Death Orchid

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Red, Blue, Red Blue, the lights on top of the Coroners Wagon parked at one end of the alley pulsed into the night.

At the other end of the alley, some two hundred feet was a Las Vegas Police patrol car, with its own lights burning on and off into the darkness. Two uniformed LVPD cops were lingering near their patrol car, smoking, simply waiting for the all clear to be announced.

Being dedicated cops, they were waiting so they could scoot to the next mugging, murder or theft that were as numerous on their beat, as the endless cups of coffee they had every day to fuel their dedication to a job that seemed never ending within its scope.

Earlier, they found another butchered homeless man. As usual the Las Vegas Crime Scene Lab of studious egghead boys and girls had arrived. After doing their thing, gathering up blood samples and skin samples and a moving around the corpse like an army of dutiful ants, they gleefully departed back to their labs, where they did their gruesome work; often well into the depths of night.

That had been hours ago and now what remained was the two vampire coroners in their blue jump suits, as well as a single patrol car and two cops hanging out at the mouth of the alley. Of course there was one other man lurking around, who seemed invisible.

He was a lone wolf, and no one was better at what they did then him. One minute he was there and the next minute he was gone, he was that kind of man.

(NOTE) Cops call their lieutenants LOU.

Moving from the shadows, the photographer or whatever he was at the moment stalled in the darkness, simply watching. Moments such as the one he was sharing or was he, we’re apart of whom he was. He couldn’t quite remember anymore but these were the kind of eclectic things that got his adrenaline going.

Trying to blend into a building, he lifted his Leica and snapped several clips of film off. Lowering his camera, his eyes dilated, for he was excited, knowing once again why those throbbing beautiful lights were there.

“One more dead for the tally list.” He murmured.

He felt the cold chrome of his knife pressed against the skin of his calf, concealed nicely into his heavy, black work boot.

His blue eyes (resembling a falcon’s eyes more than human orbs) watched for a few minutes longer. The blue and red lights from the two vehicles mesmerized him. Capturing the entirety of it all, he looked past the alley towards his rambling block long artist’s loft, the old bakery he out bid another man for a few years earlier. Its two stories of glass panes edged against the entire city block of the alley; his alley.

It glowed alive from the golden light set within it.

In a dangerous part of town he had found the abandoned former bakery shortly after he arrived from Canada. Canada had not been to his liking, though at first he thought it a place that promoted peace and passivity would be where he finally would hang his hat.

He’d grown tired of war and violence of his past and in a moment of delusion sought peace for the remainder of his life.

In the end though, after a few years there he found the cold and the entire country beautiful, yet boring. He needed an edge to his life, and after living in the most dangerous places on earth for over twenty-five years, Canada, Quebec particularly, bored him to death.

After all, besides being an artist of several mediums he was a writer and he decided on Las Vegas, a place where a man such as he, could suck up the atmosphere of a violent, s****l, evolving and feeding city; a place without boundaries much like him.

Lurking still in the darkness, his attention was drawn back to the center of the alley where two morgue attendants began to roll a dolly with a body bag on it towards their ambulance.

He gazed along the alley at his loft, which was constructed completely of red brick and glass panes, which glowed golden from the lights from inside. The bottom windows were opaque and it was impossible to see inside of the building. There were iron grates that he had constructed and welded himself covering the bottom windows, mostly for security, though in reality he didn’t need there protection.

Besides everything else, he was a master heliarc-welder and took some joy in there construction. If it could be constructed of gold, silver, paper, ceramic, metal and of course pain, there were none better than he.

Stepping from the side of the alley he moved to his front door, which was a massive iron barred gate. Standing there for a moment, he peered across the street where three black teenagers were loitering, blue gang bandannas stitched to their foreheads

Each boy wore patented two hundred dollar sneakers, baggy jeans, and sports jerseys. For a moment the boys, members of “The Raptors” and he locked eyes. A secret communication passed between them as he smiled, nodded, took his key and slotted it into the iron grate.

