8:15 a.m.
Coke walked over to the answering machine, carefully picking his way across the scattered clothes littering the floor. As a precaution he slipped on a pair of latex surgical gloves. He knew that the odds he would leave a single fingerprint behind were low, and he knew for a fact that no database in the world had his prints on file. They had either been erased, modified, or conveniently lost over the course of the years. The tendrils of the smoking man reached deep, but just the same, it would be foolish to press his luck. The man for whom he worked could just as soon unmake him as he had promoted him.
He pushed the "Play Message" button in the center of the machine and winced at how loud it sounded in the thick silence of the room.
"Message ONE...left...THURsday-November 8th..at...six-fourty-fiVE...a.m." the machine's cold voice chirped at him.
The voice on the message was unfamiliar to Coke, but then again, he had never heard Mulder's voice before. It was prefaced by a pause and punctuated by the sounds of rustling paper and, in the distance, the clicking of a keyboard.
"Hey this message is for Christine," the message began haltingly, as if the speaker was trying to do several things at once. It was a fairly young sounding voice, although Coke felt the it sounded fairly intelligent, if a bit sheepish. It continued. "This is Agent Mulder. I...um...got your message that you left for me here at the office. I'm very interested in meeting you and seeing what you've found. Let's see...you're obviously not in. Well, if you get this, I'd like to meet up with you sometime today if at all possible, as...well I'd like to meet with you soon. If you've found what you say you have, putting this off isn't a good idea. Either give me a call here at the office, or on my cell phone." Another round of rustling paper and a female voice speaking in the background, though Coke couldn't make it out. "Ok, I have to go. I'll try your cell phone. Like I said, this is very important, so, call me. Bye."
"THURsday-November 8th..at...six-fourty-fiVE...a.m," the machine repeated, before emitting a shrill beep and clicking off. The beep sliced into Coke's brain and made him wince. The headache was definitely getting stronger. He momentarily thought about going to the bathroom and searching for some Tylenol, but thought the better of it. It would be against protocol and would disrupt the scene more than was necessary. Still, this had all the earmarks of being another big one. With some effort, Coke shrugged it off and turned around just in time to catch a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. The door. Someone was at the door. As if to confirm this fact, a sharp knock ripped through the still air in the apartment.
Before his mind had time to register what was going on, Coke was up against the door, pistol out and at the ready. Slipping out the silencer, he slowly began to screw it onto the end of weapon, carefully listening for the slightest hint of sound on the other side of the door. With the silencer firmly in place, he waited.
Another sharp knock ripped through Coke's skull, making him wince.
"C'mon Christine, open up!" came the voice on the other side. Male voice, mid-20s. Coke placed his eye up to the peephole and glanced through.
The man on the other side (a kid really, he couldn't have been more than 23 or so) was peering back at him through the hole, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. Dressed in a faded demon jacket and with longish, greasy black hair, Coke immediately concluded this was either Kiviat's frat-boy boyfriend or roommate. Since the file hadn't mentioned a roommate and the apartment was only really big enough for one, Coke concluded it was the former. Although this greaseball might be useful in the future, Coke really had no desire to get caught red-handed inside the apartment. Coke knew he could probably handle this guy without too much difficulty, but it might compromise his mission. With any luck the guy would just give up an go awa-
The man leaned forward once again and began to pound on the door.
"C'mon Christine, open up!" he pleaded in the half-begging, half angry tone of a man who has had about enough of putting up with female games. "I know you're in there, I heard you checking your messages," he said again, his voice slightly louder and more frustrated with each word. Coke raised his pistol up again his chest and slid to the hinge-side of the door. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to lock the door after having broken in, but it was too late for that now. One way or another, this guy sounded like he had been rebuffed for the last time and was going to come in. Might as well make the best of a bad situation.
As if to confirm his thoughts, the man spoke up again.
