Chapter 7

Chapter 7: First Impressions

Detective Skinner stared down at the large stack of files that were now residing in a large part of his desk. All of these cases were related. In fact they were all committed by the same person. Forensics had not only linked the bullets, but the casings to the same guns. The markings on the casings were what had thoroughly interested the organized crime divisions in particular. Most of the time they could track these “marked” bullets to one crime family or another. The Triads and the Yakuza in particular liked to mark their assassin’s bullets so to send a message to the opposing family. But these markings were unique in that they didn’t match any established identity of a family.

The investigation had originally led to the suspicion that there was a new crime syndicate trying to make its mark upon New York. But the fact that they were fired from only two guns, both of the same make, led them to believe that this was the work of one person. Who that one person in particular was, for the most part, a mystery. Squeezing the normal rats only produced one name, someone who called himself The Viper.

Skinner knew through his experience that these hired killers never used grown up names, finding something much “cooler” to call themselves. The fact that one hundred and twenty three killings later that he was just now hearing of this man meant that he was good. Skinner glanced over the pictures that the CSI squad had taken and the ballistic reports that gave him a general idea of the height and weight of the killer. Unfortunately beyond that he was clueless. No hair, no blood, no fingerprints. In fact the only witnesses that could be found were dead ones that were cooling in the morgue three floors below. He beat his fist on his desk, creating a hollow thud that only he heard.

He decided that the only way that this case would likely get solved would be through good, old fashioned police work. He slung his light spring jacket on and left his office. While he waited for the elevator he thought about what else he had to do. Nothing. There was no one waiting for him at home, only pictures and memories of happy times. Times before Ellie had left him and his daughter had disappeared. Thankfully the elevator arrived just in time to spare him the later events of his life from flashing through his memory. There was police work that needed to be done. Time to get his head into the game.

His first stop brought him to his normal mafia snitch, a rat by the name of Jimmy “nine fingers” Luciano. When they had first brought him into custody on extortion charges four years ago, Skinner had made the mistake of asking him why they called him nine fingers. Jimmy, with the air of someone who had had to tell this story hundreds of times held up both hands, showing a decided lack of an index finger on his left had. “Cuz I’ve only got nine fingers. Sheesh, and they call you the detective?!” Jimmy had rolled over like a show dog and led to the indictments of no less than thirteen underbosses in the local mafia families. Since then he’d been an informant, and a pretty reliable one at that.

When Skinner rolled to a stop near Jimmy he was in the process of buying himself some “company” for the evening. “Hey Jimmy, we need to talk” Skinner yelled from the parked sedan. Jimmy rolled his eyes and said something to the hooker and walked over to the open passenger side window. “Whatdya have to go and ruin my evening for Skinny?” He knew that Skinner hated that nickname. He’d been trying to lose weight at the time and it was something of a sore spot. “I need you to tell me everything you know about this.” Skinner held up a picture of the marked bullet casing. The somewhat crude outline of a snake ran along it. “Ya, I seen that before Skinny. Work of the Viper. He’s a bad mother from what the word around here is. He’ll wipe ya before you even know enough to turn around. Everyone around here with any dirt on em is scared stupid by that guy.” “Yeah, that’s all stuff I’ve heard before Jimmy. Every mob boss in this city thinks this guy is the grim reaper or something. Seems to be some sort of boogey man. But what I want is something a little more concrete. I want real information. Who’s he working for would be a good start.” “That’s the problem Skinny; he doesn’t do any work for anyone in particular. Seems as long as he’s whackin’ a wiseguy, and the money’s right, he’ll work for anybody. Real piece of work that guy.” “Well that makes him a little harder to track, doesn’t it?” Skinner was getting frustrated. This guy seemed to be a real ghost.

“All right Jimmy I’ll let you get back to your business. How’s that finger of yours? Any luck?” Skinner threw out the jibe before he pulled away. He didn’t like Jimmy Luciano, but the guy told it to him straight whenever he asked and so he didn’t hassle him too badly. Wouldn’t be a good thing to drive away all of your informants. The next stop on the list was to a small time wiseguy that seemed to be on the outs with the local family. Johnny “Bats” ran the numbers down at a little place by the ferry, which he tried to sell to the police as a “shipping depot”. “Evenin’ Johnny” Skinner called out as he strolled into the warehouse. Creeps and thugs scattered like bugs when they saw the stocky form of the detective walk into the place. “Whatdya have to go an do that to my business Kojak?” “You know you’re the second person tonight that has asked me that question. I’ve got some questions for you Johnny. And if you’re not forthcoming with what I wanna hear you may not have to worry about your business being ruined anymore. From what I see on that table I’ve got enough to put you away for, oh lemme see. Five, seven, nine…eleven years Johnny. You wanna cooperate and knock off the posturing or should I call the dogs in to see what’s in the rest of these crates?” “All right dee-tective, let’s hear what ya gotta say.” Skinner wasn’t sure what the emphasis on the word was supposed to mean, but he figured that Johnny was just stupid enough that he didn’t know either. “Tell me everything you know about this.” Skinner again presented the picture of the marked casing. This time it seemed to elicit a greater response from the wiseguy. The look of fear on the man’s face wasn’t something you saw from his type often. “I don’t know nuthin about that bullet.” “I’m not buying it Johnny. Tell me…and remember your future as a free man rides on what you tell me.”

