What Have You Done(4)

Don pointed to a closed-circuit camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling behind the counter. “Any video?”

Sean shook his head. “Camera feeds to a computer in the back. The CPU tower is gone. We also checked and found the registers had no cash. Same with the safe. But we got credit card receipts and checks.”

“CPU tower? Who uses a CPU tower anymore?”

“Like I said, he was seventy-two.”

Sean walked through the store while Don poked around behind the counter. Other than the murder itself, nothing had really been disturbed. The greeting cards were still in all of their slots next to the glass statues and music boxes, which remained behind their cases. Easter egg cutouts hung from the ceiling and gently swayed in a breeze he couldn’t feel. There was simply no sign of a struggle. “They didn’t take the checks and credit card receipts because they’re traceable. Cutter’s too smart for that.”

“You think it was Cutter?” Don asked. He was flipping through an invoice schedule that had been next to the register.

“You don’t?”

“Could be anyone.”

One of the forensic techs walked by, carrying a duffel bag of equipment. Sean peeked into the bag as he passed. There were spray bottles with liquid inside, plastic cases with tape over the tops, and a box of latex gloves. Forensics. That part of the investigation was always so foreign to him. His brother, Liam, worked Forensics. He was the smart one in the family.

“It’s Cutter,” Sean said when the tech was gone. “He’s been terrorizing these shop owners for years, and now he’s killing old men two blocks from city hall. He’s getting bold, and when he gets bold, he gets dangerous. It was him.”

“You’re probably right,” Don replied. “It fits his MO, but let’s keep digging to be sure. You’ve been up this guy’s ass for two years now, and you haven’t been able to make anything stick. We get a witness, and suddenly the witness disappears. We get someone to agree to testify, and then at the last second, they change their mind. If this was him, we need to find something that he can’t squirm out of.”

Sean waited for Don as he retreated from behind the back counter. They walked toward the front of the store. Greeting cards full of well-wishes and celebration surrounded them. Stuffed animals, ceramic dolls, happiness. Happiness among tragedy. Sean’s mind clouded with images of what might’ve taken place between Cutter and Alexander Scully. “He beat the guy’s face right off of him.”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Came in to collect his street tax. That would explain the unforced entry. Maybe the old man was short. Maybe this wasn’t the first time. I mean, how much money can a stationery store make these days? I know it’s Easter, but he can’t be pulling in that much cash. Cutter doesn’t care about excuses. He beat the old man until he was unrecognizable. Made him an example to the other stores in the city. It was him. Had to be. There’s no doubt in my mind.”

“Then we’ll get him,” Don said. “But it’s gotta be by the book. We can’t let him walk on a technicality.”

“We won’t.”

The two EMTs came into the store, one of them carrying the folded body bag under his arm. They waved to Sean and Don, who waved back and watched them as they stopped in front of the victim and spread the bag out next to the white sheet. The haunting image of Alexander Scully’s brutalized face burned into Sean’s memory. No way was this a mundane homicide. This one would leave scars.





3

Raul Montenez hurried into the lobby of the Tiger Hotel, balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and a bag of doughnuts in the other. He glanced through the scratched and dirty bulletproof glass of the cashier’s booth and saw his boss, Mr. Guzio, dozing in his chair. The small, overweight man looked as if he’d been sleeping for days. His shirt was soiled and untucked from his pants, the top three buttons unfastened, revealing tufts of black chest hair. He was bald but for sideburns that had grown out. His fingers were ten sausages. A grumble of a snore could be heard through the microphone that had been left on. Even when he slept, his hatred was palpable.

The foyer—most of the day’s work for Raul—was littered with empty beer bottles, assorted papers, plastic cups, and a variety of discarded condom wrappers. Cigarette butts were strewn across the black linoleum floor. The already-stained carpet held new spots of mystery. It was going to be another long shift.

“You’re late,” Guzio snapped. His eyes remained shut, his arms crossed and resting on his oversized gut.

“Good morning, Mr. Guzio. I’m sorry. The bus was running behind. Can you buzz me in, please?”

Guzio opened his eyes and lifted his head, acknowledging the skinny immigrant. “The bus is late a lot,” he snarled.

“Yes. It is late a lot.”

“I can find others more willing to get here on time if you don’t think this job is worth it.”

“It was not my fault, sir. The bus was late. When the bus is late, I’m late.”

“What bus do you take?”

“The thirty-two.”

Guzio struggled to get up from his chair. “I think I’m going to call over to SEPTA and confirm if bus thirty-two was running behind this morning. And if it was, I’m going to give them some crap for sending my help in past due every day.”