Hennessey led the way through the kitchen and down a narrow hallway littered with cardboard boxes and debris to the rear exit. He kicked open the door and stepped outside.
In the lane, Staal took the lead until they reached the rear of his Mustang. In his mind’s eye, he could see Kimberly Walker lying in filth, struggling for breath, in an alley much like this one. He saw Hennessey on top of her, his belt tight around her throat, and Mohammed standing near by, guarding the scene. Staal shook his head and spat. The idea of these two killing Walker made his heart hammer in his chest and his face heat. He fumbled for his keys and then paused for a moment, “You guys ready?”
“Fuck, yeah!” Hennessey said.
Staal opened the lid and motioned the two buyers to step closer. Inside the trunk was a dull black duffle bag. Rodriquez pushed through between the suspects and flipped open the bag, to reveal two pistols and extra ammunition. “Feast your eyes, ladies.”
“Jesus-fuckin’-shit!” Hennessey’s mouth dropped open.
“Meet the Smith twins!”
Mohammed’s eyes lit up. “Shit, yeah! Nine millimeter?” He reached for a pistol.
Staal blocked Abdul’s reach. “Only the best. Five hundred for the pair. But I need to move them right now.” He let Mohammed pick up the weapon and then to Hennessey he said, “How ‘bout you, Blood, you still need?”
Hennessey slowly nodded and lifted his own semi-automatic.
Mohammed stood staring at the pistol in his hands. He mumbled, “That’s no moon, it’s a space station.” He held the pistol sideways like some hip-hop gangster. “I’ll—I’ll get the cash.”
Hennessey’s interest in the pistols ended as soon as Mohammed moved for the bag of cash in their vehicle.
“See this?” His voiced trembled. He displayed three photos of a young blonde female, around thirteen years old.
Staal recognized the girl immediately. He had worked the case for VPD and never forgot his failure. She was beautiful even in death, and he hated this terrible disrespect. In her life, Lynda Fontaine was a normal, happy healthy kid enjoying her first year of high school. She deserved better, than her photos drooled over by this piece-of-shit.
“I need you guys to get me a girl like her—pure—a virgin.” Hennessey sounded orgasmic to Staal.
“Yeah, who’s this blonde?” Staal asked.
“I don’t know,” Hennessey sighed. “She’s dead, I think. So, can you get me a girl—no questions asked?”
“Yeah—sure, gonna cost you five grand for a bitch that tight,” Rodriquez said.
“Yeah sure—she has to be cherry,” Hennessey ran a hand across a photo down her naked leg. “Cause it won’t work if she ain’t pure.”
Staal wanted to pull out his weapon and kill this man. “Guaranteed—untouched!”
Hennessey spoke, “Good—you’ll call when you have her?” He touched the photo, running his fingers over her stomach and stopping at her breast.
Staal turned to look at Rodriquez.
“Yeah, I’ll call you, dude,” Rodriquez’s voice had a hint of disgust.
“Why doncha get a girl yourself?” Staal added.
“No way. I—um...”
“Whatever. So, about the guns. We gotta deal or what?” Staal said.
“Yeah, yeah! Mohammed, you got the fuckin’ money for these guys?”
Mohammed returned from Hennessey’s car with a backpack, reached in and pulled out a bundle of cash. He counted off five hundred for Staal, took one look at Hennessey and his photographs, and his face went bright red. “Fuck, Francis! Not this shit about the girl!”
“I need...”
“Fuck your need.” Mohammed looked to Staal and then to Rodriquez. “We’ll take the guns—but forget whatever this asshole said about a girl—fuck that shit!”
After a few seconds, Staal spoke. “Sure, man, no problem.”
Hennessey tossed the duffle bag into the Firebird, slammed the hatch and turned to glance at Staal and Rodriquez. “So, um—call me when you have it?” he managed.
“Sure, give me a number?” Rodriquez said.
“Um, no—I’ll call you.”
“Francis, get in the fucking car!” Mohammed said. He pushed Hennessey toward the Firebird.
Staal knew that the firearm deal was good for the arrest; however he believed he had a plan that the investigators could use to leverage a confession. “Okay, then.” He rolled up the cash and put it into his jacket. “I think it’s high time we all disappeared.”