Though he lived in the center of gang territory, no one ever dare bothered him.

He and the gangs had made a truce long ago and every one had benefited from it.

“Excuse me, Sir.”

The voice froze his hand holding the key.

“Police. Keep your hands where I can see them, please.”

Mal (Pronounced Mall) and that is what the tall photographers name was, turned to see a gold LVPD badge level with his eyes.

He watched as the short brown Hispanic man in a rumpled tan cop suit, with waves of thick black hair on his head lowered his badge, folded the black leather wallet and placed it into the vest pocket of his brown suit.

At six foot two, or so, Mal was five inches taller than the ruddy faced Hispanic Cop in a suit the cop looked like he slept in, which of course he often did.

Lieutenant Victor Garcia was a twenty-five year + on the job Special Unit police officer. His face was brown and his eyes were black and set close together and his wide set nose and deep furrowed lines in his forehead as well as his heavy jowls gave him the look of a boxer, which he’d been in his youth.

He pretty much ran his own show and now was running the investigation into the recent violent murders of the homeless. People no one cared about were being butchered and to his mind made no sense at all and it was pissing his exhausted mind off to a fired degree.

As the two men, one tall and lean and muscled and the other looking like a refrigerator with legs locked eyes, Lieutenant Garcia’s walkie-talkie crackled.

“What a ya say Lou, can we get on with it?”

Garcia’s intelligent eyes looked the odd character with the long coat up and down, at the camera around his neck and at the man’s hands that appeared to be covered with red blood. Rubbing his jaw and feeling a little uneasy he lifted his radio and spoke.

“Come down here, both a ya.”

Lowering the radio, he hinged it on his belt never taking his eyes off of the tall rugged man with the shaved head and the eerie blue eyes.

“Were taking the headless guy, aah, John Doe to the Tombs, boss. Okay.” Crackled over his radio.

Groaning, Garcia smirked at the man again, took his radio, clicked at the button.

“Hang for a minute, we maybe got somethin’ here.”

“Okay Lou, he thawin’ out though.”

Garcia winced as he heard the coroner’s guys giggling over the radio.

Again he hinged the radio to his belt. He thought perhaps he might draw his Old School 38, just in case. Deciding for the moment that the weird looking freak in the long coat was no threat, he turned to him.

“Sir, do you mind if I ask what you’re doing down here so late?”

Mal thought about the knife in his boot for a moment, thinking that might be a little problem for him.

The patrol car pulled up at the mouth of the alley and parked. The two huge cops exited, lit cigarette, leaned against the car and simply looked at their Lieutenant, (LOU) a man they were both terrified of.

Looking at the cops, Mal stared at the pudgy Mexican.

“I live here.”

“What do you mean, you live here?”

“There.”

Mal glanced at the towering former bakery.

Massaging his tired jaw and feeling exhausted of just too many nights dealing with weird characters like the one standing before him, Lieutenant Garcia exhaled a breath of fatigue.

“Can I see some ID, aah, Mal is it? You got a first name, pal?”

“Just Mal.” He said.

He slowly moved his hand to his trench coat lapel pocket, causing Garcia to tense.

“Go slow, Just Mal.” Garcia warned as his eyes looked at the red substance on the man’s powerful and callused hands.

Mal chuckled inside, liking the Lieutenant immediately.

Contrary to common belief not everyone hated cops.

Mal admired them and liked them and though if they had known who and what he really was they would have locked him up forever, he still respected the impossible job they did from sunrise to sunset.

Knowing street etiquette, he slowly pulled out a green, cardboard document. Handing it to the cop, he simply stared, knowing that the document would bring more questions immediately.

Taking what looked like a passport, Lieutenant Garcia crinkled his brow, looked at the man, opened the document.

After several moments of flipping pages and reading, he closed it turning his curious, probing eyes back to the stranger.

“That’s a Mexican passport. You a Mexican?…aah, Jaimie…?” He asked, using a name no one had called him in thirty years

“It’s not a passport. It’s a Mexican resident passport.”

