“So tell us how you got your name?” Detective Bill McKinley asked as he pushed the rolling cart across the bed.

For a moment the prisoner just stared out the window of his fifteenth story room. He made no answer as he lifted the white foam cup off the cart and peeled the paper cap from the straw. “I hate hospitals,” he replied, shooting the state troopers a gritty look as he drew in a long drink of water.

“Come on. You hear stories on the street, but we want to hear you tell it,” McKinley’s partner pressed. “Come on Cleaver. Tell us how it started. We’ve got nothing but time here.”

“You want to know?” Tommy chuckled, a wince rippling across his face as he adjusted his shoulder. “It started at the red house. I was seven when we moved in. Everything about the house was red. The siding was red. The carpet was red. Even the wallpaper was a velvety rose- patterned red. About the only thing that wasn’t red was the dark walnut paneling in the living room and the dingy cupboards in the kitchen.

It was a dark house. I turned eight years old there and on my eighth birthday my parents bought me a brand new Huffy bike. It was black with black pads on the handle bars and frame. It had a banana seat too, but my friends helped me turn it into a racing bike. I loved that bike. I rode it every day before school and all afternoon when I got home. That’s until some wise ass thought he could steal it from me.”

There was a morbid chuckle from the two officers as they shook their heads. An odd kind of atmosphere filled the room. It gave McKinley the same type of feeling he got when a tornado was coming. He knew there was eminent danger and yet curiosity kept him watching as the nurse came in to check on Tommy’s sutures. “Are you doing alright? Can I get you anything for pain?”

“No Ken. I’m fine right now thanks,” Tommy answered, taking another swig of his water.

With a nod to the Detectives the nurse checked his cell phone and walked out of the room. McKinley slouched further into his chair and planted his left shoe on his right knee. “So go on Tommy, your bike got stolen yada, yada, yada.”

Tommy the Cleaver looked at him like a pit bull that just got tasered, cracked a menacing smile and said, “So, my boys and I went looking for the bastard”. As he took another swig Tommy’s eyes grew dimmer, his pupils dilating as he reached out and set the cup down again. In the corner, the heart monitor blipped causing the Detectives to look over. The rate dropped to an eerily restful pattern, as McKinley cleared his throat and gave an uneasy glance to his partner.

“We didn’t find him the first day, but on the second day Allen Blackleg from three blocks over came running up to us. We were sitting on the front porch of that red house and Allen says, all out of breath, I know who has your bike.

I tell you boys that I stood up, calmly went in the house, walked over to the cutlery drawer and slid the cleaver into the back of my pants. Then I went outside and told Allen to take us to him. The next thing I know my buddies are holding Daryn Krenshaw down and I’m yelling hold his hand out, hold his hand out. That’s when I lean over and look Daryn right in the eyes and say you know what they do to thieves in Agrabar?” Tommy said with a cold grin.

Uncomfortable, McKinley’s partner leaned forward and adjusted his tie.

“That idiot just shook his head and yelled I’m going to kick your ass.” Tommy continued. “That’s when I slid the cleaver out and said they cut off your freakin hands.”

1. First Hit

Detective Mike Swift stood up and began fiddling around in his pockets. He checked both pant pockets simultaneously, then the inner pocket of his sport coat, “Hey, I’m gonna use the head real quick,” he said as McKinley nodded.

Tommy snickered a bit as he lifted the foam cup again and inhaled the water.

“So how did you get into the business?” McKinley asked, his foot still resting on his knee as he reclined back in the chair and locked his fingers behind his head.

“How does anyone get into the business?” Tommy responded wincing again as he rubbed just below the gunshot wound that landed him in their custody. “If you’re good at something, Detective, they seek you out.”

Glancing at the door and then his wristwatch, McKinley let his foot fall to the floor. “So you had a talent Cleaver?”

“You could say that. By the age of sixteen I had taken care of a few problems in my neighborhood, one of which was the former employee, God rest his soul, of Carlos Sarcozi.”

“Sarcozi,” the Detective said with a, hmmph. “That sounds unfortunate for you?”

“That all depends, Detective,” Tommy replied, taking another swig of his water. “I tend to look at the cup as half full if you get my point.”

“Oh you’re an optimist? How wonderful for you Tommy,” the Detective jabbed. “I suppose you love sunsets and long walks on the beach too?”

