Deadhead, page 7
The Undertaker stood before him. Two other men were at the thin man’s side. To his left was a scrawny, bookish, fifteen year old boy. His clothing was similar to that of his boss, simple, colourless and practical. This was Dek Garland, the Undertaker’s personal assistant. The boy had run away from home several years earlier and had been living rough on the streets when the Undertaker found him. The crime boss had taken him in, fed him, clothed him and given him a job. Not for altruistic reasons but because he needed someone to help him with the day to day running of his business and the kid was good with numbers.
The man to the Undertaker’s right was Gerard Toiless, one of his top enforcers. Gerard wasn’t a big man but he was lean and strong. He made up for his lack of size by possessing a ruthless streak. Originally trained by the army, Gerard had been thrown out when his sadistic side raised its ugly head too many times. He was a man who thoroughly enjoyed what others would have considered unpleasant work, so his skill-set perfectly complimented his current job.
The Undertaker linked his skeletal fingers together and rested them on his chest. He walked slowly around his tethered prisoner forcing the man to contort his body in an effort to keep track of his movements. When the Undertaker returned to his starting position he unhooked his fingers and slowly shook his head.
“I’m very disappointed in you Leon,” he said sadly. “You were in a position of great trust and you let me down.”
The man referred to as Leon strained against his bonds causing the chains to clank, like a metal gate rattling in a high wind. He tried to speak but his voice was unintelligible under the tape.
The Undertaker held up his hand for silence.
“I’m sure you have a very good reason for skimming money from me.” The Undertaker moved closer to his prisoner until their heads were almost touching. “Gambling debts crept up on you I guess. Still, your inability to pick winners is not really my problem is it?” The thin man stepped back. “I suppose you thought I wouldn’t notice the dip in sales or put it down to an economic downturn. Well, the bad news is I notice everything.” The Undertaker’s cold black eyes bore into his prisoner. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a flat silver scalpel, its razor-sharp blade as thin as a serpent’s hiss. Leon’s eyes widened with fear.
The Undertaker turned the implement over in his hand.
“I found drawers full of these when we took over the hospital. Most useful.”
He spoke to Gerard without looking at him. “How much did he take?”
“Two thousand dollars,” replied Toiless.
The Undertaker handed the scalpel to his enforcer. “Not much really is it?” He paused, then spoke clearly, so everyone could hear. “Cut him once for every dollar he took.”
Even the gaffer tape couldn’t mask the scream of pure terror that came from deep in Leon’s chest. He thrashed against the chains in a futile effort to escape. The Undertaker stepped forward once more and laid a hand on the panicking man’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said calmly. “You’ll only make it worse.”
The Undertaker stepped away from the prisoner and leant close to Gerard, speaking so only he could hear. “Is he likely to survive?”
The torturer raised his eyebrows. “Two thousand cuts. Probably not.”
“That’s a shame,” sighed the thin man. “I don’t really want him dead, he’s a good earner.” He thought for a moment then continued in a hushed voice. “Keep the cuts small and see if you can keep him alive. Think of it as a challenge. It’ll keep you from getting bored.”
“That’s very considerate of you, boss.”
The Undertaker searched Gerard’s face for signs of sarcasm. The man’s expression gave nothing away. The thin man gave him the benefit of the doubt.
“Wait until I’m out of the room to begin.” He nodded towards Dek, who was looking paler than normal. “My assistant is a little squeamish.”
Gerard gave a cruel snort. “He’s in the wrong job then.”
“He’ll either harden up or I’ll have to reconsider his employment,” said the Undertaker in a matter-of-fact tone. “Either way the situation will resolve itself.”
The Undertaker left the room without a backwards glance, Dek trailing behind him like a puppy following its master.
• • •
Dek was scared of his boss. Who wouldn’t be? The guy was terrifying. He looked and smelled like a corpse and was clearly a psychopath. He didn’t have a real name, or if he did, Dek had never heard it. He was only ever referred to as ‘the Undertaker’ and the title fitted him like a glove. He didn’t know how the Undertaker had come to look and act as he did. There were rumours. The most frequent being that he’d been sentenced to death for murder and given a lethal injection. Something had gone wrong and the poison had strengthened him instead of killing him. It had also stayed in his system and warped his brain.
Despite all of this Dek felt he owed the man something. After all, he had taken him off the streets. Dek knew he wouldn’t have survived for long by himself. He was physically weak, mainly through malnutrition and he wasn’t a good fighter.
He was smart though. He hadn’t lasted long at school but while there he had achieved good grades. He found learning easy, maths in particular. The numbers spoke to him, falling into place in his brain as simple as breathing. He hadn’t wanted to leave school but his options were exhausted when things became intolerable at home.
His father had died young, not through natural causes, unless you counted drinking yourself into a stupor and driving into a bridge as natural.
