Disposal Inc.
After his shift came to an end, Cullen Hearst, a police officer with the North Covington Police Department, walked into his modest three-bedroom, ranch-style house and sat down at the kitchen table just in time for dinner.
"Where are the kids?" he asked, noticing there were only two places set.
"Mickey has basketball practice, and Paula went to the movies with her friends."
When Mavis put a dish of pasta with marinara sauce in front of him, he frowned with disappointment. It was not that he disliked pasta, but he was hoping for a more traditional meat and potatoes meal.
"We ought to have meatloaf again," he suggested in a way he hoped would not hurt his wife's feelings.
"Ground beef is over six dollars a pound now, and I need two pounds to make a meatloaf. That's twelve dollars, not including the other ingredients or the side dishes. This pasta and sauce cost less than three dollars to make. You do the math."
"I'm a cop," he laughed. "I'll leave the math to school teachers like you."
As Cullen ate his meatless dinner, he recalled the meals he had when he was a boy. His father worked in a warehouse and his mother stayed home to raise the children, yet despite their relatively low income, they always had plenty of food in the house. His mother's spaghetti always had homemade sauce with lots of meatballs and sausages. Her pot roast with gravy was delicious. His mouth watered at just the memory of her fried pork chops.
How did my parents ever afford to purchase a house and raise three children on my father's meager salary alone? he wondered. Even with Mavis and I both working full-time jobs, we're barely getting by.
And now, his son, a sophomore in high school, announced his intentions to go to college. His daughter, two years younger, would no doubt want to further her education as well. Even if his children took out student loans and worked part-time jobs, they would still need help from their parents to pay for their tuition, books and all other sundries associated with the pursuit of a college degree.
Cullen's parents had been so proud of him when he graduated from the police academy. To them, being a law enforcement officer was a big step up from loading and unloading trucks at a warehouse. Sadly, neither they nor their son realized how little policemen were paid, especially in small, peaceful, New England towns like North Covington. At first, his paycheck more than covered his living expenses. But he was single at the time and lived in a one-bedroom apartment, so his expenses were minimal.
Then he got married, foolishly expecting two salaries would go a lot further than one. However, along with a wife came more bills. Although they still lived in his one-bedroom apartment, the rent went up every year as did the cost of heating fuel, electricity, telephone and food. Both husband and wife needed a car to get to work. That meant two car payments every month, car insurance for two vehicles and twice as many repairs and routine maintenance charges.
Four years into the marriage, Michael—affectionally called Mickey—was born, and Paula two years after that. While Cullen loved his wife and children, he often worried about his ability to take care of them. The kids' friends, whose parents all had higher-paying occupations than the Hearsts, went on expensive vacations every year, wore name-brand clothes, had the latest cell phones and hi-tech gadgets and were given a car when they got their driver's licenses. Despite this, his children never complained. Thankfully, they seemed genuinely content with what they had.
I wish I could give them more, Cullen thought as he finished the last of the pasta on his plate. I wish we could go down to Florida and visit Disney World like our neighbors do.
But he could barely afford admission into the Disney theme parks let alone pay for a hotel, meals and travel expenses, too. This year, like every other year, their vacation would be a camping trip where they would sleep in a tent and eat store-brand hot dogs cooked over an open fire.
If only I made more money ....
That expression crossed his mind so often, it seemed like a refrain of a song, one that repeated over and over again, like the line "Love is all you need" at the end of the Beatles' "All You Need Is Love." What John Lennon and Paul McCartney failed to tell their listeners was that all they needed was love—and lots of money!
* * *
At the station house the following day, before he was about to go on duty, Officer Hearst had a cup of coffee with one of the senior detectives, a man who was about to retire from the force.
"Four more months and I'll be out of here," Clement Doggett announced as he stirred a packet of Sweet'N Low into his Maxwell House coffee. "Then I'll be off to Florida."
"You're not going to move there permanently, are you?" Cullen asked.
"Yup. I'm already in the process of looking for a retirement home down there, and soon my house will go on the market."
"I thought you and your wife loved that old farmhouse."