“Have you been to Coney Island at sunset?” Tommy replied with a raise of his eyebrow. “It’s quite enjoyable,” the prisoner continued as the door to the room squeaked open again.

“You’re just in time partner,” McKinley said as Swift walked in and sat down beside him again. “Captain Positive here was just about to tell me the story of his first hit, weren’t you Tommy?”

A calculating grin was cemented on Tommy’s face. There was a menacing look about his eyes as the heart monitor bleated out a change in heart rate again. “You know those things will kill you,” the prisoner jested, picking up the smell of smoke that lingered on the Detective. “At least that’s what the Surgeon General says.”

Swift let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah, what doesn’t?” He replied. “So go on. Tell us about this unlucky bastard that you had to hit.”

“Well.” Tommy smirked. “He looked a lot like you except he had a cock and balls. This I know because he was one of those fairy cops that wore spandex and rode a mountain bike around passing out tickets all day.”

“You think you’re cute asshole?” Swift yelled, jumping up from his seat.

McKinley was up right behind him, holding his partner back. “Calm down Mike,” he urged as his ruffled partner huffed.

Tommy snickered despite the pain that burned through his shoulder. “That unlucky bastard never knew what hit him,” he continued. “I was told he kept putting tickets on Sarcozi’s car so to initiate me into the family they had me do him.”

Calming some, the two Detectives sat back down. Swift glared at the prisoner as he straightened his coat and tie. “If I ever get the chance to shoot at you again Tommy I’ll be sure to aim a little more down and to the right.”

Still smiling, the comment seemed to ricochet off him. “It was simple really,” Tommy continued. “I just watched him for a few days. You fellas understand a stakeout. I got to know his routine, his habits, his bike route. Then on a sunny Friday afternoon I boosted an old Trail Blazer.” With a slurp, Tommy drew the last of his water from the cup and sat it back on the cart. “Now there’s a trick to hitting someone on a bike if you want to kill’m,” he went on reenacting the event with his hands, his left moving slowly as the right, like a sail, rounded its way in front of it . “Patience is everything. So I let Officer Franklin round the corner on 5th Street and gently ran into him from the side accelerating as he fell down.”

There was a mortified look on McKinley’s face as he scratched the back of his head compulsively. Swift just sat and stared like a starving dog on a leash. “The reason for this, boys,” Tommy continued “is if you hit a person and you’re going too fast they tend to fly up and onto the hood or windshield. This will often bust them up a bit, but won’t necessarily kill them. So I gave Franklin a little love tap and then crushed him.”

With a long exhale McKinley began rubbing his forehead.

“The beauty of this technique is you can drive away and your windshield’s not all buggered up.” Tommy said, as if it were a procedure out of a manual. “Hell, you guys understand right? You can’t see to drive if the glass is all spider webbed. It’s simple.”

1. Posturing

There was an air of hostility in the tiny recovery room. Detective Swift stared at the prisoner with a viral contempt. The thought of flinging this madman out the window and watching him plummet fifteen stories to a horrible death was becoming irresistible.

“What’s the matter Detective?” Tommy egged.

With a jerk Swift leapt up sending his chair clanging around behind him. He managed to land a solid right into Tommy’s mouth before McKinley got a hold of him. “That was my cousin you douche bag,” Swift yelled as his partner pushed him out of the room. “He had a wife and two kids.”

The Cleaver just chuckled, his eyes pinched together as he pulled a tissue from the tiny box on the cart and dabbed his bloodied lip. “Good times,” he jested to himself. “Good times.”

Outside the room McKinley tried to calm his partner. “Settle down Mike,” he said, his hand firmly planted on his partners shoulder. “He knows what the hell he’s doing. You gotta stop letting him get under your skin.”

Fuming, Swift took in a deep breath and tried to calm down. “Al was a good cop Bill.”

“I know,” McKinley nodded, loosening his grip.

“If I had known it was that bastard that killed Al I would have shot him in the head and not the shoulder,” Swift continued, trying to regain his composure.

“You okay, buddy?” Officer Rice asked as he left his post outside the door and approached the two Detectives.

“Yeah, thanks Jim,” the Detective said grinning and shaking his head. “He just knows how to get into your head you know.”