Johnny seemed to gulp down something that wouldn’t quite fit. His face seemed to go white. “That’s the Viper’s mark. He’s a bad…” “Mother fucker, yeah I heard that before Johnny. Tell me why you’re so afraid of this guy.” “Holy shit man, I’ve seen that guy work. That man’s cold as ice. Never said a word. I don’t think he even stopped to reload. I swear to god those guns of his shot hellfire itself. That man is a god damned machine.” I’ve heard all the ghost stories Johnny; I want to know the facts. You know what he looked like? You got a name?” Skinner aggressively forced the picture into the man’s face. “Give me a face that belongs to this bullet Johnny or so help me god every convicted mobster in Riker’s is gonna know that you snitched!!” “Hey, I didn’t snitch on nobody. Don’t play those games with me. You aint got nothing like that.” “No, no I don’t, but it doesn’t take much to convince wiseguys doing life and looking for someone to pin it on. Give me this man’s fucking face!!” Skinner’s frustration was starting to pour out. He seemed so close, someone who had actually SEEN this man, and he was dancing around like a ballerina. “All right, all right, I’ll tell ya what I know.” “You’re gonna have to come downtown with me so you can tell this to the sketch artist Johnny.” “No fucking way! There’s no way I’m going down to the doughnut shop to rat out a man like that. He’ll have my ass before I even finish packing.” “Your choice Johnny. Just lemme call in the dogs real quick and we’ll have you off to Riker’s in no time. Don’t drop the soap is all I can tell you.” Skinner could see the inner turmoil boiling within the man. “All right, I’ll do it. You just gotta protect me is all. Hitters like him, they have ways…” “Smart man Johnny. You did the right thing. There might even be a cup of coffee in it for ya.” Johnny didn’t seem to appreciate the joke and walked his stumpy self over towards the door of the warehouse. He knew he was a dead man, he just didn’t know when it was gonna happen now.

Skinner sped most of the way back to the station. He was so close to getting an ID on this perp that he didn’t waste any time with trivial things like stop lights, his portable siren light making the way for him. He slid to a screeching stop in the parking lot of the station and walked around to let the man out of the car. Johnny stepped out, looking around wildly like he was surrounded by wild animals. Something caught the criminal’s eye that spooked him and sent him gibbering to the ground. The man was scared nearly unconscious as Skinner looked around the area. That’s when he caught the glint of something from the alleyway. He pulled his revolver and took several steps away from the car, trying to get a better look at whatever it was. He could vaguely make out the outline of somebody standing in the shadows over between several dark buildings. “Holy shit holy shit holy shit” Johnny kept saying over and over again like a mantra. Skinner didn’t have time to investigate, nor did he want to leave his only lead alone out in the parking lot. He took Johnny by the sleeve and led him to the door of the station. Acting as a shield he led Johnny inside quickly. “Gimme Lauren now! We need a sketch of a perp quick.”

Skinner led Johnny “Bats” to an inner interrogation room. With no windows and only the one door he was certain that everybody involved would be safe. The police artist, Lauren Montoya however was out for lunch. “Dammit all! Who else can do it?” “We can get someone from the fifth precinct over here in about twenty minutes detective.” “Do it, I want a profile before anything can possibly happen.” Skinner had somewhat started to buy into the hype just judging by the reaction of the normally cool Johnny “Bats”. If this man scared the hell out of the local goons like this, he had to be some sort of ghost. These guys would have a gun in their face and they’d still have the nerve to spit at you. This kind of fear he hadn’t seen before.

Almost to the second, the artist from the neighboring precinct showed up twenty minutes later. She was very attractive Skinner thought as she introduced herself. “Michelle Wei” She introduced herself as and produced her large department sketch pad and pencils from her messenger bag. “Forgive me for my paranoia but I need to search for weapons officer. Please understand that this is an incredibly sensitive matter.” “Of course detective.” Skinner patted her down and searched her bag. There didn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary. She appeared to be what she claimed to be. Skinner took a good look at her. She was tall, pretty athletically built, like most of the female officers tended to be. The felt that they had to push themselves to be equal to their male counterparts. She wore some bookworm type black glasses, he long black hair up in a bun, held together with two plastic sticks. They walked into the interrogation room and had a seat across the table from Johnny. “OK Johnny this is our police artist. Please describe the man for us.

