No particular question. Hoping to use on Thursday.
Covering the floor was disturbing streaks of crimson, the wall painted a shiny hue. The room was encased in blood.
The detective walked through the gruesome murder scene, taking particular care not to touch any of the evidence labelled with the little yellow cones. The brutality that caused such mayhem would make another heave. But not her. She was made of sterner stuff.
No one had seen anything. But then again, no one ever did. The victim was identified as one Mike Adams, a tenant in the building. Single, paid his bills on time…. Nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. But, when was there? The routine back up check would tell.
He (or what was left of him) was found by the landlady, who had heard complaints of the “ungodly odours,” seeping from under his door, placing his time of death prior to 9.30 am. Provided she wasn’t lying. Which everyone does…
The woman was a right mess; huddled in the corner, shrouded in a blanket with a mug of something steamy, she was in psychogenic shock, traumatised by the grisly scene before them. The detective turned her back on her. The woman was useless. Or the murderer.
Dealing in absolutes helped her think, helped her to rationalise the conflict of crime and chaos that would have otherwise driven her insane. She plucked a cigarette from her purse and promptly lit it in anticipation, ignoring the on looking disapproval of her peers.
There was something unsettling about this crime. It was too… unnecessary. Too extravagant. Mere anger, mere hate, was not the cause of the destructive violence that unravelled before her. There was no reason for covering the room with gore and disgust. Unless they wanted to hide something….
“Get all this blood back to the labs, immediately,” she demanded of nobody in particular. It was the first thing she had spoken since entering the building. Her fellow police officers looked on in confusion, as they went about their clean up. Why would their colleague would order the removal of so much evidence? She had a hunch though. And they knew better than to question her theories. Regardless of their validity. That was above their pay grade. And their concerns for personal safety.
Her phone began to ring, a professional buzzing which suited the undisturbed silence of the crime scene. She quickly withdrew another cigarette from her pocket and answered.
“Yes?” she answered brusquely, grinding the cigarette into her teeth. It was the boys from the lab.
“Yeah, we ran through the vic’s financials and phone records like you asked – over the past week he had been in contact with one Nicholas Moretti.”
She had a sharp intake of breath. Nicholas Moretti was one of the city’s most notorious criminals. An Italian mobster, he ran the drug trade, money laundering, human trafficking… everything illicit, ran through this man. Their station’s PD had been trying to arrest him for months, but the only thing they could charge him with were a couple of unpaid parking tickets. Perhaps this would be the case that would finally put him behind bars. But if Adams had been involved with this guy, he had been in deep with something bad. And had paid with his life.
Moretti could be found on the Lower East Side, an anachronism amongst the sprawling shambles of community housing and carparks. “Stingy,” her corporal had declared. It was quiet, driving in; few vehicles on the road, and fewer pedestrians on the street, and those that were seen she conjectured to be on Moretti’s payroll, judging from the bulges under their long coat – an odd sense of dress in the hot summer’s day – and how they eyeballed the flagrant design of the police charger as it rolled down the streets.
“Moretti’s House is just ahead,” her corporal informed her, navigating from the passenger’s seat. He may have said “House” but fortress was a more apt description. 4 metre high concrete walls guarded the colossal building, adorned with coils of barbarous wire. Two huge iron bund gates stared down imposingly, swinging open of their own accord as they drove through. The house (if she could still call it that) was constructed primarily out of concrete and steel, a formidable obstacle in their quest for justice. Security cameras dotted every surface, and she felt an overwhelming urge to run and hide. But she was an officer of the law, and she resisted,
The front door opened and she was met by a welcome party of two short men dressed in 3 piece suits, slicked back hair and cigars. Nicholas Moretti, she thought to herself, seething.
“Well, detective Taylor. What a pleasant surprise. Can I help you with anything on this fine, summer’s day?” he asked with elaborated innocence.
The nerve of this guy! He knows why I’m here. He murdered that guy. I’m sure of it.
“Are you acquainted with a Mr Mike Adams?” She asked, supressing her annoyance.
“Mike?” Moretti mentioned something to the second man in a language she didn’t understand. He nodded hesitantly.
“Yes, Mike Adams. Did you know him?” She was quickly losing patience.
“Yes, I knew Mike. We went to school together. He was like an uncle to Dom here growing up,” he said, nodding at his son for emphasis.
She and the corporal shared a look.
“And have you been in contact with him recently?”
“No, haven’t seen him in years. What’s going on?”
“He was murdered this morning.” The detective said bluntly.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied without emotion.
“Mr Moretti, if you had not been in contact with Mr Adams in months, why then do I have phone records of you messaging him in the hours leading up to his death?”
Up to now, Moretti had appeared disinterested at the proceedings. But upon her accusation, he changed dramatically, an intense rage in his features.