Dek was the youngest of four children whom his mother (also a drinker) had given up caring for long before the accident. His three siblings left as soon as they could. They were spread throughout the country with lives of their own. All of them were older than Dek and saw him as a burden cast upon them by their alcoholic parents. The sister closest to his age left him a number to phone should he ever need help. He called after finding his mother passed out drunk on the couch at three in the afternoon. A smouldering cigarette dangled from her mouth and a rat was rooting through food scraps in the kitchen. The number was disconnected.
Dek realised he’d have to solve the problem himself. He didn’t fear the potential fire or the probability of disease; it was the black depressive rages that overtook his mother when she sobered up that truly scared him. He believed she would kill him one day, so he left.
Life on the streets was only a marginal improvement. He was fed and housed by homeless shelters but that was temporary and he wanted to do more than eke out a day to day existence. He used his skill with numbers to count cards in gambling pits and while he didn’t have the means to play himself, he began earning money by letting carefully selected players know when to hold em and when to fold em. One of his clients worked for the Undertaker and told his boss about Dek’s talent for mathematics. The thin man sent for him and offered to house and protect him in exchange for his loyalty and skill with accounts. Which is how Dek ended up where he was now, living in an abandoned hospital, serving tea to a homicidal maniac.
They were in the Undertaker’s office, which, fittingly, was located next to the hospital mortuary. The side wall of the office had been replaced with a full length glass window. This allowed Dek’s boss to look into the morgue. He said being so close to death calmed him down.
Dek didn’t have his own office; he worked at a desk set up inside the mortuary itself. His view was of four stainless steel examination tables that sat bolted to the floor in the middle of the room. The rear wall was made up of deep refrigerated units with removable shelves and solid lockable doors. Dek only ever opened the fridge at the end on the far right. That one was filled with beer. He didn’t want to know what was behind the other doors.
A line of sinks sat against the left hand wall in the room and drawers full of surgical equipment were tucked into the corners. It was a cold and miserable place to work but it was better than living in the gutter.
Dek knew the mortuary was often used for its original purpose though thankfully not while he was working. Those deeds happened in the dead of night when he was safely tucked up in his bed in the Hospital’s east wing.
Dek placed the cup of herbal tea (lemon zinger) on his boss’s desk and awaited further instructions. The Undertaker was studying a plan of something that looked suspiciously like a ballistic missile. He didn’t look up.
“If I asked you to do what Gerard is doing, would you?” he said, his tone neutral.
Dek swallowed hard. He knew better than to lie to his boss. “I… I’d try,” he stammered. “But I don’t think torturing people is my strength.”
The Undertaker looked up from the plans, his eyes boring into the boy. He looked back down again without saying a word. Dek had no idea if his answer had pleased or irritated his boss. When the thin man said nothing more he assumed he was dismissed and turned to return to his desk. Before he could move the door at the opposite end of the mortuary flew open. A fraught man of medium build ran towards the office and came straight through the door. Dek recognised the man but couldn’t quite remember his name, Jeff, or something like that, it didn’t really matter. The Undertaker had minions everywhere. The man pushed past him and spoke to the Undertaker directly.
“Boss, we got a problem.”
The Undertaker raised his eyes waiting for his associate to continue. Dek wasn’t sure if he should leave the room or not. He decided to do nothing until he received instructions from his boss. He took a half step backwards and made himself as inconspicuous as possible. The man continued.
“Two of the Death’s Disciples boys have been grabbed by the cops.”
The Undertaker was unmoved. “Why does this concern me?”
“It’s Lerns and Penk,” continued the man, “They were taken from the boat shed.”
Dek watched the Undertaker carefully. He noticed a glimmer of something between irritation and anger flick across the man’s eyes.
When he spoke again the Undertaker’s voice had tightened. “Where are they? Who has them?”
“They are at the central station. Some woman bought them in. She’s not one of ours.” The man shuffled nervously, transferring his weight from toe to toe.
The Undertaker rolled his neck, the cartilage clicking and grinding like rocks in a cement mixer. He lifted a portable phone handset from its cradle and pointed it at the ponytailed man. “You know what happens if I use this, don’t you?”
The man swallowed hard and nodded his head. The Undertaker shifted his gaze to Dek. “Tell him,” he said softly to the new man.
The Undertaker’s associate looked at Dek, as if noticing him for the first time. He hesitated.
“Tell him,” repeated the Undertaker, his voice a low hiss.
“The boss has a rule. Every time he has to ask his friends in the police for a favour, someone dies.”
Dek was shocked. “What? Who dies?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard properly.
“The boss chooses,’ muttered the Undertaker’s crony, as bleakly as if he had already been condemned. “It could be anyone inside the organisation or outside. A family member, a friend, the guy who delivers the beer. No-one’s exempt.”
Dek’s voice was a whisper now. “When?”
“Anytime within the next few days.”
Dek turned from the other man and spoke directly to his boss. “Why?”
“It encourages my workforce to solve problems without relying on me. Plus I find it distasteful to deal with the law so I like to share the pain.” The Undertaker was looking straight at Dek now. “Remember, it could be anyone, at any time,” he said slowly, almost pointedly.
