The 108th precinct, located in Long Island City in Queens, ran as smoothly as could be expected of a law enforcement agency in the crime capital of the world. The different departments operated separately, each run by a different lieutenant. Narcotics had Lieutenant Grimes. Vice had Lieutenant Russo. Homicide had Sydney Berry. Though it was never openly admitted, it was generally accepted that Sydney was the one on the career fast track. Captain Jim Bradshaw told anyone who would listen that Sydney Berry was the “best damned detective” he had ever known. And he had known Sydney for a long time—over eighteen years.
Jim Bradshaw was on cruise control, only two years away from his thirty-year pension. He delegated most of the daily operating procedure to his lieutenants, opting to spend his own time making sure his final months and days passed as uneventfully as possible. Of course, that had been the plan, until the ugly reality of the Butcher case reared its toxic head. The press and the city council then converged like vultures, wreaking havoc on his otherwise relatively peaceful existence.
It was during these dark times that Jim Bradshaw thanked his lucky stars that he had his trusted friend, Sydney Berry, on his team. Sydney took the heat like no man Jim had ever met. He was a rock. This supreme confidence in Sydney’s judgment made it extremely rare for Jim to second guess the man. Even so, he found himself in Sydney’s office that Tuesday afternoon, an unwilling messenger with unwelcome bad news.
He sat across from Sydney, avoiding eye contact. Sydney immediately realized that some kind of upper level bullshit was about to be flung. “What’s on your mind, Jim?”
“Syd, I received a very disturbing call a little while ago. Very damn disturbing.”
“Let me guess,” Sydney said, smiling wryly, “Senator Dexter Reed called to encourage you to rein me in a bit. Am I close?”
“Worse—Councilman Wiley demanded that I encourage you to stop harassing Senator Dexter Reed.”
“Jim, we asked Reed a few routine questions—that’s all. You know I was my usual charming self.” Sydney smiled, but noticed that the captain’s expression remained dour.
“Sydney, according to this huge pain in my ass, Wiley, you took some coincidental, chance meetings between a couple of the victims in this case and Senator Reed, then intimated that he was a suspect.”
“Since I spoke with the senator, the total of victims he had contact with has risen from two to three—and in my professional opinion, he has to be considered at least a person of interest.”
“Bullshit,” Jim replied defiantly.
Sydney, undaunted, leaned forward and stared intently at his superior and friend. “We had a surprising visitor earlier today. Terry Morrell, Reed’s top aide, came in to tell us that he has suspected his boss for weeks now. He even supplied us with Reed’s connection with Teresa Chandler, the topless dancer.”
Jim Bradshaw grimaced. “Dammit, Syd, start from the beginning—and don’t leave anything out.”
Sydney related the meeting with Reed and the subsequent interview of Terry Morrell. Throughout the rendering, Jim sat stoically, occasionally running his open palm down his face.
After Sydney had given him everything they had, Jim sat forward, taking a deep breath. Exhaling loudly, he finally said, “That’s very circumstantial, Syd.”
“Yeah——but you add the alleged Chandler fling to the fact that he knew two of the other victims…”
“Alleged is the key word there.”
“Come on, Jim—you know damn good and well that if Reed were an average, run-of-the-mill citizen, we’d be on him like flies on shit.”
A wry smile crossed Jim Bradshaw’s face. “That is the sad and undeniable point, good buddy. Dexter Reed ain’t no ordinary schmuck. I am here to tell you—this suspect of yours can shake up our little world without even working up a good sweat.”
Sydney shook his head with utter contempt. “Young beautiful women are being slaughtered. These were daughters, sisters—a mother with two small children, for crying out loud. Hell, I don’t know if the senator is involved, but I do know that the man warrants a little investigating—maybe even some surveillance.” Noticing that Jim was shaking his head negatively, he continued, “Are you trying to tell me that if Reed is our man, we will have to catch him butt-naked, holding a bloody knife over some future unfortunate victim?”
Jim Bradshaw squinted coolly at his friend. “Why so surprised, Syd? You didn’t make lieutenant without a working knowledge of the facts of life. Don’t act like such a virgin.”
“Sure, I’ve had to occasionally tap dance to a tune I hated, but this case is too damned important to muck up with any silly game playing.” Noting the unchanged expression on Jim’s face, he pressed on, “Reed is an asshole, Jim. He thinks that the world is his personal little playground and that the rest of us were just put here for his amusement.”
