Sins Of the Perpetrator
Chapter Onw
This story you are about to read may disturb and/or anger some readers. I will stress here and now that this is a work of fiction, just as detective Mike Logan and the people with which he works at the twenty-seventh precinct are characters developed in a screenwriter's fertile imagination. Having said that, I will now launch into this novella. The story will be posted here in a number of installments.
The year was 1988 and life at the twenty-seventh precinct in New York City was awash in utter chaos. Captain Donald Cragen had just learned that the suspected killer of a number of prostitutes in the Lower East Side had to be let go, based on too little evidence to hold him. Cragen's blood began to boil in earnest, after Sergeant Max Greevey, a rotund officer equipped with the shortest fuse in the entire police force, informed him that there were no other leads. This seemed to be the end of the investigation and they had bupkiss.
Greevey had the shortest fuse in the entire New York City police force and an in-your-face attitude that intimidated not only the perpetrators, but his fellow officers as well. His partner was a young, brash and bombastic Irish Catholic named Mike Logan. With his thick mass of dark hair, large, expressive brown eyes and full, pouty lips, Logan was devastatingly handsome and most appealing to members of the opposite sex. Like Greevey, Logan was both blunt and hard-nosed, so it came as no surprise that they were often at loggerheads. Still, both men liked and respected one another and their partnership was one of the strongest, not only in the two seven, but in most of the surrounding precincts.
"Can you believe this?" Max Greevey moaned, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. "We're right back where we started. This case ain't never gonna be solved, so why can't we just close the file on it and concentrate on the stack of cases we've been neglecting."
"What, are you crazy, Max?" Logan responded, raising his voice a half octave or so, "we can't just shove a month's worth of work under the carpet. You're just too damned lazy, that's all. I say we go back to the scene, find some evidence we must have missed and then---"
"Whoa, whoa--will you two please shut up for a minute?" Cragen was used to such altercations, but today he was in no mood to play referee. "I think that for now, we should do some more research, find out where Simon Riggs hangs out. Then question his friends and acquaintances. Do you think the two of you could accomplish that before anymore sparring?"
Greevey and Logan muttered apologies in low, nearly inaudible tones and left to comb the area around the homicides one more time to see if they'd missed anything significant. When they arrived at the site, which was still surrounded with the yellow "Police line. Do not cross" ribbon. The area was devoid of any sign of human life, save a bagman scrounging around for cigarette butts.
It was an open area, a half acre or so on which a large apartment building had stood. The place had gone up in flames the night of the murder and there was just this charred emptiness that smelled of burnt mattresses and rubber. Apparently, the killer had torched the building after killing his wife---most likely shooting her in their bedroom, possibly when the woman was sleeping.
"Man, this is like looking for a needle in a haystack," grumbled Logan, gazing around at the piles of still-smoking debris. "How the hell are we supposed to find the remains of the victim amidst this mess? I mean, weren't there a lot of people in this place before it went up in flames? We have no idea which body is hers."
Max shrugged and sighed with exasperation. "We got the report from the fire department telling us that everyone else got out of the place before it was engulfed in flames. Remember? So if we come across the remains of a skeleton, we can assume with certainty that it's the remains of Jenna Wilson. Now, did you understand that, or should I draw you a diagram?"
"Wiseass," Logan replied, kicking a pile of debris before beginning his search for teeth and whatever else remained of the unfortunate Wilson woman.
The two detectives worked for three hours, digging through ashes, garbage and dirty water in a vain attemt to uncover something they could use to prove that Jenna Wilson had been in this building and had a bullet in her, or several of them. Then, just as they were about to give up, Mike came across what appeared to be bridgework. "Hey, Max! Over here! I think I got something!"
Max walked over to where his partner held a partial denture plate, only slightly singed by the flames. "Bingo!" Greevey cried, slapping Mike hard on the back. "Now maybe we can wrap this case up before the turn of the century."
"Wait! We need to find more of her body, like the woman's skull. If we can't determine that he shot her before starting the fire, he could get off."
"Okay, but have we determined for certain that George Wilson started this fire?" Greevey just wanted this unending case to be concluded once and for all.
"We found turpentine in his office, along with rags soaked in the stuff. We know he's had two prior arsen convictions. What more do we need?"
"That's what Stone and Robinette will say is "circumstantial evidence. Not good enough, Mike. We need what's left of her body to locate a bullet hole, or holes."
Suddenly, a man lunged at Max, seemingly out of nowhere and began pummelling him with his fists. Logan sprang into action, grasping the man by his shoulders and forcing him down on the ground. He was a somewhat muscular guy with a great deal of nervous energy, so it took both Logan and Greevey to keep him pinned to the ground while Logan went for his cuffs. After the man's hands were safely locked, he spat at Logan and hissed, menacingly, "You guys got no business hanging around here. No business at all. You hear me?"
"Yeah, yeah, we hear ya. But we DO have a right---we're detectives with the New York City police department. But then, I really think that you knew that." Greevey pulled the man to an upright position and wiped the dust off the man's sweater. I'm willing to bet that you're Simon Wilson and that you offed your wife before torching this place."
"You can't prove nothin'," he muttered, his balding head assuming a shiny appearance, a sure sign that he was sweating profusely.
"Well, you see, that ain't exactly true. We got records down at the station with your fingerprints, listing you as one Simon Wilson. Now, if we match those prints with the ones we take of yours, we got you, buddy. You're dead in the water." Logan gave the man a shove before leading him over to their patrol car.
Suddenly, without warning, Wilson dropped to the ground and began kicking his feet in a wild frenzy, pummelling Greevey so hard that the elder cop lost his balance. Logan jumped in, grasping Wilson's flailing feet and pinning them to the ground. As he did so, the perpetrator did something neither of the detectives could have predicted or prepared themselves for: Wilson grabbed Logan's forearm with razor sharp teeth and dug them in hard.