Officer Rice nodded as he unsnapped the button of his shirt pocket and offered the two Detectives a piece of gum. “Is the DA really going to cut this clown a deal?” he said with a baffled look.

“Yeah can you believe that?” McKinley remarked taking a piece of Big Red from the pack. “They say if he can help bring down the rest of Sarcozi’s cartel then they are willing to bargain with him.”

Opening the door to the room, Rice looked in and gave the prisoner an intimidating look. The officer stood six foot five with a broad posture. The sleeves of his navy blue uniform wrapping tightly around the mahogany arms that barreled out of them. “Well I’ll be out here all evening if you fellas need anything,” he said as his entire body seemed to flex.

Still grinning, Tommy looked over at the door. From his angle he could see the hulking starched chest of the officer. The uniform seemed to fit the man’s body like the jacket of a hard covered book, tight and perfectly creased. He took closer notice of the officer’s badge, though. The silver ornament stood out on the blue pocket flap like a beacon in the night sky. It read, Officer Jim Rice, in bold black print.

Throwing the bloody tissue on the floor, Tommy reached across his waist and pressed the ringer for the nurse. Within a few moments Ken was excusing himself past the officers. The two Detectives following as he approached the bed. “Did you need something for pain yet?” Ken asked.

“No no Ken. I just need some more water,” he said as he looked the nurse in the face.

It was then that Ken noticed the cut on Tommy’s mouth. “Are you alright? What happened to your lip?” the nurse asked turning back and directing the question at the two Detectives.

“I’m fine Ken,” Tommy remarked before Swift had a chance to open his mouth. “This happens all the time. It must be the weather,” he jested with a stoic look on his face.

“Well I’ll get you some more water,” Ken said shaking his head in a scolding manner as he passed the Detectives again and left the room.

“I would tell you I’m sorry for punching you in the mouth, Tommy, but I’m not,” Swift said as the two gentlemen fixed their chairs and sat down again.

“That’s alright Detective,” Tommy said. “If I was you I would have killed me.”

1. Jackpot

Sitting back McKinley propped his left foot on his right knee again and said, “You think you boys can stop taking digs at one another for a while? I’d like to get through this.”

“Sure,” Tommy said as Swift smiled at him and smacked his chewing gum.

“So tell us,” Swift chomped. “How exactly did Sarcozi win the lottery?” the Detective questioned attempting to get to the meat of things.

There was some hesitation on Tommy’s face as he thought about how to answer him. “Well that’s a funny story,” Tommy continued. “You see he didn’t exactly win it so much as inherit it.”

The two Detectives glanced at one another again. “Are you trying to tell us Sarcozi’s dear old mother left him a winning ticket in a will?” McKinley said sarcastically, rubbing the scruff of his chin and cheek.

Cocking his head towards the Detectives Tommy allowed his eyes to fall towards the door as Ken walked in with a fresh foam cup of water. “Not exactly, Detective,” he said as he thanked Ken and took the water from him.

“You’re welcome,” Ken replied. “Just ring me if you need anything at all.”

“You’re the best, Ken,” Tommy said as the nurse made his way back out of the room. “I will definitely call you when I need something,” the killer grinned as his eyes fell back on the Detectives. “You see what happened boys, is I was doing this job,” he continued, taking a swig of water. “It was simple enough, the guy was old.”

Detective Swift slid back in his chair and started chewing with his mouth closed, his eyes focusing as he settled in for the confession.

“Benny was his name,” Tommy sneered. “He had owed Sarcozi money off and on for years, but this time the boss was fed up,” he said taking another swig of water and then resting the cup on the cart. “You see Benny had a bit of a gambling problem. It had gotten him in pretty deep with, well, the wrong people,” Tommy continued adjusting his shoulder with a wince.

“Looks like you need some Codeine,” McKinley said, watching the pain jilt the prisoners face.

“No. I’m fine,” Tommy said; his left eye pinched closed as his forehead wrinkled. “Sarcozi had learned that Benny was in deep to several poker rooms around the city. He knew that loser was never going to make good on his debt. This is something the boss never took lightly. Now, I knew Benny. He was a nice enough guy you know. He had been through some shit, lost his wife a few years back you know. But, hey, it’s my job, right, so I go over to his place and find an eviction notice on the door, there’s empty beer bottles and cans lying around the yard and in the bushes. The shingles on the roof are curling and falling off. He’s got a big chunk of siding missing from the front of the house and I think damn, Benny’s really hit the bottom.”