Mohammed stuffed one pistol in his waistband and climbed into Hennessey’s car. “Come on, asshole,” he yelled at Hennessey.
Hennessey was obviously unhappy with his partner’s attempt to crash his virgin transaction.
Staal and Rodriquez hopped into the Mustang. “Lovers’ quarrel,” Staal said.
Rodriquez laughed and Staal began to back his vehicle out of the dead end alley.
When Hennessey reversed the Firebird, Staal gave the order into the radio. “All units execute!”
Staal pressed down hard on the accelerator, smoking the tires. Before he reached 207 NW Street, Gooch cut him off with her Impala. A second later Fraser pulled up his cruiser; both vehicles had their blue and red lights flashing. Four detectives burst from the blockade units with their weapons drawn.
“FREEZE!” Fraser commanded.
Hennessey continued to reverse toward Staal’s Mustang, seemingly unaware of the events unfolding in his rearview. Staal slammed down his hand on the horn. Hennessey stopped, and then he and Mohammed bolted from the Firebird and sprinted for the exit door of the Sanguinary.
Fraser continued to bark orders at Staal and Rodriquez. “Place your hands on top of your head!”
Hennessey flung open the door to the Sanguinary, and Mohammed followed him inside, but both men turned around as three uniform cops burst through the door with their guns drawn. With their hands on top of their heads, Hennessey and Mohammed dropped to their knees.
“Step out of the vehicle,” Fraser yelled as he swung open the driver’s door of the Mustang.
“Guess we’re going down, too,” Rodriquez said.
“Yeah. Look at Jonesy take those two dickheads. Twenty years plus on the job and he still loves this shit.”
Corporal Fred Jones had Hennessey in handcuffs before Fraser moved to read the suspects their rights.
“Down on your knees,” Fraser barked as Staal got out of his car. Gooch removed Staal’s weapon from his holster as she frisked him.
Constable Jason Rollins moved Hennessey past where Gooch was reading and informing Staal of his right to remain silent from a business card.
Gooch said, “Do you understand these rights as I have read them, Mr. Lynch?”
“Yeah, I understand, fuckin’ pig!” Staal said, barely able to hold his laughter.
“That’s damned original, Lynch,” Fraser said, his voice full of authority.
Fraser loaded Staal into the rear seat of his Impala. Next, Gooch sat Mohammed beside Staal. Rodriquez and Hennessey were placed in Gooch’s vehicle, just as they had arranged ahead of time. Staal hoped he and Rodriquez could gain the suspects’ trust this way.
“Hey, man, this will turn out fine. Don’t worry, those guns are clean, and they’re in Blood’s ride.” Staal said to Mohammed, as Gooch pulled her Impala from the alley. “Fuckin’ cops got nothing—on you or me.”
“Just shut up. Just fuckin’ shut up!” Mohammed’s eyes bore into Staal.
“Both of you shut up!” Gooch turned to yell.
From the corner of his eye, Staal studied Abdul Mohammed. Mohammed mumbled continually at an inaudible level. Perhaps only a nervous grumble, or even a prayer, it sounded at times like a chant. Other than the muttering, Mohammed exercised his right to remain silent.
Gooch made a left on Broadway, only minutes from 565. Staal heard a helicopter in the distance and his stomach growled.
“Jesus Christ, we’ve got sharks,” Gooch exclaimed, as she drove the Impala toward the underground parking.
“Yeah, look; we’ve got CBC, Global, even CNN is here!” Fraser responded. “Hard to believe for this late at night.”
Staal saw the television vans, reporter’s vehicles, video shoots in progress, others setting up, and at least two choppers overhead. It was full-burn media madness greater than any other case in his career. Staal was glad when Gooch turned the Impala around and headed for the gated rear entrance.
After placing Mohammed and Hennessey in separate interview rooms, the six detectives met in the hallway of the interrogation area. Staal watched his suspect through the one-way mirror in Room One. Francis Hennessey sat motionless at the small table in the center of the room, his head down and his arms crossed. Staal walked two steps and glanced at Abdul Mohammed in Room Two, sitting cross-legged on top of the table, his eyes closed, and his lips trembling.
