"Life isn't fair. It's just fairer than death, that's all."

William Goldman
The Princess Bride

"Who blew chow in here?" I asked, looking at the young police officers for a guilty suspect. They were green kids, pale at the gross scene of murder, but none looked as if they really had vomited on the bloody body on the couch.

"None of us, Detective MaKallum," a young Chicago cop named Frank Skinetski informed me.

"As my old Pa used to say," I commented as I stepped closer to the body, decorated with blood and vomit. "That makes the cheese more binding."

Frank wore rubber gloves as he fished an I.D. out of a black leather purse not a yard form the corpse. "Her name is Sherrie Dobbs, sir."

I uncinched my coat, glanced at the bizarre graffiti spray painted on the walls and said, "She was Sherrie Dobbs, Frank." I knelt, my aging back rebelled at first, but it soon allowed me into better position to view this poor girl up close. "Now, well, you tell me?"

"Dunno how many times she was stabbed, detective. We can count a dozen wounds for sure." Frank ran his index finger down the length of her body, pointing out the obvious inflictions. Blood and the fabric of her nurse's uniform concealed the penetrations in her torso. Her legs and the one in her arm were more obvious, and showed more the violence of the attack. I could see, like spaghetti, the major veins and artery in her thigh as one of the penetrations was more of a tear than anything else. The stark ivory of her kneecap shone through as it look as if the perp took his weapon in a downward swipe. An incredible amount of blood escaped from the wound in her upper thigh. Probably clipped the femoral artery, but that is only a guess.

My eyes have seen better days, but I could perceive a wound on the left side of her neck. It was awkward and probably glanced off the vertebrae. Within this ragged gap, I saw a glint of dull light. "Never know if he got her in the back first. Let the M.E. do the roll over." I donned rubber gloves, struggling with them for a moment and reached out for the neck wound. "Yeah. That is what I thought."

"What is it, August?" Frank asked as I leaned over.

"There is a blade still in there, fragment at least. The weapon must have stuck in her spine so the killer broke it off."

"On purpose?"

I shot him a sour look. "Do I look like a freakin' clairvoyant? Maybe that wound is where it all stopped." I touched her hair with both hands and the head almost toppled from the body. It hung on a thick piece of flesh on the right side. A glob of coagulated blood escaped from the fissure, rolling onto the already saturated cushion. I stood up, peeling off the gloves and then rubbed my back. "Practically beheaded her, our perp. He then placed the head back on, by the irregular angle of it. That leads me to think that such a final disgrace was unintentional."

"Wild," Frank mumbled, his facial color flushing.

My eyes scanned the walls beside the television set. The spray painted emblems were like those on many an L-Train or building. The glass cabinets nearby were full of military awards, pictures, old guns, daggers and swords. "The murderer had no stomach for the blood in his crime, I suppose. That is why he left so much of his guts behind at the scene. Funny thing, with so many weapons here, something was bound to die in time."

"She a collector?" Frank asked, and then looked at the case. "Maybe her hubby was, huh?"

I laughed and walked over by the cabinet. "Ya sexist bastard," I jeered Frank. "We will have to see." Again, I knelt, but this time looked into a cabinet at unbroken blades. They lay in perfect order, not a one out of place or crooked. "Funny, nothing missing."

"You think robbery was the motive?"

I shrugged. "I did when I heard what happened, Frank, until I looked in here."

"What?"

"Nothing is missing. You see those Nazi Daggers and Civil war swords? They have certificates of authenticity behind them. They are worth plenty. Even a dipstick in a pawn shop would give ya a mint for them without the piece of paper along. No, there something more here, aside from the violence, it just doesn't add up." I paused and then looked over at Frank confidently. His brown eyes rested on me, desiring results. "Yet," I added.

Frank looked at the woman's body and inquired, "Then this was just cold blooded murder?"

"Not much other kind," I muttered and looked at the interior of the porch door. Vomit spread near the door knob. Walking back to the body, I bent over and pretended to vomit where the perp did, then wiped my mouth with the back of my right hand. I returned to the door and reached out. "Where the vomit stained the door was right above the knob. "Well, I see that…" My voice trailed off as I looked at the left side of the door frame. Again, going to my knee, I squinted at the wall.

"What is it, August?"

