= The Screwdriver Solution
  A Dan Healey story
  by Mike Hennessey


It was eight at night, and Mac caught me just as I was packing up to go home. I'd spent the day sitting here thinking, which some might say constituted a hard day's work for me. I wouldn't have minded a harder day, actually; it had been so slack this week that I was beginning to think that the services of a private investigator were about as much in demand as those of a crocodile wrestler.
  
"Yeah, Mac?" I said into the phone. 

"We need you, kid. Like right now."

"I don't know. I'm pretty busy."

"Well, drop it. We got a kidnapping and that may be the least of it. He's also a child molester."

"Oh, no."

"Yeah. We got him cornered over here in Alphabet City."

"A little off your turf, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but we're coordinating with the Ninth. They've left me in charge since we caught the squeal." 

"How'd you make him so quickly?"

"A parent saw the kid grabbed after school and had the good sense to get his number and description. Called in on her mobile. We got lucky--had a car in the neighborhood, and we were on him in ten minutes. We've been toing and froing on the phone for the last four hours."

"How's the kid?"

"I think he may be okay. Guess who the kidnapper is."

"Tell me."

"The well-known Shorty Lester."

"Geez, Mac, when did he get out?"

"Just finished a ten-year stretch a month ago. Didn't take him long to get back in action."

"Any progress at all?" These situations were never easy, especially when a hostage--and a child at that--was involved.
  
"Not much. Looks like he had this place picked out well in advance. The family who live here is up in Maine on a two-week vacation."

"And?"

"He wants to bargain. Says the boy's not been touched, and he knows he's better off bargaining for kidnapping than child molesting." 

"What do you want me for?" I asked.

"We're about to have a power shortage over here. We think he'll let in an electrician."

"I'm on my way," I said.

Mac gave me the address. "There's no good in this guy, Dan," he added. "None whatsoever."

"I understand what you're saying."

* * *

The sign on my door read: Dan Healey - Investigations. Some years ago I'd been Mac's partner in the NYPD. Then a bullet fired with extreme prejudice had taken away part of a lung, laid me up for six months, and forever wrecked my hopes for a gold medal in the 100-yard dash. Rather than ride a desk for the rest of my career, I'd taken early retirement and gone private.

Now, Mac, or Sgt. Ozzie McFeeters, to give him his full title, sent what work he could my way--usually with the approval of his boss, Lieutenant Joe Mooney, for whom I'd also done a favour or two.
  
I'd actually saved Mac's life once. We were picking up this suspect in a knife killing, Charlie "Cutter" Toole, a big, sleepy-looking guy about seven feet tall and as wide as a front-end loader. We'd caught him in an alley and had disarmed him--we thought--but when Mac went to cuff him, he slipped this opened pocket-knife from his sleeve and gave Mac a rip on the face. He was rearing back for a final slash at Mac's throat when I got a clear shot at him with my .38 and splattered his brains all over the brick wall. It had taken seventy-two stitches to close up Mac's face, and he was left with a scar that wandered from his right eye to his right ear by way of his mouth. Mac remained grateful, and he sent me some well-paying jobs. Usually, I was called in when the department thought that removal of the problem was a better solution than mere arrest, if you know what I mean. 

* * *

My office was within the boundaries of the Fifth Precinct and not far from the scene. I was there in fifteen minutes. The whole area was in darkness, street lights, everything. A uniformed cop led me to Mac.

Mac was direct. "This guy is a rat, Dan, plain and simple. He's spent more time inside than out. And he could even walk from this if he hasn't harmed the kid."

"Gotcha," I said. "How do I get in?"

"Well." He looked at his watch. "It's just about time for the electrician to arrive."

"I'm here," I said brightly. "What do I do?"

"How's your electrical knowledge?" Mac asked.

"I can change a light bulb."

"That should do it."

"Supposing he buys it. Supposing I get in. Then what?"

"Do I have to do all the thinking here?"

"No, but--"

"You take him out. It'll be a righteous kill."

"Just like that?"

"Well, hell, Dan, improvise. It's what you do best anyway."

"With an Uzi down my throat?"

"Or maybe a shotgun."

"Oh, no." I shook my head. "What has he got in there anyway?"

"God only knows. Probably an arsenal, including knives."

"You don't give me the easy ones, do you?"

"Hell, Dan, the easy ones we can do ourselves."

"What about your guys seeing me? I don't like them knowing I do these odd jobs for the city."

"If you think any of them will say anything except thank you, then you don't know them like I do."

"You're right. I don't."

"No worries there, Dan, I'm telling you. Anyway, you'll be in your electrician's disguise."

"Your boss in on this?"

"It was the loot who asked for you. I got the impression he got the okay from further up the line as well. He said if anyone could pull this off, you could." 

"Save the flattery, Mac. I may not come out of this one."