"We do, but once I retire, we won't be able to afford it. That's why we're heading south, not because we want to live in sunshine year-round but because it's cheaper to live down there."
"It hardly seems fair that a man has to sell his home when he gets to be your age. You've put so much work into the place over the years."
"I'll miss it, no doubt about it. Lots of good memories within those walls. We raised our boys there, but my pension will stretch just so far. Taxes and heating costs on a place that size are way too high."
"I know what you mean. Even with two incomes, Mavis and I have had to cut back. And now I have two kids in high school who both want to go to college eventually. I'd love to help them out, but I don't know how I'll be able to swing it."
"What you need is a side hustle," Clement said, topping off his coffee cup with more Maxwell House.
"What's that?"
"A second job."
"Oh. You mean like working as a security guard at the mall in the evenings."
"That's one way to bring in a little extra money, but those rent-a-cops usually make minimum wage. No, there are dozens of ways to supplement your income that are unrelated to police work. A friend of mine from the academy makes extra money as an Uber driver, and another tends bar on weekends. Some enterprising people start small businesses on the side and wind up quitting their full-time jobs when the money starts coming in."
"I suppose if things get too tight, I just may take your advice."
As he drove his patrol car up and down the quiet streets of North Covington, Cullen mulled over Detective Doggett's suggestion. There was an alternative to taking on a second job, he realized. He had always been an honest cop; but while honesty was often said to be the best policy, dishonesty paid better. In the major cities, law enforcement often worked hand-in-hand with organized crime. "Dirty" cops were frequently paid to look the other way. Drug money put many a New York cop's kid through college.
But, to the best of my knowledge, there are no drug dealers in North Covington unless Mickey's chemistry teacher is an aspiring Walter White/Heisenberg.
What his small town did have, however, were traffic violations. Officer Hearst regularly encountered speeders, reckless drivers, people running red lights and stop signs and occasionally someone driving under the influence. In his years on the force, he never took money to put his ticket book away. Maybe it was time he changed that.
Where's the harm in taking twenty bucks from a guy who's driving fifteen miles over the speed limit?
Two hours later, Cullen saw Augusta Schiller, whose husband owned the local hardware store, race past a car in a no-passing zone. He immediately put on the patrol car's siren and pulled her late-model Mercedes over.
"May I see your license and registration?" he asked in his official voice.
"I'm sorry, Officer," she apologized after rolling down her window. "I'm late to the hairdresser's already, and that guy was crawling."
"I'm going to have to write you a ticket, ma'am."
"Come on. Can't you let me go with a warning?"
"Sorry, no."
"What is it? Is the department demanding you meet a quota?"
"You broke the law. I'll have to cite you for illegal passing and reckless driving."
"Look. My husband will have a fit if you do that. Can't we come to an arrangement or something?" she asked, taking a wallet out of her Louis Vuitton bag.
"Are you offering me a bribe?" the patrolman asked, feeling more nervous than Augusta did.
"A bribe? No. I'm suggesting I pay you the fine directly. Then I won't have to go to traffic court, and my husband won't find out."
Thus, Cullen Hearst, who took an oath to serve and protect the people of North Covington, embarked on a path that would lead to a life of crime.
* * *
Thanks to the careless drivers of North Covington, over the next three months, Officer Hearst was able to put two thousand dollars into a savings account earmarked for his children's college education. He opened the account without their knowledge. Not even his wife knew of its existence because he did not want to tell her where the deposits came from. When the time came to withdraw the money from what he referred to as his "slush fund," he would lie and say he had been saving a little bit here and a little bit there for many years.
Cullen was content with his side hustle. The guilt and fear he felt when he took that first bribe from Augusta Schiller soon passed. Since most of the people in the New England town had money, they did not mind buying their way out of traffic tickets, so there was little danger of their reporting him. Best of all, the money he made on the side was tax-free. Oddly enough, despite accepting bribes and evading taxes, he still considered himself a good cop, a law-abiding citizen and a moral individual. Not only was he a faithful, loving family man but he still did his best to keep the peace in North Covington.
As so often happens, just when things were going good, fate stepped in.
