A Killer's Coda

By Mark T. Conard

Henry Blackwell assists the Philadelphia police with psychological profiles of dangerous criminals, but Blackwell’s own wife was brutally murdered, and the crime went unsolved. Since her death, Blackwell has gone on a bender and suffers periodic blackouts.

Detectives Jimmy Slomann and Dave Busch investigate the deaths of several young women whose killings resemble that of Blackwell’s wife. Blackwell had been acquainted with all the victims and is convinced that the killer has struck again.

Up-and-coming reporter Michele Stone investigates the tragic story of Blackwell and his wife’s unsolved murder. The reporter shows a personal interest in Blackwell, and he wonders if she’s just using him to get the scoop. Slomann and Busch note the correspondence between Blackwell’s drinking binges and the murders and wonder if he’s involved.

Convinced that the killer is taking revenge on him from some reason, Blackwell’s drinking worsens, and he starts to come unhinged. Blackwell, the detectives, the reporter, and a mysterious stranger who’s been following Blackwell, are all on a collision course in this noir tale of murder and retribution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Down & Out Books
• Release date: May 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005537999

Book preview

Chapter One

I once took a shit at the Van Gogh museum, said Henry Blackwell, as he toyed with a stack of crime scene photos lying on the bar.

Yeah? said the blond sitting next to him. Where’s that?

Amsterdam, he said.

That’s in Europe, right?

Precisely, he said. It was a nice facility, very clean, no smell. It was obvious they maintain it with great diligence, which is characteristic of the Dutch, and they’d stocked it with soft, double-ply toilet roll. Very impressive. Much different than most public toilets you see around the world. You might not believe it, but some of the oldest, most respected restaurants in Paris offer you a simple hole in the floor for your convenience.

That doesn’t sound very nice.

It’s not, trust me.

I always wanted to go to Paris, she said. Is it as beautiful as it looks in the movies?

Henry looked up and waved to the bartender. What’s that guy’s name?

Charlie, she said. What’s in the pictures? She came close to spilling her gin and tonic, leaning towards him to have a look. The photos contained images of brutal violation and death. Bruising covered the victim’s face and upper torso, blood speckled the flooring around her head, strangulation marks striped her neck.

Hey, Charlie, said Henry, waving his glass. I need a refill.

The bartender grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the shelf. You should slow down on these, he said, as he poured the whiskey.

On the contrary, said Henry. I haven’t imbibed nearly enough. Can’t you leave the bottle?

You already asked me that, and the answer’s still no.

I thought you might’ve changed your mind.

What’s ‘imbibed’ mean? said the blond.

You should keep in mind, said the bartender, we’re not allowed to serve people who are visibly drunk.

Do I look drunk to you?

Charlie raised his eyebrows. No, I guess not, he said. But you’ve already had seven of those.

And I drank a pint before I got here.

Jesus, why aren’t you falling off the stool?

I have good balance, said Henry.

The bartender walked away, shaking his head.

Henry wrote half a sentence in the notebook accompanying the photos and glanced around the somber West Philly tavern, a joint no one would call cool. A handful of kids from Penn occupied one of the tables. Henry pegged most of the other patrons as blue-collar workers. They drank Budweiser or Yuengling, some of them wearing Eagles caps. Eric Clapton issued from the juke box, and rushes of cool air swept through the room whenever anyone entered or left.

Haven’t I seen you in here before? said the blond.

Not for a while, said Henry. He gulped the Scotch. Normally I drink at home, but it’s a special occasion.

Oh, yeah? What’re you celebrating?

It’s eighteen months to the day since I lost everything, he said.

She frowned. You mean like on Wall Street?

He stuffed the photos inside the notebook and wrapped a heavy rubber band around it. Something like that.

You must be feeling real down, she said. I was wondering why you were drinking so much.

Yeah? he said. He turned towards her, in a safe place now, gliding on top of the alcohol. I was wondering why you don’t drink more.

What do you mean? she said.

