  Gunner eyed his partner. “Maybe we don’t gotta get to the Garden.”

  Mallory stayed on Tizzie. “Where?”

  “Don’t fuck this up by swinging your heads around to look, but a waitress just called in a report of a suspicious creep who’s been watching us from the diner window all morning.”

  Gunner stared at the ground. “We gotta surround the place.”

  “Detectives, uniforms, and squad cars are already moving. We got the area shut down.”

  Mallory smiled for the first time all morning. “Told you I wasn’t needed.”