Deputy Read online

  Deputy

  By George Webber

  New York, May 17th, 4.30 am

  She was quite clearly dead. Her bloody tongue lolled at a slight angle to her chalky face. Her body lay unmoving, slumped on the unforgiving concrete. Her auburn hair was splayed in every direction, with a few strands positioned so that they lay in the neat 9mm hole in the centre of her forehead. She was definitely dead.

  I rose from the street, and rubbed my aching knees. My hands were coated in a warm, red fluid when I pulled them away from my legs. I stepped back, anxious not to disturb the blood that had pooled around her head. The night was cold, and anything warm wouldn’t stay that way for long. With this deduction in mind, I spun around, scanning the street. A lone man in a trench coat was moving away from the scene hurriedly. No other souls were in sight. I broke into a run, the night wind whipping at my eyes until they were full with tears. As I approached, shouting “NYPD”, he turned and sprinted down a side alley.

  My feet were finding their rhythm.

  Step.

  Everything turned orange and black as we passed flickering streetlamps.

  Step.

  The alley was blocked off by a brick wall.

  Step.

  He began to climb, his fingers finding familiar holds.

  Step.

  The safety catch came off my gun.

  He froze as he heard the click of my Smith & Wesson Model 39. He dropped from the wall, taking a step forward as his balance faltered. I noticed his beige coat, full of suspicious folds, and demanded that he slowly took it off. He did so, placing it on the ground in a messy bundle. With extreme care, I manoeuvred myself behind him and placed steel cuffs on his wrists. I tucked the coat under the nook of my arm, careful not to let my eyes leave his back. We then walked to the closest police box, where I made the call to the station.

  “911, what is your emergency?” The voice of Simon, the late-night operator for the area rang through.

  “Hello Simon, it’s Jeff here. I found a fresh body – dead – and have a suspect in custody. Could you get someone to take the car to the location of this phone box? 2nd Avenue, I think. Send three officers at least, there is a crime scene to block off, as well as a dead body. Thanks.”

  I had kept one hand with my gun in my suspect’s back throughout the conversation, and now I turned my full attention to him once more. The steel cuffs were biting his wrists, and as he tried to readjust them, I caught a glimpse of a tattoo. Forcing his sleeves up revealed a dragon crawling up the Empire State Building. Realising what I had done, he attempted to shrug me off. Not wanting to antagonise him further, and risk confrontation, I let his arms go, but still held my gun. A short while later, the car arrived. Two men rushed out, and after asking directions, headed off to the scene of the murder. The suspect and I were driven to Centre Street, where the Police Headquarters were located.

  Although the original bricks used to build the police building were white, time had stained them beige. Monumental archways and pillars sculpted in the style of Greek temples supported a dome embedded with marble clock faces, and it was through one of these archways that the group of three marched into the reception, and straight past. A semi-concealed stairwell spiralled down into the basement, leading to three interrogation cells with concrete, soundproofed walls. It was in one of these that the suspect was placed, handcuffs still tightly secured to his wrists. While the driver of the car secured the suspect, I continued towards Chief Inspector William Gillis’ office. The officers who should’ve filled the corridors, even at this early hour, were conspicuous in their absence. As I walked further from the entrance, the floors transitioned from stone to carpet, and the walls were increasingly littered with portraits of men who did this, and men who did that. The corridor brightened, despite the lack of natural light. Chief Inspector Gillis’ office was the final oak door on the left. The ornate bronze handle was fashioned like a lion’s head, frozen mid-way through a ferocious battle cry. I smothered his face in my palm, twisting his neck but then paused. I knocked twice, with the middle knuckle of my right hand, and a deep voice boomed an invitation to enter. The lion’s head tilted at a peculiar angle, and the door swung open.

  Positioned like a barricade, the Inspector’s desk dominated the entirety of the office. Various piles of paperwork and the occasional picture frame completed the defences, with only the top of Gillis’ head visible. His hair was thinning, but would probably still cling to his mostly bald head for the next few years. He cleared a pathway and inquired where I had been.

  “Along 2nd Avenue, sir. I had finished a long shift when I came across the recently deceased body. It was quite obviously murder, as there was no gun on scene, and very recent. The blood was still warm, but I can assure you, she was quite clearly dead.”