Your makeup is meant to cover the bruising around your eye, he said. There’s a cigarette burn on your wrist, and your jaw is slightly misshapen on the right side—indicating that it’s been broken but not set properly, likely due to a lack of adequate medical treatment. Add that to the insecurities obvious in the way you speak and the questions you’ve been persistently asking since I sat down, and the fact that you’re seeking refuge in this place, looking for some stranger to give you comfort, tells me you’re in an abusive relationship. Your husband beats the shit out of you, doesn’t he?

She stared at him and nodded her head.

Don’t stay in that relationship, he said. Leave him before he kills you.

Okay, she said, still staring at him.

There are plenty of shelters in the city for victims of abuse. Find one in the phone book. They’ll have counselors who can help you. Henry gathered his things and slipped on his jacket. The notebook fit into his pocket. Nice talking to you, he said.

You too, she managed to say.

On the street, standing in the cold, he made a cell phone call. A young woman answered. You’re late, Henry, she said.

You said before midnight.

It’s five ’till. I just hope he’s still available.

Where do we meet?

Give me ten minutes, she said. I’ll call you back.

He shuffled his feet and rubbed his hands and waited for the time to pass, wondering whether he ought to go back inside for another Scotch. The cold air still bothered him, which meant he hadn’t yet drunk as much as he could have.

A couple of loud black kids turned the corner and fell silent as soon as they saw him. Their shoelaces dragged, and their jeans rode low, showing their boxers. They eyed him as they passed.

The phone vibrated, and he answered. We’re going to South Philly, the voice said. Tenth and Snyder. My friend I told you about, Jason, got hold of the guy, and he was pissed it’s so late, but he’s willing to meet.

And he’s got it with him?

Yeah, I guess so.

I don’t want to waste my time if he hasn’t got it.

Well, he told Jason he’s got it, so I guess he’ll have it with him. That’s why we’re meeting.

Tenth and Snyder, said Henry. What time?

Half past twelve, she said.

Henry hailed a cab, and the driver dropped him off a minute early. Sheryl Jenkins waited on the corner. Short and frail-looking, she’d dressed for work in a red miniskirt and spiked heels. An oversized Phillies windbreaker hung from her shoulders. Jason’s in talking to him now, she said as he approached.

Are you eating? he said.

You asked me that last week.

You look thin.

It’s the coke, she said. Kills my appetite.

I thought you quit that.

She shrugged. Fell off the wagon, I guess.

You want me to get you into a clinic?

You’re sweet, Henry, but I’m not your patient anymore.

He looked around at the empty street. So, do you know this guy? he said. Is he reliable?

I don’t know anything about him, she said. Jason buys all his weed from him, so I guess he’s okay.

A guy without a jacket appeared from around the corner. He had cloudy eyes and smelled of pot smoke. You’re Blackwell? he said.

That’s right.

We better go in. He’s got other business, and he’s pissed off that we made him wait.

Let’s go, then, said Henry, motioning for the kid, Jason, to lead the way.

He’s heard of you, said Jason as they walked. Maybe that’s why he’s cutting you a break.

Did you see the ring? said Henry.

No, I didn’t see it, but he’s got it.

And it’s got the inscription?

Yeah, I guess so. He said it does.

Jason stopped in front of a row home, and Henry followed him up onto the stoop. Sheryl stayed on the sidewalk. I got to get back to work, she said. Got an appointment. Henry waved to her. Jason knocked twice on the screen door and entered without waiting for someone to answer.

Inside a young blond girl lay sleeping on the sofa. Jason crossed the room and walked down a short, carpeted hallway, Henry following. They stepped up to a door and Jason rapped at it with his knuckles. A voice called for them to enter, and they slipped through the doorway into the room, which appeared to be someone’s idea of a makeshift office.

The Dealmaker—as Henry thought of him—sat in a black swivel chair behind a scarred wooden table. He wore sunglasses and his dark hair seemed to require a lot of gel. A cigarette burned in an ashtray. Get lost, Jason, he said.

