Peter O'Brien

The Introduction of Peter O'Brien

3

Pulling one hand from the warmth of his pocket, Detective Peter O’Brien squats down to

grab the dead woman’s chin. He was pushing the head to one side until the wound became

visible.

"Looks like this lady of the evening suffered from a different kind of poking."

"Poking?" Officer Victor Cruz looked confused.

"Yeah, she was poked with a screwdriver," O’Brien clarified. "A big a*s screwdriver."

Cruz nodded slowly.

O’Brien looked up, and his face was a picture of genuine concern.

" The same crazy nut job, right?" Cruz asked.

" A nut job," O’Brien half whispers as he watched over a dozen uniforms standing around

watching their breath freeze. In front of him was the body of young Latino woman half naked,

and dead. "A nut job."

O’Brien was a big man with a barrel chest. He was purposely bald and kept his head

as shiny as an apple. He liked it that way. He was fair skinned and always clean shaven. His

appearance meant a great deal to him. He wanted the public to experience professionalism. He

adored the City of Bridgeport, and he respected the citizens living within his jurisdiction.

Cruz was a very fit Latino male with a receding hairline. He had a light olive complection

and a strong nose. He played Jai-alai in Milford for a number of years and that kept him

extremely physically fit.

" Does anyone know her?" Cruz asked.

"I don’t think she’s from around here."

Cruz sighed.

"I must have arrested every single w***e on this street a dozen of times," O’Brien

continued. "But I don’t ever recall seeing this one."

"You think she’s Rifleman’s girl?"

O’Brien grimaced.

"Pete?"

"I was just wondering what you were getting at," he said. "Are you hinting that maybe,

just maybe someone is killing all of Rifleman’s women?"

"We have to start somewhere."

O’Brien nodded.

"And why not there?"

"Rifleman use to work for Willie the Greek," O’Brien started. "Maybe they had a bad

breakup. I don’t know. Maybe this is Willie’s way of paying him back. We need to find out what

happened to them."

"Nick?"

"No Victor, I think I’ll handle this one,"O’Brien replied. "I’ll talk to Willie."

Cruz nodded.

"Did anyone see the customer she was with?" O’Brien asked.

" No she was ten-seven when we got here," Cruz replied. " She was out of service."

"Anyone go through her purse?"

"Not yet."

"Who the f**k has her purse?"

"I think it’s still underneath her," Cruz replied. " We didn’t really want to touch anything

until you got here."

O’Brien nodded.

"Where the f**k are her panties?" O’Brien shouted mostly to himself.

Cruz grimaced.

The other uniforms watched O’Brien straddle the body, one foot on each side of the

dead woman’s waist. The awkward position gave him the needed leverage to turn the body

around and reveal the clutch handbag. O’Brien wrestled through the handbag as quickly

as he could, looking for something, anything.

"Watch out for needles," a uniform warned. "You might get AIDS."

O’Brien glared. "If anyone gets AIDS nowadays no one is going to believe it came from

a f*****g needle!"

O’Brien emptied the content onto the street next to the body. The handbag’s content

consisted of several lipsticks, condoms and a little over four dollars in change. Oddly, there

was no paper money.

"Hmmmm,"

"Pete?"

"No bills," O’Brien half whispered.

"Slow night?" Cruz added.

O’Brien shook his head from side to side indicating no.

"Collected already, or robbed?"

"I think we really need to find Rifleman," said O’Brien. " This murder happened after he

collected the take for the evening. That only leads me to believe that he may have saw the John."

"We’ll get right on it," Cruz said.

O’Brien nodded.

With the blue strobe glancing off his pale face, O’Brien moved a step closer to the

woman on the street. She was sprawled on her back, legs in the gutter, arms partly extended,

head facing Lee Avenue over looking a crack-house. Her dark brown eyes were fixed under

half-lids in that expression of vague recognition so common found in the dead. It wasn’t a

look of horror, or distress, but of an odd calm.

Peace.