"Scar on the wood work. It is pretty low on the frame."

Frank blinked. "What are you saying?"

"If the perp opened the door with his right hand, he had something in his left hand."

"Murder weapon?"

I nodded. "But look at how low it is. The mark is jagged, as if from…" I looked at the body and proclaimed, "…a broken blade."

Frank laughed weakly and said, "Hell, August, if that is true, the guy was a midget. Look at the damn mark. It is really low."

Standing up and groaning, I said, "We are thinking this guy used a knife of some kind. What if…" I swung my left arm as I groped for the knob. "…it were a sword?"

Frank's eyes flared. "Sonofabitch! Are you saying this dude hacked her to pieces with a sword? Damn, August…"

I shrugged. "It would be interesting to see if the wounds were made with a saber point or a knife."

"Who the Hell would do such a thing?"

I looked at the case of weapons, the emblems on the walls, and thought in silence. After a few minutes, I stepped out of the small house and looked at the police gathered outside. A stout woman in a nursing uniform talked with the police. Her cracking voice was full of tears as she spoke.

Frank let me know, "She found the body. They shared a ride to Masonic Hospital."

* * *

After leaving the Medical Examiner's office the next day, I ran into Frank Skinetski in the precinct locker room.

"Any luck on Sherrie Dobbs murder, August?" he asked me as he buttoned up his shirt.

Addressing the urinal in a couple ways, I said, "M.E. says the stab wounds were made by a flat blade. The piece of metal in her neck came from the weapon that was used throughout the crime."

"She wasn't stabbed with a knife, huh? Damn, with so much blood…"

I finished up and shrugged. "The wounds were bloody, but the mess of the attack made it look worse. Sherrie bled a great deal before she died. The wounds were more slashes than stabs. There were over thirty such wounds, some penetrations but the bulk was severe cuts."

Frank nodded thoughtfully, trying his mind at deduction. "So, you were right. It was a sword."

Washing my hands, I frowned at my aging face in the mirror. Six and a half decades of life in the city were not kind. The florescent lights certainly did not help. "That is what is screwing with my head. Most of these collectors have Civil War sabers or ancient rapiers, not…" My voice tapered off and my mind turned.

"Ever get the spray painted logos on the walls tracked down?" Frank asked, sensing my not wanting to discuss the murder weapon any further.

"Something like the Latin Kings used, but the paintings in the Dobbs' house were messy, amateurish. Some of the Latin Kings were damned good artists."

Frank sighed and said, "Well, gonna do lunch? How is Chinese today?"

Afraid of the apparent mental shift between us, I faced the young cop and said, "Close, but you are on track!"

"Huh?" he replied, dumbfounded.

We exited the locker room and I said, "I should've thought of this before. Maybe I was just staring at it the entire time and it never dawned on me. It was all the Nazi stuff in the case that threw me."

Still bewildered, Frank asked weakly, "What are you talking about?"

"These collectors, ever notice that their love of weaponry doesn't lie with American ordinance? It is always Nazi daggers and whatnot, the vanquished. I would guess this is because there will be no more Nazi merchandise coined."

"I still don't get you, August!"

I faced him and explained, "Who else did we fight in WW2?"

"The Japanese."

I held up both hands and said, "Touchdown, Frank!" Dropping my hands, I saw the light of realization dawn in his face. "Some Japanese soldiers carried small guntou or, various sized katanas for different reasons. The kagemusha angle and all…"

"Kage…"

"Kagemusha, Frank. A shadow warrior or simply, a samurai."

"Damn!" Frank exclaimed. "That is wild."

I exhaled and thought for a moment. "Still, doesn't give me a guilty party. I need to research more. I found out her husband was a collector of such things, but they are estranged."

Frank slapped me on the shoulder and said, "There ya go!"

I shook my head and said, "From what I gather their split is pretty amicable and he just hasn't moved his stuff out of the house yet."

Frank nodded. "Rival collector?"

Resting my large fists on the desk I said, "There was no robbery."

Frank shrugged. "I'm still leaning toward the hubby then. He wouldn't steal his own weapons that he was getting back anyway. He used a Japanese sword for it to throw us off, since he collected Nazi stuff."

