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Originally from NYC, Allen
lives, writes, acts and directs theatre in Mexico. His published fiction,
non-fiction, poetry, plays, photos, etc., have won awards and appeared in: NY
Times, The Writer, Newsday, Literary Potpourri, Poetry Midwest, QLRS, Herons
Nest, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, World Haiku Review, many others. He is a former
member of PEN. He was an invited guest at the First World Poetry Festival in
Taiwan 2005, haibun editor for Simply Haiku, and two of his plays have been
professionally produced in Sacramento and L.A. His first book -- SUNSEEKERS, a
selection of haiku and haibun by Allen McGill -- is being published this Fall
by Golden Swamp Warbler Press. Family Tree by Allen McGill
Sanford Wiley was quite a young man, still in his twenties, when he was murdered. He'd been found hanging, naked, from a catwalk above the stage of the Olivier Theatre in which he was working.
The murder made the headlines of all the New York newspapers, of course. Sanford was famous in the world of American theatre.
He'd been hired to direct a new play on Broadway. He was reputed to be a proverbial "whiz kid," a maven of all things theatrical. He was also known to be a nefarious sonofabitch to work with, an egomaniacal misanthrope who tolerated no opposition in his work, and who refused to be persuaded to modify his irascible behavior with producers, actors, crew, and even backers.
Even so, he was in great demand. Greed is more powerful than ego, and every project to which Sanford applied his undeniable talents was an outstanding success, earning fortunes for everyone involved. Himself included.
Considered a creative genius, and some felt not a little unstable because of it, his eccentric behavior was borne with forbearance, if not stoicism.
He had no friends, as far as anyone knew. Women, including the career climber and gold digger types, seemed unable to bear him for more than a day or two. Even his flunkies were in constant flux.
Only Sanford's bodyguard, Francis, a feral wisp of a man, was a constant––always ready to intervene between his employer and the countless threats he received. He'd not been seen since Sanford met his notoriously flashy death.
"What did you think of Mr. Wiley?" Detective Cross asked the stage manager. He knew what to expect, but wondered if he might come across someone who wasn't ecstatic over Sanford's death.
"Nastiest bastard I've ever had to work with," replied Alex Rapp. "I'd have quit this show because of him, but jobs are scarce right now."
"Somebody came to see him," a stagehand offered. "Just after the rehearsal. A guy. He gave me a note to give to him, which I did. He doesn't even say 'thanks,' just says 'Get out!' Told us all to get out. Had Freaky Francis clear the theatre."
"Description?"
"Tall, thin, sort of a schoolteacher type, you know?"
"Fedora? Long coat with a fur collar?"
"Yeah. How'd you know that?"
Detective Cross just nodded. The Executioner had been brought into town to do the "honors." Cross thought he had recognized the rope used for the hanging, and the trademark knot. The European-style coat was a dead giveaway. He continued with the interviews, knowing that little more would be learned.
The case had begun years before Wiley had been killed, surfacing now only because the theatricality of the death could not be hidden.
Wiley wasn't even the focus of the investigation, originally––Francis was. Although it had yet be proven, Francis was believed to have serious mob connections, and to have been "assigned" to keep the closest tabs possible on Wiley.
"We tried to approach Wiley," said Cross to a nearby cop in answer to his quizzical look, when no one was near enough to hear, "but we couldn't get near him. We're pretty sure he knew what was happening, but Francis kept him insulated against us, at hidden knifepoint."
In effect, Wiley was Francis's prisoner and would be for as long as Wiley's father remained at large with overwhelming evidence against the top echelon of the organized drug market. He'd refused the witness protection program and just skipped. His whereabouts were unknown both to the police and the mob.
It seemed that Francis's real employers had finally grown impatient.
"But why kill him like this?" the cop asked Cross. "This is a weird one. Naked? Hanging? In the middle of an empty theatre? And why would Wiley climb all the way up there anyway?"
"Show business," Cross answered. "To have the kid found hanging naked in the middle of a public place would be an outrageous humiliation for his father. It was like what was done to Nazi sympathizers in WW2.
"And he didn't climb up there. His neck isn't broken. He was hoisted up in the middle of a showplace, probably alive, strangling on the way. They know his father will learn about this and they hope he'll become so enraged that he'll come out of hiding. The 'bosses' will be waiting. They've got watchers everywhere. He may never make it to us."
"Jesus," said the cop. "No wonder he was such a nut case. How'd you act if you had an executioner at your elbow twenty-four hours a day?"
"Too bad he had to be a sacrifice," Cross said. "But now we know for sure who we're dealing with. We've been watching the Executioner. Now that we know he's tied into this, we'll grab him and then the rest of them."
The End Allen McGill © 2007 |