"Then you'll get your lifelong wish."

"Which is?"

"To die young and make a good looking corpse."

"I'd like to celebrate my thirty-fourth birthday first. It's a small enough request."

"We can't wait that long. What d'you say--you willing to give it a shot?"

"Okay, okay. Get me in, and I'll see what I can do."

"Good man."

"What's the latest on the kid?"

"He's okay so far. Lester let us talk to him just after I called you. He's frightened but seems okay otherwise."

"Good. And Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"Ten big ones no matter how it comes out. And if I don't--come out, that is --they go to Liz."

"Geez, man, you drive a hard bargain. Okay, ten."

It was too easy. I should have asked for more. Too late.

"How high would you have gone?" I asked. "Just as a matter of interest."

"Well--as a matter of interest--the loot said I could go up to twenty. Tell you what--we'll split the difference, make it fifteen."

"I won't argue," I said. "Okay, set it up."

* * *

I don't know what there is about me that makes life on the edge so tantalizing. It must somehow go back to my warped childhood, but that's another story--and one I don't want to go into, ever.
  
Before I'd left the office, I'd told my secretary, Liz Moore, the details. Liz and I had been together since high school days and knew all there was to know about each other. 

"What do you know about electricity?" she asked.

"I know how to change a light bulb."

"I've heard that one before."

"Hell, Liz," I said. "It's only a diversion to get me in."
  
"Yeah? And then what do you do?"

"Take him out."

"Yeah? How?"

"I can't discuss the details. Mac swore me to secrecy."

"You don't know, do you?"

I hate it when she's right. "I know," I said. "Now let it go."

The devil her due, Liz usually knows when to back off. All she said was: "Well, then, be careful, won't you?"

"I always am."

Which was a lie. If I was careful I wouldn't be in this poker game in the first place, upping the ante with a pair of deuces. "Wait at your place," I said. "I'll be over later."

"I hope so," she said.

I packed the Glock, smaller than the Desert Eagle, but quicker to hand. In this case, with God only knows what kind of weapons I'd be facing, I'd be lucky if I could get it out of the rig before I bought the farm. It wasn't that I was awkward, I told myself, just that the 215 solid pounds--well, pretty solid--on my six feet one frame didn't make for agility.
  
* * *
  
Mac got me dressed in what was supposed to be an electrician's outfit, complete with wide leather belt and hard hat.
  
"No weapons," he said as he patted me down, removing the Glock and the harness.

"Put it in the kit," I said, pointing to the tool box.

Mac looked at me as if I were a rather backward child. "The first thing he'll do is search you," he said. "The second will be to search your kit."

"Geez, Mac, you're not going to send me in naked?"

He pointed to my stomach. "I notice you're not missing too many meals. That extra padding will absorb a lot of fire power."

"Added muscle," I said, flexing just to show him.

"Wow," he said. "Donut muscle. Ready?"

I nodded and he picked up the phone and went through his drill. I could hear and feel the anger in Lester's voice, then Mac soothing him, chilling him out.

"He'll be here any minute," Mac was saying. "Don't hurt the boy."

The voice on the other end of the phone was strident, demanding. Mac was good at this work. I'd seen him once talk a man holed up with enough food and ammunition to last a week right out onto the street empty-handed in only two hours. I'd teased him that he'd bored the poor guy into surrender, but I knew the value of what he did.

"Any hope you can talk him out?" I asked when he broke the connection.

"Not Shorty Lester. Not this time. He'll bargain, but what he wants we'll never give him. And he knows it."

"Well then," I said. "Come on, let's go."

"Wait."

"He'll hurt the boy."

"He knows the boy's his ticket out. He won't hurt him. Let him wait a bit. I want him nervous."

"If he's as nervous as me he's cleaning himself up already."

"You look about as nervous as an old farm horse. You'll be fine."

I'm always cynical about the confidence of those not at the sharp end. "Easy enough for you," I said.

Mac studied me. "You think so, Dan? Really?

"No," I admitted. "I'm just letting off steam."

"I know," he said and looked at his watch. "Okay, everyone," he said, a little louder. "It's showtime, folks."

He picked up the phone and spoke heartily. "What'd I tell you, Shorty? We got an electrician here, and he's on his way in."
  
The phone squawked.

"No," Mac said. "He's not one of my men. He's a real electrician. Here he comes."

He gave me a shove out into the darkness. "Go get him," he muttered.

I shone the flashlight ahead of me as I walked up the path, feeling there was a great big bullseye on my chest. The smell of early fall was in my nostrils, leaves and grass from a remembered past, certainly not from the asphalt surroundings, and I breathed deeply. But I'd never felt more alive, more eager. I didn't even try to understand it.

I stopped at the door and called out, "Is the door unlocked?" trying for the right note of nervousness. Trying? Hah!
  
