Whack A Moll

Crime Fiction by M.E. Proctor

It takes a special kind of sinner to commit murder in a church. A sanctuary, a haven.

A safe place that hadn’t been safe for Myrtle Ballard.

“St Peter’s on twennyfourth. Next to the confessional.”

Al ‘Matt’ Matteotti spit the words in disgust. He was pale with outrage. Matt was a devout catholic, unlike Tom Keegan who only set foot in church for weddings and funerals, and then with extreme reluctance. His mother had a theory. She said he was afraid to be roped in by the priest: Because you’re still a good Irish boy, Tommy. Only a few steps remote from the altar. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that she was wrong, that after what he’d seen in the war, he had no need for God or his representatives anymore. There was nothing left to rope in.

Tom was stuck in court that morning, testifying, and Matt had gone to the crime scene alone. They were both back at the office now, catching up. There was more work to do at the church, interviews to conduct, a timeline to establish. And try to keep a lid on the press. Headlines would be dripping ink. Myrtle Ballard was Stan Revell’s girlfriend and Revell, Casino Stan, controlled a bevy of criminal activities. He was the gambling king of San Francisco and his mistress was waited on hand and foot by every up-and-comer in the city’s hoodlum circles. Climbing in the good graces of the favorite to get a nod from the big guy had been a sure-fire way up the ladder for centuries.

No way Myrtle’s death was a random hit.

***

When Stan Revell walked into SFPD Homicide Division, you could have heard a pin drop.

“What you got?” the man barked.

All eyes shifted to Tom who hadn’t yet taken his hat off. He was just back from St Peter’s where he had spent frustrating hours talking to the priest, parishioners—mostly elderly ladies—choirboys due for rehearsals, and snot-nosed altar boys. Nobody had anything salient to contribute. Myrtle died in a kneeling praying position, head down between her arms, next to the confessional. If the priest hadn’t bumped the pew with his hip getting out of the box that was a little tight for his generous girth, Myrtle might still be there, frozen in meditation. The impact disturbed the balance and she toppled to the floor like a puppet freed from its strings.

The report from the medical examiner described a puncture at the base of the skull. The weapon might have been a thin scalpel. The manner of killing was too sophisticated for comfort. Tom liked his murders within well-defined parameters. A shooting, a stabbing, a strangling. Bump on the head. Poison, at a stretch. A killer with a possible medical background and a weapon that belonged in an operating room had all the markings of a major headache, even without the high-profile criminal connection.

And now Stan Revell was next to Tom’s messy desk, eyes bloodshot, steaming angry. Maybe he was grieving. Hard to say. People grieve in all sorts of different ways.

“What have you got?” Revell repeated and leaned on the desk. Spittle bubbled at the corners of his thin mouth.

“Let’s find a quiet place,” Tom said.

He was tempted to lead Revell to one of the windowless boxes used for interrogations. Every officer in the department had wet dreams about roughing up Casino Stan. He was too rich, too lucky, too rotten, and too protected. His name alone set cop teeth grinding and fists itching.

Tom found an empty office near the secretarial pool. He cringed as he ran the gauntlet of wide-eyed women, with Revell in tow. The gangster didn’t pay attention to anybody, head down like a preoccupied bull. Tom had never heard the big room so subdued. Fingers were frozen on the typewriter keys. The ding of a carriage return made everybody jump.

He preceded Revell into the office, closed the door behind him and flipped the blinds. Procedure required there should be a notetaker in attendance. He could have asked one of the ladies outside but he doubted Revell would be talkative if there was a witness in the room. Not that the man seemed to be in a cooperative mood. He chewed his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Tom took the seat behind the clean desk of whoever worked there. Not a cop, certainly. Their desks were always piled with flotsam.

Revell ignored the visitor chair and went to stand at the window, with his back to Tom. There was a ripple of anger in the tweed-clad shoulders. Nice tailored suit, fine fabric, expensive. Tom could picture himself in one of these. If he got lucky at one of Revell’s poker tables.

“You’re in charge? You a captain or something?”

“Detective Keegan, Homicide. And yes, I’m in charge. I’ll be blunt, Revell. It was a professional hit.”