Jason retreated out the door.

So you’re Blackwell, huh? said the man.

That’s right, said Henry, looking around at the merchandise that filled the room: dozens of boxes of digital cameras and smart phones stacked in the corner; a plasma TV that looked like it had been ripped off someone’s wall, with the mounting bracket still in place; on top of a filing cabinet sat cartons of Camel cigarettes and a bong.

In the papers with the cops and shit, right? I guess you think that makes you somebody important enough to keep an entrepreneur like me waiting, huh?

Puerto Rican, thought Henry. Probably spent some time in Miami, but he’s lived most of his adult years in Philly. A small-time player with aspirations and an inferiority complex, which makes him someone you have to keep an eye on.

Sorry about that, he said. I hear you have the ring I’m looking for. A silver band, with a smallish, central diamond, then three diamond chips on either side. It’s identifiable by the inscription, ‘Truth Above All Else’.

I got it all right, and it cost me something, and that means it’s going to cost you.

Money’s not a problem, said Henry. I’ll pay you for your time. Can I see the ring?

Let me see the cash.

Henry drew his wallet from his jacket pocket, took out ten one hundred-dollar bills, and showed them to the Dealmaker. The guy nodded behind the dark glasses and slid a small yellow envelope across the table. Henry opened the envelope and let the ring drop into his palm. He frowned. It didn’t look right, not how he remembered it. He turned the ring over and looked for the inscription but there wasn’t one. This isn’t it, he said.

What do you mean? said the guy, leaning forward. Diamond in the middle, three chips on each side.

There’s no inscription.

So get it inscribed. Take it to a jeweler.

You don’t get it. I’m looking for a particular ring, one that was stolen from me, from my wife. I had it inscribed for her. More than the ring, I’m looking for the person who stole it.

Can’t help you there, said the guy. He stabbed out the cigarette in the ashtray.

Then I’m wasting my time, said Henry, stuffing the money back into his wallet.

The guy stood up from the table. Hold on. I kept up my end. You got your fucking ring. Not my problem it’s not the one you want. I put time and effort into this. Now you pay me.

Sorry, said Henry. No way. He turned to leave, but the guy was on top of him before he made it to the door. He threw a fist into Henry’s chest, and then one against his head. Henry swung a couple of wild punches, but with all the alcohol in his blood he couldn’t connect. He felt himself falling.

When he regained consciousness, he lay slumped against the stoop outside the same row home. No light came from the house. He tasted blood and his head throbbed. The Dealmaker had taken the bills from his wallet, which lay on the sidewalk next to him. He stuffed the wallet into his pocket, then struggled to his feet and started walking. He felt wobbly.

At the end of the block he spotted a bar on the next corner and made his way towards it. Inside he climbed onto a stool. He grabbed some cocktail napkins and wiped blood from his mouth. You all right? said the bartender, a skinny guy missing three fingers on his left hand.

I’ll be better if you’ve got a decent single malt Scotch.

Define ‘decent’, said the man.

Henry laughed and his face hurt. Right now, ‘decent’ means in a glass.

That I can do, he said. He took a bottle from the shelf and poured the whiskey.

Henry drank down the first one. I’ll need a few more of those, he said. How about leaving the bottle?

Wish I could, he said, pouring another. Save me a lot of trouble.

Henry gulped the Scotch, nodded at the man, and pulled out his cell phone. He scrolled through his address book, found Sheryl Jenkins’ number, and pushed the button to call her. As he listened to the phone ring, he pulled his notebook from his pocket, removed the rubber band and took out the photos. He spread them out on the bar in front of him.

Chapter Two

Detective Jimmy Slomann and his partner Dave Busch rode in an unmarked silver Plymouth Acclaim, on their way to a crime scene. The early morning sun peeked around the buildings, streaking light into the car at oblique angles. The Philadelphia cityscape in autumn, brightly lit and then thrown into flickering shadows, looked like someone had shot it on old stock film.