"It's open," a voice rasped. "Come in." I poked the door open. It swung back easily.

"Come in," the voice repeated impatiently. "Put your kit on the floor and turn and spread out against the wall. Put the hand with the flashlight behind you."

Mac had been right. Lester grabbed the flash, shone it all over me, then frisked me quickly, around my chest, my waist, the small of my back, a quick rub down my legs. He stepped back, shone the light on my tool kit, felt through it, then grunted, apparently satisfied.

"Okay," he said. "Turn around." I did so and he shone the light up and down a couple of times, studying me. The Luger in his right hand never wavered.

"Please," I said. "You don't need that. I'm scared enough."

"You don't act like a cop," he said.

"I'm not. Just an ordinary Joe trying to do his job and scared to death."

"Stay that way and you'll get out of this alive," he said. "Now, get on with it."

"Okay," I said. "Where's the fuse box?"

"How the hell do I know?"

"They're usually in the basement," I said. "Let's try there."

"Just a minute." He went away and in the rays from the flash I could see the boy tied to a chair, gagged, big eyes staring, full of tears, beseeching. I looked away as Lester checked the ropes.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

We started down the basement steps, me ahead of him. He shone the light around.

"It should be near the steps," I said. "On the wall. Up a little higher."

It was just in front of where I was standing. I reached out and flipped open the door. Inside were sixteen fuses in two rows of eight each. I studied them closely, then unscrewed a couple.

"You know much about electricity?" I asked casually.

"I know how to change a light bulb," he said.

"Yeah," I said. "We get that a lot."

"What're you doing?"

"I'm removing these fuses to check them," I said.

"How d'you do that?"

"Pass me that #10 screwdriver and I'll show you," I said. "It's that long narrow one," I added as his light played over the kit. "Yeah, that one."

He stood up and stepped closer to pass it to me. He was holding it and the flashlight in his left hand, keeping his gun hand free. He passed me the screwdriver handle first, extending his gun hand into the circle of light so I'd be aware that he had me covered. His two hands were about fifteen inches apart.
  
I reached to take the screwdriver with my right hand, and as I grasped the handle I swept up and away with my left and the gun exploded off to the side. I slid my left hand down until I had his gun hand firmly by the wrist.

In semi-darkness now as the flash clattered to the floor, I battered into him, knees, elbows, fists and feet, thrusting the sharp-pointed screwdriver upwards to the point where I hoped his throat would be.

I heard a kind of oozing sound, like "Guh-h-h-h," as I drove the screwdriver home. When I felt it hit bone and he sagged, I knew he was already dead. His body jerked involuntarily and a couple of shots went into the floor.

I dropped him and backed off, recovered the flashlight and watched him twitch out what was left of his life on the basement floor. I kicked the gun into the corner.

I left him and hurried upstairs, ignoring the ringing phone, the blare of the bullhorn. I ripped the gag off the boy.

"You okay, kid?"

"Yes sir."

"He didn't--you know--touch you or anything?" 

"No, sir. He hit me a couple of times, but I'm okay." 
  
"Good. Let's get out of here."

I had him untied by this time, and we walked out into the searchlights that had been turned back on. The boy held me tightly by my right hand. I held my other hand over my face, as if shielding my eyes from the bright lights, but really keeping anyone from seeing me. It was best if as few as possible knew of my arrangement with Mac.

Mac came forward and took the boy by the hand and looked at me.

"The shots?"

"Nothing. Wild."

"Is Lester...?"

"Yeah. Something got stuck in his throat." 

I told Mac about it, quietly, so the kid couldn't hear.

"We'll fix it," Mac said. "No way to take a weapon in, so you had to make do. Like I said--a righteous kill. You okay, by the way?"

"I'm fine. A touch of after-shock, is all. My knowledge of electricity helped."

"I bet."

"True. He didn't know an ohm from a watt." 

"What?"

"Yeah," I said.

Mac shrugged and passed me my Glock and harness. "Come on kid," he said, putting a big hand on the boy's shoulder. "You got people waiting for you over here. Don't waste time schmoozing with the hired help."

The kid said, "Thank you, mister," and I waved a hand as if I did this sort of thing ten times a day.

Then I faded off into the darkness, wondering if I should go home and change before going to Liz's. To hell with it, I thought, she always said she liked a man in uniform.


MIKE HENNESSEY lives in Canada and has had two volumes of short stories published. Several of his award-winning plays have been produced across Canada and on CBC Radio. His story, AN ARCH FOR THE KING, placed second in the Canada-wide CBC Literary Competition. Other of his stories are scheduled to appear in upcoming issues of BLUE MURDER and ORCHARD PRESS MYSTERIES. He also reviews for I LOVE A MYSTERY.

Copyright (c) 2001 Mike Hennessey