Zero Ave 1998: Chapter Thirty Three- Perfect Shot
(This chapter is part of a series. Click here to read chapter thirty two.)
MacMillan stares through the open passenger window while Ferreira guides the Thunderbird along the vacant streets of the south side. The streetlights overhead cut through the night with a fuzzy yellow glow, intrusively shining into the surrounding empty businesses and blacked out homes.
His tired eyes travel to the digital clock in the dashboard before taking a sip of lukewarm coffee.
‘3:48 am. Just a few more hours until I can get back to the real investigation,’ he thinks.
In the 29 hours since his conversation with Romano, MacMillan has decided to heed his warning. When his presence was discovered at the warehouse, it was the first time since this winding gauntlet began that he felt legitimately vulnerable. If his newly formed assumption of James’ organization is correct, then the life of a nosey detective is even less significant than he originally believed based on the sheer size of the operation alone. What he thought was a local drug enterprise worth maybe 2 or 3 million dollars is actually an international ring that he estimates earns anywhere from tens to hundreds of millions year over year. That type of money can make anyone disappear- including a pain the ass police detective. From now on, he’ll be investigating James Donovan from a distance.
“Quiet night,” Ferreira remarks. The tension between the partners has slowly eased and Ferreira has ended the silent treatment- gifting MacMillan two or three words per sentence.
“Yeah,” MacMillan responds, twisting the plastic tab off his coffee lid.
After all of the confrontations between Ferreira and himself, MacMillan finally understands what he was warning him against, and despite his jaded callousness, he’s convinced Ferreira is clean. These hard-nosed veteran cops may be assholes, but they never get involved in corruption. They’ve been around long enough to know that eventually everyone goes down, and if not for fear of public disgrace and jail time, they certainly aren’t willing to lose the generous pensions waiting for them after retirement.
“Homicide, we have report of a body at 8528 Bridgeport,” a shrill female voice says over the radio. “Possible foul play in a new townhouse development.”
Ferreira picks up the radio and replies, “Dispatch, this is Ferreira. We’re on it.”
MacMillan feverishly rubs his eyes with the palms of his hands, trying to clear the cobwebs as Ferreira flicks on the siren and speeds through the empty roads. For all of the nights he spends chasing cold cases with his partner or sitting at his desk, tonight was one where he welcomed the down time. But as is always the case, rest has evaded him when he needed it most.
“Gloves, flashlights,” Ferreira reminds MacMillan, pulling a pair of black latex gloves over his hands with a flashlight under his arm.
MacMillan leans against the hood of the car, staring into the shadowy development while pushing his hand into a glove. The townhouse complex is a confusing maze of half built walls and exposed framework, the only light provided by a few scattered lamps for the security guards.
“I’ll check out the second floor, you stay below me on the ground level,” Ferreira instructs MacMillan. “Holler at me if you see anything.”
“You think security made the call?” MacMillan asks, checking the bulb in his flashlight.
“I’m assuming so,” Ferreira answers, stepping over scraps of ply wood toward a hollow doorframe. “Somebody is probably in there. We get a lot of squatters and junkies hanging around in these developments too so keep an eye out. Best to keep your gun holstered in case you get rattled.”
MacMillan shrugs his shoulders high around his neck while Ferreira’s elephant sized footsteps cause sawdust to fall on him from overhead. He walks through empty doorframes and weaves around exposed insulation, checking every hidden corner while his loafers slide on the freshly poured concrete. Empty buckets and tools litter the ground as faint lamps guide him through the labyrinth until he spots a pair of legs 80 feet away through an open door- seemingly the only room in this convoluted mess that has been finished.
MacMillan shines his flashlight on the lifeless appendages then calls out, “Ferreira! I have something!”
The light shakes in MacMillan’s hand while he walks along the cement floor to the mystery figure behind the door. As he gets closer he can see a pool of blood that has formed beneath the body.