"Ouch! God Almighty! What the fuck are you doing?" Logan managed to extricate his arm from Wilson's "Jaws Of Death" while Greevey pinned Wilson to the ground. "Hey, Mike, are you alright?"
Wilson's teeth had broken the skin, so Logan's forearm was bleeding profusely. "I guess I'll need a rabies shot," Logan said, grasping onto his arm to staunch the flow of blood. "Look, Wilson, you're one fucked up asshole. It'll be our pleasure to see that you're put away for a long, long time."
As the two cops dumped Wilson into the back of their patrol car, the scruffy man leered at Logan. "Well, we'll see who's gonna have the last laugh. One clue: It won't be you." Then he laughed maniacally as the car began driving downtown.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Logan asked, relieved that, with both the plate and Wilson, this case could finally be wrapped up for good.
"Oh, you'll find out soon enough, buddy boy. You'll find out soon enough and then you'll rue the day you collared old Simon Wilson."
The plate was taken to the lab to be analyzed and then Jenna's dental records were brought over for comparrison. They were bang on, causing a ripple of intense relief to wash over the men at the two seven. Then, after Greevey and Logan had interrogated Wilson for six long hours, doing the "good cop, bad cop" routine that seemed to work in their favour, they got a grudging confession.
"Okay, let's bring this to Stone and Robinette," Cragen said, also feeling a tremendous sense of relief. Cragen met with the DA and ADA with the evidence they had against this coldblooded murderer and was pleased when Ben Stone said that "there's enough for an indictment. "Finally!" Cragen cried. "Now we can get to work on cases we've had to put on the back burner because of this one.
However, this was, as it was to become clear, not the end of the scourge of Simon Wilson, the ferret-faced perp with the oily skin and missing teeth. Mike Logan would come to realize that he would have the ghost of Wilson haunting him for a very long time.
A week had elapsed since the capture of Wilson. Greevey and Logan were busy investigating a two-year-old crime that had recently yielded new evidence, enough to put Janine McPherson, a known felon for smuggling heroin into the States three years previous, behind bars for at least fifteen years. Logan was just about to make a phone call when the phone on his desk suddenly rang. "Hmm, must be Diane, thanking me for last night," Logan joked, while Greevey looked at his partner with feigned exasperation. The young detective answered the call. It was from Wilson's attorney, Harry Ellison. "Is this detective Mike Logan?" a voice on the other end asked. When Logan answered in the affirmative, Ellison went on, "I'm Simon Wilson's lawyer and I have something of tremendous significance to tell you. By the way, how's that bite on your arm doing?"
Mike Logan shrugged, "I got it treated. They say that human bites are more germ-ridden than animal ones. So I'm taking these antibiotics. Hurts like hell, though."
"Any sign of infection?" Ellison asked, his voice fraught with a strange kind of shakiness.
"Um, well, it's kind of red. I don't know---it's a stupid bite. Give it a week and it'll be gone. No big deal, Harry." Logan could not understand what the big deal about a silly bite was.
There was a brief silence and then Ellison continued. "Logan, there's something you've got to know. I have to give you this information, since Wilson broke the skin with the bite he gave you."
"Okay, just spit it out," Logan replied, tiring of all the evasiveness and mystery. "Max and I have a lot of work to do."
"Look, I hate to tell you this over the phone like this, but I'm way across town right now and you should know this as soon as possible. Listen, Wilson had been coughing a lot lately, it seems, so the infirmary at Riker's tested him."
"Tested him for what? Come on, quit stalling for God's sake!" Logan was quickly losing patience.
"Mike, he was tested for HIV. And, well---he, um, he tested positive. Do you understand the significance of what I'm telling you?"
Logan fell silent, letting the full impact of Ellison's words sink into his brain. Then, his mouth suddenly dry and his heart beating wildly in his chest, he responded, slowly and brokenly, "You're telling me that the guy who sunk his teeth into me has AIDS. Is that right? Is that what this conversation is all about?" Logan pounded his fist on his desk, then did his best to behave in as calmly a way as possible. "So--what? I have to get tested too, huh?"
"It will probably come back negative. After all, it was only one exposure. But you'll have to tell the guys at the two seven."
"Can't I wait until after I've had the test and I get the results?" Logan's mouth suddenly filled with foul-tasting bile and he had an overwhelming need to vomit.
"No, Mike. You let Cragen know, and Greevey. Then you go and get the test. If it comes back negative, then no harm's been done, right?"
"Yeah, right. No harm done. But what the fuck do you think this is doing to ME, Ellison?? I'm thirty years old for God's sake! I don't want to die of AIDS. I'd rather just off myself and get it over quick."
"Mike, please. Just get the test and don't keep this all to yourself. You'll need support, just in case the test doesn't turn out the way you want it to." Ellison hung up the phone, leaving Logan staring blankly into space.
"Mike? Who was that? Looks like you've just seen a ghost." Max Greevey sat down at his desk, which was opposite his partner's. "Is everything okay?"
Logan shook his head slowly. "No, Max. Everything's not okay." He rose to his feet and asked Cragen if he could have a half hour to just walk around outside for awhile.
"Sure, Mike. Go ahead. But if you need to talk about anything, we're here for you, okay?" Cragen could see waves of panic crossing Logan's face.
Logan grabbed his coat and walked out onto the street. Nearby there was a clinic that offered free HIV tests. He wanted to get this over as quickly as possible, but at the same time, he dreaded finding out. He could feel his entire life beginning to crumble into dust. Damn that Wilson! He may just have signed Logan's death certificate.
To be continued.
Here are some pictures to cheer you up. I hope they work:
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