No Medal For Siri

Reminding himself he needs to quit smoking, Detective Jordan Cartright snuffs his cigarette out against the faded brick wall of a nearby abandoned building, then carefully trudges across the garbage-strewn vacant lot.

A hint of a smile crosses Chief of Detectives Teran Thompson’s bulldog features as he sees his best detective approach the crime scene.

A dead young man dressed in faded jeans and a rumpled Clash T-shirt lies on his back. His amber hair is twisted upward, resembling an exclamation point. His sky-blue eyes stare upward at nothing, the rest of his face frozen in terror.

Wrapped around his neck is a large, copper St. Christoper Medal.

“Please don’t tell me somebody did this in God’s name,” Jordan says.

“That’s one possibility,” Thompson grumbles. “Name’s Rhett Sullivan. His I.D. says he turned eighteen last month. He lives in the abandoned building you used as an ashtray. Sullivan may have come outside to meet someone and one of his squatter friends came up behind him, wrapped that chain around his neck, and pulled on it until he choked out.”

“Did you start a canvas?”

“Yep. And your only witness is over there,” Thompson replies, pointing at a disheveled, grimy, bearded man keeping a protective grip on a shopping cart jammed with junk.

Jordan sighs heavily. “…. Marty Muscatel… It amazes me that I’ve been on the job for twenty-four years and every year I say to myself, ‘This is the year Marty meets his maker’. And yet he’s still here.”

Marty gives Jordan a toothless smile. “I seen it, Detective. I can help.”

“I’m grateful, Marty.”

Marty holds out his palm. “Twenty bucks worth of grateful, maybe?”

Jordan finds a twenty in his wallet, handing it to Marty.

“I was squattin’ in my place on the first floor. It was really late, like three in the mornin’, and I was about to go to sleep. I heard a noise in the hallway. Sullivan, who lives, or lived at the other end of the hall, runs past like his tail is on fire. He gets to the door and some tall dude comes from out of nowhere. The dude grabs him and pulls him outside.”

“Did you see the man’s face or what he was wearing?”

“It was real dark, but I could see he was pale, with dark hair. He had a long face, with a sharp nose like a hawk. It was his clothes that I remember most. He was dressed fancy, but not the way rich guys dress today. He had on a frilly black suit, and one of them showy vests with two rows of buttons, and he was wearin’ a long jacket.”

“It’s August, Marty.”

“You gonna let me finish? That’s why I remember. It’s too hot for that kinda of getup. I was sweatin’ bullets, and he was cool as a cucumber. He threw Sullivan to the ground, put somethin’ around his neck, and pulled on it. Sullivan made a god-awful sound, and then he stopped breathin’. The man dragged Sullivan a few feet away from the building, then he disappeared into the light.”

“The light? I thought you said it was dark out?”

Marty licks his chapped lips. “You gotta hear me out, Detective. I swear this is the truth. After the man was done with Sullivan, a hole in the darkness opened. He stepped into it, and he was gone.”

Jordan shakes his head. “Spend that money on a sandwich or something that’ll sober you up, okay?’

The sound of a spirited argument grabs Jordan’s attention. An officer is pushing a man back from the crime scene.

Dressed in army fatigues, the stocky man with the toothbrush mustache yells, “Let me in!”

Jordan recognizes the Hitler lookalike but can’t place his name. “Easy, Adolf. Did you know the deceased?”

“He was a protege, a talented musician. I just want to make sure he’s taken care of and treated with respect.”

“Are you a relative?”

“No, but I was thinking of adopting him.”

“Thinking about it is like hand grenades and horseshoes, Adolf. Close, but not good enough. We’ll see to it Mister Sullivan’s remains get to the right people.”

Chief Thompson joins Jordan in listening to the man curse to himself as he storms off.

“Who’s the imitation Fuher?” Jordan asks.

“Ernst Zeiten, leader of the Northern Order. Even the Nazis and the Hell’s Angels are afraid of him.”

“What do you suppose he was doing here?”

Thompson’s guttural voice deepens. “That’ll be up to you to figure out. But I wouldn’t discount the meaning of that cross.”

Chief Thompson calls Jordan into his office.

Seated in a chair facing Thompson is a fit brunette with olive skin, stylish short hair, and an air of determination.

“You know Detective Jacqui Best,” Thompson says. “She’s an excellent investigator. I thought the two of you might partner up.”

Jordan’s face reddens in sharp contrast to his midnight-black hair and blue eyes. “What did I do to deserve this, Chief?”

“That’s exactly what I said when he told me I’d be working with Slowpoke,” Jacqui says.

“Is that what you fresh out of the academy novices call me? Then I’m honored. I have a ninety-five percent clearance rate, rookie. And unlike you, when I close a case, it stays closed. You may know how to use a search engine, but the rest of your work is sloppy.”