“Habla Espanol, Senor Just Mal?” Garcia asked, liking the fact that he was f*****g around with the man’s name.

“Si Senor Jefe, absolutmente. Por Favor, solamente Mal. Por favor, otra vez.” Mal replied in perfect Spanish, using the Spanish word for boss.

Garcia hesitated for a moment, handed the document back to Mal, liking the fact very much that the man had taken the time to learn his parents language.

Reverting back to English, he asked. “Okay. How about another form of ID…What a ya say?”

Digging further in his long coat, Mal withdrew a green Canadian Passport handing it to the squat cop. Again Garcia looked at the man’s strange hands.

Garcia crinkled his brow.

Turning his gaze away from “Just Mal’s” amused eyes, he opened the passport and began to flip page after page after page.

Every page was filled with colored ink stamps. Every country in S. America as well as Latin America was printed on the crowded pages. Garcia read further and saw stamps from S. Africa, Senegal, Ethiopia, Somalia, Kenya, Morocco as well as it seemed every other country in Africa and Asia.

Lifting his eyes, he looked curiously at Mal. He lowered his eyes turning pages. All of the Middle East passed, including Israel, Iraq and Iran, India and all of Europe as well as many islands in the Caribbean as well as China, Thailand, Taiwan and there other sisters in the Far East.

“You a Canadian Just Mal?”

Mal poked at a stamp on the passport.

“There, I have a permanent Visa for the USA.”

Closing the document, he held it in his hand, glanced at the camera hanging around his neck and looked deep into his eyes.

“Ya like to travel, a Just Mal?”

Mal giggled, liking his new name.

“It’s a long story, officer. I’ve done my share.”

Exhaling his fatigue, Lieutenant Garcia had an immediate like for the odd man. Yet, still being who he was and knowing what he knew, he didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t get a handle on the man.

Waving the passport in front of his eyes, he asked. “Do you mind if I run you through our computers?”

Mal thought for an instant, flicked his head at the two cops leaning against their patrol cars.

“They know me. Ask them.”

“What a ya mean, know ya?”

Casually, Mal replied. “Ask them.”

Grinding his jaw, Lieutenant Garcia turned to the two patrol cops.

“Get over here, you two.”

The two young uniformed cops strolled over, nodded at Mal and turned their attention to their Lou.

“You two. You know this character?”

One of the cops, a tall blond kid, Al, smiled.

“Yeah Lou. That’s Mal. He’s okay.”

Running his thick fingers through his black hair, Garcia smirked, feeling more tired than he could ever remember.

“What the f**k da ya mean, he’s okay?”

The other cop, another tall kid with a shaved head, inched a little bit closer.

“Yeah. He came…What Jimmy…” He turned to his partner for help…”Bout a year and half ago to the station…Right Jimmy?”

“Yeah…seems right to me Dave.” The other cop chipped in.

Jimmy continued.

“Told us he was a photographer. He’d be out late and all…you know, Lou…Taking pictures and such…He’s doin’ a book bout Vegas…somethin’ like that. We ran his ID, he seemed cool, nada…We see him all the time…Good guy, right Dave?”

“Right Jimmy. He’s solid.”

Stunned, Garcia looked at the two cops, exhaled as he felt angst and fatigue rack his body.

“So, let me get this straight…We got some Jack The Ripper kinda guy rippin’ folks in our fair city and neither of you morons ever thought ta tell me bout this guy…?…Is that right, officers?”

Both cops shrugged their shoulders, thought silences was the best route as Mal fought a smile, enjoying the show going down around him.

“I want both of you in my office at seven sharp tomorrow morning…Got it?”

“Sure Lou.” They both said in unison as Garcia waved his hand for them to get back to their patrol car.

After several moments, he turned back to Just Mal.

Turning again, Garcia looked at the coroners who were waiting next to their gurney adjacent to their wagon. Looking back at Mal, he said wearily.