"This is it, boys!" Clement Doggett exclaimed after handing in his shield and gun to Police Chief Santos Miranda. "I'm an ordinary citizen now. By the end of the week, I'll be living in Florida."
Although the entire force had celebrated earlier in the day with a cake, those men and women who were off-duty headed to the bar to continue the celebration with alcohol. Cullen was among them.
"I'll meet you all there," he announced. "I want to get out of my uniform first."
As he headed for the locker room, Chief Miranda called to him.
"Can you come into my office for a minute? There's something I want to discuss with you in private."
Cullen felt his heart sink.
How did he find out? the frightened officer wondered, certain he would now lose his job and probably face criminal charges.
He walked into the chief's office like a man taking the final steps to the gas chamber.
Dead man walking, he thought, trying to brace himself for the ordeal ahead.
"Sit down, Hearst," Santos told him. "With Clement gone now, we're going to be down a man on the detective squad."
Cullen looked at his superior officer with an expression of confusion.
What has Doggett got to do with my taking bribes?
"You've been with the force for some time now," the chief continued. "And you've got a fine record. That's why I decided to make you a detective. You'll need to take the exam, of course, but I have no doubt you'll pass it."
The patrolman was literally speechless. He had been expecting punishment, not a promotion. It took several minutes for the truth of the situation to sink in. When it finally did, relief swept over him.
"I ... I can't believe it," he managed to utter.
"Why not? You're a good cop, one of the best we have."
"I ... I don't know what to say."
"There's no need to say anything. When you come to work on Monday, you don't need to wear a uniform. Just a clean shirt, pair of pants and a jacket. Nothing too fancy. This isn't the NYPD. Now, I know you probably want to get over to Clement's retirement party, so I'll let you go. I'll be heading there myself once I take care of a few things here."
To say that Cullen was still reeling from the news is an understatement. He was downright flabbergasted.
I'm going to be a detective! I wonder how much of a raise that entails.
Unfortunately, the pay increase was far less than what he made by letting drivers buy their way out of traffic violations.
I'm going to need to find a new side hustle, he realized, staring at the bankbook hidden in his sock drawer as he dressed for work on Monday morning. Detectives don't pull people over and write tickets.
* * *
Only six months into his new job, the rising cost of living caught up with his pay increase. No money at all was going into his secret bank account.
"I don't see how anyone can get ahead in this world," he told his partner as the two men sat at a booth at the Silver Spoon Diner where the owner always gave a generous discount to law enforcement personnel.
"You can't," Dino DelVecchio, the older, more experienced detective said. "You can only do your best to keep your head above the water. No one ever became a cop for the money."
"You're right. I didn't want to work in a warehouse like my father, and I didn't have the money to go to college. So, I went to the police academy instead. It seemed like a good choice at the time, but what did I know? I thought I was going to be like one of the cops on TV: Don Johnson or Tom Selleck, driving around Miami or Hawaii in a Ferrari. Or maybe like Dominic West on The Wire, cleaning up the illegal drug trade in Baltimore."
"And yet here you are in North Covington, going after teenage shoplifters at Target," his partner joked.
"Don't laugh. You're here, too. Aren't you?"
"I'm not the one complaining. You are. I'm here by choice."
"Why is that? What made you become a cop?"
"It's a family thing. I joined the force because my father and uncle were cops. My dad made it all the way to chief of police before cancer got him."
"A police chief, huh? Where?"
Dino hesitated before replying.
"Springfield. It's where I started out, too."
"Springfield?" Cullen repeated, the smile disappearing from his face. "Did you work on the Heidi Woodruff case?"
The disappearance of high school student Heidi Woodruff had garnered almost as much media attention as that of Natalee Holloway who went missing in Aruba. Despite the case being more than two decades old, the teenager's picture still frequently appeared on the front page of the supermarket tabloids along with yet another far-fetched theory about the case.
"Yes. That's why I'm not complaining about being on the NCPD. I wanted to get as far away from Springfield as I could."
"That poor girl's disappearance must have really gotten to you."
"I knew her. Her father was my dentist."
"That's too bad."
"Yeah. She was a cute kid."
"I read in the Enquirer that someone spotted her in a casino in Las Vegas two years after she went missing."
