Maximum Insanity: Tommy Avon Mysteries, #2

By charles fisher

What does a famous dead serial killer have in common with a bunch of Nazi sympathizers from North Carolina, a hidden  estate in Argentina, a secret hospital that cared for Hitler after his escape from Berlin in 1945, and a secret laboratory in modern day Berlin? Tommy and his "angels" will soon uncover the most bizarre plot ever seen by man when they look into a local murder case that develops into total lunacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: charles fisher
• Release date: Jun 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524235116

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Maximum Insanity | A  Tommy Avon Mystery

Maximum Insanity

A  Tommy Avon Mystery

Chicago Police Department

First Division

Office of Lt. Domenic Torello

April

What do we have today? Lt. Dom Torello asked, a smile  on his face. Defenestration? Beheading? How about a nice ax murder?

We got this, Detective Sergeant Al Polinski said as he dropped a file on Torello’s desk. This will make your day, LT. You eat breakfast yet? he grinned.

Torello looked through the file and put his head on the desk. And I thought after thirty years on the job I’d seen it all, he sighed as he sat back up. Is this for real? Tell me it’s a joke. Please. I’m begging you.

It’s for real, LT, the scarred monster said.

This is like a bad 1970s movie, Torello said. What was that one about the chainsaw murders?

Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Polinksi grinned. Maybe this guy saw the movie. You know, a copy cat.

You got any leads? Torello said. You know, like some pissed off guy from Home Depot?

We got the guy, Polinski said. Not in custody, but we got the murder weapon and a full set of fresh prints. As soon as Chicken Lips IDs the creep for us, we’ll go pick him up.

Five minutes later, Forensics Supervisor Alma Bridewell came in, a smirk on her thin lips. Here you go, genius, she said as she tossed a file folder in front of Polinski. Go get him, Tiger.

You get a match on them prints? Polinski said.

Couldn’t be better, Bridewell said, trying not to laugh. 100% perfect in every respect. That’s your man.

Polinski looked at the top page, which had a mug shot. Edward Theodore Gein, he said, holding up the folder. He got a sheet, LT. He’s from Wisconsin. Serial killer. He’s perfect for this. I’ll get a warrant and put out an APB on his ass. I’ll take a ride over to Wisconsin and see if I can find him.

Bring a shovel, Bridewell said, her arms folded in front of her rail thin body.

I’m gonna arrest him, not kill him, Polinski said.

Sure you are. I know high school was probably the seven hardest years of your life, but you really need to improve your reading skills, Polinski. Your suspect has been dead for thirty years, asshole.

Torello snorted with mirth, and coffee shot out of his nose. He’s dead? he laughed. Good work, Al. You saved us the cost of a trial, unless Casper the Friendly Ghost is the judge.

How the hell could he be dead? Polinski exclaimed.

Respiratory failure due to lung cancer, Bridewell smirked. Do you smoke? If not, you should start.

These are fresh prints, aren’t they?

Yes. No more than two days old.

And they are his?

Yup.

Then he ain’t dead. That’s the only explanation, Polinski said.

Oh, I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet that he’s dead, Sherlock, Bridewell said. He died in 1984 and we have the autopsy report. Besides, he’d be 110 years old if he was still alive. A bit long in the tooth for a spree killer, wouldn’t you say?

You’re still around, Polinski grinned.

So are you, Bridewell said, eyeing Polinski up and down. About six feet around, from the looks of things. Go arrest your suspect, she giggled. I have work to do.

Eggs to hatch? Polinski said as Bridewell left.

Looks like you got a problem, Al, Torello said. 110 year old dead guys don’t make good suspects.

Then how the hell do you get a perfect set of fresh prints from a dead guy?

Go find out, Torello said. "If Chicken Lips says those are Ed Gein’s prints, then they are. Who knows, maybe the killer found some way to change his prints to match this guy’s. I saw that in a James Bond movie. Diamonds Are Forever. They made duplicates in latex, and the guy glued them to his hands. I forget the whole plot, but I remember that part."

These got fresh skin oil, though.

Go do a DNA test and see if it’s a match. They must have something from this nut you can use. Go see the Wisconsin PD and find out.

Plainfield Police Department

Office of Lt. Ralph Carson

Plainfield, Wisconsin

April

––––––––

What do you want with that case? Ralph Carson said. That’s ancient history.

Maybe not, Polinski said as he sat down across from Carson. We got a little problem we need to resolve. It’s a murder case. It comes back to this guy Ed Gein.

He’s dead. You just want to clear it off the books or something? That’s about all you can do.

This is recent. This week. Chain saw murder.

Well, he didn’t do it, Carson said. Dude died in 1984. Besides, he never cut anybody up with a chain saw. That movie was so far from reality it wasn’t even funny. The guy was a whacko grave robber and murderer, but he never used no chain saws.

We got a fresh set of prints two days old. Perfect 100% match.

Says who?

Alma Bridewell.

She’s the best, Carson said. She don’t make mistakes. Only thing is, it ain’t possible.