Johnny swallowed again; his face was pale as he stared at the pair of police officers. Reluctantly he began to describe the man who brought him so much terror. Twenty minutes went by as the artist drew a face according to Johnny’s description. Every so often he was asked to compare the drawing to his memories. Everything seemed to fit together so far. Johnny finished his description and let out a sigh, apparently mentally drained from being on edge for so long. The artist stood up and stretched her hands, probably cramping slightly from the furious drawing as she interpreted the skewed images that Johnny had spewed forth.

“I apologize detective; you’re a good man just doing your job.” Skinner looked up in horror as the artist thrust one of the ornaments holding her hair up into his neck. The syringe punched into his skin and he felt something cold running through his blood. He didn’t have enough time to yell before he lost consciousness. Johnny however had more than enough time to scream. “holy shit holy shit holy shit!!” he yelled over and over again as the police artist pulled a thin, flat blade from between the blank sheets of her sketch pad. “Now Johnny, we can’t have you telling the police about us. You paid for good work, and you received it. Now you’re going to turn us in? That’s just bad business.” Shin Lao brandished the flat twelve inch blade and in one smooth swiping motion made a thin red line across the man’s throat. The man’s fluids spilled to the floor and she turned and walked out of the door, the identity of the Viper still safe for the moment.

She made it out of the station before anybody became aware of what had happened. Skinner woke up twenty minutes later, covered in the man’s blood and with a hell of a headache. “Dammit!” He yelled in anger and beat on the table that was still in front of the dead gangster’s body. Every time he seemed to have a break something happened. Who exactly was he dealing with here? “Fuck!!” He yelled into the open room.

After he had to report to the lieutenants about the death of the informant Skinner went back to his office to fill out the appropriate paperwork. He was certain that he was going to be buried in paperwork until he retired after this incident. Three hours passed as he filled out everything in triplicate and told his story leading up to the assassination. Nothing short of that word could describe what had just happened several hours ago. After all of this he was still no closer to finding the Viper than he had been. The only difference now was that he had blood on his hands. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and closed the numerous folders that he had to file all of this paperwork into. It was time to call it a night.

“Great job Skinner. You may not have given us a hitman, but you sure got that piece of shit off the street. All in all sounds like you’ve had a productive night for society.” Skinner shot the younger detective a look that could have bored through steel. “Fuck off Betz, or I’ll have someone do a sketch of you next.” The younger detective laughed shortly, knowing that he’d found something to rib the older detective over. “Give my regards to the wife” The detective had pushed it a little too far and didn’t realize it until Skinner was jumping desks and cold cocked the young detective cleanly out of his chair. He stood over detective Betz, his fist cocked back, shaking from how tightly he had his fist clenched. As it began it’s downward arc the young man was saved by the harsh shouting of the lieutenant. “Skinner! In my office…NOW!!” Skinner let go of the man’s tie and collar and dropped him to the floor. Straightening his own tie he walked calmly around the man’s desk and straight into Lieutenant Richards’ office.

“What the hell was that all about Skinner?” The lieutenant didn’t tolerate much. He was new and still felt that he should “reinvent the wheel” as most new management tended to do no matter what the field. “Betz pushed me a little far tonight is all lieutenant. It’s been a very bad day from what you well know. He was pushing my buttons, and he just found the right one.” “Well, take a couple of days off. Get your damned head on straight and come in for your shift on Friday. Maybe you can make some progress when you calm down. We don’t need anything like what happened here tonight.” “Yes…sir” Skinner spat out through clenched teeth. Perhaps he did need a day or three off. He walked out of the lieutenant’s office and shut the door harder than was necessary. He didn’t make eye contact with anybody as he left the station and decided to walk home. It was a gorgeous night and maybe the night air would clear his head a little bit.

The walk home was rife with the general din of a major population center. The regular drug dealers, pimps, thugs and prostitutes were going about their business in the dark corners of New York. They slipped out of sight as Skinner passed on the street, and re-emerged just as quickly after he had passed. Everybody here knew he was a cop, and there were nights not to get in his way. By the look on his face this was one of those nights. He walked up the stairs to his apartment. His mailbox was stuffed with bills and junk mail as it normally was. So many expenses and not enough money coming in. It was the plight of every working class person in America, and the veteran detective was no exception.