“Listen here officer,” he said with an Italian idiom. “You threaten me or my family, and I’ll be coming for you,”
“Nick Moretti, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you…”
*******************************************
It was a week since her “big bust,” and she was at home, nursing over a third cup of coffee, a cigarette smoldering on an ashtray before her. Her captain had granted her this service leave in recognition of her arrest, “whether you want it or not.” But something wasn’t right. Why did Moretti start colluding with Adams, a man he had’nt heard from in years? In fact, if they were such good friends, why did they just cease contact to begin with? The facts didn’t add up, she mused over her coffee.
Then, the phone rang, its piercing sound almost knocking her off her chair. She quickly snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Detective Taylor? We got the results back from that lab test you ordered.”
Shit! She had completely forgotten about the blood test. “Yes, what were the results?”
“Well, most of the blood belonged to the vic, but we found a small trace of DNA that belonged to another guy, Dominic Moretti.”
She was stunned. “Thank you.” She hung up the phone.
******************************************
For the second time that day she pulled up the Police Charger outside the Moretti family home that looked more like a fortress than a house. She tapped noisily on the door, Dom Toretti appearing minutes later.
“Ah, detective, what can I do for you? Did your guys miss anything on your visit earlier?”
“I know Dom,” she answered solemnly. “I know everything.”
“Know everything? What are you talking about…” His voice trailed away at the look in her eyes. He clenched his fists, an odd look entering his eyes.
“You don’t understand,” he began in a sombre, almost respectful tone. “You don’t understand,” he repeated, finally meeting his gaze. “You don’t understand what they’ve done. Yeah, he was an uncle to me, a best friend to dad. And mom...
“So Dad killed her.” He withdrew a 44 magnum, the same gun identified in the temple, pointing it her head in a flourish. She met the weapon unflinching and began slowly reaching for the Ruger LCR concealed in her breast pocket. “He killed her,” he continued, “and I was left with a dead Mother, an estranged uncle who had torn my life apart, and a father who had ruined my life. And now? Now I have a dead uncle, an imprisoned father, and a mother I am soon to join.” He withdrew a 44 magnum revolver, the same gun identified at the apartment, and raised it to his temple.
She turned her back on the scene, like she had never been there. And for all intents and purposes of the law, she thought, withdrawing enough cigarette, she hadn’t.
Covering the floor was disturbing streaks of crimson, the wall painted a shiny hue. The room was encased in blood.
The detective walked through the gruesome murder scene, taking particular care not to touch any of the evidence labelled with the little yellow cones. The brutality that caused such mayhem would make another heave. But not her. She was made of sterner stuff.
No one had seen anything. But then again, no one ever did. The victim was identified as one Mike Adams, a tenant in the building. Single, paid his bills on time…. Nothing suspicious or out of the ordinary. But, when was there? The routine back up check would tell.
He (or what was left of him) was found by the landlady, who had heard complaints of the “ungodly odours,” seeping from under his door, placing his time of death prior to 9.30 am. Provided she wasn’t lying. Which everyone does…
The woman was a right mess; huddled in the corner, shrouded in a blanket with a mug of something steamy, she was in psychogenic shock, traumatised by the grisly scene before them. The detective turned her back on her. The woman was useless. Or the murderer.
Dealing in absolutes helped her think, helped her to rationalise the conflict of crime and chaos that would have otherwise driven her insane. She plucked a cigarette from her purse and promptly lit it in anticipation, ignoring the on looking disapproval of her peers.
There was something unsettling about this crime. It was too… unnecessary. Too extravagant. Mere anger, mere hate, was not the cause of the destructive violence that unravelled before her. There was no reason for covering the room with gore and disgust. Unless they wanted to hide something….
“Get all this blood back to the labs, immediately,” she demanded of nobody in particular. It was the first thing she had spoken since entering the building. Her fellow police officers looked on in confusion, as they went about their clean up. Why would their colleague would order the removal of so much evidence? She had a hunch though. And they knew better than to question her theories. Regardless of their validity. That was above their pay grade. And their concerns for personal safety.
Her phone began to ring, a professional buzzing which suited the undisturbed silence of the crime scene. She quickly withdrew another cigarette from her pocket and answered.
“Yes?” she answered brusquely, grinding the cigarette into her teeth. It was the boys from the lab.
“Yeah, we ran through the vic’s financials and phone records like you asked – over the past week he had been in contact with one Nicholas Moretti.”
She had a sharp intake of breath. Nicholas Moretti was one of the city’s most notorious criminals. An Italian mobster, he ran the drug trade, money laundering, human trafficking… everything illicit, ran through this man. Their station’s PD had been trying to arrest him for months, but the only thing they could charge him with were a couple of unpaid parking tickets. Perhaps this would be the case that would finally put him behind bars. But if Adams had been involved with this guy, he had been in deep with something bad. And had paid with his life.