I know. That’s my problem. I got to figure this out so the LT doesn’t hang me out to dry.

What do you need?

The skin oil is fresh. We figure maybe the killer figured out a way to duplicate Gein’s prints on a computer, and make gloves or something he could use. He’d have to wipe his hands on his face or something to get the prints to show up. We think a DNA test would prove this. You got DNA from this Gein chooch?

They got a lot of stuff, Carson said. They wanted to make sure they had this asshole good in case he tried the crazy plea, which he did. They took blood, hair, and saliva samples. Please don’t ask why, he said, holding up his hands. It’s almost lunch time. The stuff went to the state, then they sent it all back here. It should still be in the evidence room. Go see Nicky. Don’t pay no attention to his bullshit. He likes to play around like he’s from Goodfellas.

Thanks. Polinski went to the evidence room, where Nicky De Angelo worked. Hey, Polinski said. I’m Polinski from the Chicago PD. You got stuff from Ed Gein?

I got it, Nicky shrugged, whacking away at a piece of gum. How much you wanna pay for it?

You’re funny, Polinski said. I’m a detective. Crime don’t pay.

Neither do Polacks, Nicky grinned. No money, no evidence.

You’re serious, ain’t you.

You kidding? You put a Wop in charge of an evidence room and you don’t think it’s gonna turn into a Guinea tag sale? You been doing the Polka too much, Ski. It affected your judgment, he said, trying not to laugh.

"Yeah, I see that. Who Stole the Kishka, huh? How about Who Shot the Dago? Ever hear of that one?"

That was very popular in Brooklyn in the 1950s, Nicky said. Kathy and the Innocents, as I recall.

She wasn’t so innocent, Polinski grinned. I fucked her.

With what? Nicky said. A two inch Polish sausage? It takes a real man to make these bitches scream. I banged all three McGuire Sisters in one night, and had enough left over to get a blowjob from Patti Page.

Go get the damn evidence, before I change my mind and we play Chicago Funeral.

You got it, Ski, What do you need?

We want to do a DNA match.

Somebody from his family bite your sister? Nicky grinned. You gotta tell her to stop hosing bums in the train station bathroom.

She did, Polinski grinned. Your mother took over the best stall.

Nicky roared with laughter as he headed for the shelves. You’re a funny fucking Polack, he sighed. Real fucking funny. He came back with a box and a clip board. Sign here, he said. If you can’t write your name because you’re a stupid Polack, just make an X or draw a picture of some stuffed cabbage.

How about a picture of a Guinea with a hole blown through his forehead?

That works too, Nicky shrugged. He pushed the box across the counter. Enjoy. Just for shits and giggles, what’s this really about? Nobody asked for shit on Gein in thirty years.

Somebody chain sawed a nurse in Chicago. They left the saw, and we got a perfect set of fresh prints with a 100% match to this Gein asshole. It’s my job to figure out how that happened.

Nicky looked nervously around. You want a lead? he said quietly.

Yeah. I need one.

Mendota Hospital, Nicky said. That’s where he was locked up. He died there. He was like 77, but from what I hear he could still, you know, Nicky shrugged, grabbing his crotch. It’s like the gift that keeps on giving, you know?

Was he  a Wop?

Kraut, mostly, Nicky shrugged. Gein is an Irish name, but that was his mother’s married name. Her maiden name was Wilhelmine. I figure that to be German. Anyway, there were stories about some girls who worked at the hospital. They developed a crush on the killers, sick bitches, you know how it goes. Word is one of ‘em banged the pants off old Ed before he croaked. Who knows, Nicky shrugged. Maybe she shit out a puppy.

Got a name for me? Polinski said.

Nope. It’s just a story. You could check it out, though.

Thanks. You sure you don’t want a twenty?

Not me, Nicky said, holding up his hands. You look like the type that would have me indicted.

Yeah, I probably would. See you around. Thanks for the tip.

You could leave a meatball and pepper grinder in my inbox, Nicky called out as Polinski left.

Chicago Police Department

First Division

Office of Lt. Domenic Torello

April

––––––––

You get anywhere? Torello said. 

I got hair, blood, and saliva samples. Even Chicken Lips can’t turn that down.

Let’s find out, Torello grinned. He had his secretary summon Bridewell, who appeared five minutes later.

Oh, it’s you again, she said as she stared at Polinski. What now? Did you find a new Polish deli nobody knows about?

Yeah, Birdwell, Polinski grinned. They serve chicken legs. Maybe you oughta stay away from the place.

Lieutenant Torello’s secretary said you have evidence for me to analyze concerning Mr. Gein. You did spell his name correctly when you went to Wisconsin, didn’t you?

That I did, Poultry Lips, Polinski said. I got the original blood, saliva, and hair samples.

What, no semen? she chuckled. I should think that would be the first thing you looked for.

Why, you run out of mouthwash? You should be able to get your own samples at the train station, and it would be fresh, too.

Sure, Bridewell snickered. I could collect what your wife spits out in the gutter when she gets out of some John’s car.

