This one is kind of long, but worth it. Think of it as Usual Suspects meets gothic horror.
I
Det. Sgt. Aaron Ramirez sat down at his desk, sighed and pulled up a document on his computer. Across his screen appeared the arrest report detailing an apprehension made at the city’s marina. Earlier in the evening, several officers were called by anonymous tip to a report of a shoot out. The marina where this incident took place was known for late night drug deals, under the table agreements and other such illegal chicanery. Every once in a while, something goes bad and the PD are summoned out. Tonight was one of those unlucky nights.
Six men, all with various ethnicities and styles of dress, were hauled in by the team dispatched to diffuse the situation. The apparent leader seemed to be a deep-set eyed, stone serious wraith of a man named Carson Ritter. Ritter, as Ramirez quickly learned, had done time for assault and larceny. He was on parole, so clearly being at the docks was a stupid way to earn a trip back to the penitentiary. A balding, burly man named Gordon “Gordo” Stewart, another name known to Ramirez’s precinct, was also apprehended, along with a Greek named Kosimos Pappas, a Puerto Rican with ties to street gangs named Efram Lopez, and known small timer Thomas Lees. Finally a meek looking fellow, whose name had no information tied to it, David Short, was brought in also. Ramirez, drawing on his experience, surmised Short was likely a pocket picker who thought it was time to move up in the criminal world. Short decided to make good on one of the marina’s bad nights.
Upon skimming the relevant details, Ramirez took a sip of tepid coffee, stood from his chair, and walked to the interrogation room. In the small, rectangular chamber with beige walls was a particle board desk and sets of chairs. Inside was Det. Waller, who had already begun the procedure. Unlike what people see on television, interrogations are not done with drama, mind games or malice. They often include long, drifting conversations that intend to relax a suspect, hoping to gradually spill forth an unforced confession. So far they had racked them up for Lopez, Pappas and Lees, who claimed they were aiding with a shipment they wouldn’t specify, but each determined was very valuable and of interest to multiple groups in the area. Stewart clammed up and demanded a lawyer. That left Ritter and Short. Ritter was in the room as Ramirez arrived.
“I told you already, this runaround of yours is a waste of my time,” Ritter was saying as Ramirez sat down. “I came there looking for a shipment from Montenegro. I got a call from Stewart, that fat stalwart back there in the jail, who said it was something of huge value. The Russian mob was handling the transport, they were looking to shop it out to extra hands. I don’t know what was in the container, alright? If you want that info, go after the Karimovs, and good luck to you.”
“So you don’t know if it was drugs, weapons, possibly people?” asked Det. Waller.
“People? You think were moving around people? What the hell kind of question was that?” snorted Ritter.
“The Russians have been big on human trafficking lately. Prostitutes, mail order brides, girls who sold their souls to come to the US,” retorted Waller. “What reason do we have not to think that’s what this package was? You yourself said it was supposed to be ultra fragile and carefully handled.”
“You keep fishing in the wrong waters, and you ain’t getting a bite,” snapped Ritter. “I don’t know what they had. Sure it could’ve been girls, but how the fuck was I supposed to know? It could also have been a guy’s stereo equipment or something. Just because it was valuable doesn’t mean it was stolen or contraband.”
“I doubt something legal would have resulted in two people shot in the face and three others bobbing in the bay,” Waller said dryly. “I also doubt you are totally ignorant on what that shipment contained. We’re going to keep working here as long as it takes. You started talking, and as far as I’m concerned that means the fish are biting just fine.”
Ritter sneered. “Fuck this. I want a lawyer.” He crossed his arms, sat back in his chair, and stared daggers at Waller.
Waller threw his hands up lazily. “Fine with me, bud.”
Ramirez tapped Waller on the shoulder, and motioned him out of the room.
“We got enough. Even if the DA doesn’t charge him with anything, they’ll take all he and those others said and build a nice case towards the Russians. Plus I doubt his parole officer is going to be cool with his charge being down at the marina and pulling odd jobs for the mob. Lay off him, and let’s talk to this Short guy,” Ramirez said.
As Ritter was led away by a pair of officers, another trio of men arrived, one of whom being David Short. Short seemed to live up to his namesake. A meek, wiry man with wispy blonde hair, he could almost be an albino if not for his icy blue eyes. Ramirez scanned him, wondering if there were needle tracks hiding underneath Short’s long-sleeved shirt, or if he was a tweaker. His gangliness bespoke something sickly, and Short’s temperament looked that of a beaten puppy. Waller shot Ramirez a look that said, “Too easy.”
The detectives entered the room and sat across from Short. Short’s eyes darted about the room, refusing to make direct contact with the policemen. He ignored his coffee. Short’s shoulders hunched forward, his hands clasped between his knees.