Staal turned to face the others and began to lay out the plan of action. “Go at them about the photos. Get them thinking about a kidnapping and murder charge. We’ll use the pistols later.”
They decided that Fraser and Gooch would talk to the suspects first and inform them of where they stood with the investigation. Later, they would hit them with a more aggressive interview.
“I told Barnes that these two are up on stolen property charges. Wakamatsu and Hayes were already looking at a weapons dealer,” Gooch said.
“Nice cover.”
Staal knew that IHIT would take over the second the team heard about Hennessey and the others. He turned to the interview rooms. It bothered him that he couldn’t go at Hennessey and work him his way. For now, he would stay out and quarterback the strategy from the hallway, watching it all through the one-way glass. It was important that the suspects believed that he was Jeff Lynch and in as much trouble as they were.
Wakamatsu and Hayes left to keep tabs on the remaining members of DFA, Dwayne Shultz, and Stephen Posh. Patrol officers had informed the detectives that they were sitting in their car a few blocks from the Sanguinary nightclub.
“Got to head out, people. Got bad guys of my own to catch,” Rodriquez said.
Ken Fraser walked up to Hennessey, paused for a moment, and then slammed his hand down on the tabletop inches from Hennessey’s left ear. Hennessey jolted upright.
“Shit!”
“Francis Hennessey, there are nine photographs of thirteen-year-old Jo-Anne Rodgers in the trunk of a 1998 Firebird registered to you,” Gooch said. “Why are there pictures of a homicide victim in your vehicle?”
No response.
“This looks bad, Francis,” Fraser added. “Somebody threw that girl in a dumpster...somebody took 250 grand from the parents.”
Hennessey looked nervous, but he still said nothing.
“Was this Abdul’s plan? Were you just along for the ride?”
“Maybe a threesome got out of hand. Did she ask you to choke her while you where doing it? Maybe the bitch just up and overdosed on you guys.”
“I don’t know her—I pulled the photos off the web...that’s it...” Tears started to flow.
Staal grew tired of this line of questioning. It was his idea, but somehow he had no patience for any of it anymore. He paced the hallway, listening to the conversation over the intercom.
Fraser attempted a change in tactics. He endeavored to make it easy for Hennessey to say something. “How do Lynch and Rodriquez fit into this? Did they kill this girl, Francis? Did you help them get rid of the body?”
Gooch allowed a full minute to pass before she spoke. “Fuck, Hennessey! This ain’t no pissant assault charge. You’re lookin’ at murder one!”
“Twenty-five to life, Francis!” Fraser stood next to Hennessey’s ear. “You ready to do that kind of time? Talk to us, man. We can’t help you if you stay silent.”
“Help yourself. Tell us what happened. If not, we’ll build a murder case against you, then hand it over to Crown Counsel and it will be too late.”
Hennessey opened his mouth and sputtered, “Maybe—maybe I need a lawyer.”
Gooch sighed. “You could go that way, Francis. But then we couldn’t help you.”
“We would spend all our time nailing you for murder. And your buddies, Abdul and Lynch, might flip on you and pin it all on your ass,” Fraser said. “Besides, legal-aid counselors tend to fuck up more then they help.”
Gooch allowed more time to pass. “Do you want a lawyer, Francis?”
“No, I um—I need to think about this.” Hennessey hesitated. “Can I talk to Abdul?”
“No, man, you can’t talk to your friend. But sign this letter stating that you have waved your right to counsel, and we’ll get you a cigarette and something to drink. Maybe some chow.” Fraser pushed the sheet in front of Hennessey.
After Hennessey signed the document, the detectives left the room and nodded to Staal in the hallway. Staal handed them both a cup of coffee and turned to watch them work the same angle on Abdul Mohammed.
An hour later, Fraser and Gooch had a signed Declined Right to Counsel Form from Mohammed. Abdul had said less than Hennessey, but it was obvious that he did not intend to take a murder charge.
In the coffee room, Staal stuffed a Boston cream into his mouth, while Fraser sliced an apple and Gooch sipped tea. The initial conversations with Mohammed and Hennessey had taken too much time, but it had been worth it to keep them from lawyering up.