Dugan's Luck Read online

Dugan's Luck

  By Howard Freedman

  Copyright 2013 Howard Freedman

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  Cover art created by Howard Freedman

  License Notes

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are manifestations of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The author would like to express is gratitude to his wife Tracy as well as Jean, Alicia and Roger for their dedication and support through the editing process.

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  Chapter 1

  On this particular night, the air was moderately cool. Not so cold you could see your breath, yet not so warm that the camouflage jacket the man wore would seem out of place. Although, he didn't plan on being seen from behind where he was sitting. The camouflage element served no purpose other than, perhaps, to add definition to the soul that wore it. He wasn't a soldier, or even really a hunter, unless you count the quest for a quench of desire. A desire that he possessed no ability to approach head on. It was Angel that fueled that desire more than any other person, real or imaginary. Plain and simple, what he had become was a stalker. However tonight, it would become a little more than that. Not that he had ever thought in a million years to do such a thing. But by then, she'd already be dead anyway.

  This was a college town, and with that, all walks of life converged upon one another. The freaks, the geeks, the Greeks, and of course the locals with their own brands of diversity. The Temptation Hotel, even in its relative proximity to the darker side of the city, seemed to draw out elements from a number of the aforementioned groups.

  At three in the morning, there would hardly be anyone out on the streets, even in this neighborhood. However one girl was expected. It was her ritual to come out the front door of the Temptation Hotel and linger in the quiet glow of after hours. It would be just as it was on most nights when her business was concluded and clients went back home.

  Across the street stood a desolate two story building. Seemingly permanently affixed to its front was a well-weathered section of plywood. Painted across the surface were the words 'For Sale' and a phone number which struggled to remain. The sign was weathered and dilapidated from neglect like the building to which it was affixed. Along side the building ran a patch of pavement, broken into a myriad of broken segments by cracks and crevices of various width and depth. Once having served the patrons of the adjacent building, it now only led the adventurous to the back alley. It also marked one end of a block long micro-park, populated with a number of twenty year old trees, as well as a few wooden benches that had long since been claimed by numerous sets of initials and profane commentary carved into their deteriorated surfaces. What was once an attempt at urban renewal, an attempt to mask its blight with a setting of serenity that an environment of nature should elicit, had slowly been reclaimed by the local beasts of the city jungle whose evolution had proved to take a considerably stronger hold.

  The alley at the back end of the park bore no illumination, and at the moment, its only inhabitants were of the rodent variety that fed off the dumpster behind the building. The little patch of nature's far side met with the end of the block. If one were to look, he might notice where a van was parked. It was just far enough back from the corner that anyone near the Temptation would find it partially obscured by the trees. They probably wouldn't notice the signage on the side of the van that read 'City Morgue', or its occupant that had put up one of those silver windshield reflectors meant to block out the sun's rays in warmer weather. Only tonight, as on the many other nights when he came for the one-sided rendezvous, the reflector was only more camouflage. He sat behind it with his binoculars poised through an uncovered spot near the end of the windshield. The camouflage jacket kept him warm in the early morning cool as he waited.

  Shortly after three, his wait ended.

  Angel appeared from the darkened doorway. A light fixture consisting of a single bare bulb protruded from the building above the door and subtly bathed her pale and seemingly innocent features as she walked out into the night. She already had a cigarette in one hand, a lighter in the other, when she stopped a few feet from the doorway to indulge in the nightly ritual. A moment in the absence of all others where there were no demands, nothing to fear and everything that was missing in her life at least felt possible, if only for a moment.

  It was in that moment, just like all the others on previous nights, that the man in the van felt the same way. Anything was possible, if only the strength would somehow manifest itself beyond his fantasies. It was in these moments that her name could be no other for she truly appeared as much an angel as mortal man could fathom. The girl stood off to the side of the doorway and leaned against the wall. Here, a glow from a neon sign just a few feet above fell softly upon her. There was a cadence to the throb of colors that added to the mysterious allure for the stalker as he peered through the binoculars.