The wide shoulders relaxed. Revell was a solid guy. Medium height and built like a wrestler. He was brushing fifty and in terrific shape. He had to be to keep a tight leash on his troops. He turned around and sat on the corner of the desk, close without being menacing. Nobody ever said Revell was a dim-witted musclebound hoodlum. He was loud and brassy when he needed to be, with politicians and union leaders. In this office, with the orange sunset gilding the furniture, he pitched his voice low, intimate.

“How did it happen?”

Tom had no reason to obfuscate. He summarized the doc’s report. “Have you ever heard of anybody being bumped off with a scalpel?”

The expression on Revell’s face was hard to read. He had blinked a couple of times when Tom mentioned the precise severing of the spinal cord, and his mouth hardened, but that was all.

“What about your records?” Revell said. “You have knife artists in there?”

Tom opened a desk drawer and put his feet up. He tilted back the chair as far as it would go. It gave him a better angle to study Revell. “According to the doc, the strike was assured. There were no hesitation marks.”

The gangster’s mouth opened in shock, he mumbled, “Who would do a thing like that.”

“We’re dealing with a specific type of professional. Somebody with medical expertise, surgery possibly, or a killer with a lot of practice. I don’t know what the going rate is for a hitman, but this kind of talent doesn’t come cheap.” Tom got his cigarette pack and popped one out. He offered the pack to Revell who accepted. Tom slid the lighter on the desk.

“I know gunslingers and back alley stickers.” Revell’s voice was still muted. “What you describe is something else.” He disguised a shiver with a deep drag of the cigarette. The sunset put tendrils of flame in his reddish hair.

Revell’s business didn’t require that kind of refinement in the art of killing. Baseball bats and tire irons, followed by dumps in the bay when the beatings failed to drive the point home, were more his fare.

“Who’s trying to get to you?” Tom contemplated the tip of his cigarette.

There had been an attempt to unseat the king about a year earlier. Revell was in negotiations with the mob for a share in the budding Las Vegas developments. Revell swatted the pretenders and cleaned house. This looked like another challenge. Great power stimulates great appetites.

Revell shrugged. He looked for an ashtray; there wasn’t one. He tapped the ash of his cigarette in the dustbin. “Myrtle was not involved in my business. She knew nothing. I never thought she needed protection.” He looked at Tom. His green eyes, flecked with gold, looked feral in the quickly fading glow. “My family. My wife and kids. They’re out of bounds, Keegan.”

Revell implied Myrtle Ballard wasn’t in the same category. Tom winced. The thought was unpleasant. It reeked of perfumed flesh and unmade beds. “You don’t want to work with me any more than I want to work with you.”

“But we’re on the same side, is what you mean.”

“For once.” Tom flipped his cigarette in the dustbin, right under Revell’s handmade shoes. “Who knew Miss Ballard was a regular at St Peter’s?”

Revell slid off the desk and dropped his cigarette on the floor. He stepped on it. It would leave a burn mark on the linoleum. Tom repressed a smile. Tit for tat.

“We didn’t talk about her church going but she wasn’t cagey about it. She had a routine, confession on Friday, mass on Sunday.” Revell used a handkerchief to swipe the seat of the visitor chair. He sat carefully to preserve the crease in his trousers. “I don’t know what she had to confess every week. Sleeping with a married man, getting tight, accepting gifts. That’s a sin, right?” He chuckled. It sounded hollow. “Must have been a damn repetitive story. Put the priest to sleep.”

Myrtle’s routine was well known in Revell’s circle. The murder reeked of a palace coup. Hit Revell where it hurt, but not deep enough to send him in such a blind rage that he’d cut every head in sight. And the challenger had external sponsors who supplied the specialized killer. Tom had no doubt Revell had reached the same conclusions.

“We’ll contact other police departments for leads on similar crimes,” Tom said. “We might catch a scent. What about motive? How does whoever’s behind this benefit from Myrtle’s death?”

“No fucking idea. I liked the kid. I’m not going to crumble because she’s gone.”

“But it pisses you off.”