"Ok, SCREW this Christie. I know you're in there. Ready or not, here I come!" Coke tensed his muscles, ready to strike. The doorknob turned and clicked, the door inching open. A rectangle of light crept across the floor. The man paused. Suddenly he seemed less sure of himself.
"Christie? You in here?" he asked, much of the frustration gone. "C'mon Christine, I know you're in here. Where the hell are you?" Still Coke waited.
The man tentatively put one foot through the door, and then the other. Through the crack in the doorjamb, Coke could just make out the man's pierced ear. Seemingly emboldened by the lack of a response he was getting, the man evidently decided to make a show of masculine bravado for the few people who might actually still be within earshot of the apartment.
"Look Chris," he said, accentuating her name. "I'm sick and tired of you dodging me all the time. What I want to know is why the hell haven't you been answering my phone calls, huh?"
He stepped forward another two inches. Almost there, Coke thought to himself.
"I know what you're thinking, hun," the man continued, oblivious to the baleful presence a few inches away. "You think I'm clueless. Well, I'll tell you something or two, Christie. Jenny saw you-" He took another step forward, glancing around the room, evidently hoping to spot her at any moment "-holding hands with that guy down at the 'Leaf the other day. She freaking SAW you, Chris." He stepped forward and finally closed the door behind him without even looking back over his shoulder. This was it.
"And if you think for one second that I'm going to put up with this kind of crap, you're-"
Like a rattlesnake striking its prey, Coke whipped out from behind the doorjamb, bringing the butt of his pistol down full force at the base of the man's skull. It made contact with a dull, sickening thud that resounded in the small foyer.
The man went down like a sack of bricks, banging his face on the hardwood floor as he hit the ground. Before he had even finished his sprawl, Coke was on top of the guy, jamming his pistol in the back of the man's head while reaching for a pair of flexi-cuffs hanging off his belt. He knew that he had hit the intruder pretty hard and as such shouldn't expect much of a fight out of him, but that he would soon recover and probably be mad as hell. Or scared out of his mind. One way or another, he had to be restrained before he had a chance to turn the tables on Coke.
Coke's concern proved to be well founded. He had barely had time to feel the restraints snap home around the man's wrists before he started to come to his senses. Before he could say anything, Coke brought his gun down on the top of the man's head a second time. It would be painful, but Coke knew it was a solid spot and wouldn't knock him unconscious. It was just enough to make sure he had frat boy's full attention.
"Shut your mouth, and don't say a word," Coke hissed directly into the man's left ear. The guy craned his neck and tried to look at Coke. His lips began to move and Coke hit him again. The man grunted. Coke flashed the gun in front of his face to make sure he could see it.
"See this gun?" he asked, fully knowing the effect he was having on the unfortunate fellow. The man nodded. "If you say a single word, I will kill you. Understood?" Again, the man nodded. "Do you believe me?" Coke hissed, his voice low and menacing.
"Y-yes..."
"Good." Coke looked around. First things first. Priority one: secure the area. He put his hand to the back of the man's head and pushed it down to the floor.
"I'm going to get off you now. Keep your face on the ground, and don't move a muscle." He felt the man's stocky body twitch underneath him, but he kept his face down. Ever so carefully, Coke stood up and backed up to the door, keeping his pistol trained on the back of frat boy's head. He reached up and rammed home the apartment's deadbolt, noticing with some distaste that his gloves were smeared with blood. Peering out the fisheye lens of the peephole, Coke satisfied himself that no one had heard the guy's tirade or the subsequent commotion.
"Get up," he growled at the man. After a few moments of pathetic attempts with his hands cuffed behind his back, Coke took pity on him and walked up behind him, helping him up by one arm. The man emitted a small moan. "Shut up" was all the sympathy he got.
With his pistol still leveled, Coke guided frat boy back against the wall of the living room, gesturing of him to sit down on the sofa against the wall. Coke could see anger flashing in the intruder's eyes and not a little fear, but he kept silent. Coke pulled up a chair that had been knocked aside in the commotion and sat down opposite the man. A small trickle of blood had begun to see down the back of the man's neck and down the side of his face, but if he hurt, he masked it remarkably well. After a few moments spent sizing up the fellow, Coke decided to break the silence.