"It was just another lie to sell newspapers. Heidi Woodruff is dead, no doubt about it. We all knew it on the force. We knew when she died, how she died and who killed her."
"Then why wasn't there ever an arrest made?"
"Because we had no body, and that means no physical evidence. These days a prosecutor needs to go into court with DNA, fingerprints, hair and fiber samples—all that forensic shit they show on television."
"There have been cases where murderers were put away without the victim's body having been found. That deputy attorney general in Delaware, Thomas Capano, killed his girlfriend and was convicted of first-degree murder. Ann Rule wrote a book about the case, which was made into a movie for TV, starring Mark Harmon."
"That was one of the rare exceptions to the rule. I'd be willing to bet that most disappearances are actually murders. True, there have cases where people, usually kids, are abducted and turn up years later, but they're extremely rare, too."
"Yeah, I suppose you're right."
"It's a well-known fact that almost all murder cases begin with the discovery of a body. I once interviewed a man we suspected of being a serial killer. All we had on him, though, was a traffic violation: he ran a red light. You know what this guy had the nerve to tell me? 'Any fool can commit murder; the genius is in getting rid of the body.'"
"Damn! He actually said that?"
"He sure did. And to this day, as far as I know, he's out on the street, probably adding to his body count—or should I say, his lack-of-body count."
* * *
From time to time over the following weeks, Cullen replayed bits of his conversation with Dino in his memory. Then, one day, a month after that discussion, the two partners were back at the Silver Spoon for lunch. As he was putting ketchup on his French fries, Detective Hearst nonchalantly asked his partner a hypothetical question.
"If you were ever to commit murder, what would you do with the body?"
Dino nearly choked on his hamburger.
"What kind of question is that?"
"I was just thinking about that conversation we had about Heidi Woodruff."
"I don't know. I never gave it much thought. I suppose the smart thing to do would be to hire someone else to commit the crime. That way, even if a body is found, the forensic evidence wouldn't implicate me."
"Nah," Cullen said, shaking his head. "Contract killings aren't foolproof. For one thing, you can't trust the killer. And another, you're usually the one with the motive. It isn't hard for a good cop to untangle a murder-for-hire conspiracy."
"It's like I said, you need to get rid of the body. Hey, the mafia has been making guys disappear for decades. Just look at Jimmy Hoffa—if you can find him."
"That would be a good side hustle," his partner declared facetiously. "Instead of the infamous Murder Incorporated, it could be Disposal Incorporated."
The two detectives got a good laugh at what was basically a bad joke. It would be another six months before the subject was raised again. By that time, Dino's wife had filed for divorce. His attorney's fees, alimony, rent (his wife got the house in the settlement) and living expenses had put him in debt. Likewise, Cullen was still feeling the financial pinch of trying to raise two teenagers on a cop's and teacher's salaries.
"Remember that business proposition we discussed a while back?" Detective DelVecchio asked as the two men were investigating the owner of a North Covington jewelry store in connection with receiving stolen goods.
"I don't recall any ...."
"Disposal Inc.," his partner reminded him.
"Oh, yeah," Cullen laughed. "I forgot about that."
"I haven't. In fact, I've been giving it a great deal of thought lately."
There was no sign of humor on Dino's face. On the contrary, his features looked as though they had been carved in stone. It was as though his face was chiseled on Mount Rushmore with that of Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson and Roosevelt.
"You're serious," the younger detective said with disbelief.
"Think about it. You could make a hell of a lot more money getting rid of bodies than you did taking bribes from speeders and reckless drivers."
"How did you know about ...?"
"I'm not an idiot. I checked you out when you were assigned as my partner."
"Why didn't you turn me in?"
"Because I didn't see any harm in what you were doing. Just like I don't see any real harm in helping get rid of dead bodies. It's not as though we'd be committing murder ourselves."
"Hey, hold on a minute! I never agreed to ...."
"I just figured a guy with a kid about to apply to college and another one on deck would be eager to make some extra money. Especially one who has a history of bending the law to suit his needs."
"I may have been willing to bend the law, but not to break it," Cullen said indignantly.