I ain’t married, Polinski said.

There’s the shock of the century, Bridewell said. Could it be your charming personality, your fat body, or that awful smell that is preventing you from sweeping the ladies off their feet?

I could sweep you off your feet, Polinski said. Let me borrow that broom you ride to work.

Enough, Torello said. Before I fill out a form and dock both your paychecks.

That reminds me, Bridewell said. My raise is overdue.

So is your period, Torello smiled. By about four centuries. Take this box of shit and see what you can come up with. Let me know if it matches the oil from those prints.

How about I see if I can get a match for the Polish Prince? I’m sure I could find an excellent set of his prints on his fat little penis. Those should be unimpeachable in court. Nobody else would touch it.

You can’t be first, but you could be next, Polinski smiled.

I don’t do fat guys, Bridewell said as she took the box. This could take a day or two, she smirked. The evidence is rather old. It would be like trying to analyze the stains in Detective Polinski’s shorts. Those could go back to the 1960s.

Out, Torello said, pointing at the door.

She’s a real pain in the ass, Polinski said.

Yeah, I know. But she’s the best at what she does. We never lost a conviction with her evidence.

Bitch should bite herself and die of the poison.

Yeah. Hey, what time is it? I haven’t seen Jackie in a while, Torello grinned. Maybe he knows something.

He’s a Mafia family leader, Polinski said. What would he know?

How to make gravy. I’ll be back later.

Home of Jackie  Di Mattio

Hyde Park

Chicago, Illinois

April

––––––––

Hey, Dom, how are you? the aging mobster said as he opened the door to his palatial home. He was in a white apron. You came just in time. I just made Lasagna.

I’m your man, Dom smiled. How are you?

Good. Two big hoods came over and stared at Torello.

Back off, boys, Torello said, staring right back at them. You know better.

Take off, Jackie said. The two big Italians wandered off into the back of the house. They still think it’s 1956, Jackie smiled.

I wish it was, Dom said as they went into the kitchen. Mario Lanza was a big star, Ronzoni ran TV commercials all the time, and so did Prince. Remember Anthony? Those were the good days. I lived in New York, all you could smell was Italian gravy cooking, opera music playing, and old guys named Guido walking around in dress pants and white shirts, looking around the neighborhood.

I know, Jackie said as he set a tureen of fresh gravy on the table. My father did this, and so did my uncles. No moolies came into our neighborhoods, he said, wagging his finger. None. Or  Polacks or Irish. We protected our culture. We did not stand apart from America, but we did not let invaders take over our culture. Neither would they. Many Italians were killed in nigger neighborhoods just because they wandered into the wrong block. We got even, though, Jackie winked. We really got even. You got more dead niggers in the rivers than you got fish. We always took care of business. He brought out the Lasagna and fresh Italian bread, and set out plates. We come from the same time, and the same place. My family is from New York, and so is yours, and we talked about this before. It is so strange we wound up on opposite sides.

It happens, Dom shrugged as he made a plate. You chose your path, I chose mine. They are different paths. I don’t like what you do, and you know that. But you do it anyway, and that’s okay. If I can catch you, I will. But nobody makes Italian food like you.

I am old school, Jackie said. I do what the old goombahs said we should do. A little of this, a little of that. Gambling, girls, who doesn’t want this? The pessonovante. The better Guineas. The  priests, the politicians, who take more bribes and have more girls than I ever did. I know a priest from the local parish who died of syphilis from all the whores we provided for him. They said it was pneumonia on his death certificate. That’s what you got today. Phonies from top to bottom, and paid liars in the media to cover up for them. That phony Irish asshole who claims to be number one on cable took a two million dollar payoff from the archdiocese to cover this shit up. I saw the money in the briefcase, and I sent the guy to his house. I never claimed to be a perfect man. But those who would pursue me are a lot less perfect than me.

What about me? Dom said as he ate his Lasagna.

You do what you do, Jackie said. I don’t care what you think. I know what you think. You like to tilt at windmills. You think you can lock up all the Guinea crooks and that’ll be the end of it. You should know better. It never ends, it never will end. You lock up ten Mafiosi, ten more line up to take their place. It is the way of the world, my friend. It will never change, no matter what you or I do about it.

Maybe not, Dom said. I think the Mafia is.....how do you say it. Done, over. It’s a small part of the criminal enterprises we got in Chicago. I’m  more worried about the Russians, the Muslims, and the Asians.

You got some real trouble there, Jackie said. What else you got going on? You don‘t come here for the food, he smiled.

That’s a big part of it, Dom said. But you’re right. We have a very weird case. Some girl got chopped up by a chain saw. We got perfect fresh prints, but they come back to a guy who died thirty years ago in a mental ward. Ed Gein, his name was.

I remember him, Jackie said. Real nut case. Dug up dead bodies and made suits from the skin, real crazy bastard. Some shit about his mother dying.

"Yeah, that’s him. We got to figure out how we got a fresh set of prints from a guy