"What's your name?" he asked. Frat boy said nothing.
"I didn't hit you in the mouth so answer the question," Coke continued, hoping to stimulate his reluctant accomplice. "Otherwise, I'll just shoot you in the head and be on my way, after I take a look at your driver's license."
"Michael Sweeny," the man spat out, his words venomous.
"Michael?" asked Coke. "That's a good name. Now Michael, I'm going to need your help for a little bit here. I-"
"I won't help you, whoever the hell you are, maggot," Michael broke in, leaning forward in his anger. "What the hell are you doing here and who the hell are you?" Coke knew he had to rapidly regain control of the situation, before Sweeny got too uppity and decided to scream out for help. Coke wasn't a cruel man, but he was aware of the gravity of the situation.
"Michael, Michael, Michael," he murmured, leaning in towards him. He caught his eye and held it, taking in their particular shade of green. Pupils dilated. That was a good sign. It mean that despite all his anger, Michael was probably not a little scared either. All he had to do was find his weak spot and exploit it. Physical pain didn't seem to have too much of an effect on him, but then again all men had their breaking points. What else? Perhaps he'd try the threat approach. What was the name Michael had dropped earlier? Jenny? He didn't know anything about this Jenny, but Michael didn't have to know that. It was worth a shot.
"Michael," he whispered, using a perfectly calm and sympathetic, if deadly serious voice. "It doesn't have to be this way."
"Be what way?" Michael shot back, his eyes defiant.
"Well, Mike, that depends a lot on you," he replied. "Because I have a bit of a problem. I'm trying to locate your friend Christine Kiviat. However...something tells me you're not going to be very helpful with me."
"Go to hell!"
"You see? That's what I'm talking about. That kind of attitude won't get you anywhere." He raised his gun and ever so nonchalantly put it on Sweeny's kneecap. "It doesn't have to be this way, Mike" he whispered, his eyes still locked with Michael's, who was alternating looking down at his knees and back up at Coke. Good. He was starting to crack. He continued.
"Did you know," he asked, his voice reflecting seemingly genuine interest, "that the kneecap is the most painful place to get shot in the entire human body?" His gun began tracing circles around the knee. "Now, usually, I've heard the kneecap breaks into about 7 or 8 pieces when it's him by a bullet, although 23 fractures or more are not unknown." Michael winced.
"Of course, you may just be lucky and have the bullet graze off the actual kneecap, skitter around the leg, and punch out the back of the knee. Now, that also very painful, but it usually doesn't require as much hospitalization. You know, perhaps only 6 months instead of 18. But hey, it's alright. You tend to heal a whole lot faster when you're younger. Besides, I hear wheelchair technology has really improved in the last 20 years. Maybe you can save up and buy yourself one of those nice electric ones."
He glanced up. A thin trickle of sweat was only now just beginning to drip into Michael's eyebrows and work its way down the bridge of his nose. Almost there.
"I...I..." Michael began, but faltered.
"But, that's for guys. Women, on the other hand, well...I dunno. There's just something about them, ya know?" he asked, trying to play into Michael's palpable sense of misogyny. It was complete crap but Michael would swallow it hook, line, and sinker. "They're just not as tough I guess. Not as hardy. Hell, if a girl got shot in the kneecap, I don't know if she'd survive. Even a young one like your friend....what did you say her name was? Janice or something?" Michael winced and looked away. Like a Doberman, Coke bit down hard.
"Or even an older person like your mother, for example? A wound like that would never heal. She might not survive." Michael's head snapped back forward and locked onto Coke. The expression on the face was still one of hatred, but also one of shock, fear and concern. Perfect. Now Coke had him.