“You two are off to a roaring start,” Thompson comments.

Jacqui stands over Jordan’s desk, her bright smile wide and feckless.

“I get the feeling you found something that’s going to crack open the Sullivan case.”

“The lab found a fingerprint on Sullivan’s St. Christopher Medal. It belongs to Gloucester Periwinkle. Periwinkle’s last known address is the same abandoned building on Avenue A that Sullivan lived in. He’s got a rap sheet longer than Route 66 for petit theft, public intoxication, vending without a license…”

“Those are small-time crimes,” Jordan notes. “It’s a big jump to murder.”

“His last arrest, two months ago, was for stealing and trying to fence a jeweled chalice he took from…Wait for it… St. Christopher’s Church on First Avenue.”

“Don’t rush to judgment,” Jordan cautions.

“If he’s not the killer, I’ll eat my notebook.”

Periwinkle immediately surrenders when Jordan, Jacqui, and half a dozen fully armed police officers wearing protective vests invade his corner of the derelict apartment building.

“Get down on the floor!” Sergeant Nick Hampton yells.

Shaking in his wheelchair, Periwinkle replies, “Afraid I can’t comply,”

“I think we got this, Hamp,” Jordan says.

The crowd of officers lowers their guns.

“Next time you need help bringing in Boris Badinoff or some other criminal mastermind, Jacqui, call the Boy Scouts,” Hampton grumbles as he and the team walk away.

Jordan kneels next to Periwinkle’s wheelchair. “Rhett Sullivan, a young musician who squatted on the other side of the building was murdered a few days ago. Can you explain how we found your fingerprint on the medal that was used to strangle him to death?”

Periwinkle’s quiet voice wobbles as he explains. “I came across his body in the yard. I was gonna take the medal, you know, sell it, but then a voice in my head told me it was wrong.”

“Did that same voice tell you not to call the police?” Jacqui snaps.

“The last cell phone I owned was a Blackberry, lady, and some junkie rolled me for it.”

Jordan gives Jacqui an exasperated glance. “You want some ketchup or mustard to help you eat your notebook?”

The detectives are conferring with Chief Thompson several months later when a baby-faced officer knocks on Thompson’s door.

“A woman who works for Feuerstein and Crowe IT came home and found her husband murdered.”

Thompson frowns, his furry eyebrows knotting together. “Detectives Stanley and Livingston are up for the next case.”

“This one is related to that kid found on Avenue A. The victim is wearing a St. Christopher’s Medal.”

“Did Kal have any enemies?” Jordan inquires.

Cicely Braniff daubs at her mascara, which is running down from her eyes to her cheeks.

“No. People called him Captain Fun. He’d been acting strangely lately, though. Really paranoid.”

“About what?” Jacqui asks.

“He said someone was following him.”

“Did he describe this person to you?” Jordan questions.

“He said he was a tall, pale man with hollow eyes in a fancy black suit. Kal was so frazzled by the thought of it he barely slept. I told him he should take some time off, that we should get away, but he kept flying. He put on a good face for everybody. Nobody would ever guess how upset he was. We went to the airline’s Halloween party last night when he should have been sleeping.”

“Did your husband know a young musician named Rhett Sullivan who lived on Avenue A in Manhattan?” Jacqui asks.

“That’s a pretty disgusting part of town. Kal wouldn’t know anybody there. Kal’s friends were mostly other pilots or people associated with the airline.”

“Was he a religious man?”

Cicely sniffles. “The only time we ever went to church was for weddings and funerals. It’s strange that he was murdered today. I finally got Kal to take a day off, and what he feared most came true.”

Jacqui drops a copy of a photo on Jordan’s desk. It shows Kal Braniff with his arms around two smiling young women.

“This was taken the night of the airline’s Halloween party and posted on their website. Take a look at the man standing off to the right.”

“He fits Marty Muscatel’s description. And he’s dressed like a Victorian gentleman. Not a stretch, given it was a Halloween party.”

“Kal Braniff was murdered the day after this picture was taken.”

“Did you find anything linking him to Rhett Sullivan?” Jordan asks.

“No. But I checked Sullivan’s whereabouts before he was murdered. Sullivan played at the Capistrano Grill once in a while. The bartender remembers catching a glimpse of a man in a fancy outfit standing by the door watching Sullivan sing.”

“Was that the night before he died?”

“Check. I’ll look through our open cases to see if our friend shows up in any more pictures. This’ll be one helluva test for our facial recognition program. Funny, isn’t a St. Christopher Medal supposed to protect the person who wears it?”

“I’d say our killer didn’t think Braniff and Sullivan were worthy of God’s protection.”

Jacqui stands next to Jordan’s desk, sporting a bright smile and a file of papers.

“I’ve seen that look before. The last time you thought you cracked a case you ended up with indigestion, and we both wound up with egg on our faces.”