The thin man switched on the phone. Dek could hear the low buzz of the dial tone. “If it’s any consolation,” the Undertaker added before dialling, “they die quickly.”
Dek wished, not for the last time, that he had stayed on the streets.
• • •
Cadence sat patiently on her side of the interview table in the interrogation room. Lerns and Penk sat opposite her and, if looks could kill, she’d have been dead half an hour ago. So far, they had said nothing of use. There had been the usual barrage of threats and insults but nothing Cadence hadn’t heard before. In fact she had been surprised by their lack of originality and said as much. This inspired some more colourful language but again, nothing of any substance. Cadence didn’t mind. She had plenty of time.
She pushed back in her chair and looked around the room. Not that she needed to, she knew every inch of it. The camera in the top left hand corner, the long plain table (bolted to the floor) with four matching chairs, the note pad and recording device on the table. If they decided to play eye spy, it would be a short game.
Cadence was slightly worried, not because she sat across the table from two large, violent men, whom she’d recently beaten up. Both bore the scars of their last encounter. Lerns moved gingerly and clasped his ribs when he talked. Cadence supposed she’d cracked them with her kick but he’d been checked by a doctor and little can be done for a rib injury. He also had considerable swelling on his forehead from the impact of her knee, which had hurt Cadence as well and she was walking with a slight limp. Penk sported a swollen cut under his left ear from her baton but the thing that hurt both men the most was that they’d been beaten by a woman. Cadence had no doubt that if the men hadn’t been handcuffed to a solid metal bar on their side of the table they would have cheerfully broken her neck. Or maybe not, at least not in the station house. She didn’t think either criminal was particularly bright but they knew enough not to assault a cop at the police station. None of this concerned her overly; she was apprehensive because both men were strangely calm.
Being in the cells normally subdued prisoners but Cadence sensed there was more at play. Neither man had called for a lawyer nor had they engaged in the usual bleating about Cadence using excessive force to bring them in. Her methods could be justified as self-defence but that usually didn’t stop criminals complaining.
Both men had also failed to respond to any of her interview techniques. She hadn’t expected a full confession but normally they’d at least be thinking about making a deal by now. The biker’s actions were weird. It was almost as if they were waiting for something. Still, she reminded herself, no need to rush. It’s not like they were going anywhere.
“Let’s get back to the boat shed …” she began.
Penk cut her off. “Let’s not. We told you, we don’t know nothing.”
Cadence sat forward in her chair. “I just want to make sure you understand the situation. You have been arrested for resisting arrest, carrying a concealed weapon and attempted assault on a Police Officer. These are very serious charges and with your records, you’ll be going straight to jail.” She paused to let this sink in. “However, if you co-operate maybe we can cut a deal, reduce your sentences and think about getting you a home detention gig. Come on boys, do the smart thing.”
“The smart thing would have been for you to have stayed out of our boat shed,” snarled Lerns.
Penk gave a jarring laugh. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”
“So tell me,” said Cadence with a shrug of her shoulders.
Lerns muttered. “We ain’t telling you nothing.”
“Then I’ll tell you what I think.” The policewoman stood up and leant on the table, her head slightly higher than the seated men so she was looking down on them. “The black boat you own has been repaired and repainted recently. That’s because it ploughed into a dock not far from your boat shed about two weeks ago.”
Penk opened his mouth to say something but Cadence stopped him.
“Don’t bother denying it. I have a paint sample from your boat and also from the smashed wood on the dock. They match.”
This was a lie; she hadn’t had time to get a sample from the boat.
Cadence tapped the table top twice with her knuckles to drive home the point. “On the night of the crash, in exactly the same location, a cop was killed. I think you were involved and I’m going to prove it.”
Penk tried to stand. His handcuffs were securely fastened to the bar; they bit into his wrist and kept him seated. “You’re not pinning that on us,” he bellowed at Cadence.
His partner rounded on him. “Shut up,” he snapped.
Cadence suppressed a smile. Now she was getting somewhere. Penk was the dumber of the two. She’d split them up and talk to them separately, playing one off against the other. It was only a matter of time before she found out the truth.
A few seconds later the door burst open and a Chief Inspector named Ian Redmount walked in. He was flanked by Senior Sergeant Terry Hatch and two constables who Cadence didn’t know.
“Hey,” she cried. “I’m conducting an interview here.”
“Not anymore,” barked the Senior Sergeant. He withdrew a handcuff key from his pocket then reached towards the prisoners cuffs. “These men are being released.”
Cadence surged forward ready to knock the keys from the Senior Sergeant’s hands. Her passage was blocked by the two constables. There was no way past them without using considerable violence. She glared at the two cops and yelled at the Senior Sergeant. “You can’t do that! These are my prisoners. They’ve been arrested and charged.”
The senior officer unsnapped the cuffs and turned to Cadence. His voice hard. “The charges have been dropped. Now, I suggest you calm down Constable and consider yourself lucky you’re not being cited for wrongful arrest.”