“So what, did you whack him or give him an appraisal?” Swift quipped, shaking his head in annoyance.

“Cute, Detective,” the killer said smirking. “Any way, I walked around to the back of the place and noticed the door was open and a box fan running, blowing air inside. Piece of cake,” he said, moving his left hand in a slicing motion. “So I leaned my head in the door and drew the .45 out of my coat. You could just hear the poor slob in the front room blabbing to some old girlfriend. She had just moved back home or something. He was all giddy,” Tommy chuckled. “He sounded like a school boy. That’s when I eased my way over the fan and walked up the hall.”

From his peripheral vision McKinley could see the heart monitor beginning to speed up. The jagged lines bounced up and down as the killer spoke. It made the Detective’s hair stand up on the back of his neck.

“I remember the little TV was on,” Tommy continued. “Benny sat in front of it on a resin yard chair. He had started whining about his neighbors, how he hated them, how their lawns were so perfect and how they were nice to the point of nausea. The girl must have laughed because he gave her one of those half chuckles that people do when they’re faking,” the Cleaver said as his eyes squinted.

Swift felt a lump in his gut as he sat and listened. The thought of beating this guy to a pulp was still itching in the back of his brain. He chewed slower on the staling gum as he watched Tommy gesture with his hands.

“So I positioned myself in the shadowed side of the hall and prepared to make my move. I had planned to just pop him in the side of the skull and slip back out the back door, but then the Power Ball came on,” Tommy said. “I could just see the ticket in his hand as he talked with that girl and watched the numbers roll out of the hopper.”

McKinley listened as the monitor eased back to a lulling pace again. It was unnerving for him. He started scratching his face and the back of his head incessantly.

“17, 42, 3, 25, 28. Benny got all discombobulated as the numbers appeared. To tell you the truth I got a little excited myself, but when that power ball came up old Benny went hysterical. He started jumping up and down screaming I won, I won! That’s when I stepped out and said no, Benny, you lose, and put a slug in the center of his forehead. It was beautiful,” Tommy chuckled, shaking his head back and forth.

“Jesus,” McKinley gasped. “You’re a God damned psychotic.”

The reaction stirred the Cleaver into an all out laughing fit. He nodded as he laughed, wiping his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Yeah maybe Detective, maybe,” he said trying to catch his breath. “Anyway, I leaned over that dead shmuck and pulled the ticket out of his hand,” he continued with a chortle. “After that I was on easy street.”

1. Moment’s Notice

There was a mortified look on Detective Swift’s face as he took the flavorless gum from his mouth and threw it into the small waste can between the bed and the heart monitor. “Do you feel any remorse for the people you’ve killed?” he questioned as their prisoner attempted to compose himself.

“Well,” the Cleaver said with a pause. “No,” he continued. “Not usually. But there was this one time that I felt sort of bad,” he said, scrunching the right side of his mouth up towards his nose. “It was when I had to kill my best friend.”

“Really!” Detective McKinley said, allowing his foot to fall from its perched position on his knee. “I’ve gotta hear this.”

The sun cut through the blinds of the room as it moved ever closer to the horizon. It broke across Tommy the Cleaver’s face in strips of light and shadow. One of the strips blazed across his eyes creating a fractal flare of colors as he spoke. “I was given the job on the spot,” he said, glaring at Detective McKinley. “Sarcozi told me to hurry over to the airport. There was a funeral I had to attend,” the killer said with a solemn face. “He had arranged a 10:00 am flight to Newark. He said I would get my instructions once I got there.”

McKinley sat forward in his chair and nodded at Tommy; the light slicing the room to ribbons.

“I only had a few minutes once I got to my house to grab a toiletry bag and my black suit.