“I’m sorry,” a voice whimpers behind him.
MacMillan turns and faces the sound; a frail man with tears flowing from dead eyes and rolling down his sunken in cheeks. He sobs uncontrollably as he lifts a 9mm handgun with both hands and points it at MacMillan, the barrel angled slightly down as if the weight of it is too much to bear.
Bang, Bang.
The bullets fly over MacMillan’s shoulder and hit the man in the face and chest before he can react. A sudden ringing erupts in MacMillan’s left ear from the close range gunfire, the noise overwhelming him and stabbing the center of his brain.
“Aaaaaaaahhh fuck!” he screams as he turns away, bent over and holding his ear. The pain is so immense he hasn’t put any thought into whether or not he’s been hit yet.
Ferreira hurries past his agonized partner and retrieves the weapon before checking the man for vital signs. Strangely, his eyes seem more alive than they were, as if the 2 fatal shots had released him from a lifetime of torture.
“Jesus Christ!” MacMillan shouts, adrenaline coursing through his system. “I thought that fucking junkie was-”
Bang.
Ferreira pulls the trigger on the 9mm handgun and the metal slug enters through MacMillan’s left eye as he stands to face him, exiting through the back of his head and spraying a mist of blood onto the cement. His body falls to the ground and he takes one gigantic gasp of air before his heart stops beating. His face is frozen; caught in an expression somewhere between hopeless consternation and crushing betrayal.
The gun skips across the ground when Ferreira tosses it next to the nameless junkie and steps toward MacMillan. He kneels into the puddle of warm blood flowing from the open wound in the back of his partner’s head, wrapping his heavy hand around MacMillan’s throat and checking for a pulse.
“Goddammit, kid,” Ferreira remorsefully mutters, sitting back on the ground and resting his forearms on his knees. He stares at MacMillan’s bewildered face for a number of minutes, an inescapable sadness enveloping him. MacMillan was a good cop, and in any other city he would have been a hero. But here, in this wretched abyss of sin and corruption, he was a cancer that had to be removed.
Ferreira reaches into his pocket and flips open his cell phone.
“Dispatch, this is Ferreira. We have shots fired and an officer down. We need immediate response to 8528 Bridgeport. We’re inside.”
The sun has begun to peek over the horizon while Ferreira leans against a tree in front of the hospital. He takes prolonged drags from a cigarette while watching a news crew set up just a few feet away, the deep red stains on his khakis disclosing his relation to the breaking news story. A pretty reporter in a purple blazer and black skirt hastily approaches him.
“Excuse me, sir?” she says, stepping gingerly across the grass in black high heels. “Do you have anything to do with the murder of the detective?”
Ferreira flicks his cigarette in her direction.
“Go fuck yourself,” he snarls. “Fucking vulture.”
The automatic doors at the emergency room slide open and Police Chief Pat Connolly speeds through, deep in thought. He’s a slim man with thick black hair and a stern face who talks and walks half a beat faster than most people, giving the impression he’s permanently wired on caffeine. His clothes are neatly pressed despite being abruptly shaken out of a deep sleep at 4:30 in the morning.
“Hey,” he calls out to Ferreira, waving him over. “Walk with me.”
Ferreira steps out from the shadow of the tree and joins Chief Connolly in his accelerated stroll along the sidewalk. The reporter spots the chief and begins lightly jogging across the grass toward him.
“Chief?” the reporter shouts, awkwardly stepping in her high heels. “Is there anything you can tell us about the shooting? Do you have a suspect?”
Chief Connolly looks back at the reporter and answers, “I’ll be giving a statement in a few hours. Hang tight.”
“But Chief,” she persists. “Can you give us any information about a suspect?”
Connolly stops and turns to the reporter.
“For Christ’s sake, Julia,” he barks, struggling to suppress his irritation. “I have a dead cop in there and I’m trying to get some answers so I know what to tell his family. Give me a fucking minute. Please.”