“What are ya doing out so late. You know this is the most dangerous part a Vegas, don’t ya? Ya know people is getting killed down here, don’t ya. Ain’t ya afraid walkin’ around down here?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid someone is gonna kill ya.”

Thinking for a moment, Mal smiled.

“I already died once. A second time doesn’t concern me.”

Wincing, Mal immediately wished he could recapture his words.

As Garcia looked at him confused, Mal wished he could control his mind, a problem he suffered from, never knowing what thought would wreck it next. But like another genius which he had yet to meet, but soon would, who had traveled and murdered HER way through a Texas desert some year earlier, he had problems corralling his racing, super creative brain.

Now, for the moment he grew silent, as Garcia handed him back his passport, looking at him cautiously as he did.

What Garcia did not know, that this Just Mal had a half dozen other passports entombed in his warehouse, all legal, all showing different men.

Already on a fourteen-hour shift, the last thing in the world the worn out cop needed was another freak f*****g with his mind. Groaning, he said. “Listen Just Mal, I don’t know what the f**k you mean?”

Across the street near the three young black gang members their attention was broken as a super sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up next to the young gangsters and idled.

Garcia, with the mysterious Just Mal confusing him to no end stared off at the car and the boys. Then, the tinted driver’s window rolled into its carriage. A thirtyish handsome black man with penetrating black eyes stared across the street at Mal and the Lieutenant.

Looking back and forth from the black man and the world traveler with the red hands, Garcia watched as the two men simply stared at each other. After several moments the man in the Mercedes nodded, rolled up the window and cruised off.

“What the fuck.” Garcia thought

He wondered what the hell was going on between ‘King’ a notorious gang leader and the guy he just could not get a handle on.

Looking at Mal for some moment, he asked. “Your telling me those guys don’t hassle you. No problems? Like Living at the Bellagio. What the f***s going on Just Mal?”

Mal squinched his lips, looked at the Lieutenant as his eyes began to sparkle.

“We have an understanding.”

“What the f**k do you mean, you have an understanding?”

Growing more agitated by the moment, the Lieutenant was ready to lose it.

Besides completely frustrated he was one very confused cop and already pushing the envelope of his sanity after decades on a thankless job, he was about to pop.

“Yes, Lieutenant. They leave me along, and I leave them alone.”

“Oh, that’s good, okay, that’s a great explanation. Thanks a lot, Just Mal…”Garcia grew angry for a moment. “f**k YOU…”

Lieutenant Garcia rubbed his neck with his meaty hand, looked all around, focused back on Mal.

“You want to explain? Or do you want to visit me at Precinct?

“It is what it is, Lieutenant…You do what you have to do.”

Looking off at the impatient coroners, he turned his back to Mal, glanced again at his red hands and smirked.

“Come on, smart ass. I want you to see something.”

Grabbing his jacket sleeve, he turned the artist and walked him over to the coroners, stalling next to the body bag on the gurney.

“Open it.” He snarled to one of the coroners.

The young coroner as tired as his Lou unzipped the bag and stalled patiently alongside of it.

Looking smugly at Mal, Garcia reached his hand past the zipper into the plastic bag, grabbing something and pulling it out, dangled it in front of Mal’s curious eyes.

“Recognize this fella?”

Mal looked at the severed, bloodied head and to Garcia’s surprise Mal showed absolutely zero emotion as he did.

“Yes, I’ve seen him around. Why?”

“What the fuck.” Garcia thought.

He lowered the severed head back into the body bag and turning to the coroner as he did, he wheezed. “Get the f**k out of here.”

As the coroner turned, he halted from Garcia’s edgy voice.

“Hold it, Smith.”

Garcia smiled at Mal, turned back to the coroner.

“You got a crime kit in there?”

“Sorry Lou. Crime Scene carries that stuff. We got some Luminal though.

“Well get it, give I’m a spritz, I want ta know if this characters got blood on his hands.”

Looking at Mal, he smiled.

“You don’t mind that, do ya Just Mal?”

Remaining silent, Mal sorta shrugged his shoulders and for the first time seemed a little bit agitated.