For a moment the Cleaver paused. He seemed to drift off into thought as he looked away from the Detectives and into the glaring light. He saw that day clearly as the sun burned into his retinas; His wife Helena questioning him as he threw the black, three buttoned Armani suit onto their bed; her auburn hair falling around her face as she demanded his answer. He pushed past her snatching the garment up, the tie falling off the hanger as he went. She began to yell at him. Not now Helena he said as he bent to recover the tie. The suits 600 thread count was soft in his crushing hand, soft like Helena’s skin as he stood up and wrapped his other hand around her throat. Not – now – Helena he said again, this time with his teeth gritting. Tears streamed down her face bringing streaks of eyeliner with them as he pushed her away. She kept a good distance behind as he quickly moved to the end of the hall and flung open the linen closet. Rummaging a moment, he knocked over several things before emerging with a small black toiletry bag. Don’t ever question me about my work again he scolded, shaking the small bag at her as she leaned against the doorjamb of their bedroom sobbing.

“And,” McKinley said, breaking the prisoners spell.

“And,” Tommy replied as he cleared his throat. “And so I stuffed them both into a garment bag and took off,” he continued. “Before I knew it I was in Newark and some guy named Trent was driving me to the funeral home. I changed into my suit in the car,” he said picking up the foam cup on the cart and taking a large drink of water. “Once we were there he gave me a knife a folder and a name,” Tommy said with another large gulp of water.

“And it was your best friend?” Swift asked him.

“Yes,” Tommy said as his eye brows rose and crushed his forehead into a series of folds. “It was Allen Blackleg. His grandfather had apparently fallen asleep while smoking and burned his house to the ground. It was a closed casket ceremony.”

“And you had no idea it was going to be him?” Swift questioned.

“No,” Tommy replied. “I had not seen him in months and I never knew he had family in Newark.”

McKinley let out a, hmmm as he scratched the stubble on his cheek.

“According to the dossier Allen had been having an affair with Sarcozi’s wife. This was unacceptable. Everything comes down to loyalty, boys. Allen had stepped outside of the rules,” Tommy stressed. “So about ten minutes before the service began Trent escorted Allen up to the casket and asked him would you mind being a part of the service? This is when I approached from behind and thrust the knife through his chest,” he said, motioning with is left hand.

Both Swift and McKinley appeared graveled now as the killer animatedly described the account.

“I could tell that Allen wanted to scream out, but nothing would come but a gurgling sound. I held him up for that moment as his life escaped him and Trent opened his grandfather’s coffin. As he died I let him fall in on top of his grandfather’s remains then Trent quickly closed the lid again,” Tommy said with a distraught tone. “It was only seconds after this that the funeral attendants entered and asked us to please join the rest of the service outside.”

“Did you attend the service?” Swift asked with a look of terror on his face.

“Well of course,” the Cleaver answered. “I wasn’t going to miss my best friend’s funeral.”

1. The Break

There was a befuddled look on the Detective’s faces as the nurse came rolling into the room with a supper cart. “It’s time for dinner, Tommy,” Ken said as he pushed the cart between the Detectives and the prisoner. “I would appreciate it if you let him get some rest for a while and a bit of nourishment,” he continued, firing a queer eye at the interrogators.

“Right,” McKinley said, slapping his partner on the shoulder. “Let’s go down to the cafeteria for a while.”

“Sure,” Swift replied. “We’ll be back up in a half hour or so Tommy. We wouldn’t want you getting malnourished or anything,” he continued, shaking his head as he left the room.

Ken made a scoffing sound as the door closed behind them. “Those guys are assholes,” he said, placing the food tray on Tommy’s cart.

“Ah they’re just doing their job, Ken,” he replied as the nurse lifted the lid from his platter to reveal a poor excuse for spaghetti and meatballs. “We all have our jobs to do right?”

“I guess so,” Ken huffed.

“Right,” Tommy continued, twirling the spaghetti on his fork and spoon. “They’ve got their job; you’ve got your job. It’s just the way it is.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Ken smiled. “Is there anything else I can get you while I’m here?”

“No Ken, I’m fine thanks,” he answered as he managed the first bite of his dinner.

“Alright then, enjoy your dinner and I’ll be back around in a bit to get your tray,” the nurse said as he turned and left the room again.

Tommy waved as he chewed and when the door closed behind the nurse he was left with the quiet sounds of the heart monitor and his thoughts of Helena. He rolled another bit of noodle onto his fork as he thought of her. She was likely in Genoa now.