“Whaddya think?”

Tom suspected Revell’s anger was mostly for show. Casino Stan was at ease in his mobster role. He produced the rage at will. He could turn it off with the roll of a dice. It made him a wily opponent and an astute political player.

“What could you do in reaction to Myrtle’s death that would damage your business?” Tom said. “In the worst way.”

The question took Revell by surprise. “You think I’d shoot myself in the foot?” A chuckle, followed by a wink. “I won’t start a gang war over Myrtle.”

“I was thinking of something more subtle.” Tom lit another cigarette. Revell waved away the offer. “The poison of suspicion. The worm in the apple.”

Revell leaned forward, put his hands flat on the desk. He had elegant, long-fingered hands, free of flashy rings, just a plain wedding band. “Reminds me of that Snow White flick my kids were nuts about. The witch with the poisoned apple. Scared the shit out of them.” He waggled a warning finger. “I will take out the trash. You better not stand in the way.”

Tom blew smoke toward the ceiling. Tin tiles were coming loose. He should warn the office occupant. Somebody could get hurt. “You guys are good at disposal. I was just thinking, when you start chopping, make sure you don’t cut your right arm in the process.”

Revell straightened in the cheap chair. The line between his brows had deepened. “These morons aren’t smart enough to come up with a scheme like that.” He sounded confident. That didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about the devious possibility Tom raised.

“I don’t have a stake in your business. My friends from Vice will drag me over the coals when they learn we’re having this conversation. Fraternizing with the enemy and all that.”

Revell pulled himself up. “I appreciate, Keegan. Mind if I call for updates?”

“We serve the public. I’ll walk you out.”

***

The squad room, almost empty at this time of the evening, was eerily silent when Tom came back after escorting Revell all the way to the front door. Pete Delgado, the Vice supervisor, had commandeered his chair. He’d made himself comfortable, with both feet on the desk. The Myrtle Ballard file was open in his lap. Matt was nowhere to be seen.

“I hope you don’t mind.” Delgado grinned.

“What happened to Matt?”

“His wife called, the baby came down with a cold. You booked Revell?”

“On what? Wearing a suit that could feed a family for a year? He didn’t whack his girlfriend, Pete.”

Tom sat in Matt’s chair. It gave him a view of the squad room he wasn’t used to.

“He’s the reason the girl is dead. He had anything helpful to say?” Delgado didn’t wait for an answer. “I bet not. He came to pump you. It’s always one-way with these mugs.”

“While you’re in my chair, mind opening the bottom drawer, right side?” Tom said.

Delgado extracted a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He poured a couple of inches, raised his glass. “To drown the sorrows of detectives.”

Tom knocked his glass against Delgado’s. “To an innocent girl who sleeps on a cold slab tonight because of the ravenous greed of immoral men.”

“Amen to that.”

They drank in silence and Delgado refilled the glasses. When they finished the second round they were alone in the squad room. The phones were asleep. It wouldn’t last.

“Revell told me he wasn’t going to war over Myrtle.”

“For what that’s worth,” Delgado said. “He’s a wolf, despite all the English wool he wraps himself in. And it’s an inside job anyway. He’ll keep retribution behind closed doors. A few faces won’t be seen around town anymore and the harbor cops will fish out bodies. Or not.”

“I told him we were dealing with an expensive killer-for-hire.”

Pete Delgado hummed a few bars of the Tennessee Waltz. “Meaning heavy players are involved. Underhanded. These guys don’t stick their necks out. Chicago or East Coast. Revell is smart, he won’t go all out canons blazing. He’ll negotiate. How does any of that help us?”

“A possible change of personnel at the top. If Revell leaves for more profitable pastures, the next boss in town won’t have the same protections and personal connections. It’s an opportunity to scoop the scum.”

“Long shot.”

It must have reminded Delgado of another kind of shot because he reached for the bottle. They were nocturnal in Vice, used to the darkness and upside down sleep patterns. Tom on the other hand was ready to call it a night.

He drained his glass. “I hit a nerve when I suggested he could bleed to death if he cut too many limbs.”