"Okay! Forget I said anything. Let's just go question the jeweler."
The matter should have ended there, but it didn't. Two weeks later, Mickey received an acceptance letter from Princeton. His father took one look at the cost of tuition, and his face paled.
"He can apply for a grant," Mavis declared. "And maybe I can find a summer job that pays better than teaching summer school."
"Relying on income from a temporary part-time job is like trying to bail out the Titanic with a bucket," her husband said pessimistically.
"You got any better ideas?"
Yeah, he thought, but—trust me—you don't want to hear it.
The following day, as he sat across a table from Dino at the Silver Spoon, he leaned forward, lowered his voice and announced, "I'm in."
There was no need to explain his statement. His partner knew exactly what he was talking about.
"But how do we go about this? Do you have any idea how to safely get rid of a corpse?" Cullen asked.
A smile spread across the older detective's face.
"Are you kidding? Who do you think made Heidi Woodruff's body disappear after her rich boyfriend, the mayor's son, killed her?"
* * *
The two North Covington detectives spent several months getting Disposal Inc. off the ground. While Cullen had the brains to organize the business end of the operation, Dino had contacts with shady characters in the Springfield area who would do the actual disposal for a share of the profits.
"We'll keep things simple," Cullen announced when he and his partner discussed how the day-to-day operations would be run. "We hire as few people as possible. Not only will that lower the risk of exposure, but it will also keep our overhead down."
There was no need for administrative staff since neither man wanted records—on paper or computer—that might incriminate them in court. Neither was there a need for a bookkeeper since no invoices or receipts would be used; all payment was on a cash-only basis. When disposal experts were hired, there was no "help wanted" ad placed in the newspaper, on craigslist, ZipRecruiter, Monster or LinkedIn. Recruitment was done strictly by word of mouth. Disposal Inc.'s workforce came from all walks of life, from a mortician and a doctor to a construction worker and a professional fisherman—all of whom needed money and were willing to break the law to get it.
As was the case with many legitimate jobs, a basic training/orientation program was held, not in an office conference room but in a cabin at Harmony Lake during what the husbands told their wives was a weekend fishing trip and what Dr. Eva Flagler told her live-in boyfriend was a girl's only weekend. After Cullen explained the details of how and when the disposal personnel would be paid for their services, Dino went over tips he had gotten from suspected killers he met while on Springfield's police force.
"All right, listen up," he said, demanding everyone's attention. "There are a few things you need to keep in mind. Some bodies may eventually be found. If they are, you don't want them to be identified. Destroy all clothing and jewelry. Cops rely heavily on dental records to ID a victim, so before you dispose of anyone, pull out the teeth and get rid of them as far from the body as possible. Make sure all tattoos are gone—either cut or burn them off. Never wrap a body in plastic. It slows down decomposition, making identification more likely if it's found. If you can, crush the skull and pour sulfuric acid over it so that no forensic reconstruction can be done.
"If you choose to dissect the body, don't cut through the joints; cut below or above them. If you prefer to burn it, spread the ashes in as wide a field as possible, preferably in a natural setting where they will blend in with the soil. If you'd rather dump the body in water, always weigh it down. And be sure to cut open all body cavities before you do. That way, gases won't make it rise to the surface.
"Once the body is disposed of, make sure to clean up your work area. First, scrub it with boric acid. Next, use bleach and then more boric acid. Make sure to rinse well. Lastly, in the unlikely event police decide to question you, keep your mouth shut. Ask for a lawyer and then don't say another thing. I can't stress this enough. Most people are convicted because they can't keep their damned mouths shut."
"Any questions?" Cullen asked once his partner resumed his seat.
"Yeah, when do we start?" asked a man who worked at the county landfill and was slowly being buried under a mountain of medical bills for his wife's cancer treatments.
"We've put the word out in certain circles that we're open for business. When your services are required, we'll send you a text message saying, 'Your order is ready for pickup.' You will then go to the Silver Spoon Diner where one or both of us will be sitting at the counter. Pretend not to recognize us. We'll leave a folded-up newspaper behind when we exit the place. It will contain all the necessary information about where you can find the body. Once you've finished the job, send a text back indicating that the order was received. We'll then arrange payment."
