Once a Killer Read online

  Cover

  Title Page

  Once a Killer

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  Martin Bodenham

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  Mount Tuam Publishing

  Copyright Information

  Once a Killer, Copyright © 2014 by Martin Bodenham

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the Copyright Act of Canada, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author/publisher.

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  Published by Mount Tuam Publishing

  First eBook edition, June 2014

  First trade paperback edition, June 2014

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  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

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  ISBN: 978-0-9938446-1-4

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  Book Design by Coreen Montagna

  [email protected]

  Dedication

  To Jules, my angel.

  Chapter 1

  THE TWO MEN HAD NOTHING AGAINST the old woman as they bludgeoned her to death. It wasn’t personal; she was bait, nothing more.

  Easing back on the gas, Michael Hoffman peered through the clunking wipers of his rental car, looking for the place they’d taken his mother’s mutilated body. He passed an empty Mexican restaurant, then a Laundromat with a group of young men inside who looked like they were in the middle of a fight. As he checked the central locking system for the third time since leaving the freeway, up ahead, a bright neon sign caught his attention—Cook County Funeral Home - Affordable Funerals By People Who Care Since 1954. Its red light, high up on a steel pole, and the pouring rain conspired to distort his view through the windshield. Rainwater pelted his face when he opened the side window and leaned out of the car, searching for a break in the wall. The entrance to the private parking area had to be close. The man he’d spoken to on the phone yesterday had warned him, if he wanted it back, he should avoid leaving his vehicle on the street.

  There it was. At the bottom of the illuminated sign stood two brick pillars on either side of a narrow driveway. Michael pulled off the road and entered the vacant car park. As he killed the engine, the digital clock on the dashboard flashed 9:10 p.m. He was late—very late—and there were no lights on inside. Maybe the man had already left.

  The iPhone in Michael’s jacket pocket rang. As he retrieved it, an image of his wife appeared on the screen. For a moment, he thought about taking the call, but decided against the idea; lying to Caroline again about where he was tonight would only take up valuable time.

  When the door at the side of the building opened, a tall, muscular man in his early forties stepped out.

  “Hello,” Michael said, jumping out of the car. He ran over to the man, soaking the bottom of his suit trousers in the puddles forming in the potholed tarmac. “I’m really sorry I’m late.”

  The man threw him a shit-look. “I said no later than quarter to nine.” He turned the key to lock the door. “We’re done here tonight.”

  “My flight was delayed coming into O’Hare. I got here as soon as I could.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “Not my problem. You’ll have to come back tomorrow morning.”

  “I have to do this tonight. Please.”

  “I can’t help you. Now, if it’s okay, I’d like to get out of this rain.”

  Michael reached into his jacket, and the man flinched.

  “Yesterday, you wanted a hundred.” Michael took out a bunch of notes from his Mulberry wallet. “Would two hundred change your mind? I really have to see her tonight.”

  The man relaxed then smiled. “Make it three, and I’ll give you ten minutes.”

  Moments later, Michael stood waiting in the mortuary, the pungent odor of disinfectant failing to mask the smell of death.

  “You said you weren’t family, right?” The man was wheeling out a shrouded body on a gurney.

  “Right.” Michael looked away. “I’m here for a good friend who can’t make it.”

  “It’s a good job your friend’s not here.” He nodded toward the body. “This one’s a bit of a mess.”

  The knot tightened in Michael’s stomach. “I’d appreciate some privacy.”

  “Sure. Ten minutes, remember.”

  When the man left, Michael stood in the cold room, staring at the gurney. His fingers trembled when he reached for the white sheet. Bracing himself for a shock, he drew back the cloth, revealing long gray hair that had been combed straight back. Holding his breath, slowly he revealed the woman’s face before lurching backward, almost losing his balance.

  “Jesus.” Michael fought back the bile in his throat.

  His mother’s head looked like a deflated football. It was obvious her nose had been broken and cheekbones shattered. Dark bruises covered what remained of her face, and on her neck remnants of dried blood still showed on her pale skin where they’d failed to clean her properly. Maybe the staff here had figured nobody in their right mind would want to visit her in this condition. But Michael had to be here. Not only had he come a long way, but he’d also taken a great risk for this last chance to see for himself the bitch was actually dead.

  Although he hadn’t seen her for almost twenty-five years, his mother looked older than he’d expected—much older. She’d have been sixty-four on her last birthday, but now, even allowing for her injuries, she had the weathered appearance of a woman well into her eighties. Years of alcohol abuse, and God knows what else, had eaten her away.

  He leaned forward and stared at the sunken face of the monster who had made his early childhood a living hell. As Michael drew closer, a whiff of cleaning agent entered his nostrils, and he recoiled at the memory it stirred. He remembered the times his mother would squirt Clorox into his mouth if she caught him lying or, worse, stealing food. Apart from the regular beatings with her walking stick, food deprivation had been her favorite way to torture him. What kind of woman could do these things to her own child?