Delgado shook his head to clear the alcohol fumes and hauled himself out of the chair. “You got chummy with the bastard. It’s dangerous, Tommy. If he thinks you’re soft, he’ll ask for more. I’m going back to my lair. I have guys out on the streets tonight.”

His officers roamed the city every night. Tom didn’t envy the Vice cops. They were a special breed. They dealt with crime in real time. He much preferred the reflective side of Homicide, the cold pondering after the fact. He had that in common with Stan Revell. They were both into remediation.

He picked up the whiskey glasses, rinsed them in the men’s restroom, and stashed everything back in the desk drawer. There was an inch of liquor left in the bottle.

He was getting his coat and hat when the phone rang. The dispatcher downstairs knew he hadn’t left yet. “What is it, Buffy?”

“Personal call. The pilgrim didn’t give his name. I tell him to go fly a kite?”

“Put him through.”

It was Revell.

“Violetta Pace. She carries a nice crocodile leather purse with a set of scalpels.”

Tom wanted to ask how Revell got the information so fast but he resisted. “Thanks.”

“You helped me see through the weeds, Keegan.”

“This is a one off, you understand?”

A deep-throated laughter was followed by the sound of the connection being cut. Tom stared at the phone for a while. Then he called Buffy at Dispatch.

“Find me somebody awake at the local FBI office, Buff.”

***

Violetta Pace was an alias. Among many others. Some said she was Austrian, had studied at a medical school in Vienna. Others believed she was from Mexico, or Spain maybe, from a family of renowned sword makers. It was probably all fantasy. Her FBI file didn’t list a place and date of birth. The Seattle medical examiner who performed her autopsy said she might have been in her late forties. He added that she was in excellent health, before her head was chopped off with a hatchet, in a suite at the Mayflower Park Hotel.

Nobody noticed or heard anything. The room, apart from the gore on the carpet, was undisturbed. There were no fingerprints on the hatchet. Nothing on the array of scalpels either. A partial print was lifted from the crocodile purse. It matched Violetta’s left index finger.

“Clean and convenient,” Pete Delgado said. “Why don’t I buy it?”

He sat in Tom’s chair again, at night again. He brought the booze.

“The feds have identified the scalpels. They’re special, apparently, and looking at cuts on file, it seems they have mileage on them.” Tom had raccoon eyes and coffee heartburn. He’d been chasing after Violetta Pace day and night for two weeks only to learn that Revell had beaten him and the feds to it.

“It doesn’t mean the woman is the killer.”

“She has to be.” Tom had a big slug of whiskey. It wasn’t going to improve the condition of his stomach. “She’s a message from Revell to the competition. See what I can do. If I can find her, where can you hide? He’s also telling us his informers are better than ours.”

The phone rang. Tom looked at it as if it had morphed into a king cobra.

Delgado picked up. He listened, turned to Tom. “It’s for you.”

It could be the FBI but he doubted it. “Keegan.” It was Revell. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I have a vested interest in the investigation.”

Tom sighed. “I’m tired and I’m not in the mood. Violetta is history. A number of cases will be closed as a result. Don’t expect thank you notes.”

The now familiar laughter bubbled through the handset. “I wanted you to know that this unfortunate incident was all a misunderstanding. Have a nice night, Keegan. Sleep tight.”

Incident. Misunderstanding. Tom fought a surge of nausea.

“Did he call to gloat?” Delgado said.

“You thought he would strike a deal with the opposition. He didn’t waste any time.”

Delgado swirled the liquor in his glass. “Men in pricey suits signing juicy contracts.”

“Over Myrtle’s dead body.” Tom held out his glass. “Top me up. I thought I had enough. I was wrong.”

---

Bio: M.E. Proctor is the author of the Declan Shaw detective mysteries (Love You Till Tuesday and Catch Me on a Blue Day), the author of a collection, Family and Other Ailments, and the co-author of a retro-noir, Bop City Swing. Her short fiction has appeared in various magazines and anthologies. She’s a Shamus Award and Derringer Award nominee. On the web: www.shawmystery.com. On Substack: https://meproctor.substack.com 

Cover photo by the Author

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