"But, you see Michael, it doesn't have to be like that. I don't want to hurt anybody you know," Coke began, in the long-practiced spiel of alternately terrorizing the victim, reassuring him, and then making him turn the blame back on himself. "This isn't my choice. I really, really don't want to hurt anybody, Michael. Really, I don't. But you see, if you don't help me out," his voice softened and became more sympathetic, "I'm not going to have any choice. So, c'mon. Let's get this over with so we can all go home."
Michael's eyes had gown misty. He looked away for a long time and was silent. Coke sat back in his chair. A few moments later, he turned back at Coke and seemed to have partially regained his composure.
"What is it you want to know?" he asked, his voice quiet but raw.
"That's my boy," Coke said, flashing an approving paternistic smile and removing the gun from Michael's knee, almost as if he had been embarrassed by it. However, he knew he had to move fast, before Mike figured out what had just happened and regained control. "Here's what I want to know."
When he had told him, Michael started speaking in a low, hushed tone, barely stopping for breath. Coke asked few questions, halting him only when it was absolutely necessary in order to clarify a point or confirm a fact. Whenever the conversation wandered too far from the subject, he would gently guide Mike back on course, if only to maintain his tight hold on the subject. The information was more than adequate. Although Mike thought he knew precious little about Kiviat, in the process of his interview he recalled a vital fact of information. Apparently Kiviat was extremely fond of a particular coffeehouse in the greater Baltimore area. Although she didn't go there often, she had on more than one occasion told Mike during late-night talks that it was her "special spot" and the only place where she truly felt comfortable. Mike also divulged that twice after particularly violent fights, Kiviat had stormed away. She invariably returned a few hours later after he had called her on her cell phone to apologize, smelling of coffee. Coke concealed his interest in this fact and continued to press Sweeny.
When Coke had determined that nothing further of use was to be gleaned from Michael Sweeny, he ended the interview. Thanking him, Coke reassured Sweeny that indeed no harm would come to his friends or his family. Looking incredibly relieved, Mike stood up and was in the process of turning around to let Coke cut his flexi-cuffs off when Coke shot him twice in the back of the head. Sweeny went down and Coke's silenced pistol puffed three more times into his sprawled body, just to be on the safe side.
This was not the first time Coke had been forced to kill on the job, nor would it probably be his last. However for the first time in years he had started to feel a twinge of guilt. He knew the rules, and even if he hadn't pure survival instinct dictated that he kill Sweeny. Sweeny had seen his face, had known he was there, about would be not only be able to identify him, but link him to the crime. And that was unacceptable. Nor did Sweeny appear to be a particularly nice person. Coke had dealt with his kind before: the testosterone-driven muscleheads with the big hands who had nothing on which to vent their frustration that their glory days as captain of the high school football team were long over than the bottle and the girlfriend. Just the same, Coke did feel guilty. It was in a way his fault that Sweeny was dead: if he had locked the door then Sweeny never would have been able to get into the apartment, nor ended up dead. On the other hand, if Coke hadn't encountered Sweeny, he wouldn't know where to go next. Coke simply wrote it off as the price of doing business. He quickly and efficiently collected the five shell casings he had left at the scene of the crime in order to ensure that police ballistics would never be able to trace the weapon back to him. Slipping them into his pocket, he pulled out the spiral notepad and scribbled down the information as fast as he could while it was still fresh in his mind.
When he was finished, he carefully stepped around Sweeny's body and after ensuring himself that the hallway was clear, he unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. He thumbed the doorknob lock and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him to ensure that no one would randomly walk into the apartment and discover the body like Mike did. He had a feeling that nobody would notify the police about Mike's disappearance for at least a day or two. Not that it would matter in another 6 hours or so. Peeling off his gloves and turning them inside out to ensure none of Mike's blood got on him, he pulled out the shell casings and slipped them inside the gloves and then replaced the whole package in his pocket. He would burn the gloves and throw the shells in the Potomac as soon as he had the opportunity. Once he was certain everything was in order, he walked down the stairs and headed out the front door.
