CHAPTER 4:
“Heya, Felicity,” Ben called out, nodding toward my wife as he put himself through the excessive gyrations necessary to slip his bulk beneath a bright yellow strip of crime scene tape. “Sorry I had ta’ call ya’ out like this.”
“It’s no problem, then,” she returned.
Once he’d unfolded his frame, he continued walking toward us. “Jeez,” he continued. “We’ve never had anything like this happen before. I had ta’ make five calls just ta’ get the okay ta’ bring in a freelancer.”
“That bad, huh?” she queried as he came to a stop in front of us.
“Yeah. We’re so fuckin’ short-staffed it’s a wonder some asshole hasn’t stolen the entire city,” he grumbled. “And now this. Shit, if this whole scene wasn’t such a cluster, I’d just stick a camera in someone’s hands and have ‘em take snapshots. I’m really sorry I had ta’ call ya’ out on this.”
“Aye, Ben, it’s okay. Not a problem,” Felicity repeated.
He abandoned seriousness for a moment and allowed his face to spread into a slight grin. “Damn, I love it when ya’ do the accent.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Ben,” my wife quipped. “I don’t have an accent. You do.”
He chuckled and then leveled his gaze on me. “So, what the hell are YOU doin’ here, white man?”
“Nice to see you too,” I replied.
Homicide Detective Benjamin Storm stood six-foot-six, and a quick glance at him was enough to show he was no stranger to the weight room. He was casually dressed as usual, clad in a pair of faded denim jeans and a loose- fitting, charcoal grey, fisherman’s sweater. His gold shield was hanging around his neck on a thick cord, and his nine-millimeter Beretta was nestled beneath his left arm in a worn, leather shoulder rig.
Now that he was close enough for us to see his face, it was obvious that he’d probably been dragged out of his own slumber just as unceremoniously as had we. Still, even with his rumpled appearance, he made an altogether imposing figure. Of course, it probably didn’t help that at this particular moment the three of us were standing here in the oblique shadows of a motel parking lot watching our breath condense on the chilly breeze.
Harsh red and white splashes of brightness flickered across the scene from active light bars atop emergency vehicles, their on and off glare lending a patina of chaos to what would seem an otherwise somber night. The familiar background din of static and tinny voices prevailed from police radios, running the gamut of low range volumes.
Although Ben had recently begun to show a minor bit of greying, he still possessed a collar length helm of almost completely jet-black hair. That, his complexion, and his dark eyes combined with his rugged features to leave no doubt as to his full-blooded Native American heritage. If any doubt still existed, however, the nickname he had just tagged me with was a direct product of that history as well.
We’d been friends longer than I cared to remember, and the tongue-in-cheek banter had been a part of our dynamic almost from the word go. I would call him “Chief”, “Tonto”, or even “Injun”. He would counter with “Kemosabe”, “white man”, or “paleface”. He even went so far as to give Hollywoodesque Indian names to Felicity such as “Firehair” or “Red Squaw”.
We were both perfectly aware that people around us could be so caught up in runaway political correctness that they would visibly cringe when they heard us. Of course, if we happened to notice their discomfort, we would both be so amused that we would exaggerate the repartee for nothing more than our own entertainment.
However, at this very moment, the most important thing about the moniker was that it told that he wasn’t angered about me tagging along. He was merely giving me grief just for the sake of it. Considering his earlier tone, I hadn’t been sure what his reaction was going to be. His eventual reply to my non-answer simply perpetuated the chaff.
“Didn’t say it wasn’t nice ta’ see ya’,” he said. “I just don’t remember invitin’ you to our little rendezvous.”
“You woke me up,” I told him. “That’s invitation enough for me.”
My friend grunted then gave his head an exaggerated shake and parked his hands on his hips. Looking over at my wife with a flirtatious grin, he exclaimed, “Well damn, sweetheart! Guess we’re gonna have ta’ find a different place ta’ meet now.”
She quickly picked up on the joke and nodded. “Aye. I suppose you’re right, pookums.”
“Go ahead,” I offered with a shake of my head. “She’d just hurt you.”
“Yeah, you’re prob’ly right ‘bout that,” he agreed with a chuckle.
“So, you’re in an awfully good mood considering the circumstances,” I said. “You didn’t sound this chipper on the phone.”
“Prob’ly lack of sleep,” he replied, rubbing a large hand across his chin. “That, or just tryin’ ta’ stay sane, take your pick.”
“Knowing you? All of the above,” I returned.
“Uh-huh,” he grunted then added with a note of seriousness slipping into his voice, “Yeah, well, you got no idea, Row.”
“Is it really that bad in there?” Felicity asked.
My friend reflexively brought his hand back up to smooth his hair, something he always did when he was carefully mulling over a crucial thought. “If you’re talkin’ like real gory, yes and no,” he finally said. “It sure’s hell ain’t pretty, that’s a fact… Guess it depends on your stomach, but I know you’ve both seen worse.”
“So not very high on the gore-meter?” she returned.
“Oh, I dunno. ‘Bout a six or seven, I guess… But that’s not really what I’m talkin’ about. The bad is gonna happen soon as the TV people get here.”
“I’m surprised they aren’t already,” I observed.
“Yeah, me too,” he agreed then suddenly gave his head a quick jerk and exclaimed, “Jeezus, this is gonna be fucked up!”
I shrugged. “You mean the press? So what? That’s not unusual.”
“Yeah, I know, but I’m tellin’ ya’ this is worse. It’s gonna be capital F-U-C-K-E-D fucked with an underline this time.”
“Okay, I give. Why?”
He looked me square in the eyes and sighed. “Well, you’re gonna know soon enough anyway.”
“Okay, so now I’m getting curious,” Felicity announced. “What in the world has you so wrapped, then?”
“Jeezus…” he muttered then cast a glance quickly between us. “So look, we’re tryin’ ta’ keep a lid on this for as long as we can, so what I’m gonna tell ya’ doesn’t go any further, ‘kay?”
I nodded. “Yeah, okay.”
“Of course,” my wife answered.
He looked off into space for a second then back to us. “Either of you ever heard the name Hammond K. Wentworth?”
I nodded. “Sounds familiar. He’s a judge or something, isn’t he?”
“District court judge,” Felicity piped up. “Isn’t he the one who presided over the big racketeering case with that construction company earlier… Wait a minute, you’re not saying…”
“Yeah, I’m sayin’…” Ben affirmed as he nodded. “He’s the stiff yer gettin’ ready ta’ immortalize.”
“A federal judge?” my wife almost yelped the question.
“Yeah. That’s why we had ta’ have a decent photographer on the scene and not just have someone do the ‘point, snap, okay I got the picture’ thing.”
The magnitude of the victim’s identity struck home, and my brain immediately seized on the most obvious scenario. “So do you think this was some kind of a contract killing?” I asked. “Organized crime, all that?”
“Who the fuck knows?” he replied. “Maybe. Maybe not. We gotta figure all the angles, and we definitely ain’t rulin’ that one out.”
“But is that how it looks?” Felicity asked.
“Let’s put it this way: The back of his goddamn head and most of his brain is all over the wall, but… Well…”