Bradshaw sighed, then quickly rose to leave. “Channel your energy elsewhere, Syd. Come on, man, a United States senator? Not exactly your prototypical serial killer.”
Sydney held his tongue, but set his jaw defiantly.
Jim opened the door, then turned back to Sydney. “Are we clear on this, Syd?”
“Oh yes, Captain—crystal clear.”
“Sarcasm aside, am I still welcome at your place for Thursday night poker?” Jim asked, forcing a smile.
Sydney matched the smile. “Sure, Jim… unless Councilman Wiley tells me otherwise.”
The smile on Bradshaw’s face became even more strained. “That was below the belt, Syd. I’ll just attribute your mood to the tremendous pressure you’re under.” He stared at Sydney for a few seconds, then turned and walked out.
After the door had closed, Sydney reached into his top desk drawer, removing a bottle of antacid tablets, something he had done with increasing frequency of late. He popped the tablets in his mouth, then leaned back, staring at the ceiling, pondering the improbability of a man of Reed’s station doing the unthinkable.
◆ ◆ ◆
“God, you’re uptight tonight. Would it help to talk about it? You always listen to my bitching—let me return the favor.”
Sydney looked at the angelic face of Shirley Richards. He smiled, shaking his head. “No, but thanks.” He planted a soft kiss on her forehead, then gazed into her eyes. “Damn, you’re beautiful.”
“What brought that on?” she asked with a light laugh.
“You, me… beauty and the beast.”
She lifted her head from his shoulder, laughing raucously. “Pulease. You know damn well you’re gorgeous. You’re just fishing for a compliment.”
He feigned surprise. “Who said I was the beast in that scenario?”
They rolled on the bed, laughing like kids. She seemed to always have the ability to make him laugh, even throughout this hellish murder case. When they finally settled once again into a cuddling mode, she noticed the tension return to his features. “Any progress on the case?”
“What case would that be, Ms. Richards?” Sydney replied with a coy half smile.
Shirley punched him playfully. “Don’t play lieutenant with me, buster.”
Sydney looked longingly into her eyes. “I’d much rather play doctor with you.” He covered her mouth with his lips, his hand traveling to her silk nightgown, slowly lowering the strap, exposing a full, supple breast. He brought his lips to the hardening nipple, suckling like a newborn babe.
Only minutes before, he had felt like completely shutting out the ugliness of the world, eager to give himself over to the numbness of sleep. Then this incredible woman had him feeling like a teenager in the back seat of his father’s Buick. She had a way of making every time seem like the very first time. Sydney lost himself in the softness, in the wetness, in the absolute wonder of her.
◆ ◆ ◆
“Twenty bucks for a blow job. Fifty bucks for the whole enchilada. Two hundred and I’m yours for the night. Come on, baby, I got a room right across the street.”
He handed the whore a twenty. She shook her head, chomping her gum. “What is it with you guys and blow jobs? I aughta charge two hundred for head and a buck for a fuck,” she said with a shrill laugh. “You don’t talk much, do you sweetie? That’s alright—you just follow Rosie. I know just the place.”
He followed her for two blocks, until she finally stopped at an alley where the street light had conveniently been extinguished with a rock.
She took his hand, leading him down the alley. “Here we are, lover—blow job alley,” she said, giggling. She reached for his belt, expertly unbuckling him. Within seconds, she had his pants around his knees, his limp penis in her aggressive hand. “You’re a bit of a slow starter, huh? That’s okay,” she said, sinking to her knees, “Rosie has just the cure for that.” She began working on him with her mouth, expending great energy, trying to bring life into the useless appendage.
He watched her, the anger and frustration just beginning to mount within him. After several fruitless minutes, she finally let him slip unceremoniously from her mouth. Rising to her feet, she shrugged her shoulders, saying, “Sorry, sweetie, but I still got to charge you for the effort. I was willing,” she added with that same irritating giggle, “but your flesh just wasn’t able.”
He smiled as his eyes met hers. She continued to titter at her own little joke, never seeing him reach into his deep coat pocket. She did finally see the blade out of the corner of her eye, but it was far too late. The scream that started to rise in her throat, never made it to her lips. The blade severed her vocal cords with one savage slash. She grasped her ravaged throat, screaming ‘Why’ with her startled eyes.
She fell to her knees. Ironically, the last thing she ever saw was her killer’s penis, finally springing to life before her fading vision.