“On a hunch, I scoured the Internet under the heading, ‘last known photos.’ Take a look at this one taken in Paris in 2015.”

“The last known photograph of Defense Minister Pierre LeClerc, giving a speech at the Arc de Triomphe.”

“Look at the crowd. The man on the far right.”

Jordan lets out a doubting, “Harrumph.”

Jacqui plops another copy of a photo on Jordan’s desk.

“Check out this one from 1977.”

“Last photo of the Sonic Handgrenades band, taken on stage the day before the lead singer Boom Boom Bradley was found dead.”

“The man in the front row, third seat from the left.”

“He’s got his head turned,” Jordan notes.

“Look at his clothes…”

“And it gets stranger. A whole lot stranger,” Jacqui says.

Jordan eyes the next article. “The last photo of actress Thelma Todd, taken in her restaurant, December 15, 1935.”

“Recognize the fancy Dan standing at the end of the bar?”

“It sure looks like the same guy. But Thelma Todd was found dead from carbon monoxide poisoning in her car. The only mark on her was a contusion on her lower lip.”

“You mean the only marks released to the public by the police press office. You’re gonna love this one,” Jacqui says, placing a copy of a fuzzy article in front of Jordan.

“General Isiah LaSalle and his staff pose with local citizens. The General was found dead in his tent following the Battle of Gettysburg.”

Jordan studies the blurry article.

“You’re kidding me. This photo was taken in 1863. That can’t be the same guy.”

“I say it is,” Jacqui says adamantly.

“Do you have brothers or sisters?” Jordan asks.

“No family at all. I was an orphan.”

“Take a look at some random family photos. You’ll be amazed at how much someone from the 1800s looks like their present-day relatives.”

“Do they share the same wardrobe?” Jacqui asks.

“Either you or our facial recognition program is faulty. Have you shown Chief Thompson your collection of tales from the Twilight Zone?”

“No. You’re my partner. I need you to buy into this.”

“Well, I don’t. I want you to stick with what we can prove. Go over the list of suspects in unsolved murder reports that mention a religious medal.”

“Already done. The suspects are all dead or in jail for other crimes. There are sixty-four unsolved cases mentioning a St. Christopher’s Medal being present at the crime scene that date back to 1967 in New York alone. I haven’t started looking at the number of cases nationwide. There could be hundreds, maybe thousands.”

The following day, the pair of detectives are roused from their research when a woman is reported murdered in an affluent part of Manhattan.

When they arrive at the crime scene, Jacqui quickly examines the body of the victim, Siri Strut.

“She’s been strangled all right. Choked so hard her eyes are bulging out. And the killer left her on her side, not her back. And there’s no medal. Maybe we’ve got a copycat.”

“One nineteenth-century madman is enough, thank you.”

The detectives question Shelley Strut, the victim’s roommate. The petite strawberry blonde is still shaking and wiping away her tears.

“It could have been me,” Shelley says.

“What do you mean?” Jacqui asks.

“A guy who works with Siri at the Metropolitan Museum of Art called and said he had tickets to a Stephen Stills concert. Siri had a funding proposal she wanted to finish working on and couldn’t go, so I went.”

Jacqui returns to the victim’s body. Lifting the sheet covering Siri, she waves Jordan over.

“These two aren’t just roommates. They’re twins,” Jacqui says.

“Maybe in the middle of killing Siri, our killer realized he’d made a mistake,” Jordan whispers.

“So, no medal for Siri.”

“He has a reason to kill Shelly, and my guess is he’ll keep on trying. But next time, we’ll be here to stop him.”

A bright white beam of light appears in the living room.

A man in a Victorian-style suit steps out of the light. Creeping up behind a woman reading a book on the couch, he slips a chain around her neck.

“Hold it!” Jordan yells, pointing his gun at the man.

In one quick motion, the man jerks the woman off the couch, putting her in a headlock.

“Let her go. You’ve got the wrong woman,” Jordan declares.

The man looks down at Jacqui. Her smile mocks him.

“You heard him, Dracula. Shelley’s safe from you, and Detective Cartright’s got the drop on you.”

The man’s voice is sophisticated, yet darkly threatening.

“Who said I was here for Shelley Strut? I’m here for you.”

He tightens the chain around Jacqui’s throat.

“Before you choke me out, Dracula, it’s only fair you tell us who you are, and why you feel so compelled to kill me.”

“My name is Etienne LaCroix. I’m a detective with the Planetary Destiny Task Force.”

“Never heard of it,” Jordan says. “What are you, black ops?”

“You could say that. Fifty years in the future, a third world war will kill half the world’s population. In the hope of preventing that catastrophic event, the remaining scientific community found a way to send members of our agency back in time to eliminate those responsible for the war.”

Jordan’s skepticism mounts. “You mean to tell me an eighteen-year-old musician helped start World War Three?”