Several other people had questions, which the two detectives did their best to answer. Like most new businesses, there were bound to be some hiccups at first and problems that would need to be ironed out. Dino and Cullen would simply have to solve them as they arose.
* * *
Over the next several years, Disposal Inc. grew to the point where Cullen could easily afford to pay for both his children's educations.
"Where did you get all this money?" Mavis asked.
"Different places. I sold some of my old stuff on eBay. I also won a bunch of scratch-offs—ten dollars here, a hundred there. One time, I won a thousand. And I was very lucky at playing the football and baseball pools."
As a math teacher, she should have realized that modest amounts of money don't add up to the cost of four years' tuition for two students, but she took her husband's explanation at face value. It never occurred to her that the man she loved was dishonest.
Still, her questions worried Cullen. With profits from Disposal Inc. far exceeding his expectations, how would he explain to others his sudden wealth? From the start, he was careful not to draw attention to himself by making expensive purchases. Although he could now easily afford to do so, he did not take any exotic vacations, shop at high-end stores or eat at pricey restaurants. He continued to live in his three-bedroom ranch, and he and his wife still drove their old automobiles.
What good is having all this money if I can't use it? he wondered when the cash stored in a lockbox in the shed reached the two-hundred-thousand-dollar mark.
"You know what we need?" he asked Dino the following day as the two men sat at their usual booth at the Silver Spoon Diner.
"I can think of quite a few things," his partner laughed.
"We need a dummy company to serve as a front for our profits."
"I'm not a businessman, but wouldn't that mean we'd have to pay taxes then?"
"Yes, but we wouldn't necessarily claim all our income."
"Still, Uncle Sam gets enough of my money on my cop's salary. I'm not going to give him anything I make on the side."
"And if someone asks you how you can afford your new townhouse while you're paying alimony to your ex-wife, what will you say?"
"I'd tell them it's none of their goddamned business!"
"You can't tell that to the IRS."
"How are they gonna find out?"
"Someone might tip them off, and then they'd look into our financial records. Next thing you know, we'd be charged with tax evasion, just like Al Capone. And that would be only the start of it. They'd surely learn about Disposal Inc."
"Who would tip them off? One of our employees? I doubt it. They have as much to lose as we do."
"You've dated quite a bit since your divorce. Maybe a disgruntled ex-girlfriend with an axe to grind would want to get back at you."
"You worry too much!" Dino said, laughing off his partner's concerns.
"I've got a lot to lose. I've got a wife and kids."
"Then you go ahead and pay your taxes, but leave me out of it. I'm happy with things just the way they are."
* * *
Eleven months later, human remains were discovered beneath the foundation of a home in nearby Sterling Forge that was being demolished after a devastating fire. Given that the house had been built five years earlier, Cullen suspected one of his disposal personnel had put it there.
"This could be trouble!" he exclaimed when he spoke to Dino about it.
"Just remember what I said: keep your mouth shut. If the police should question us, ask for a lawyer and then don't say another word."
"But if someone else talks, then what? Everything could come out. Whoever got rid of the body could turn state's evidence and expose the whole network to save his or her own skin."
"Even if the Sterling Forge police believed fellow officers were guilty, the D.A. would have a hard time proving his case. It would be the rat's word against ours. There would be no physical evidence. We have no records. We made no calls except on burner phones."
"You forget. I got over two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand bucks stashed away, and your living expenses go way beyond your salary as a detective."
"Well, let's just sit tight and wait and see what happens. Should the police somehow trace the body back to one of our disposal personnel, we can always solve the problem in-house."
"What do you mean by that?"
"We make bodies disappear for our clients, don't we? We ought to be able to make one disappear for ourselves."
Murder. Killing. Slaying. Homicide. No matter what you called it, the taking of a life was still considered one of man's most heinous crimes. Accepting bribes from traffic violators was one thing; killing was quite another. Cullen reasoned that bribery was a victimless crime. The same could be said of disposing of a body since the victim was already dead. But murder?
I don't think I'm capable of taking another person's life!