Det. Waller tried to start, when Short gazed toward him. “You want to know what was in the box, don’t you?” he asked flatly.
Waller smirked and answered, “Actually, we didn’t even know it was a box until now. But you seem to have that information.
How about you help us, and we can then help you, Mr. Short?”
“It’s a box alright,” Short said, “A box from Montenegro.”
Waller looked at Ramirez and snorted. “And what, pray tell, is in the box?”
“Dirt.”
“Dirt?”
“Dirt.”
“You mean to tell me that you and your five friends were caught at the marina, are looking at smuggling, murder and assault charges – not to mention what else the DA will pin on you for mixing up with the Russians – over a box of soil? What, are the Russians going to plant a garden?” Waller said incredulously.
Short’s gaze grew a touch more confident and his shoulders relaxed some. Then he said, “It’s some very important dirt. A very important man wanted it.”
Ramirez chimed in with, “Who is this man?”
“Ion Berlescu.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Ramirez said, “So who is this Ion Berlescu and what does he have to do with a box of dirt, and the Russian mafia?”
“Well,” exhaled Short, staring off into space, “You know about those criminals with their own legends? Those ones so fucked up other crooks make up tall tales about them? Berlescu is one of those. A regular, ‘We can’t prove he exists but he’s super badass,’ criminals. Berlescu is the boogie man others tell each other about. He’s always been in Eastern Europe but now he’s here, and he brought that box of dirt with him.”
“Why dirt?” asked Ramirez.
“To sleep in, of course,” replied Short.
Ramirez’s brow furrowed. “Don’t waste our fucking time, Short. We know you must be small time, because you haven’t got a record, but you’ve managed to become a delivery boy for the Karimovs. I usually don’t say this, but just exercise your right to remain silent or ask your lawyer if you are going to pull a Verbal Kint type of act.”
Waller had his eyebrows raised in amusement. “A box of fucking dirt for Keyser Soze. Got it, bud,” he said with a chuckle.
II
Meanwhile the other five suspects sat in a holding cell. Ritter stared at Stewart.
“The smartest guy in the room,” Ritter said.
“Damn straight,” replied Stewart, “I set you up with this job. Told you it was as simple as working for UPS. Then you had to get greedy and stupid once you learned what was in the box. Dumbass.”
“What are we supposed to do with that shit anyway?” asked Lopez. “You saw what happened there. The Russians are just waiting for us to spring bail. Hell they might not wait that long. You fucked us, Ritter.”
Ritter hissed at the two men. “Fuck you both! The Karimovs know who they’re bringing in! You know what happens when you work for someone like him! You don’t get touched, not by the cops, not the Feds, no one! We had to get it out of there. We would’ve owned those fucking vodka-sucking cunts if we got that box!”
Pappas forlornly stared at Ritter. “You do not know what you were trying to steal, Ritter,” he said. “We should’ve taken the box, moved it off the boat, got our money, and left. No reason for what happened. No reason at all. You have fucked us, just like Efram said. You fucked us. Trust me I will fuck you back.”
At that moment, Lees jumped into the argument. He asked, “So tell me this: if we had gotten the box, then what? The Karimovs wouldn’t have just let us have it. They would’ve been on us in a matter of hours.”
“Hours were plenty enough!” Ritter asserted. “I’ve heard how it works with him. Ion has methods. I learned about them from the Russians. You do things the right way, and he backs you, no matter what, no matter if you were just a low man on the totem pole. You just gotta do things his way, is all.”
“His way is something you don’t want any part of,” Stewart interjected.
“Should’ve just moved the fucking box,” Pappas said, shaking his head.
“Where is the box anyway?” Lopez asked.
“Before we were picked up, it was still on the boat,” replied Stewart. “The Karimovs probably know what happened by now, and likely got it. Nobody told anybody what were moving – I assume – so it should still be there.”
“You sure nobody told? asked Lopez.
“No,” said Ritter. Negatives were echoed by the others.
“What about the short guy?” Lopez then asked.
Stewart responded, “You mean Short?”
“Yeah the short guy.”
“Short’s his name. He is in there now. I don’t know what he said. He’s a weird one though, real quiet.”
“And probably a squealer,” Ritter said grimly.
“I don’t know.”
“Fucked us,” Lees said towards Ritter.
III
“It’s not an act, not a riff on a movie, nothing like that,” said Short calmly. “Ion Berlescu is real, and he does have that kind of stature. The Karimovs wanted him here. They promised service and loyalty to him. See, he’s not here to be a hit man or run drugs, or do that prostitute stuff for them. Berlescu is here to run them.”
Ramirez asked skeptically, “And part of his welcoming committee involves a box of dirt?”
“Yes, and he sleeps in it. Just like Count Dracula.”