Coke walked over to the answering machine, carefully picking his way across the scattered clothes littering the floor. As a precaution he slipped on a pair of latex surgical gloves. He knew that the odds he would leave a single fingerprint behind were low, and he knew for a fact that no database in the world had his prints on file. They had either been erased, modified, or conveniently lost over the course of the years. The tendrils of the smoking man reached deep, but just the same, it would be foolish to press his luck. The man for whom he worked could just as soon unmake him as he had promoted him.
He pushed the "Play Message" button in the center of the machine and winced at how loud it sounded in the thick silence of the room.
"Message ONE...left...THURsday-November 8th..at...six-fourty-fiVE...a.m." the machine's cold voice chirped at him.
The voice on the message was unfamiliar to Coke, but then again, he had never heard Mulder's voice before. It was prefaced by a pause and punctuated by the sounds of rustling paper and, in the distance, the clicking of a keyboard.
"Hey this message is for Christine," the message began haltingly, as if the speaker was trying to do several things at once. It was a fairly young sounding voice, although Coke felt the it sounded fairly intelligent, if a bit sheepish. It continued. "This is Agent Mulder. I...um...got your message that you left for me here at the office. I'm very interested in meeting you and seeing what you've found. Let's see...you're obviously not in. Well, if you get this, I'd like to meet up with you sometime today if at all possible, as...well I'd like to meet with you soon. If you've found what you say you have, putting this off isn't a good idea. Either give me a call here at the office, or on my cell phone." Another round of rustling paper and a female voice speaking in the background, though Coke couldn't make it out. "Ok, I have to go. I'll try your cell phone. Like I said, this is very important, so, call me. Bye."
"THURsday-November 8th..at...six-fourty-fiVE...a.m," the machine repeated, before emitting a shrill beep and clicking off. The beep sliced into Coke's brain and made him wince. The headache was definitely getting stronger. He momentarily thought about going to the bathroom and searching for some Tylenol, but thought the better of it. It would be against protocol and would disrupt the scene more than was necessary. Still, this had all the earmarks of being another big one. With some effort, Coke shrugged it off and turned around just in time to catch a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. The door. Someone was at the door. As if to confirm this fact, a sharp knock ripped through the still air in the apartment.
Before his mind had time to register what was going on, Coke was up against the door, pistol out and at the ready. Slipping out the silencer, he slowly began to screw it onto the end of weapon, carefully listening for the slightest hint of sound on the other side of the door. With the silencer firmly in place, he waited.
Another sharp knock ripped through Coke's skull, making him wince.
"C'mon Christine, open up!" came the voice on the other side. Male voice, mid-20s. Coke placed his eye up to the peephole and glanced through.
The man on the other side (a kid really, he couldn't have been more than 23 or so) was peering back at him through the hole, trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. Dressed in a faded demon jacket and with longish, greasy black hair, Coke immediately concluded this was either Kiviat's frat-boy boyfriend or roommate. Since the file hadn't mentioned a roommate and the apartment was only really big enough for one, Coke concluded it was the former. Although this greaseball might be useful in the future, Coke really had no desire to get caught red-handed inside the apartment. Coke knew he could probably handle this guy without too much difficulty, but it might compromise his mission. With any luck the guy would just give up an go awa-
The man leaned forward once again and began to pound on the door.
"C'mon Christine, open up!" he pleaded in the half-begging, half angry tone of a man who has had about enough of putting up with female games. "I know you're in there, I heard you checking your messages," he said again, his voice slightly louder and more frustrated with each word. Coke raised his pistol up again his chest and slid to the hinge-side of the door. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to lock the door after having broken in, but it was too late for that now. One way or another, this guy sounded like he had been rebuffed for the last time and was going to come in. Might as well make the best of a bad situation.
As if to confirm his thoughts, the man spoke up again.