The tone of the monitor began to race as he thought of his wife. They had spent months planning their trip to Italy and decided finally on Genoa because it was where he had taken her on their honeymoon. After years of living a brutal life he had promised her a fresh start. He was going to clean the slate he told her.

The promise of the move had put a glimmer in Helena’s eyes, something he had not seen since their wedding almost twenty years ago. Three days before she had finished packing the scant amount of items they would take on the trip. Most of their belongings had been donated to the Salvation Army a week prior.

Helena was careful to pack her father’s old stovetop espresso maker. She had always cherished it. The smell of the espresso invariably brought back the memories of her father and brothers sitting around the table after dinner. She would poor the rich steaming liquid as they smoked and her father, Pietro, would tell them stories with his thick accent and his foul tongue, something that always got the boys laughing and her mother fuming.

She had also packed the china cups he had bought her on their first anniversary, carefully rolling them in the few articles of clothing they had left. They had decided to buy everything new once they arrived in Genoa. He thought of how she had marked each box as fragile with her beautiful bubbly handwriting and how he had jokingly told her it was an invitation for the baggage boys to destroy it.

Tommy laughed as he thought of this then placed a piece of meatball between the grit of his teeth. The sun outside had fallen just below the skyline of the city. It scattered an orange hue through the billowing clouds. It took him back to their honeymoon.

They had stayed at the Columbus Sea Hotel and from their room they had a clear view of the bay. On their second day in Genoa Helena had decided they were having a picnic on the beach. She made him buy a basket in town that morning and in her usual fashion meticulously packed a variety of cheeses, fruits and bread.

His job was to find a good wine to take. He had packed a bottle of Black Rooster Chianti and secretly tucked it between their beach towels with a cork opener and two fluted wine glasses. That evening on the beach was the happiest time he could remember. With the bright orange of the sun mirroring on the Ligurian Sea and the shimmer in Helena’s eyes it was the only moment that he had ever felt alive.

He was determined to get to her. The thought of Helena ached in his heart, but first he had unfinished business. There was a final score to settle and then his new life would begin.

1. The Tell

The sound of the door swooshing open snapped Tommy back into character. He could hear the Detectives laughing as they spoke to Officer Rice just outside. A terrible throbbing pulsed in his shoulder where the round had traveled clean through. It was difficult not to accept the pain medication, but he knew he had to keep his wits about him.

“Gentlemen,” Tommy bellowed with a smile as McKinley and Swift approached.

Still chuckling, Swift looked at McKinley and answered, “You seem refreshed.”

“Well, Detectives, that’s what a good meal will do for you,” he replied with a musing tone.

Laughing under their breath the Detectives took their seats once more. McKinley reclined with a toothpick poking out of his mouth, sluggishly pulling his foot to his knee again. Swift sat forward as usual looking everywhere around the room except into Tommy’s eyes.

“So, the D.A. wants to know what you can offer us,” Swift pressed, cutting away from the pleasantries.

With a wince Tommy adjusted himself in the bed again. “What kind of round was that anyway, Swift?” he questioned as he rubbed below the wound and around his shoulder.

“What?” Swift asked, as if he didn’t hear the question.

“The round,” Tommy continued. “What kind of round was it?”

There was uneasiness on the Detectives face as he looked at McKinley then back at Tommy. “I used a rifle,” he answered as his leg began to fidget.

“Yeah, thanks I understand that you had a rifle, but what kind of round was in it?” the prisoner oppugned already knowing the answer.

Swifts leg danced as he looked around the room. “It was a .585 Nyati,” he admitted. “What’s the point?”

“I was just curious,” he answered, his mouth smiling as the rest of his face remained staunch. “Is that a State issue? “Cause, boy it really packs a punch,” Tommy continued rhetorically.

“No,” Swift stated with a grave look washing over his face. “You have to have a Master Big Bore Specialist fit the cartridge,” he continued, his knee coming to a halt as a bead of sweat formed on his brow. “Mine was constructed on a Winchester model 70.”

“That”s a beautiful rifle, Detective,” Tommy complimented as his mind roiled, the pieces coming together for him.

“Yeah,” the Detective continued with a point blank stare. He seemed to stiffen as his face grew flush and shiny with perspiration. “I had it built after I got out of the service.”

“Can we get back to asking the questions, Mike?” McKinley huffed.

“Ever know a boy named Pete Aritano?” the Cleaver threw in.