"Well, I had just thought of that, but he has a great alibi, since he works security over at the SEARS Tower. He got him on film at work around the time of her death."

"Still, who kills with a sword? What did they have against her?"

Frank is not a dumb guy, but he is no detective. Still, his thoughts serve a guy like me well.

* * *

When I tried to locate Kyle Dobbs, he was hard to pin down. Not at his new apartment, his old home, relatives nor at work. At last, his father, a retired fireman, admitted Kyle drank at the VFW on Hallston.

Kyle Dobbs, pretty wasted by two O'clock in the afternoon, appeared to be an imposing target when I first entered the VFW. Not a very small person, but not nearly my size, his surly looks and brooding demeanor blended with the dull, faded articles behind the VFW bar. He looked all the part of a grieving ex-husband, or just a plain drunk. I've seen ‘em all in my years. He slouched over the bar, cradling his shot glass as if it were a child. Gentle and attentive as if any sudden movement may cause it to tip. I've seen worse, seen ‘em drink it as fast as it's poured, just in case some were to evaporate.

I sat down beside him and then showed him my badge. "Kyle Dobbs?"

At first, he took the confrontational attitude. "What? Going to blow me crap for being drunk so early?"

I motioned for the rather waifish girl behind the counter to give me a Budweiser and then I shrugged. "When my wife died, I was loaded by noon."

Kyle ran a hand into his curly brown hair and replied, "She wasn't my wife anymore."

I nodded. "Yeah, I know." Several faded pictures cluttered the mirror behind the bar to the point that I could not see myself in the obscured reflection.

"We just—how do they say it on the soap operas? We drifted apart."

I took a swig of the long neck bottle and said, "It happens. I see it all over. Life is a bitch."

Kyle eyed me. "You are kind of old for a detective."

"Do I look feeble to you?"

After looking over my thick frame and looming presence, Kyle admitted, "Not really, Detective…?"

"MaKallum. August MaKallum."

"Well, are you one of those guys who can't bring yourself to retire?"

"I thought we were talking about you."

Kyle stared into his shot glass, emptied it and said, "Then piss off."

I took another draw on my beer and admitted, "I never married until later in life. I was around fifty when my son was born. My wife died a few years back, so I had to keep working for insurance matters."

He blinked and looked up at me again. "You have a teenage kid at your age?"

I shrugged. "Strom Thurmond had one at 70 and they were letting him vote in Congress until he retired at 100."

"You must be proud," he said sarcastically.

I put down my beer. "My dick works. Big deal. So do most of the bulls at the stockyard. Still, I have responsibility and must follow it. Part of that job is tracking down murderers. If you won't help me, then cheers."

"Mine doesn't work," he muttered. "I can make it work, you know, but I can't have kids."

"I see," I said and looked at some of the yellowed memorabilia on the walls. So many of the flyers in WW2 were gone now who donated this stuff and only men from Vietnam or the Gulf war drank here.

"You can think whatever you want, but that was the start of the end for me and Sherrie. She wanted kids and we were going to adopt, but I couldn't bring myself to take blood that wasn't mine."

"Yeah?"

Kyle nodded, drank and said, "She would have taken anything, even one that isn't white. Not for me, bud. That was the end of it. It all unraveled after that. Maybe if I would've been a bit more, I don't know…"

"Tolerant?" I offered.

"Heh, that is a pretty word for making a guy swallow something his mind tells him is wrong."

"Look, I didn't come to argue all that crap. It is too late in my life to march against anything. What I want to know is, did anyone have it in for your wife or you."

"Me?"

I drank again, desired a smoke, and then said, "Yeah, I did my homework on her. As a nurse, she is a career gal, good woman, all that. No enemies that I can find. Her family made her out to be the Virgin Mary, but who doesn't when their kid dies?"

"True."

"I was wondering if you had any rivals, any pals or buddies who are into your personal hobby."

"Huh?"

"War memorabilia. Collectors and all that."

He shrugged. "I have a bunch of friends and contacts, yeah."

"I saw your collection favored the German side of things."

Kyle admitted, "They made good stuff and, to be honest it looks cool."

I looked at the skinny girl as she poured him another whiskey and I offered, "Cooler than Japanese sabers?"