The reporter sighs in frustration as Connolly and Ferreira walk away. She’s used to dealing with the chief and he is notoriously tight lipped about big news stories.
“So what happened?” Connolly queries, stopping at a picnic bench after rounding the corner with Ferreira close by.
Ferreira lights a cigarette before explaining. He’s told these stories before and has found it’s important to take your time when attempting to sell an elaborate lie.
“We responded to a call about a body on Bridgeport. Some giant townhouse development,” he begins, exhaling cigarette smoke before taking another drag. “We get there and I take the second floor, MacMillan stays on the ground. I clear the area and come downstairs on the other side right as this fucking crackhead shoots MacMillan. I fired two shots hitting him in the head and the chest. Immediately after I checked MacMillan for vitals and began CPR.”
“What about the security guard?” Connolly asks.
“Security guard?” Ferreira replies, perplexed.
“Yeah. They found him in an office about thirty feet away,” Connolly reveals. “Poor fucker was just doing the late shift and took one in the head.”
“I didn’t see anyone else,” Ferreira explains. “After the shots I attended to MacMillan until EMS got there.”
Connolly stares at Ferreira for a few moments, studying his facial expressions. He only half believes Ferreira’s story, but even if he’s lying Connolly would never be able to tell the difference. Detective Mark Ferreira is a solid stone wall.
“Smoking again?” Connolly asks, alluding to the burning cigarette between Ferreira’s fingers.
“Yeah,” Ferreira answers. “Started back up this morning.”
Connolly gazes into the sunrise and works through a plethora of thoughts before responding.
“Alright. Take a couple of days and get your head together. I’ll need you back at the station on Saturday to give a statement. I’ve already had a call from the mayor and they’ll be investigating this internally. Don’t talk to anybody before you talk to us- that goes without saying.”
Ferreira nods, taking another long pull from his cigarette.
“Will do.”
Marijuana smoke fills Steve’s living room as Zeus takes long pulls from a tightly rolled blunt while watching TV. Zeus has always been an early riser and makes it a point to arrive at Steve’s house a few hours after dawn at least 4 days a week. When Manuel was promoted to his position on the north side, Zeus stepped up from his role as weed delivery guy to Steve’s right hand man. He’s not as competent or detail oriented as Manuel was, but one doesn’t need a high level of competence in the mid-level marijuana trade. A basic understanding of simple math and an aggressive appetite for money is all anyone needs to find moderate success in this business.
Water drips from Steve’s hair while he walks across the hallway wrapped in a towel. Steam from the bathroom pours through the open doorway, meeting with the marijuana smoke to create an uncomfortable humidity.
In breaking news a VPD detective was murdered early this morning. We now go to our own Julia Espinosa who is live on the scene…
The voice from the TV causes Steve to rush into the living room, his towel almost coming undone from the commotion.
“Yo, turn that up,” he tells Zeus, who was just about to change the channel after The Price is Right was interrupted.
Thanks Janice. I’m here at Richmond General Hospital where VPD Detective Paul MacMillan was admitted earlier this morning, the apparent victim of a gunshot wound to the head. My sources are telling me the detective has died as a result of his injuries. Police Chief Pat Connolly is expected to hold a press conference later this afternoon…
Steve drops onto the couch with his mouth agape in disbelief. He knew when MacMillan showed up at the warehouse James would respond, but murdering a cop is inconceivable. There’s a reason why everyone who’s anyone pays a charitable sum in taxes, and it’s because the VPD are an institution with more power than any organized crime group could ever dream of. Even the lowest ranking patrol officers exist within a protective bubble; shielding them from the violence and vulnerabilities that threaten both the criminals and civilians outside of it. The police are untouchable and if they were to ever turn on James they could wipe him out in an instant. There is no way MacMillan was murdered without the approval of somebody inside the bubble, and whoever it is, they could potentially be far more dangerous than even James is aware of.
