Unused Police Novel Opener Ruined By One Bad Line

What the cops had in front of them was a nightmare – a baker’s dozen of a nightmare. Thirteen small-time thugs were piled in the alley, limbs bent at impossible angles. All of them were dead. All except one. And from the looks of him, he should’ve been dead, too. It was Eddie “Motormouth” Higgins, a minor hood from the Bronx whose street name came from his constant nervous chatter. Of course, Eddie was also a snitch, so it wouldn’t have been too surprising to find him in this condition if word got back to the wrong people.

But clearly this was something else. The other twelve weren’t rats, and they’d put in plenty of time in the big house rather than inform on their sorry associates. Whatever caused this carnage was either extremely personal or viciously evil – maybe both. No gunshots, no knife wounds. Just 12 guys beaten to death in an alley, and another one hanging on by a strand of spit.

Crime scene tape blocked the dead-end alley and, for now, anyway, the reporters were held at bay. A semi-circle of flat-foots surrounded Higgins, blocking him from their cameras.

He was breathing fast and shallow. Every now and then the breathing stopped for a second, he’d draw a deep breath, go wide-eyed and scream. Lungs punctured by the shards of broken ribs can have that effect on a man.

Earlier, when he was capable of forming a word, Higgins pleaded for help. He must have said it a dozen times, jut that single desperate word. The cops called for an ambulance, knowing all the while that Eddie would be seeing the coroner instead. Meanwhile, they waited for Shaughnessy.

Detective Shaughnessy was a third generation cop’s cop. Big, boxy, and loud. Everyone found him obnoxious, but he had earned respect (and no small level of fear) from everyone in his orbit. The Chief, crooks, the mob…even the suits in Internal Affairs, though they had reason to believe he took small payoffs from time to time, which he then donated to an orphanage.

Shaughnessy made his way past the throng of reporters, ignoring their shouted questions as he strutted into the alley. He stopped and bummed a light off of the first patrolman he came to, then headed straight for Higgins, rancid cigar smoke trailing behind him.

The other cops closed in behind him, absorbing his every word and action in the hope that some of his power might rub off on them.

Shaughnessy half smiled, his cigar cocked in one corner of his mouth. He pointed a finger down at Higgins and said “Did you do all of this?” The other cops laughed nervously. Shaughnessy continued. “I mean, usually snitches are the timid type. Did I say snitches? I mean ‘informers’. I never figured you were tough enough to take on 12 bad-asses.” There was more nervous laughter. Shaughnessy surveyed the mass of broken bodies in the alley. “OK, I see Bobby Rudolph over there. Maybe you could’ve taken him out, since he’s only got one arm.” The laughter was greater now, and the nervousness was gone. It was one of Shaughnessy’s gifts. He could walk into the bleakest situation and have everyone at ease within minutes.

He addressed Higgins again. “Hey, Buddy. I’m just messing with you. I gotta be honest with you. We got an ambulance on the way, but I don’t think you’re gonna make it.” Higgins continued to breathe hard, and he seemed to shake his head in acceptance of this fate. “You wanna tell me who did this?” Higgins shook his head again and began a frustrating attempt to communicate the perpetrator’s name. “J…Je….Jeh….J….” he stopped for a moment, closed his eyes, and tried again to no better end.

Shaughnessy spoke again, mocking the sound. “Jeh…Jeh…Jeh…? What are you trying to say, Eddie? Did Jehovah do this? Jean Harlow? Jesus? I’m a Christian man, Eddie…don’t tell me Jesus did this.”

The other cops roared with laughter. Higgins redoubled his efforts, nearly succeeding in raising his head off the pavement as he spat out the sounds again. “Je..Jeh…Jeh..Jeh….” Shaughnessy couldn’t resist a little more jocularity, given how the troops were responding. “Jack the Ripper? Judd Hirsch? Jemima from the syrup bottle?” The cops laughed harder as Shaughnessy reeled off each name. “Jack Sprat? Jar-Jar Binks?” He gave his best Cary Grant impersonation. “Was it Judy Judy Judy?"

The laughter was so loud now that the reporters were craning their necks, peering into the alley to see what could possibly be funny in this dreadful scenario . Shaughnessy had even cracked himself up. He pulled out a kerchief to dab a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. When the laughter petered out, he queried Higgins again, with a straight face, and no hint of mirth in his voice. “Who did this, Eddie?”

Higgins motioned feebly to Shaughnessy with his broken hand. It was obvious that Eddie was about to give up the ghost, and he wanted the big cop to come closer so he could attempt to whisper what he had been unable to say aloud.

“Aw, Eddie! Don’t make me get on my knees in this nasty alley! This is my best suit.” There was more laughter, but Shaughnessy complied and made his way down next to the dying man. “Who did this, Eddie?” he asked.

The cops were all silent as they watched, hoping to make out a name. With his lips only an inch or so away from Shaughnessy’s ear, Eddie whispered a name with his dying breath.

Shaughnessy leapt away like he’d been poked with a cattle prod. He stood up quickly, and the other cops watched as all semblance of color drained from his face.

Clearly this was bad. Very bad. Worse than bad. No one present had ever seen the big guy look so stunned. Stunned and terrified.

Then he puked.

“Sweet Jesus. Oh, sweet Jesus” Shaughnessy said. “Sweet Mother of God.”

Finally, one of the cops got up the nerve to ask the obvious.

“What did he say? Who did this?”

For a brief moment, it seemed Shaughnessy might have the same problem spitting out the name that Higgins had faced earlier. But finally, leaning against the alley wall, he looked into the sea of blue uniforms and frightened faces, and with an expression that could have easily have collapsed into unrestrained bawling, he uttered the name that all dread, but none expect.

“Jubilation T. Cornpone.”