He agreed and put a few bucks on the bar. "Yeah. Terrible truth is, MaKallum, most guys in this neck of the woods came from Germans, the Polish or Irish immigrants. It is easier to hate the Japanese and don't tell me that you don't know what I am talking about. I see kids nowadays wearing the Japanese flag on shirts and it makes me wanna puke."

Those words made my mustache curl, but I took another drink. "Do you any collectors who specialize in Japanese articles?"

He raised his eyebrows, mind turning. "Not exclusively on them, if that is what you mean. Most of the guys I know are into German stuff or good-old USA material."

"All that focus on the dead, sorta ghoulish," I commented as I stood up.

"A ghoul eats the dead, Detective," he educated me. "I never make a profit off of this stuff. I see these punk assed kids at trade shows trying to sell old medals of their grandfathers. It makes me want to—"

"Puke your guts out?"

"Yeah."

I stretched and patted him on the back. "Thanks. I will be in touch."

After I left the VFW, I called on my cell-phone to make sure the DNA test on the vomit was being done. That and I noticed Kyle Dobbs drank with his left hand.

* * *

Sherrie Dobbs worked at Illinois Masonic Hospital and her colleagues remained devastated. On the ward, I heard many tales of her consistency and how she never had an enemy in the world.

"What about her husband?" I inquired of the head Nurse on her ward.

The head Nurse was a tall, slender African American woman who thought for a few moments before saying, "Kyle? I never met him, but from what Sherrie said, I can't see that he had the guts for such a thing."

I smirked at her choice of words. "I was wondering because he collected war memorabilia…"

Her nostrils flared. "Usually, little boys who collect guns are the kind to play paintball and not have the guile to use them. Kyle was a wanna be, Detective MaKallum. He never served in the military and failed the exams to become a police officer. He was a wanna-be, sir. But, just my impression, mind you."

"I knew that he worked security."

"Sherrie spoke of him as all wives talk about their husbands. Tending to hover towards the good, but in the end it seemed he had greater affection for his hobby then he had for her." She smiled. "Probably fulfilling a fantasy to carry a gun or wear a badge."

I sighed. She must have read my frustration.

She thought for a moment and said, "He never struck me as a bad man, not a killer. Their relationship hit the skids after she got the news about being sterile. I guess he couldn't deal with it."

I turned away and then froze. Facing her fast I asked, "What did you say? Was Sherrie Dobbs sterile?"

She folded her arms, supporting ample breasts and stated, "Barren in the Biblical sense, Detective."

"Mother Mary," I mumbled and tipped my hat to her. "Thank you. You have been a treasure."

She grinned. "I try to be."

You lying bastard, I thought as I stomped down the hallway. What are you hiding?

I called Frank Skinetski and told him to meet me at Dobbs' apartment. I then made a call to Judge Gordon. After I swapped some tales about the Bulls rookies, I had him fax Frank a search warrant.

Then, I went hunting.

* * *

I swung by the VFW, checking to see if Dobbs was there, I did not see his car.

Later I met up with Frank at Dobbs' apartment. It was a common enough place not far off downtown. One of the tall crunched jobs which sat between a department store and another complex, common for this part of the city. We headed up the stairs, I'd preferred the elevator, but as it happened it was broke. Someone was testing me, twelfth floor and I was huffing by the third.

Frank and I hit the landing to the third floor and the two of us paused for a few minutes. I looked over at him, he looked worse than I felt, I smiled and motioned with my head to continue forward. We reached Dobbs' apartment, a gray, cracked-wooden door stared back at us. I rapped on his door after I took another breath.

"Mr. Dobbs? Detective MaKallum. I need to see you." I called out.

I lay my head on the door and could hear the strains of the song, "The Green Berets."

No answer and a long silence made me kick the door in. The obstruction gave way with ease and my automatic was in my hand fast.

The living room was full of cardboard boxes, still unpacked and a small television. In the next room, we found more boxes and a few candles lit. The stereo was large and playing the patriotic song from the 60s about fearless men who jump and die. In the midst of a bedroom with no bed sat Kyle Dobbs. He was on his knees, naked as the day his mother had him, holding a guntou to his gut.

"I knew you would find me out."

I shrugged and looked at the longer blade on the ratty carpet in front of him. The tip of this weapon was broken off, but from what I could see, the shorter one at Kyle's gut was intact.