  Suddenly, the girl reacted with an abrupt shift of her head as she looked down the street. It was a stare layered in disgust as well as concern for mortification yet to come. A four door sedan approached the Temptation from the opposite direction from where the van was parked. The car was white and mostly nondescript. A spotlight mounted on the driver's side gave the only tell-tale clue as to whom the car most likely belonged. Across the street from where Angel stood, the car turned into the old decrepit drive separating the old building and the park. A sense of panic could be seen in her eyes as she took a deeper drag on the cigarette. It came with a repulsive thought of displeasure that usually flared in his company. In hopes of dissuading his repeated business, she had gone as far to tell him so. And yet here he came again. She thought about throwing the rest of her cigarette down and running inside, but she knew that would only stir more trouble than what she needed. Like disturbing the peace of the rest of the girls, and of Benny Dugan, who would merely see the advantage in keeping this particular customer satisfied.

  The late patron took no time crossing the street. Maybe she just hadn't been direct enough. Maybe she could just get her point across with no uncertain terms right now, out here, without involving Dugan or anyone else.

  “Evening, Angel.”

  “Brogan.” She didn't try hide her disdain, but gave an effort to remain civil.

  He put an arm up as he leaned into Angel, putting his hand on the wall behind her.

  “You smell nice” he said putting his nose to her neck. The smell of him immediately triggered the emotional simmer that had been shoved past its boiling point.

  “Listen, Brogan. I thought I told you to leave me alone” she responded with a decidedly sharp, aggressive tone. “Charlene is more your type anyway.”

  He grabbed her arm as she tried to move away. “You need to learn a little respect.”

  “You give me the creeps. Just go away.”

  Brogan glared at her like a mad man. His grip on her arm strengthened as it clamped down like a set of metal sharpened spikes, each point dugging into her skin. That, along with the look of evil in his eyes, frightened her beyond the ability to scream. His presence always made her stomach turn, but she'd never before sensed this much fear of him. Brogan had never looked at her like he did now. An evil look. Then he dragged her across the street and into the cloak of darkness within the trees.

  In the van, the man in the camouflage jacket watched from behind the metallic curtain. A wave of shock went through him as he witnessed the object of his undisclosed affection being handled so violently.

  One thing Angel and he had in common was their mutual hatred for her attacker. In a way, they both have had the misfortune to endure his presence through the course of their respective employment. Only in his case it usually was considerably
less personal. But this was quite personal.

  Through the trees, it was hard to judge just how much of a struggle she had in her. Angel didn't scream. He could not hear her voice at all, only that of the attacker who taunted her with vial obscenities in an evil tone. And even those words could only be heard faintly with the windows rolled up, but his tone told the story. Movement in the dark continued most ungracefully as the two of them stumbled closer to the ground. The attacker's hands had now exercised immense pressure upon the girl's throat. And then they moved closer and closer to the ground with each fleeting second that barely gave the man in the van time to react, if only the strength to do so was to suddenly fill him. But it didn't, and he just watched as two darkened figures stumbled to the ground until there seemed to no longer be any movement.

  At first the stillness was broken only by a brief rustle of the remaining leaves, as if summoned to mark the end of the event. One figure then rose upright and the form could be seen swiftly walking back to the white car, his head searching for witnesses. But no one else appeared to be about. The doorway to the Temptation remained vacant, the light beckoning no one, the neon glow above only reinforcing the feel of isolation. Satisfied, he started the car, and with the lights off, slowly pulled away.

  The door to the van gradually opened. The driver walked with trepidation to the scene of the crime. He stood beside where she lay. Her eyes were wide open, as was her mouth, frozen in an attempt to scream. He checked for a pulse, or for the slightest notion of a breath. As he gazed upon Angel, he dreamed of what could have been, if only for the nerve that had eluded him.

  What was he to do? The desire that had burned inside him, what began as a simple flame of infatuation and became an unquenchable blaze, could not end like this. He still wanted her. He could just take her, right now. But how would he explain that? He wasn't supposed to be here. He couldn't take her to the morgue. Too risky even at this hour when few were around. If someone were to catch him, then she would be lost forever. He couldn't just take and hide her, not without a proper embalming anyway. Could he? No. It was just too much. Besides, she would be missed. There would be an inquiry. They would want to find her, or a body. He continued to look into her eyes, her face, the softness of her pale blemish-free skin. One way or another, he had to have her.