Moretti could be found on the Lower East Side, an anachronism amongst the sprawling shambles of community housing and carparks. “Stingy,” her corporal had declared. It was quiet, driving in; few vehicles on the road, and fewer pedestrians on the street, and those that were seen she conjectured to be on Moretti’s payroll, judging from the bulges under their long coat – an odd sense of dress in the hot summer’s day – and how they eyeballed the flagrant design of the police charger as it rolled down the streets.
“Moretti’s House is just ahead,” her corporal informed her, navigating from the passenger’s seat. He may have said “House” but fortress was a more apt description. 4 metre high concrete walls guarded the colossal building, adorned with coils of barbarous wire. Two huge iron bund gates stared down imposingly, swinging open of their own accord as they drove through. The house (if she could still call it that) was constructed primarily out of concrete and steel, a formidable obstacle in their quest for justice. Security cameras dotted every surface, and she felt an overwhelming urge to run and hide. But she was an officer of the law, and she resisted,
The front door opened and she was met by a welcome party of two short men dressed in 3 piece suits, slicked back hair and cigars. Nicholas Moretti, she thought to herself, seething.
“Well, detective Taylor. What a pleasant surprise. Can I help you with anything on this fine, summer’s day?” he asked with elaborated innocence.
The nerve of this guy! He knows why I’m here. He murdered that guy. I’m sure of it.
“Are you acquainted with a Mr Mike Adams?” She asked, supressing her annoyance.
“Mike?” Moretti mentioned something to the second man in a language she didn’t understand. He nodded hesitantly.
“Yes, Mike Adams. Did you know him?” She was quickly losing patience.
“Yes, I knew Mike. We went to school together. He was like an uncle to Dom here growing up,” he said, nodding at his son for emphasis.
She and the corporal shared a look.
“And have you been in contact with him recently?”
“No, haven’t seen him in years. What’s going on?”
“He was murdered this morning.” The detective said bluntly.
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied without emotion.
“Mr Moretti, if you had not been in contact with Mr Adams in months, why then do I have phone records of you messaging him in the hours leading up to his death?”
Up to now, Moretti had appeared disinterested at the proceedings. But upon her accusation, he changed dramatically, an intense rage in his features.
“Listen here officer,” he said with an Italian idiom. “You threaten me or my family, and I’ll be coming for you,”
“Nick Moretti, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you…”
*******************************************
It was a week since her “big bust,” and she was at home, nursing over a third cup of coffee, a cigarette smoldering on an ashtray before her. Her captain had granted her this service leave in recognition of her arrest, “whether you want it or not.” But something wasn’t right. Why did Moretti start colluding with Adams, a man he had’nt heard from in years? In fact, if they were such good friends, why did they just cease contact to begin with? The facts didn’t add up, she mused over her coffee.
Then, the phone rang, its piercing sound almost knocking her off her chair. She quickly snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Detective Taylor? We got the results back from that lab test you ordered.”
Shit! She had completely forgotten about the blood test. “Yes, what were the results?”
“Well, most of the blood belonged to the vic, but we found a small trace of DNA that belonged to another guy, Dominic Moretti.”
She was stunned. “Thank you.” She hung up the phone.
******************************************
For the second time that day she pulled up the Police Charger outside the Moretti family home that looked more like a fortress than a house. She tapped noisily on the door, Dom Toretti appearing minutes later.
“Ah, detective, what can I do for you? Did your guys miss anything on your visit earlier?”
“I know Dom,” she answered solemnly. “I know everything.”
“Know everything? What are you talking about…” His voice trailed away at the look in her eyes. He clenched his fists, an odd look entering his eyes.
“You don’t understand,” he began in a sombre, almost respectful tone. “You don’t understand,” he repeated, finally meeting his gaze. “You don’t understand what they’ve done. Yeah, he was an uncle to me, a best friend to dad. And mom...
“So Dad killed her.” He withdrew a 44 magnum, the same gun identified in the temple, pointing it her head in a flourish. She met the weapon unflinching and began slowly reaching for the Ruger LCR concealed in her breast pocket. “He killed her,” he continued, “and I was left with a dead Mother, an estranged uncle who had torn my life apart, and a father who had ruined my life. And now? Now I have a dead uncle, an imprisoned father, and a mother I am soon to join.” He withdrew a 44 magnum revolver, the same gun identified at the apartment, and raised it to his temple.
She turned her back on the scene, like she had never been there. And for all intents and purposes of the law, she thought, withdrawing enough cigarette, she hadn’t.
