Posted by belisarius under Images Of The Natural And The Supernatural
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MURDER
There had been a killing down the street. Depending on one’s attitude that was a terrible thing: “On this block? Oh, my God.” Or else exciting in a grim way: “Did you hear? Some drug dealer got his.”
To most people though it was just a part of life in the city: Walk quickly without seeming to hurry. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t show any interest in anything. By the next morning water cooler chit chat had returned to baseball and TV, the office management, and who was doing who. The same was the case with those who lived on the street. The victim had been a nice guy or an asshole, or had problems. He’d been in St Vincent’s Hospital or Bellevue Psychiatric, or some prison in Pennsylvania. Soon conversation would turn to more pressing problems and prospects.
To the medical examiner the body on the table was routine. Name: unknown. Sex: male. Age: about 25. Medical conditions: nothing major observed. No indication of drug use. Cause of death: puncture wound just below the heart and a knife slash of the carotid artery probably administered as the victim fell after being wounded in the chest. Immediate cause of death: major loss of blood from two wounds.
To the two detectives sent to investigate there was also little to note. There were no witnesses. The corpse had been found by an early morning jogger in a side alley at 770 West 43rd street. Word on the street was that he was a gangster wannabe who had been dealing without gang permission. They wrote up their report, filed it, and then ate lunch at Dina’s Diner near the Midtown North precinct house. The only thing they’d uncovered that morning was how pissed people who’d worked all night were to be awakened, even at 11:00 AM.
Detective Bruce Myers gave his partner his share of the check and walked into the cold street leaving Matt Johnson to finish a third coffee and pay the tab. The diner was old fashioned, modeled after a railroad car. It had aluminum siding and was raised on a concrete platform. It was “boarded” by walking up three cement steps. Next to the steps was a pottery planter which might have had something flowering in it in spring but now just held some dead weeds and a crumpled cigarette pack. The sidewalk was filthy though Myers hadn’t noticed that until today.
Headquarters might want him to question more of the street people. Not that he’d learn anything. Nor did it matter. The dead man was just another small time dealer, usually an addict himself. The ME had made a point of noting that the victim had not appeared to be a user though. That was unusual and might mean something. Word on the street had been that he was new and unwelcome. From out of town though no one knew from where. Perhaps he’d been too stupid or naive to know that he was risking his life. Perhaps he’d been in debt and had needed money. Perhaps, perhaps, Myers told himself that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter either that the guy had been not that much younger than he himself. Still in his twenties but with no indication of drug use. The thought bothered him in a way that detectives do not usually take death on the city streets personally. Most of the dealers were in their twenties. Few survived longer. Either they went to prison for something or they died at St Vincent’s. Very occasionally one would get sober and find a life. The others were just lost and it didn’t matter. Even those they’d known on the street took their deaths in stride. Most didn’t expect to survive all that long either.
Like Myers, street people had no family and no real girlfriends. Those who’d fathered children had either left them or been thrown out of their homes. Like Myers they had no-one to care about them. Myers’ own idea of a good time was nothing but a few drinks with other officers after work. Most of these went home early though; they had families. A few still held onto a belief in a God of some sort and shared their belief with their five and eight and ten year olds. He didn’t. All he had was getting drunk, occasionally with some whore. When he went to his apartment that night he thought for a long time about himself and the dead man while cleaning his service revolver. Then he shot himself.