  “I hear you have a suspect in custody now.” Gillis pressed, asking for more details of the situation.

  “Yes, sir. I saw him running from the scene of the crime and attempted to escape when I instructed him to stop. His coat is with me now, as I felt it would be an easy place to conceal a weapon.” I explained my actions, and could tell the Inspector agreed with my decisions.

  “Well then, does it conceal a weapon?” Chief Inspector Gillis’ eyelids were threatening to droop, but they remained open.

  I splayed the coat on the floor and pushed against each fold, and patted down each crease. An inside chest pocket yielded the curved piece of metal I was searching for. With a pair of gloves on my hands, I retrieved the weapon. It was a Smith & Wesson Model 39. A thick rectangular shaft of black metal joined a sleek wooden handle at the trigger. I opened the clip. It was one bullet from full, and I told the Inspector as much.

  “Hmm, incriminating but not definitive.” One arm rose onto the desk, his hand in a fist, his lower lip resting on the flesh between the thumb and 2nd finger. “Well, we won’t achieve anything sitting around. We must talk with him.”

  At full height, Inspector Gillis was at most a hand span taller than me. Side by side, we walked the corridor towards the holding cells, the portraits watching us with blank eyes. Their stares bore into me, but I kept walking the empty hallway.

  “If I may ask, sir, why are there so few officers around?” I phrased the question that I had been pondering.

  Releasing a sigh, he replied, “A gang incident the other side of town. Hostages, arson, weaponry, the lot. Almost all available officers have been sent to minimise the violence. If there were anyone else, I’d have them assisting your interrogation, but no others here are of sufficient rank.”

  We reached the stairway to the basement, and the Inspector stepped aside to allow me first access between the thick walls. At the cell, I twisted my key from my belt, and inserted it into the steel lock fixed into the concrete, windowless wall. The door swung away with a groan. Inside, the head resting on the table rose. Two brown eyes stared at me, unobstructed by the short cut hair of the same colour on his head. He was handcuffed to the table, and sitting on a plain wooden chair.

  I began. “What is your name?”

  “Ross Bowers.” The reply was spoken with a gruff voice, but quietly.

  After answering the rest of the standard questions, I pulled up his sleeves. The dragon was still crawling up the Empire State Building, and I asked what it meant.

  When he didn’t reply, the Inspector said, “It’s a gang sign, isn’t it? Same gang organising all the violence tonight, isn’t it?”

  “All right, all right, I’m a member of that gang. But I knew nothing about the murder I’m suspected of, or the supposed violence you just mentioned. I know nothing!” His reply took the Inspector by surprise, as well as his pleading tone.

  “You are lying to me.” I stated. He began to protest. “Your name is J
onah Stover, and you are in charge of the gang active tonight.” I pulled out my gun, and aimed it at his head.

  “This is a serious claim to make, Deputy Chief Inspector Caywood. How do you know it is true?” Asked Inspector Gillis.

  I turned around, gun still in hand.

  “Because I’m his second-in-command.” My finger twitched, and Gillis was shot through the chest. He collapsed, gasping for breath, but none would come. Like a fish out of water, he spasmed, coughing blood onto the concrete floor, leaking precious fluid. I moved my shoes away from the pooling blood.

  “Get these cuffs off me, James. The rest of the cops will be here soon.” I removed a file from my belt and filed the underside of the cuffs, as if Stover were filing them himself. Once they were done, he stood and demanded his gun back. I slid it from my jacket, and let him hold it for a second, for a moment, long enough to transfer his fingerprints to it.

  “Why did you arrest m…?” Jonah Stover didn’t finish the sentence. My finger twitched again and his chest was punctured with a 9mm wide piece of metal.

  “Because there can only be one leader. Now I control the cops and the gang.” His eyes widened as he realised what this meant.

  “But they’ll find you out…” Stover gurgled.

  “Find what. A gangster who shot an innocent civilian and was caught. A Chief Inspector who was shot by a criminal, who filed his chains off with a concealed file. A loyal Deputy who wrestled the gun off him and shot him dead. You see, I can tell them what I want, with nobody to say otherwise.” Walking towards the door, key in hand, I noticed the silence. They were quite clearly dead.

  © Oxfordshire County Council for a period of 12 months at which point it reverts to the author

 

 

  George Webber, Deputy

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