Of course, that belief did not extend to killing in self-defense or to protect the life of a loved one. He would have no qualms about shooting an armed person who threatened him, his wife or his children. The detective supposed killing a rat who intended to testify against him in a court of law could be construed as self-defense—although that might be stretching the definition to its limits.
* * *
In October of 1962, the world held its breath for thirteen days during the confrontation between the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. that came to be known as the Cuban Missile Crisis. While the world was not on the brink of nuclear war, for the next thirteen days, Detective Hearst faced what could possibly be the end of his life as he knew it.
Will Mavis stand by me if I go to prison? he wondered. And what will my kids think of me when word of Disposal Inc. gets out?
Thankfully, once tests were done on the remains, it was determined the body had been in the ground since the Forties. Although relief poured over him at having dodged a bullet, he realized he might find himself in a similar situation somewhere down the road.
This is my wake-up call, he decided.
Both of his children were now out of college and living on their own. His mortgage was paid off, and he had more than a quarter-of-a-million-dollar nest egg, so there was no longer a need to continue risking his liberty on such a dangerous enterprise. He could now easily live on his legitimate salary, occasionally dipping into his secret stash when needed.
"This is it for me," he announced to his partner once he divvied up the proceeds from Disposal Inc.'s latest job.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm quitting. If you want to continue, that's up to you. But I'm out."
"You think you can just walk away from something like this?"
"I've got plenty of money now."
"But I don't. I planned on working at this for at least another five years and then taking all the money and moving to some tropical island to enjoy the rest of my life in comfort."
"So? If that's what you want, go ahead and do it."
"I may have had the original idea for Disposal Inc., but you had the brains to organize it and run everything. I can't do it on my own. I need you."
"I'm flattered, but there's too much at risk here."
"You don't get it. We're in this together. There's no getting out until we both agree to it."
"Oh, no? Just watch me!"
It was as though a gauntlet had been thrown down. Although the two men had never been close friends, they always had a good working relationship, both on the police force and with their illegal enterprise. Now, that camaraderie vanished, leaving enmity in its wake.
"I'm not about to let you spoil this. I have enough on you to put you away," Dino threatened.
"If you turn me in, you'll incriminate yourself."
"I don't have as much to lose as you do. You're the one with the wife and kids, remember? Besides, I can always cut a deal."
"You bastard!" Cullen cried.
"Is that any way to talk to your business partner?" Dino laughed.
* * *
Mavis was in high spirits when her husband came home at the end of the day. She was in the kitchen, humming a tune from some Broadway show he could not identify and putting the finishing touches on a chocolate cake she had baked for dessert.
"You're in a good mood," he said and kissed her on the cheek.
"I've had some great news."
"Then, by all means, share it with me."
"I suppose I should let Paula tell you herself, but I'm just bursting to spill the beans. She and Mario are getting engaged!"
"That's fantastic!"
"And don't worry about the expense. Normally, the bride's family foots the bills for the wedding, but since Mario's family owns that big restaurant in Centerville, they want to host the reception."
"So, my little girl is getting married!"
"Yes, and to such a fine young man."
As he sat down to a dinner of steak, salad and baked potato, Cullen remembered the lean years when he came home to pasta with marinara sauce and the cost of his children's education hung above his head like the sword of Damocles.
I'm not proud of what I've done, he mused, but I did it for my family.
He looked over at his wife, who was giddy with happiness. If word of his illegal dealings got out, it would devastate her. His children might survive the disgrace, but Mavis would be heartbroken.
I can't risk it.
Although he had promised himself he would cut all ties to Disposal Inc. despite his partner's threats, there was still another job that needed to be done. This one would be more expensive since it would require the services of two of their experts: Eva Flagler, a physician with expensive tastes, who had been called upon on more than one occasion to falsify a death certificate, and Sid Mannis, a mortician who would not ask any questions when he prepared the body for viewing. Rather than make a corpse disappear, these two individuals would claim the deceased had died of natural causes. Cremation would then eliminate any evidence to the contrary.
And once Dino DelVecchio is out of the way, I can safely retire from my side hustle.
* * *
Mannis's Funeral Parlor was packed with police officers, all come to pay their respects to the dead detective.
