Jesus Christ. Tightest fuckin’ gun laws in the country and still this shit happens.”
Detective Molloy had seen it all in his time. The shooter still hadn’t offed himself. He was sitting on the ground in back of the Boston Monitor building, holding a gun to his head. The detective wouldn’t have much to do until the SWAT Team mopped things up.
So far there were just three people dead.
So far today that was.
It was five people that week in total. Mostly security guards by the looks of things or ‘Protective Services’ as they would be described in the statistics on workplace homicide. One of them was sitting back in his chair at the rear entrance to the building, with a hole the size of a human fist through his throat.
“Damn fuckin’ shame.”
Molloy threw a jellybean into his mouth and chomped on it.
“Third time this week too. Can you believe that? Say, how long you think this fuckin’ thing is gonna go on for?”
The SWAT team lead, J.J. Finnegan, gave him a sharp look.
“‘Hey guys, shoot that fucker and let’s go home’. Is that what you wanna hear Molloy? Worried your fuckin’ dinner will go cold in case this thing drags on?”
“Jesus Finnegan, calm the hell down will ya? It’s just another ‘workplace’; don’t get all crazy on me. These things are all the freakin’ same anyway.”
Over on the ground the presumed perp was weeping.
“I’ll fuckin’ kill all a you bastards first. You won’t fuckin’ take me alive you cocksuckers.”
Finnegan cocked an eyebrow. “Can you believe this guy? OK boys, one false move and be ready to take the shooter down.”
Shocking?
Maybe. But it was no surprise to the remaining Monitor guards that this was happening on their own doorstep. The Boston Monitor security crew had always been a magnet for loners, aka potential mass murderers. Rosy Panicker had been a site manager with the South Boston Security Company for just shy of two decades. She was responsible for every hire the company had made since 1994. She knew her guys weren’t the most outgoing people in the world, but that didn’t stop her from hiring them. How can you expect a bright, talkative, friendly people-person to sit alone in total silence 6 to 12 work shifts per week, 8 to 16 hours at a time?
Forget it.
Those extroverts who tried it never lasted long and Rosy was left to cover the holes in the schedule, rehire and retrain the next warm body for the job. Introverts were a whole lot easier to find and way more dependable.
She had hired Theodore Williams only three years before the SWAT Team incident. He was already 81 years old. He had worked steadily for six months, mostly overnights, before he showed any signs of wear and tear. If supervisor McManus hadn’t been asleep in the locker room for the whole of that night, resting his bum leg, he would have seen the upright corpse seated at the Boston Monitor rear entrance. Most of the day staff passed Ted ‘Bugle Boy’ Williams, on their way into the building and noticed nothing unusual. Drivers flashed their lights and drove through without a look in the old man’s direction. Closer investigation later revealed that Bugle Boy’s last worldly act was a failed effort to lift a Boston Cream donut to his mouth. It only got as far as the dented aluminum desk in front of him.
It was 8 a.m. before supervisor McManus finally noticed that old Ted hadn’t entertained the other guards with his impression of a bugle call to signal the end of another long night shift.
The supervisor felt his stomach go sick, his chest tighten.
“Williams, you old bastard, you ain’t sleeping on me are you?”
Locating Williams at his post, he immediately saw the hard rigor mortise in the Boston Cream. Another squint and he could see it was in the man as well.
“Oh my freakin’ sweet Jesus. Another one, another one…fuckin’ God almighty, we gotta start hirin’ ‘em before they get to the fuckin’ dyin’ stage. This is a newspaper not a fuckin’ nursing home.”
McManus’s stubby hands began to sweat. He could feel the hard won position of night supervisor slipping away from his stubby, perspiring grasp.
“Oh my freakin’ God. Fuck you Williams. Fuckin’ Bugle Boy my sweet Irish ass. Bugle fuckin’ bastard is more stinkin’ like it you frickin piece a shit, no good fuckin’ bum.”
He plucked the rigid pastry from Williams’ hand and gnawed through it in anger.
“Stinkin’ old bastard.”
He limped off to call Rosy Panicker to inform her of the situation. He expected nothing less than the full power of her wrath.
“Yeah Rosy, we got us a little problem here…yeah, I know, I’m sorry, but it can’t wait, yeah…yeah…sorry...but we got a death on our hands here…” McManus held the phone away from his fat ear as Rosy exploded in pre-emptive rage.
“Yeah, that’s right, a death.”
“A death? McManus….this better be good or I’ll make sure it ain’t the only death, do you hear me? I mean do you freakin’ hear me McManus?”
“Sure Rosy, sure…”
“Don’t you ‘sure’ me pinhead… just spit it out; what did you screw up this time?”
“It’s Williams…”
“Sweet Jesus, that poor old guy, what am I gonna tell his wife.”
“Nuthin’ Rosy, she died last August.”