Swift’s leg began to tremor again, “Who?”

“Pete Aritano. Are you familiar with the name?”

“No.”

“Are you sure about that Detective?”

“I don’t recall it.”

“He was a good kid…”

“Is there a point to this?”

“…the kind of kid you hope your daughter brings home.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, yah lunatic.”

“He was just starting his first year of college…”

“And!”

“…and, and he was innocent, Detective!”

“So what!”

“He had nothing to do with the business, but somebody offed him, Detective. Somebody put a fucking .585 through his skull…”

“Are you trying to say that I shot this kid?”

“…his mother found him lying on the floor…”

“I didn’t shoot that kid!”

“That’s enough! That’s enough you guys,” McKinley shouted jumping up from his chair and spitting his toothpick out. “Jesus, get a grip Mike; if you can’t handle this then call it a night,” the Detective said as he paced between the two men.

“I’m sorry, Bill,” Swift said, wringing his hands through his hair. “Maybe I should call it a night.”

“Yeah well maybe we all should call it a night,” McKinley suggested. “It seems Captain Positive here gets a little cranky when he’s tired,” he jested with a smirk.

“Right, I must be tired Detective,” the Cleaver said never severing his gaze from Swift.

Swift continued to twist his hair as he stood up and walked towards the door. He couldn’t leave the room quick enough. McKinley just stood with his hands on his hips, “We’ll wrap this up in the morning, Tommy.” He said with a stern voice.

“That’s fine, Detective. You have a pleasant evening,” the prisoner said with a nod. “So I’ll see you later then, Detective Swift!” he sniped as the agitated officer clasped the handle of the door.

“Sure Tommy, sure,” Swift answered, turning his head slightly to reveal a melancholy grin.

As the Detectives left the room Tommy reached over and grabbed the remote to the television. With a few flicks he managed to find the History channel. A good loud documentary about the war with Germany was on. He cranked the sound as loud as it would go then went about pulling the saline drip out of his arm.

Patient, Tommy let a good fifteen minutes pass before he picked up the call pendant and rang for the nurse. In a matter of minutes Ken was bustling through the door. “Ooh the History channel. I love that station,” he declared with a smile. “Did you need something?”

“Yeah, Ken,” the killer responded. “Can you help me get up? I’ve gotta use the can.”

Without hesitation Ken picked up the dinner platter and rested it on the rolling cart then pushed the bed tray out of the way. “I could imagine after all that water that you’ve got to go pretty bad,” he said leaning over to help Tommy up.

“Oh, I’ve gotta go, Ken,” he said as his hands eased up to the nurse’s shoulders then with a terrible pop broke his neck. The dead nurse slumped over the bed as a burn raced through Tommy’s shoulder. He pressed on it out of impulse and felt the warm ooze of blood where a few of the stitches had popped.

He couldn’t let it bother him. He would have to deal with it later he thought as he climbed from the bed and disrobed. The nurse was almost a perfect fit he found as he stripped the scrubs off body and put them on. Within minutes he had laced the robe on Ken and covered him up in bed being careful to rest him on his side, back facing the door.

Tommy then unclipped Ken’s cell phone and pressed the top left contacts button. Under W he found three work numbers, one of which was the number to the nurse’s station. Pressing OK he listened to the phone ring until a women’s voice answered.

“Hello, Recovery, this is Niambi,” she said with a sassy voice.

Tommy could hear other women talking to her as she spoke, “Yes this is Detective McKinley. Can I speak to Officer Rice?” he asked in his best gruff voice.

“Certainly Detective,” she answered. “Hold on.”

When he heard the hold music he hung up and flung the cell phone onto the food cart. “Rest in peace, Ken,” he said musingly as he pulled the cart up to the door and opened it. To his great satisfaction, he saw Officer Rice and Niambi walking down the hall towards the nurse’s station. With a grin, he made a right turn with the cart, bee-lining it down the hall.

His mind was consumed with the thought of killing Swift. He had found the man who had killed his son and he was going to make him pay for it. Tommy went straight for the waiting room. There was a computer there for the visitors to use. He had seen it before.