Slomann’s once-muscular build had turned soft, and his sandy hair receded. At forty-two and feeling his age, he stared out the passenger side window at the passing sidewalks and buildings. He thought about a fight he’d had with his girlfriend the night before. Me and Maggie got into it yesterday, he said with a yawn.

What about? said Busch in a deep resonating voice, as he drove. He was a barrel of a black man with a large, flat head and a bristly moustache.

What else? said Slomann.

She wants to get married?

Of course.

Why don’t you do it? Make her an honest woman.

Jimmy sighed. I don’t know.

You waiting for somebody else to come along?

No, that’s not it. I don’t think so, anyway.

She’s good for you, said Busch. Takes good care of you.

I know she does, and I appreciate that.

Cooks for you…

I know.

Does your laundry…

Dave, I know.

Don’t mind waking up next to your skinny ass.

I know, Dave, I know. She’s great. I don’t deserve her.

Yeah, that’s your problem right there, partner. Low self esteem. You don’t think you’re good enough for her.

Slomann looked at him. What’re you, a fucking shrink now?

Nope, I’m just your partner, and I know you better than any shrink ever would. Hell, I know you better than you know yourself.

Probably right about that.

Damn straight.

How do you and Mimi do it, anyway? said Jimmy, referring to his partner’s petite Korean wife.

We have a relationship of mutual respect, trust, and deep affection, he said with a nod.

No, you let her think she’s running things, that’s how you get along so good.

Well, yeah, there’s some of that, too.

She says, ‘come on, Dave honey, we’re going to Bed, Bath and Beyond for some pillow shams’, and you hop up from the sofa and say, ‘Okay, dear, let’s go’.

Busch emitted a laugh that rumbled through his chest. That’s a pretty good imitation.

Thanks, said Slomann. I just made that up. What’s a pillow sham, anyway? I heard that word somewhere.

That’s a decorative pillow, like for the sofa. You don’t sleep on it—that’s why it’s a ‘sham’.

Slomann laughed. You know what it is—that’s hilarious.

I don’t deny I am a little domestic, said his partner.

She got you wearing an apron? A little maid’s outfit, while you’re doing the cooking and cleaning?

Busch frowned. Jimmy, now you’re pushing it, man.

They pulled into an alley behind a West Philly bar, beside two patrol cars. A uniformed officer named Delgrazo met them as they climbed out of the Acclaim. What you got, Frank? said Slomann.

Rape and assault. Victim was found an hour ago unconscious here next to the dumpsters, by a guy walking his dog. Somebody beat the hell out of her.

Slomann rubbed his hands together to warm them. She say anything?

She hasn’t woken up. Not sure if she will.

You get an ID?

Driver’s license in her pocket says ‘Angela Beck’.

So we got an address on her. Good. Stats?

Twenty-three years old, five two, hundred and five, bleach blond in the picture.

I don’t suppose anybody saw anything, said Busch, looking around.

Probably not, said Delgrazo. It’s going to take some time to find out who was working in the bar last night and whether she was even in there. We’re starting to do the canvassing of the neighbors, but it probably happened pretty late, and as you can see there aren’t too many windows overlooking this spot.

Slomann dug a Snickers bar out of his pocket, tore open the wrapper and bit off a chunk. Keep knocking on doors, he said. Dave, we need to find out who the owner of this place is and wake him up.

Right, said Busch, pulling out his phone.

Then we need find out the names of the people working here last night and wake them up.

Right again.

Delgrazo led them to the spot where the dog-walker found the victim. She was laying here, he said, pointing to the pavement. Face down, shirt still on, jeans and underwear around her ankles.

EMT guys took clothes and everything? said Slomann.

Delgrazo nodded.

Who were they? Guys who know what they’re doing, I hope, and won’t fuck up our evidence.

Nah, Stevens and O’Neil. They do good work.

Slomann stuffed the rest of the candy bar into his mouth and put the wrapper in his pocket. Stevens and O’Neil? he said. Dave, we know them?