“Good.” Garcia giggled, now feeling a little better about things.

After digging around the box of their coroner’s truck, the attendant moved to Mal, took a small plastic bottle and squeezed the handle, spraying it against the artist’s hands. Looking at Garcia, The Coroners Assistant smiled, found a pair of green tinted goggles, put them over his eyes and stared at the tall mans red and callused hands.

After some moments of acute scrutiny, Smith turned to his Lieutenant and tiredly said.

“Ain’t blood, Lou.”

Groaning, Garcia looked Mal up and down, turned to the coroner.

“Get the f**k outta here.”

Grateful to be out of their Lou’s fire zone, the coroner nodded, zipped the bag up and with the help from his colleague loaded the corpse into the wagon. They quickly entered and with lights pulsing drove off, glad to be away from their scary boss.

“Okay Mal? You don’t seem so upset by what I just showed ya. Most people don’t like seein’ people head’s that ain’t attached to their bodies. Why is that, Just Mal?”

Now it was Mal’s turn to exhale his fatigue. He hadn’t slept for close to forty-eight hours and he was feeling it. Growing tired of the game he whispered.

“I’ve seen worse, Lieutenant.”

Garcia had just about had it with this character Just Mal.

“Ya seen worse? Where did ya seen worse than that?”

Before the words had left his mouth, he was sorry he had even asked the question at all.

Taking a deep breath, Mal thought carefully of what he would say next. Liking the Lieutenant, he decided to defuse the situation as best he could.

“Listen, Lieutenant Garcia.” He guffawed, before he continued. “You saw my passport. You know where I’ve been, but you don’t know and you couldn’t possibly understand what I’ve seen. I was a war Photo/Journalist for a British newspaper in Africa, Somalia, The Sudan, Ethiopia just to name a few.”

Looking away in memory for a moment, he looked back at the intrigued cop.

“I’ve seen more dead bodies then you could imagine. There is nothing left on earth that can shock me.” He exhaled in fatigue. “Except someone being honest with me.”

Pressing his eyes with his fingers, he continued.

“You look tired, Lieutenant, I know I am. If you want to arrest me, fine, let’s do it. If not, come on in, tonight, tomorrow, when ever. We’ll have a drink, chat about it if you want. Right now, I’m cold, in need of a shower and a drink. What do you say?”

What could he say? Within his twenty-five years on the force not one person that he had ever tried to get into their heads had ever talked to him with such intelligence, clarity or confusion before.

Like the ex-blonde w***e that had left mounds of corpses in Inferno Flats, a woman that Lieutenant Garcia had yet to meet, Mal was a twisted genius of unimaginable talent and horrible pathos. No matter how much experience the cleaver cop had in his dealings with at times very smart criminals, nothing could of ever have prepared him for Mal.

Unable to help himself, Garcia liked Just Mal, though in his spine the artist’s aurora felt like an electric shock blistering through it.

Garcia knew better than anyone that people were never what they seemed and that many of them were consummate actors. After all, had not John Wayne Gacy been a stalwart member of his church community as he tortured and murdered young boys for twenty years.

Yet still, men like Mal and women he would one day meet named Mandal Beckwith, handsome, beautiful, brilliant and intelligent, sick minds and above alluring are addictive to other human beings and Garcia was no different almost falling into a haze as he stared at the artist.

After some moments of silence, Garcia’s eyes flicked at the iron door of the former bakery that the queer artist lived in.

Exhausted, yet wanting more, Garcia whispered. “Mind if I look around? In there.”

“Sure, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind if I take a shower while you’re poking around?”

Nodding in agreement, Garcia watched as Mal opened the Iron door, opened a wooden door and entered. Garcia followed behind him and froze as if a slab of rock.

As his eyes became ovals, he simply stared in awe into the cavernous room and things he simply could not comprehend that stretched before him.

As Garcia gawked in disbelief at what was before him, Mal smiled as he thought.

“Welcome to the queer and dangerous world of Just Mal, Lieutenant Garcia.”