"Ok, SCREW this Christie. I know you're in there. Ready or not, here I come!" Coke tensed his muscles, ready to strike. The doorknob turned and clicked, the door inching open. A rectangle of light crept across the floor. The man paused. Suddenly he seemed less sure of himself.
"Christie? You in here?" he asked, much of the frustration gone. "C'mon Christine, I know you're in here. Where the hell are you?" Still Coke waited.
The man tentatively put one foot through the door, and then the other. Through the crack in the doorjamb, Coke could just make out the man's pierced ear. Seemingly emboldened by the lack of a response he was getting, the man evidently decided to make a show of masculine bravado for the few people who might actually still be within earshot of the apartment.
"Look Chris," he said, accentuating her name. "I'm sick and tired of you dodging me all the time. What I want to know is why the hell haven't you been answering my phone calls, huh?"
He stepped forward another two inches. Almost there, Coke thought to himself.
"I know what you're thinking, hun," the man continued, oblivious to the baleful presence a few inches away. "You think I'm clueless. Well, I'll tell you something or two, Christie. Jenny saw you-" He took another step forward, glancing around the room, evidently hoping to spot her at any moment "-holding hands with that guy down at the 'Leaf the other day. She freaking SAW you, Chris." He stepped forward and finally closed the door behind him without even looking back over his shoulder. This was it.
"And if you think for one second that I'm going to put up with this kind of crap, you're-"
Like a rattlesnake striking its prey, Coke whipped out from behind the doorjamb, bringing the butt of his pistol down full force at the base of the man's skull. It made contact with a dull, sickening thud that resounded in the small foyer.
The man went down like a sack of bricks, banging his face on the hardwood floor as he hit the ground. Before he had even finished his sprawl, Coke was on top of the guy, jamming his pistol in the back of the man's head while reaching for a pair of flexi-cuffs hanging off his belt. He knew that he had hit the intruder pretty hard and as such shouldn't expect much of a fight out of him, but that he would soon recover and probably be mad as hell. Or scared out of his mind. One way or another, he had to be restrained before he had a chance to turn the tables on Coke.
Coke's concern proved to be well founded. He had barely had time to feel the restraints snap home around the man's wrists before he started to come to his senses. Before he could say anything, Coke brought his gun down on the top of the man's head a second time. It would be painful, but Coke knew it was a solid spot and wouldn't knock him unconscious. It was just enough to make sure he had frat boy's full attention.
"Shut your mouth, and don't say a word," Coke hissed directly into the man's left ear. The guy craned his neck and tried to look at Coke. His lips began to move and Coke hit him again. The man grunted. Coke flashed the gun in front of his face to make sure he could see it.
"See this gun?" he asked, fully knowing the effect he was having on the unfortunate fellow. The man nodded. "If you say a single word, I will kill you. Understood?" Again, the man nodded. "Do you believe me?" Coke hissed, his voice low and menacing.
"Y-yes..."
"Good." Coke looked around. First things first. Priority one: secure the area. He put his hand to the back of the man's head and pushed it down to the floor.
"I'm going to get off you now. Keep your face on the ground, and don't move a muscle." He felt the man's stocky body twitch underneath him, but he kept his face down. Ever so carefully, Coke stood up and backed up to the door, keeping his pistol trained on the back of frat boy's head. He reached up and rammed home the apartment's deadbolt, noticing with some distaste that his gloves were smeared with blood. Peering out the fisheye lens of the peephole, Coke satisfied himself that no one had heard the guy's tirade or the subsequent commotion.
"Get up," he growled at the man. After a few moments of pathetic attempts with his hands cuffed behind his back, Coke took pity on him and walked up behind him, helping him up by one arm. The man emitted a small moan. "Shut up" was all the sympathy he got.
With his pistol still leveled, Coke guided frat boy back against the wall of the living room, gesturing of him to sit down on the sofa against the wall. Coke could see anger flashing in the intruder's eyes and not a little fear, but he kept silent. Coke pulled up a chair that had been knocked aside in the commotion and sat down opposite the man. A small trickle of blood had begun to see down the back of the man's neck and down the side of his face, but if he hurt, he masked it remarkably well. After a few moments spent sizing up the fellow, Coke decided to break the silence.