Back at the nurse’s station Rice had reached the phone only to find the call had dropped. “Well, he’ll call back if it’s urgent,” the Officer said, flirting with Niambi as he tucked his thumb into his belt. “I don’t want to be away from my post if I don’t have to be,” he continued gesturing towards the room with a flexing hand motion. “Just let me know if he calls back.”

“I will,” Niambi said as she rounded the desk.

It did not take the Officer long to get back to the room. He felt an urgency to open the door. There was something about the dropped call that sat warily in his subconscious. A gut feeling perhaps or a sixth sense that told him something was wrong, but when the door opened Rice quickly dismissed it.

There on the bed was the sleeping patient. With a shrug, Rice let the door swing shut again, resuming his post in the folding chair just outside the room. Within minutes, he was engrossed in a Sudoku and had completely forgotten about the call.

At the end of the hall, adjacent to the elevators, Tommy sat making phone calls. He had found four Mike Swifts on Yellow Book.com and was in the process of calling the second one when an answering machine came on. Hello you’ve reached the Swift residence. We are unable-. Click. A fierce look of determination took hold of Tommy’s face as he drew the pen from the blue scrub pocket and jotted down the address on the palm of his hand.

He knew the area well. It was only about twenty minutes from the hospital give or take the traffic he thought to himself as he pressed the down button to the elevator. With a ding, the door opened and Tommy stepped inside. A handful of other people, mostly visitors piled in with him as he pressed the ground floor button.

The killer acted nonchalant as the elevator plummeted. He couldn’t help noticing a woman staring at him, though. Tommy worried as he fidgeted with the keys in his pocket. He thought she recognized the nametag as she pointed to him, “Are you bleeding?” she asked.

With a grin and a sigh he answered, “No. That’s someone else’s,” and then the door opened.

It didn’t take him long to find Ken’s car. Pressing the button on the remote key Tommy walked through the employee parking lot until he saw the flashing lights of freedom beckon to him. It was a red Pontiac G-6 and as he opened the door and sat down he noticed a rainbow air-freshener hanging from the rear view mirror.

“Well isn’t that sweet,” he said mockingly, throwing it out the window as he peeled away. It took him exactly thirty five minutes to find Swifts brick ranch from the moment he left the parking lot. To his jubilance the Detective was not home. He had stopped at the bar to have a few drinks before staggering out to his car and driving home.

At 11:46 pm the swerving Detectives Trailblazer pulled into the driveway. He somehow managed to pour himself out of the vehicle only to be struck in the back of the head by a tire iron Tommy had pulled from the Pontiac’s trunk.

By three in the morning, Detective Mike Swift was awaking to the sound of poring cement. He was nestled and wired to the inner steel support bars of a pylon. The bars and Swift had been lowered into a mold and standing above them was the ominous Cleaver.

“Salutations, Detective,” the killer chuckled as he pressed the stop button of his remote control. The Detective struggled as his eyes raced wide and wild. Gradually the cement stopped flowing, globs continuing to fall as Swift stood neck deep in concrete.

“What?” Swift screamed. “What do you want?”

“What do I want? What do I want! I want my son back, Swift,” he yelled waving the remote at him as he spoke, his voice echoing through the industrial cement yard. “But I can’t have that.”

“I didn’t kill your son. I swear it,” Swift pleaded.

“But you know who I’m talking about right? You know Pete Aritano!” he bellowed.

“Yes. Yes.”

“Pete Aritano Sarcozi?”

“Yes,” Swift repeated. “They thought we could flush out Sarcozi by getting to his family,” he admitted. “No one had ever seen Sarcozi, but information about his son had leaked.”

“So you shot Pete?”

“Ye-yeah I shot him,” the Detective stuttered as a realization flooded his thoughts. It was as if a levy had broken in his mind, “you!”

“Yes Detective. Allow me to introduce myself,” he said with a callous look, pressing the start button as he spoke. “My name is Thomas Carlos Sarcozi and you can take comfort in knowing that you will be giving your fellow officers support for generations,” he continued, his eyes piercing as the cement pored over Swift’s mouth. “…for this pylon will be going into the parking ramp of the new police station downtown.”

Swift’s eyes screamed in silent desperation as the gray fluid sloshed over. A smile chiseled onto Sarcozi’s face as the final tuft of hair slipped under the quick set. “No need to thank me Detective,” he jested. “We’ll just call this my way of doing you a solid.”