“Rhett Sullivan was destined to write the song, ‘Pride,’ and join Ernst Zeiter’s far-right militia. The song helped recruit thousands of vicious, disenfranchised thugs into the North Order, which overthrew the government. Brainwashed by Zeiter, Sullivan assassinated the president.”

“And Kal Braniff?”

“Depressed, he went overseas, hired a private plane, and crashed it into the Leningrad nuclear power plant.”

“…Starting a war between the U.S. and Russia…,” Jordan mutters, lowering his gun. “And Shelley Strut?”

“The mother of a concentration camp commander who’ll murder thousands of innocent people.”

“Hey! What about the woman who’s being choked!” Jacqui shouts.

Jordan raises his gun.

“Two years from now, Miss Best, you’ll meet a man named Simon Pure. You’ll marry and have a child, Bolden, who, after murdering Ernst Zeiter, becomes the dictator of New America.”

Jacqui gasps for air as LaCroix tightens the chain.

“How about I promise to not swipe right when I see Simon Pure on my dating app?”

LaCroix’s pasty features twist into a smirk.

“Humor in the face of death. Commendable.”

“You want to hear something funny, Dracula?” Jacqui asks, twisting in his grasp. “You should avoid having your picture taken in a Victorian suit. That’s how we tracked you down.”

“The suit is like a uniform. It helps us recognize each other. As for the photos, well, I suppose I am a bit of a narcissist,” LaCroix says, laughing to himself. “They help me confirm my kills. Someday, they may help me get a promotion.”

“You’re as hollow as the people you murder,” Jordan says, assuming a shooter’s stance. “One last question before I put a bullet in your skull. What’s with the St. Christopher Medals?”

“It prevents that person from being reanimated, or as you would say, resurrected.”

“This is gonna make one helluva report,” Jacqui says.

Sinking her elbow into LaCroix’s stomach, she frees herself.

Jordan fires two shots at LaCroix.

“Sorry, LaCroix, but I believe in letting nature take its course.”

The bullets are harmlessly absorbed into LaCroix’s body.

“We’ll meet again, Miss Best,” LaCroix says, disappearing into a blinding wall of light.

Jacqui grimaces, wallowing around in her chair.

Jordan pops a piece of Nicorette Gum to assuage his craving for a cigarette. “Sorry to lose you.”

“We’ve been working together non-stop for three years,” Jacqui says, rubbing her ample belly. “I'm sick of the sight of you. I see you more than my husband. Besides, It’s not permanent, just a few months, long enough to give birth to this elephant I’ve been carrying.”

“You’re going to miss the fun. Ernst Zeiter filed another motion for a retrial. Three years later, and he’s still claiming he was framed for Siri Strut’s murder. Can you believe it?”

“Our team found a St. Christopher Medal at his summer home with Siri’s DNA on it, case closed,” Jacqui says triumphantly.

“You know, up until then, I didn’t know that twins shared the same DNA.”

“Sssh.”

Jordan chews his gum with eagerness. “Promise me you’ll be careful, especially the day before the baby comes.”

“For the last time, Cartright, I married Lee Hamilton, not Simon Pure. I checked him out thoroughly after our second date. Lee Hamilton is his real name. He doesn’t know Ernst Zeiter and is as liberal as a hippie at Woodstock. He’s not siring an evil dictator.”

“Still, your relationship with Lee fits LaCroix’s time frame.”

“Which we altered by navigating Zeiter into a lifetime sentence. And my fate changed when I married Lee instead of Simon Pure. I felt like an idiot checking all my wedding photos to see if LaCroix was in them. Now, since this is my last day before my parental leave, I was hoping you’d join Lee and me for lunch.”

Jacqui is waddling alongside Jordan as they head out of the building.

She stops cold when she spots her husband.

“Something wrong?” Jordan asks.

Jacqui points toward the bottom of the steps, so filled with anxiety that she can barely speak.

Lee is talking with Etienne LaCroix.

“No! Get away from him!” Jacqui shouts, running toward the stairs.

“Slow down, Jacqui!”

Jacqui trips, falling down the steps, and is unconscious before she hits the last one.

Jacqui’s eyes flutter open.

“Lee?” she calls out dryly.

Jordan leans into view.

“Where’s Lee?”

“He left the room for a moment. There’s some paperwork he had to take care of.”

The fog caused by the drugs administered to Jacqui begins to clear.

“My baby… Is my baby all right?”

Jordan looks blankly at Jacqui.

“Tell me, Jordan. Is my baby okay?”

Jordan reaches for Jacqui’s hand, holding it tightly.

“…Maybe we should wait for Lee…”

“You’re my partner. You’re my friend. Tell me!”

“I’m so sorry, Jacqui. You lost the baby yesterday. Worse, you won’t be able to have another.”