  He looked to the door of the Temptation. Still no sign that the struggle had elicited the curiosity of anyone inside. He went back to the van and opened the rear door. A stretcher was locked into position along one side, assorted equipment lined the other with just enough room left over for someone to navigate the interior. That someone climbed in the van for just a few seconds, long enough to find what was required and then returned to the scene. One last look across the street. No one. No cars. The white sedan long gone and not expected to return.

  He had never done this before, but having seen a few gruesome and apparently somewhat instructional movies, he proceeded as with the expertise of someone who had. The job was finished within seconds. He carried her off in the black bag and put her in the van. He knew he shouldn't, there was something morally wrong about it, but as he drove away, he couldn't help the freakish smile that crept along the edges of his mouth.

  Benny Dugan entered the hospital downtown by the front door. Off to the right, a few people sat dispersed among the two rows of chairs meant to serve those who waited with, or for, their loved ones.

  'Patient Admittance. Take A Number' were the words on the sign that hung above the windows to his left. Three stations awaited those in need. However the person Dugan had come to see had been admitted through an entirely different door.

  He walked straight ahead to the information desk. Sitting behind it was an elderly lady wearing a pale blue smock with the hospital logo above one breast, her ID tag pinned below. Iris looked up, offered a rehearsed sympathetic smile having already read his somber expression. “May I help you?”

  “Which way to the morgue?”

  The elevator opened for its sole rider. The basement of City General Hospital immediately held the epitome of doom that accompanied the dark side of the medical arts. The lights shown just as bright in the hallway, yet the dull gray walls, unadorned by anything offering a feeling of hope, dulled the luminance. The engraved signage that greeted Dugan acknowledged that the morgue was down the hall to the right.

  The double swinging doors at the end of the hall had a set of windows on the top half. Dugan stopped momentarily to glance inside before going through. There was only one person who would make this whole ordeal remotely tolerable, but the one he hoped to see was nowhere in sight. However, near the desk inside were two men. One sat on the edge of the desk, a toothpick in his mouth that amplified his cocky smirk as the thin piece of wood swirled from side to side. His partner stood with his hands in his pockets casually waiting as if the trip to the basement was none too foreign to either of them. The seated cop must have felt Dugan's stare start to burn from the other side of the glass. He looked over his shoulder. Having seen Dugan, Brogan turned back to his partner as he stood.

  “You got this, Harriman? I'm going to head out.” Brogan snickered at the expression, glancing back at his partner. “Head out. Haw-haw. Get it?”

  Harriman didn't laugh. Brogan, given his personality, may actually have found it funny. Under different circumstances, where his involvement in the case was, shall we say, a little less entangled, he probably would have considered himself quite the comedian. But he was entangled, all the way up to his own neck. The attempt at humor served more as a defense mechanism in the company of a fellow cop, a way to disguise his guilty thoughts from rising to the surface of his gruff, ill-groomed face. Brogan had cause for concern, but he also was more than a little confused with the development.

  Brogan pushed the door open. “Morning, Mr. Dugan”.

  Even though they were acquainted, there was no camaraderie between the two men. Not now, not ever. Benny Dugan was glad when the asshole kept walking. This would be hard enough without having to deal with Brogan's brand of vainglorious character. Reluctantly, he went through the door.

  “Mr. Dugan, I presume?” the remaining detective inquired. While they had never officially met, the cop had already formed his opinion of the man. From his tone, it was obvious that regardless of the circumstances of their meeting, the likely association between the pimp and the deceased somehow diminished his empathy.

  “Yes, I'm Benny Dugan,” this said by a man who at the moment held no high regard for himself as well. This would be especially so if the woman under the sheet in the adjoining room proved to be one who counted on him for protection.

  “I'm Detective Harriman.” He wasted no time on pleasantries. Pointing the way, he said “They're waiting for us.”

  In the next room, three metal tables filled the middle, only one of which currently had a sheet draped over the top, the obvious contours of a human body underneath. A wall of cabinets made of aluminum with glass fronts lined the far side of the room. A desk facing the wall was in the middle, flanked by the cabinets containing tools of the trade.