  “Come on,” said the man, returning to the room. “You’ve had more than ten minutes.”

  “Just a while longer.” Michael kept his eyes on his mother. “Please.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “All I’m asking for is a few minutes.”

  “You shouldn’t even be in here now. You’re not family and you don’t really have an appointment. I’d lose my job if the owners found out about this.”

  The man pulled the sheet back over the body, and Michael watched as the gurney was wheeled away.

  By the time he stepped out of the building, the rain had stopped and a smell of fried onions from the Mexican restaurant down the street clung to the humid air. Hearing the sound of male voices, Michael glanced across the unlit car park. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out three young men hanging around his vehicle, checking it out.

  “Nice wheels,” said one of them, leaning on the hood as Michael approached. “Don’t see many like this around here.”

  Michael cursed the rental company for upgrading his vehicle. He’d known it would stand out where he was going, but there hadn’t been enough time to change it and still make it to the funeral home before the man left.

  Michael raised his palms. “Hey, I don’t want any trouble, guys.”

  The biggest of the three men swaggered over to him. Towering over Michael, he stood only six inches away and grinned.

  “We just wanna take it for a ride.” He held out his hand for the keys.

  Michael stared at the thug. “I told you I don’t want any trouble.”

/>   “Just give him the keys, Whiteboy,” shouted the man leaning on the hood.

  “I think I’m gonna have some fun with this one,” said the large man, turning his face toward his friend for a second.

  Michael kneed him hard in the groin and, as the giant lunged forward, struck the man’s face with the sharp tip of his elbow, knocking him out cold. The other two men froze, stunned by the speed at which their accomplice had been brought down by this stranger in a suit.

  “You want some of this?” said Michael, crouching with fists clenched and pointing with his chin to the unconscious man lying face down on the wet tarmac. “Do you?”

  “You boys better get out of here,” shouted the funeral home worker, leaving the building behind Michael. “He’s with me.”

  The two men ran off as the man came over to attend to the bleeding victim on the ground.

  “Thanks for your help.” Michael reached into his pocket for the car keys. “I didn’t want any of this.”

  “I didn’t do it for you.” The man pointed to the comatose lump at his feet. “I saw what you did to this one. You seem pretty handy with your fists.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’ll recover. Look, I don’t know who you are, but you’d better leave before those guys come back with their friends.”

  Michael climbed into the car and sped away without looking back. A few miles down the road, he pulled over into a Denny’s car park, the adrenaline still coursing through his body. He closed his eyes and thought about what had just happened. It was stupid. If he’d hurt that man and the police had been called, how would he have explained to Caroline what he was doing here?

  When he’d calmed down, he took out his cell phone and hit the speed dial for home.

  “I tried calling you earlier,” said Caroline, answering the call.

  “I know. Unfortunately, you rang just as they were calling us back into the meeting.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, it’s no problem. How are the girls?”

  “Missing their daddy.”

  “If they’re still awake, can you give them a big kiss for me?”

  “Can I have one, too?”

  “Of course. I miss you.”

  “Are you okay? You sound upset.”

  “I’m fine. This negotiation is a tough one. I’m just tired. That’s all.”

  “Get some sleep. Let me know what plane you’re on before you leave LA tomorrow.”

  After the call, Michael sat in the car, thinking about his girls. He hated having to lie to his wife. When he’d set off from home this morning, he’d told her he had some business to take care of on the west coast. There was no way he could tell her the truth—that he’d just been to see his murdered mother in Chicago—at least not without destroying their marriage. She could never find out about this trip.

  Michael spent the night at the Marriott Hotel downtown, watching television and ordering room service. It was unlikely anyone would recognize him after a quarter of a century away, but leaving his room was an unnecessary risk.

  By nine thirty the following morning, he was back on the road, making his way to the crematorium. He wasn’t going for his mother’s sake; she meant nothing to him. If he was lucky, he’d get to see his brother and sister, albeit from a safe distance.

  The crematorium sat on the corner of East 47th and South King Drive. Michael drove into the open-air parking lot across the intersection and found a spot where he could wait for the hearse to arrive. When it did, he retrieved a pair of binoculars from his briefcase and focused on the mourners filing into the building.

  A frail, gray-haired woman stepped out of the car behind the hearse. There was something familiar about the way she walked. She looked like his mother. Michael increased the focus, and his throat tightened when he recognized her; it was his sister. He was now thirty-six, which meant she’d only be forty. How could she look so old? What kind of life had his family lived? What horrors had they been put through after he was taken away? And where was his younger brother? Was he still alive? He longed to go over to his sister and ask all the questions filling his head, but that was impossible.