Waller played with his half full coffee cup. Smiling he said, “So if we go and ask the FBI to query Interpol, they’ll have actually heard of this ‘Ion Berlescu’ and all his glory?”
“I don’t know who Interpol tracks. I don’t really care. But you wanted to know what we were moving, and it was a box of dirt.”
“So why would people blast each other over dirt?” Ramirez asked.
Short relaxed some more, and made eye contact with Ramirez. He said, “Berlescu has certain conditions to his leadership that he’s offered. One of those is that box of dirt. The others involve ah, I guess you’d call them rituals. It’s kind of arcane but Berlescu is really good at what he does, and loyalty goes a long way with him.”
“Who told you about this Berlescu guy?” asked Waller.
“Nobody had to tell me. I just paid attention. Those five guys you have, they wanted the box. They learned what was in it. The shifty-eyed one, the one that kind of looks like a rat? He wanted it and tried to get me and the others to help.”
Ramirez’ eyes perked up. “Ritter?”
“Yes, him. He put us up to stealing the box. Thing is Ritter’s an idiot. He thought he could take the Russians by surprise.
He was actually kind of right. That’s why five of them are dead now.”
Waller looked at Ramirez with his “too easy” look again. Short looked directly at Waller.
“Before I continue this statement, which I’m sure will become part of my future testimony and plea bargain, I’d like some fresh coffee.”
The detective nodded and left the room. The door closed.
“Go on,” implored Ramirez.
Short settled back into his chair, shoulders straightening. “That camera doesn’t really need to be on,” he said.
Ramirez began to respond in disagreement, but he felt his words falter. He looked at Short, who stared at him with a calm certainty. His icy blue eyes looked like tiny, iridescent jewels. Ramirez relented. He left the room.Moments later Det. Ramirez returned. “It’s off.”
“Good. Those guys behind your two-way mirror are all that’s necessary. In fact, I think they can sit at ease as well.
Hello, fellas!” Short waved to the mirror.
Ramirez was put off slightly by Short’s sudden playfulness. “So, you were talking about Ritter and the others. They shot those men?”
“Oh yes, but really that doesn’t interest me anymore. It’s late and I’m hungry. I think it’s about time for me to leave.”
“You are a suspect in this crime too. You aren’t leaving. But that’s cute. You were saying?”
“I was saying it is late and I am hungry,” Short retorted.
“We can get you a bagel or something. You’ll have a nice place to sleep soon. The room’s on us. Continue with what happened at the marina.”
Short rolled his eyes and smirked. Then he fixed his stare on Ramirez. “Have a look at your friends.”
Ramirez felt his mind smooth out, his thoughts scattered like dust. Short’s eyes peered through him, and he willingly turned towards the two-way mirror. All he saw was himself, the room, the furniture, the camera in the corner, and the closed door. He spun back around, and Short was sitting across from him, still staring.
“Look back,” Short said.
Again Ramirez thoughtlessly complied. Behind the mirror was silence, and he did not see Short sitting or standing behind him.
“Funny, no?”
“That you keep ducking under the desk when I turn? No, not really,” Ramirez said.
“Ah too bad. Well look, it’s late like I said, and I’m hungry. And I really need to get my box back.”
“Your what?”
Ramirez’s body thudded onto the ground.
IV
As Det. Waller left the coffeemaker, he stopped to briefly chat with Officer Cora Parks. Their conversation about Parks’ recent bust of a naked crack addict, holding up a sixty-two year old grandmother for her VCR was taking up their time, when they heard a loud crash from the interrogation room. Two officers from the adjacent viewing room dashed out, shouting, “Officer down! Officer down!” before heading into the interrogation room. Parks, Waller and others sprung to action, firearms being drawn and calls being made for possible back-up.
The two officers who went into the interrogation room were heard shouting orders, threatening to discharge their weapons, but in a moment they were silent. The most that was heard after was a gurgling noise, at least according to another officer who was positioned just outside the room. Waller and the others burst into the chamber. Two officers vomited. One was a sympathy puking.
Inside the room was a pool of blood about one and a half inches deep. Three bodies, one of those being Det. Sgt. Craig Ramirez, lay lifeless, their skin white and fresh blood drying on their clothing. The window to the two-way mirror was shattered. The furniture was not overturned though. Immediately questions arose about the whereabouts of Short. He was not in the room. The station was put on lockdown as the search commenced. The five suspects in holding were intensely questioned. Det. Waller had to make the awful call to Ramirez’s wife.
Outside the station though, a cloud of mist gathered, passing through tiny gaps in a window. It collected, making a hazy, greenish white cloud. Slowly it became a form, ghostly and ectoplasmic. Then a pair of ice blue eyes and a grimace bore forth from the mist as a thin, tall, figure with a light gait strode away into the darkness.