He walked up the several flights of stairs to his apartment noticing how the light bulbs in the hallway had burned out again. Normally it was just the druggies downstairs stealing them to use as pipes, or on the rare occasion, to use as light bulbs. The street lamp from outside the landing window cast enough light for him to find his lock though. He opened the door to his spartan accommodations and flopped the mail down on the end table. He smelled something different however and whipped his pistol out of it’s holster, flicking on the light at the same time. Scanning around the room he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He was just jumpy he thought to himself as he lowered his pistol. The smell of a foreign aftershave kept his attention up however. Perhaps that had been what had given him the creeps, but nothing appeared to be missing or rummaged through so there hadn’t been a burglary. He raised his gun again in a ready position, ready to sweep his own house.

“You know that you simply look ridiculous detective. Why even bother.” Skinner knew without even having anything concrete he knew that this was the man he’d been chasing for months. The Viper was sitting in his living room. “You really need to invest in better beer. This stuff tastes like watered down urine. Perhaps the Germans are right about our beer.” “FREEZE you bastard. Don’t you friggin move.” Skinner brought his pistol down to aim at the Viper’s head and was shocked for a moment. This was not the man that he had expected to be the mass murderer that he thought he was looking for. This man couldn’t have been any older than twenty five, twenty six at the most. Clean shaven with a boyish face. The thin designer sunglasses covered his eyes however; Skinner had wanted to see them most. He wanted to see how cold this man truly was.

“Have a seat detective. Have a beer, they’re yours and after a night like you’ve had I’m sure you could use one. The Viper pushed the cooler that Skinner normally used as a footrest towards the detective. He peered down and saw that it was full of ice and the beet from the fridge. “I thought if we were going to have this little talk there should at least be cold drinks involved.” “Why the hell would I want to have a conversation with you? You’ve killed no less than a hundred people in the last few months! That’s friggin insane” No, not insane detective. Just dedicated. And you have to admit that they were all scum.” “That’s beside the point, those were still people and you tossed their lives aside like a candy wrapper.” “It's all semantics detective. How many truly innocent peoples’ lives have they tossed away before they ran afoul of something much larger than themselves? For every one of them that I took a job on, they had killed at least five other people, some of them really didn’t deserve it.” “I really oughtta just put a bullet in your skull now for all of the trouble that you’ve caused me.” “Now that truly hurt detective. And besides, if I had wanted to kill you, it would have been done. God knows that the syringe my partner had with her could have been just as easily something fatal instead of the tranq that it was.” “So what do you want to talk to me about? If you’re not gonna kill me what the hell do you want?” “I want to give you some information. Something of a deal I guess we could call it.” Skinner seemed both astounded and impressed with the man’s bravado. Not only had he killed someone in a police station, but he had broken into his house, and now wanted to bargain with him. As much as he simply wanted to empty his revolver into the man’s body he was simply intrigued at this point. “What could you possibly have to offer me?”

“That is a simple matter of what you’re willing to do to help me. I’m not the evil vicious killer that the common thugs make me out to be. There’s “debts” that must be paid, and the people involved seem to find me “uniquely qualified” to pay them back.” “So you got yourself into some shit and now you’re killing your way out of it? Doesn’t sound like you’re much better than the common thugs as you call them.” “No detective, I didn’t get myself into anything, in fact I am getting someone else out of shit, as you put it. But here’s my deal. I’ll state my offer and it’s up to you whether you take me up on it. I assure you that I will walk out of that door after I say what I have to. It would be wise to put that revolver down now that I think of it. Savvy?”

Skinner sized the man up. He looked pretty solid, but in an athletic way. On closer inspection he saw the shine of the matte black handles of the twin pistols peaking out from underneath the man’s expensive overcoat. He tallied up his chances and decided that even if he got the drop on the hitman he’d still wind up dead. Being a wise man he put down his revolver and leaned back into his sofa, cracking the beer open and taking a swig. “Good man Leonard. Now here’s my deal. I want you to lay off. Yes what I do is reprehensible. I think so myself at times. But what I do is necessary to a point. Yes I kill people. Yes I’m an efficient son of a bitch. But I’m nowhere as twisted as those bastards I take out. Now, lay off the case. If you do this, then I can get your daughter back. Good night detective. I’ll be in touch.” Skinner spit half of his beer out when the man had mentioned his daughter, and choked on the rest. Before he could clear his airway enough to speak the man was gone. He ran to his door and looked around outside but there was no trace of anybody. He didn’t even hear the door close downstairs. The only sound he heard was that of a powerful engine revving up somewhere close by and speeding off into the distance. He sat back on his couch and finished what was left of his beer, cracked open another one and drained that one as well. Dare he get his hopes up that this scumbag could actually find what half of the police force in New York and tens of thousands of dollars worth of private investigators and forensic specialists couldn’t?