  The last car to pull up was a black Mercedes. It had been a little behind the main convoy of vehicles and looked out of place somehow; it was too new and expensive. Two men stepped out of the car, but they didn’t follow the others into the crematorium. Instead, they stood outside, chatting and smoking on the corner. They appeared to be looking for somebody. Each time someone walked by, they’d stop talking, stare, and then shake their heads. Who were they?

  A few moments later, after everyone had filed into the building, the two men walked up East 47th, away from where Michael was parked. Then they headed across the lights and back toward the parking lot. Michael lowered the binoculars and picked up his newspaper, careful to shield most of his face as the men drew close. They walked by and then stopped some twenty yards away, turned, and pointed to Michael. Panic gripped him when he realized they must be looking for him.

  Throwing the newspaper over his shoulder, he turned on the ignition and watched as the men started running his way. They were blocking the exit, so Michael slid the gear lever into reverse and forced the car over the sidewalk. His open briefcase slid off the passenger seat and crashed to the floor, spilling its contents. The vehicle dropped some nine inches off the curb, bouncing metal sparks across the highway. An old Toyota Camry careered around the corner and then braked hard, its tires screeching, before almost T-boning Michael’s car in the middle of the road. As the two men approached, he rammed the lever into drive, looked long enough to make sure the woman in the Camry was okay, and then stood on the accelerator.

  Chapter 2

  MAKING IT TO WESTPORT COMMUNITY COLLEGE twice a week for a seven p.m. start had become impossible. The one-hour train ride meant Michael had to leave his Manhattan office at five forty at the latest on college nights. As a young partner, expected to set an example to his team, leaving that early created the wrong impression. During the week, partners weren’t allowed a personal life—period.

  It was all Caroline’s fault. She’d taught economics at the college for years. When she learned they were looking for fresh volunteers to teach the adult literacy evening class, she knew her husband would be ideal, so she put his name forward. She was right, of course. Michael had taught the class for three years now and had loved every minute of it. But with the mounting pressure from work, something had to give, so this year, he’d reduced his commitment to one night a week. Even that raised a few eyebrows at work.

  On the Tuesday evening he turned up for the first class of the new semester, eight students were waiting for him, two more than he’d expected. A couple of them had brought friends along, hoping he wouldn’t mind. Michael didn’t argue. Knowing how difficult a step it was for adults to admit they struggled to read and write, why would he want to make it any harder for them?

  “I like to go round the room first off,” said Michael after everyone had settled in. “It would be great if you could introduce yourselves so we can get to know each other.”

  The first three students were recent Somali immigrants in their mid-thirties. English was their second language, and they were there to improve their skills, something Michael had seen many times before. Next up was a man in his early twenties, sitting on his own a couple of rows behind the others. He avoided all eye contact as Michael turned to him.

  Michael smiled. “Please tell us something about you.”

  “There ain’t much to tell, really.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jordy.”

  “Well, Jordy, what do you hope to get out of the class this year?”

  Jordy continued looking at the floor. “Simple. I can’t read or write.” He shook his head. “I’m not proud of it.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. You’re in the right place. I know we can help you put that right.”

  “I didn’t get much schooling. Soon as I
could, I started working. My mom, she was on her own and needed the money.”

  Michael took a seat next to Jordy. “I want you to know something.”

  Jordy looked up and stared at Michael. His eyes were shiny, like those of a scared animal.

  Michael hesitated, wondering whether to continue. “I was taken away from my family when I was ten. That hit me hard, and I struggled at school, too. Made me a late developer.”

  Jordy’s shoulders relaxed a little. “And you said you’re now a lawyer?”

  “That’s right. It doesn’t matter how late you start learning. The fact that you’re here tonight is all that matters. I promise you, Jordy, if you stick with these classes, you will transform your life.”

  The other students applauded, and an embarrassed-looking Jordy managed a thin smile. “I sure hope so.”

  An hour into the class, Michael suggested a break and showed his students where they could buy a drink in the college restaurant before he visited the men’s room. He switched on the lights and walked to the middle of the bank of urinals along the right side of the room. The place smelled like it had been used all day and needed a good clean. Looking up at the wall in front of him, he read the sign: NOW WASH YOUR HANDS. It reminded him how most people took for granted the ability to read. As he began to unzip his fly, the door behind him swung open and there were footsteps on the polished hardwood floor. One man stood immediately to Michael’s left and then another to his right. That was strange. Why stand right next to him when there were plenty of empty spaces farther along the wall?

  “You’re a hard man to find, Michael,” said the man on the left, his breathing labored.

  Michael turned his head to see who it was. His stomach tightened when he recognized them as the same two men who had pursued him two weeks ago at his mother’s funeral. What the hell were they doing here in Connecticut?

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are.” Michael backed away from the wall.