"I understand you found the body," Tessa DelVecchio, his late partner's ex-wife, said after being introduced to Cullen Hearst.
"Yes. We were going to go fishing on Sunday morning. When I arrived at his condo, his car was in the driveway, but he didn't answer the door. It was unlocked, so I went inside and found him at the bottom of the staircase."
Tessa thought it odd that the detective telephoned Dr. Eva Flagler rather than call the 911 operator, but she did not say anything. Since she and Dino were divorced, it was really none of her concern. Besides, if anything were amiss, she assumed the police would investigate.
As he sat in the first row of mourners, facing the open casket, Cullen pretended to grieve his partner's passing. Mavis was seated beside him, lending emotional support, as people came up to offer him their condolences, as though he were a widow.
"You have my sympathy. It's not easy to lose a partner," Chief Miranda told him.
After three days of viewing, the funeral was held in St. Matthew's Church. Once the service was over, Sid Mannis hurried the body over to the crematorium for disposal.
"What would you like me to do with the ashes?" he asked Cullen, who had handled the funeral arrangements.
"See if his ex-wife wants them. I doubt it, but it wouldn't hurt to ask. If she doesn't, I'll find a suitable place to scatter them."
The following week, the detective took the black box of ashes and dumped them in Harmony Lake where Disposal Inc. once held its first and only meeting.
"Goodbye, Dino," Cullen announced, shaking the box to make sure it was empty. "It's been nice knowing you."
He then got into his Subaru and drove home, tossing the empty box into a dumpster along the way.
Free at last! he thought when he pulled the car into the driveway and turned off the engine, blissfully unaware that Damocles' sword was about to fall.
* * *
When Detective Hearst reported for work on Monday morning, he was called into the chief's office. Assuming he was about to be introduced to his new partner, he was not alarmed.
"Come in, Cullen," Santos said gruffly. "And shut the door behind you."
He entered the room, closed the door and took a seat next to a handsome young man who reminded him of Tom Brady.
"I suppose we'll be working together," he said.
"Not exactly," the other man replied.
"This is Lieutenant Rains of the state police. He has something he wants to discuss with you."
The grim expression on Chief Miranda's face conveyed the serious nature of the meeting. Perhaps another body had been discovered.
Just remember to keep your mouth shut, Cullen told himself. If they start asking questions, demand to see your lawyer.
"You want to tell me about Disposal Inc.?" Lieutenant Rains asked.
Suddenly, the detective caught a movement in his peripheral vision. Two armed state troopers took a post in front of the chief's door, ready to apprehend him should he try to make a run for it. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and he felt like someone had punched him in the gut.
"I wanna see my lawyer."
"DelVecchio told us you would say that," Santos declared.
"When did ...?" Cullen began to ask and then quickly shut his mouth.
"Your former partner sent a videotape to his lawyer with instructions that he was to send it to the state police in the event of his death," Rains explained. "You can imagine how surprised we were to learn that two North Covington detectives were running a criminal enterprise right under Chief Miranda's nose. You want to tell me your side of the story?"
"I'm not talking until I see my lawyer."
A smile spread slowly on the Tom Brady lookalike's face.
"That's up to you," he said. "As a cop, you're well aware of your rights, but I'll go ahead and read them to you anyway. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.
Cullen pictured his wife's face when she heard the news of his arrest, and tears came to his eyes.
"You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you."
This is exactly what I hoped to avoid when I shot Dino.
"Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?"
"Yes."
It was the last word he spoke on that or any other subject. Mere hours after his heartbroken wife bailed him out of jail, the disgraced police detective went missing. It was assumed he had headed for a country with no extradition treaty with the U.S. But Dino DelVecchio would never have been satisfied with having condemned his murderer to ignominy and imprisonment. He wanted him to suffer private and public humiliation, yes, but he also wanted him dead.
Thus, the late detective had arranged before his own death for a trusted employee of Disposal Inc. to bury his former partner alive.
You may have buried the wrappers in the backyard, Salem, but I know you were the one who stole my Lindt truffles. After all, man (and cat) does not live on Godiva alone!