Busch, punching buttons on his phone, looked over. Yeah, they’re good guys, know the routine.

All right. How about a cell phone?

Delgrazo shook his head. Haven’t found one.

It’s impossible a twenty-three-year old would be in a bar without a phone, so let’s look for it.

Yeah, we’ll keep searching.

We need to send somebody to knock on her door, talk to her boyfriend, roommate, husband, said Slomann, taking out his own phone. Let me see if Ekstrom is available.

Before he could punch in the number, the phone rang. Slomann answered the call from another detective, Nick Turner. Jimmy, if you’re not too busy, I got a dead girl I think you ought to take a look at for yourself.

I am kind of busy right now, Nick, said Slomann.

You really ought to see this. He gave Slomann a South Philly address.

Fifteen minutes later Slomann and Busch parked the car next to the police line near a playground. A handful of uniformed officers milled about, exhaling puffs of breath. They mumbled hellos as the detectives approached.

Turner say exactly why he wanted us here? said Busch as they walked. We got a lot of work to do on this rape and assault.

Yeah, I told him. He only said it was a DB we ought to have a look at.

They badged one of the officers, and he lifted the tape for them to cross the crime scene line. Up ahead they spotted the C.S.I. techs finishing their work and several detectives, one of whom was Turner. Morning, Nick, said Slomann, as they shook hands. You know my partner, Dave Busch, right?

Yeah, said Turner, turning to Busch. How you doing, Dave?

Can’t complain.

We crossed paths on that Peters case a few years back, wasn’t it?

That’s the one, said Busch. Appreciated your input.

I was glad to help, said Turner.

What’ve you got for us, Nick? said Slomann, pointing to the body.

Like I said on the phone, a dead girl, said Turner. One-eight-seven. Some school kids found her, called it in. Looks like she’s mid- to late-twenties or so. A few needle tracks.

Any ID?

None yet. We’re searching the area, looking for her things. Maybe we’ll get lucky.

How was she killed? said Busch.

Well, said Turner, that’s why I thought you might want to have a look. They approached the sheet-covered body and knelt down. Turner drew back the covering. Underneath lay the body of a young woman dressed in just her panties, her limbs askew. A paisley scarf lay coiled around her neck. Discoloration marked her face, and burst blood vessels shot through her staring eyes, both consistent with asphyxiation.

I’ll be damned, said Busch.

In her underwear, said Slomann. Strangled with a scarf. Any sign of sexual assault?

C.S.I. says not at first glance, said Turner. But we’ll have to wait for the autopsy to confirm. What do you think?

They straightened back up. I think I’m glad you called, said Slomann.

Chapter Three

Morning sunlight shot through the slats in the blinds, illuminating the cluttered living room. Books were piled in stacks, newspaper clippings and photos were spread across the sofa, and empty whiskey bottles crowded an end table. Blackwell, sitting on a sagging green armchair, was coming around, his head bobbing, his chin coming up off his chest, and then lowering again. As he opened his eyes, shading them from the light, he saw the cat sitting on his lap on top of the notebook with the rubber band around it.

Where’d you come from? he said to the cat in a raspy voice, then stroked and pulled its ears. The animal stretched and looked up at him.

Henry coughed and tasted something metallic and nasty. He put his fingers to where his lip was cracked and to his swollen eye. Both felt tender.

Someone pounded at the front door. Henry picked up the cat and set it on the floor, set aside the notebook, and made his way to the foyer. The booze hadn’t yet emptied out of his bloodstream, he realized as he walked. It would take a few hours and a pot of coffee for him to come out of the drunk, if he stayed awake and didn’t go to bed. He tried to remember what’d happened the night before, after he stopped into the bar, but he couldn’t recall anything. He didn’t know how he got home.

He ran a hand through his graying hair and tucked in his shirt. He opened the door to find Detective Jimmy Slomann standing on his front porch. You don’t answer your phone? said the detective. "I