  Two men were at the desk. One sat in the chair in front of it, his face turned away from the new arrivals, but Benny recognized his brother. The other man, dark haired with a thin, finely trimmed mustache, casually sat on the corner of the desk. Even without the cap he wore with the three identifying initials across the front, Harriman immediately recognized him. Every cop knew Danny Simpson, CSI agent and world class jerk, surpassed perhaps only by the agent's good friend Brogan. Simpson looked up as the two men entered, giving them a nod with an open mouth grin as his jaws worked a stick of gum that seemed to be every bit as much a part of him as the fur he kept on his upper lip. No one found Simpson's habit more annoying than Marion Dugan. Just as irritating as Brogan's toothpick acrobatics.

  “Well, my work here is done” Simpson said and stood from the corner of the desk. “I'll leave you gentlemen to it.” He tipped his hat to Harriman and and the man called in to identify the b
ody. “Evening,boys.” And Simpson walked out of the room.

  Marion was an assistant to the coroner. He usually worked the night shift and was due to get off after this business was concluded. His boss was not in yet, nor would it be necessary for him to be in order to determine the cause of death. The assistant responded to the arrival of the two men by slowly standing. When he cautiously turned towards them, the look Marion offered was the reminiscent meek expression his brother had tried to understand a thousand times. Maybe it was just this setting, the morbid circumstances, but this time there was something unsettling about it.

  “Hello, Marion” Benny said.

  “You two know each other?” the cop asked.

  Benny looked solemnly at his brother. “Yeah, we're well acquainted.” But he had to consider those words for the real truth of their meaning. Benny and Marion had been a part of each others lives, if even that closeness had eroded in recent years. As to how well Benny knew his brother was a matter beyond semantics.

  “Uh huh” was all the detective could think to say. This family had made some odd choices for their professions, and how conveniently they had intersected today. “OK. Let's get this over with.”

  Marion remained at the desk while Harriman and Benny Dugan turned to stand next to the covered gurney. Harriman took the liberty of throwing back the sheet to expose the body.

  Benny was dumbstruck, frozen in place by a mind that locked up with sensory overload. Hardly a muscle moved as his brain waited for a reboot. What he expected would have been gruesome enough for his taste. He'd had the misfortune of being in the company of the dead on only a few occasions. And those bodies were adorned with simple bullet holes strategically placed by other members of the DelGatti organization. When the detective asked him to see if he could identify the body that was found across the street from his house of ill-repute, he didn't count on the word body being quite so literal.

  “What do you think, Dugan? Anything look familiar?”

  In her early twenties, Angel had managed to keep her pure and innocent look, a hard thing to do in the business that sooner or later turned you toward the hardened approaches to life. But she hadn't reached that point where drugs and destitution morphed your body into something riddled with signs of abuse and neglect. No tattoos. No needle marks. No scars of a violent past. Except now there was one glaring abnormality which she had been given just hours ago.

  “Dugan?” Harriman spoke forcefully to get his attention.

  Benny turned to look at the detective. Then he looked to Marion. The younger brother leaned against the desk. He had his glazed eyes locked on the body, until he felt his brother's stare penetrate him. Marion looked up nervously to meet his brother's eyes, but only for only a second before turning away and downward to the floor. In that brief moment, Benny felt the wedge of understanding between them being driven deeper.

  The situation was infinitely more odd than he had expected. He figured the morgue would be a morose place, but now that he stood within it, the darkened corners of the place offset by the stark sterile light over the steel table, an eerie sensation went through him. Did this place explain why Marion was the way he was?,Was this job responsible for deepening the crevice that led down to a world where his brother lived, somewhere in the dungeon of existence removed from the rest of us? At the moment, Benny's confusion was trying to stuff him in a crevice all his own.

  “I..uh,” Dugan stammered. “I'm not sure.”

  Marion wasn't confused, but for now, he wasn't saying anything.

  Detective Brogan, a bit uncomfortable with a loose end, so to speak, had let his partner handle the viewing. He had missed the investigation in the park, but told Harriman maybe his fresh eyes should take a look for clues. Brogan wasn't confused about the body's identity. What he was confused about was why part of her had gone missing.