"What's your name?" he asked. Frat boy said nothing.
"I didn't hit you in the mouth so answer the question," Coke continued, hoping to stimulate his reluctant accomplice. "Otherwise, I'll just shoot you in the head and be on my way, after I take a look at your driver's license."
"Michael Sweeny," the man spat out, his words venomous.
"Michael?" asked Coke. "That's a good name. Now Michael, I'm going to need your help for a little bit here. I-"
"I won't help you, whoever the hell you are, maggot," Michael broke in, leaning forward in his anger. "What the hell are you doing here and who the hell are you?" Coke knew he had to rapidly regain control of the situation, before Sweeny got too uppity and decided to scream out for help. Coke wasn't a cruel man, but he was aware of the gravity of the situation.
"Michael, Michael, Michael," he murmured, leaning in towards him. He caught his eye and held it, taking in their particular shade of green. Pupils dilated. That was a good sign. It mean that despite all his anger, Michael was probably not a little scared either. All he had to do was find his weak spot and exploit it. Physical pain didn't seem to have too much of an effect on him, but then again all men had their breaking points. What else? Perhaps he'd try the threat approach. What was the name Michael had dropped earlier? Jenny? He didn't know anything about this Jenny, but Michael didn't have to know that. It was worth a shot.
"Michael," he whispered, using a perfectly calm and sympathetic, if deadly serious voice. "It doesn't have to be this way."
"Be what way?" Michael shot back, his eyes defiant.
"Well, Mike, that depends a lot on you," he replied. "Because I have a bit of a problem. I'm trying to locate your friend Christine Kiviat. However...something tells me you're not going to be very helpful with me."
"Go to hell!"
"You see? That's what I'm talking about. That kind of attitude won't get you anywhere." He raised his gun and ever so nonchalantly put it on Sweeny's kneecap. "It doesn't have to be this way, Mike" he whispered, his eyes still locked with Michael's, who was alternating looking down at his knees and back up at Coke. Good. He was starting to crack. He continued.
"Did you know," he asked, his voice reflecting seemingly genuine interest, "that the kneecap is the most painful place to get shot in the entire human body?" His gun began tracing circles around the knee. "Now, usually, I've heard the kneecap breaks into about 7 or 8 pieces when it's him by a bullet, although 23 fractures or more are not unknown." Michael winced.
"Of course, you may just be lucky and have the bullet graze off the actual kneecap, skitter around the leg, and punch out the back of the knee. Now, that also very painful, but it usually doesn't require as much hospitalization. You know, perhaps only 6 months instead of 18. But hey, it's alright. You tend to heal a whole lot faster when you're younger. Besides, I hear wheelchair technology has really improved in the last 20 years. Maybe you can save up and buy yourself one of those nice electric ones."
He glanced up. A thin trickle of sweat was only now just beginning to drip into Michael's eyebrows and work its way down the bridge of his nose. Almost there.
"I...I..." Michael began, but faltered.
"But, that's for guys. Women, on the other hand, well...I dunno. There's just something about them, ya know?" he asked, trying to play into Michael's palpable sense of misogyny. It was complete crap but Michael would swallow it hook, line, and sinker. "They're just not as tough I guess. Not as hardy. Hell, if a girl got shot in the kneecap, I don't know if she'd survive. Even a young one like your friend....what did you say her name was? Janice or something?" Michael winced and looked away. Like a Doberman, Coke bit down hard.
"Or even an older person like your mother, for example? A wound like that would never heal. She might not survive." Michael's head snapped back forward and locked onto Coke. The expression on the face was still one of hatred, but also one of shock, fear and concern. Perfect. Now Coke had him.