"I would've got you on the DNA from the puke, Kyle." I offered as I quickly scanned the room for any other obvious weapons. I spotted none, just the steel he was wielding and the one he murdered his ex with.

"You're a good one, MaKallum, old or not. I knew you would find me. I counted on it." A wry smile played on the corner or his mouth.

"Want to help me out with one detail?

He smiled in response.

"Who was at your guard post at the SEARS Tower that evening?"

He blinked and said, "It was me. Your guys watched the wrong tape on the wrong day. They're not as clever as you, MaKallum."

"Put that down before you cut yourself and tell me how we got it wrong?"

Blade shaking, he looked up at me with intensity and mumbled, "A man has friends."

"Who you are hanging out to dry here? You really are going to screw your buddy at work on the way out of the door?"

"The dead have no more worries."

Gripping my gun, I took a breath and asked, "Why didn't you get rid of the sword? You should've known we would come here."

His hands trembled as the song re-cued and the snare drum started over. "That is what I wanted. All my life I fell short of the mark. That bitch, her family thinks she is so good. What Sherrie never told anyone was she was the queen of abortions in Joliet before we met. Sherrie couldn't have kids because she got knocked up and scraped so many damned times."

Suddenly, it dawned on me that he was not kidding and he really wanted us here.

The tip of the blade wavered at his sweaty stomach. I lowered my gun.

He said, "Then I was the asshole in her eyes because I wouldn't go along with her ideas. Do you know what it is like to hear that crap everyday? Wouldn't you get tired of being wrong? Not being a man and told that every day?"

"So you killed her and spray painted the logos of the Latin Kings on her walls, thinking that would defer us?"

He lowered his head a little, tears streaming from his eyes.

I sighed. "Only one thing. The Latin Kings have changed their logo over time. It changes every month. It is a gang thing. You wouldn't understand."

"I understand honor," he spat harshly. "I understand the way of the Samurai and know what Seppuku is."

"You hardly had the guts to kill your wife, much less yourself. The bushikatagi is something more than a few words read about in a book."

"But you are here. You tracked me down. You have forced my hand. I must do it. I must die with honor; it is the way of the katana."

"Where is the bushidou in killing your wife because she couldn't have kids? Take your short comings out on someone else. You should have killed yourself first."

"I regret every Jap my father never killed in the Pacific," he snarled. "He fought hard, but not so a piece of garbage like Sherrie could have the right to be a mass murderer."

Realizing he had deeper issues than I could solve, I said, "Drop the blade, Kyle, and let's go."

"No," he hissed, his knuckles tightening.

"Then commit hara-kiri if you can. Folks don't die fast doing it like in the movies. It's a slow and punishing death. A death of the shameful, those riddled with disappointment. Like you Kyle, they die slow and in great pain."

Tears streaming from his eyes, hands shaking, he vomited. Frank coughed in disgust behind me.

"C'mon, Kyle."

He stood up, blade still at his belly, and said, "Thank you, August, for being my second."

I eyed him keenly. "What?"

Kyle lifted the short sword and shouted as he swung at me. Instinctively, I raised my gun and fired. Frank shot Kyle as well. I fired twice, hitting Dobbs in the right thigh and the abdomen. Frank nailed Kyle in the torso, tearing through his mid section. Unceremoniously, Kyle fell on a stack of yellowed paperbacks and rolled over.

"Dammit," I swore and glared at Frank, then at Kyle.

The young cop seemed steadier than I ever had seen him as he faced the man we just shot. "What else could we do, August?"

Frustration poured across me, joining up with a bit of rage. "Yeah, what else. Sonofabitch, he screwed us."

Frank holstered his revolver and asked, "What did he mean by you being his second?"

I put my automatic back in my shoulder holster and explained, "When a Samurai went to commit Seppuku they had a second, a real pal, standing nearby. If they lost courage, their second would behead them. Damn, he never had the guts to kill himself. He facilitated his courage in the end. He took my guts and used them against me."

Frank patted me on the shoulder as if he were trying to make it all right. Suddenly, I felt like a dumb kid and Frank took the role of the Veteran officer. I hated the sensation. "It's all right, August."

"Yeah, right. Damn, kid. I hate giving anything away."

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