“Well I gotta tell someone right? Hah? McManus? Unless you was thinkin’ of dumpin’ the poor old guy in the Charles River, hah?”
McManus was silent. Rosy paused to regain control of herself.
“Jesus McManus, how’d it happen, go on tell me, I’m waitin’.”
“Well he just up and died Rosy, you know? He was an old guy; we gotta start hirin’ ‘em younger…”
“Don’t say it McManus, don’t push it…just tell me the whole frickin’ story, no short cuts, alright? Out with it.”
“Well, Jesus Christ, I dunno, I guess he died not so long ago, sometime this mornin’…”
Rosy’s North End nose didn’t buy it for a second.
“Alright then…early in the morning you say? And you can say that accurately and honestly ‘cause in all the 8 inspection rounds you religiously did last night, Williams was sittin’ there, in the pink, smellin’ of roses.”
Again she paused, apportioning to McManus the length of rope he needed to hang himself. Several long seconds went by but the canny supervisor held his peace.
He should have known better.
“So help me McManus, if I find out Williams was sittin’ there all night long, that poor man, sittin’ there rottin’, while you and them other clowns was sleepin’ through my shift…so help me McManus…you know what I’ll do to you, don’t ya? Hah? Ya know it ain’t no good lyin’ to me, so if you got somethin’ to tell me, now is the time.”
“Swear to God Rosy, I checked every hour. Williams was a little quieter than usual but…”
Rosy hung up the phone. McManus was pale. A drip of cold sweat slithered down his back.
Oh my fuckin’ leg, he thought and grimaced in pain.
Why did I have to even fuckin’ try?
The paramedic needed only one scant look at the remains.
“For the love of God…how long has this poor guy been sittin’ here?”
Rosy was well placed to hear the remark and well placed to observe McManus squirm and glisten with sweat.
“Ya ain’t fired McManus. But you ain’t supervisor no more. Get outta my sight for Christ’s sake.”
He stood for a moment half-looking into the big woman’s eyes like a rebellious schoolboy. He picked up a flashlight from the supervisors desk and his knuckles went white as he held it low by his side.
“Get goin’ McManus. I’ll see ya for duty tomorrow.”
He didn’t move. His right hand, heavy with the flashlight swung back and forth in a nervous arc.
“Don’t push me McManus. You ain’t lost your job yet.”
“What’s goin’ on here?”
Rosy’s little brother, Vinny Panicker, had strolled into the office and sized up the situation.
McManus took a deep breath.
Two Panickers.
“You got a problem McManus?”
“Cool it Vinny, Macky ain’t got no problem. You was just about to scram outta here right?”
He nodded his head and slunk away, his bad leg disappearing through the Monitor back entrance. Rosy gave a little snort and a smile came to her lips. She winked to her younger brother but he wasn’t convinced.
“Jesus Rosy, you gotta watch yourself with these fuckin’ losers. All it takes is one of these guys to come back here with a...”
“Don’t say it Vinny. And you know I don’t like you using that language in front of me when it ain’t necessary.”
“I’m just trying to look out for you sis. You don’t know when one of these guys is gonna lose it. Maybe you need a little protection around here.”
“Since when did I ever need you to look after me Vinny?”
“Ah jeez, Rosy, I’m just worried about ya is all. Have you thought about that idea? You know the m...”
“Stop it Vinny! Will ya? Please? I hear where you’re comin’ from but these guys is all talk, you know that. How many years we been here, seen ‘em all come an’ go. ‘I’ll kill ya’, ‘I’m comin’ back for you’, blah, blah, blah. We heard it all and here we are still standin’. If it’s ever gonna happen, I’ll know. Trust me, I know these guys like I know my own pantry and if I need your help you know I’ll ask for it, OK hon?”
Her little brother smiled and she turned back to Bugle Boy and the paramedics.
“Let’s get this poor guy outta here.”
In the locker-room, McManus slowly and painfully leaned against the wall as he let down his wide trousers. There was a picture of a busty naked blond holding pom-poms at the back of his open locker and one of an AK-47 on the inside of the door. He stared at the gun and struggled to put his pants on without bending over. His right hip and knee were more painful than usual.
Gettin’ fuckin’ old, he thought.
Michael Keogh had just arrived for duty and watched McManus with dull, pale, sullen eyes.
Moron, he thought, trying to fool Rosy. What a fucking dope.
Keogh wouldn’t have even thought about it. He had long since decided to abandon all methods that purported to achieve anything, anywhere, at any time at all and he seemed to be getting along just fine.
“What the fuck are you lookin’ at?” McManus shouted. “Fuckin’ Irish donkey. You fuckin’ wait and see if I don’t teach that bitch a lesson. Yeah, I ain’t afraid to say it, you fuckin’ Mick. And that jerk off brother of hers too, you hear me?”
Keogh bowed his head and looked away without a word.