"But, you see Michael, it doesn't have to be like that. I don't want to hurt anybody you know," Coke began, in the long-practiced spiel of alternately terrorizing the victim, reassuring him, and then making him turn the blame back on himself. "This isn't my choice. I really, really don't want to hurt anybody, Michael. Really, I don't. But you see, if you don't help me out," his voice softened and became more sympathetic, "I'm not going to have any choice. So, c'mon. Let's get this over with so we can all go home."
Michael's eyes had gown misty. He looked away for a long time and was silent. Coke sat back in his chair. A few moments later, he turned back at Coke and seemed to have partially regained his composure.
"What is it you want to know?" he asked, his voice quiet but raw.
"That's my boy," Coke said, flashing an approving paternistic smile and removing the gun from Michael's knee, almost as if he had been embarrassed by it. However, he knew he had to move fast, before Mike figured out what had just happened and regained control. "Here's what I want to know."
When he had told him, Michael started speaking in a low, hushed tone, barely stopping for breath. Coke asked few questions, halting him only when it was absolutely necessary in order to clarify a point or confirm a fact. Whenever the conversation wandered too far from the subject, he would gently guide Mike back on course, if only to maintain his tight hold on the subject. The information was more than adequate. Although Mike thought he knew precious little about Kiviat, in the process of his interview he recalled a vital fact of information. Apparently Kiviat was extremely fond of a particular coffeehouse in the greater Baltimore area. Although she didn't go there often, she had on more than one occasion told Mike during late-night talks that it was her "special spot" and the only place where she truly felt comfortable. Mike also divulged that twice after particularly violent fights, Kiviat had stormed away. She invariably returned a few hours later after he had called her on her cell phone to apologize, smelling of coffee. Coke concealed his interest in this fact and continued to press Sweeny.
When Coke had determined that nothing further of use was to be gleaned from Michael Sweeny, he ended the interview. Thanking him, Coke reassured Sweeny that indeed no harm would come to his friends or his family. Looking incredibly relieved, Mike stood up and was in the process of turning around to let Coke cut his flexi-cuffs off when Coke shot him twice in the back of the head. Sweeny went down and Coke's silenced pistol puffed three more times into his sprawled body, just to be on the safe side.
This was not the first time Coke had been forced to kill on the job, nor would it probably be his last. However for the first time in years he had started to feel a twinge of guilt. He knew the rules, and even if he hadn't pure survival instinct dictated that he kill Sweeny. Sweeny had seen his face, had known he was there, about would be not only be able to identify him, but link him to the crime. And that was unacceptable. Nor did Sweeny appear to be a particularly nice person. Coke had dealt with his kind before: the testosterone-driven muscleheads with the big hands who had nothing on which to vent their frustration that their glory days as captain of the high school football team were long over than the bottle and the girlfriend. Just the same, Coke did feel guilty. It was in a way his fault that Sweeny was dead: if he had locked the door then Sweeny never would have been able to get into the apartment, nor ended up dead. On the other hand, if Coke hadn't encountered Sweeny, he wouldn't know where to go next. Coke simply wrote it off as the price of doing business. He quickly and efficiently collected the five shell casings he had left at the scene of the crime in order to ensure that police ballistics would never be able to trace the weapon back to him. Slipping them into his pocket, he pulled out the spiral notepad and scribbled down the information as fast as he could while it was still fresh in his mind.
When he was finished, he carefully stepped around Sweeny's body and after ensuring himself that the hallway was clear, he unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. He thumbed the doorknob lock and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him to ensure that no one would randomly walk into the apartment and discover the body like Mike did. He had a feeling that nobody would notify the police about Mike's disappearance for at least a day or two. Not that it would matter in another 6 hours or so. Peeling off his gloves and turning them inside out to ensure none of Mike's blood got on him, he pulled out the shell casings and slipped them inside the gloves and then replaced the whole package in his pocket. He would burn the gloves and throw the shells in the Potomac as soon as he had the opportunity. Once he was certain everything was in order, he walked down the stairs and headed out the front door.