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From: "Sean Farragher" <sfarragher@nj.rr.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} TxM6: Taxi Murders Novel Chapter 102  Detective Malachi
Date: Sat,  8 Feb 2003 20:10:03 -0500
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If you have missed any parts of Taxi Murders
the Novel, they are archived on ASSM -Google
and at my web site. I welcome feedback
in email. Sfarragher@nj.rr.com .

Chapters 1-80 are available at my site.
Updates will be posted at least weekly.

Thanks,
Sean

http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook

Taxi Murders the Novel -- Chapter 102 -- August 11, 1992
(c) 2003 Sean Farragher   sfarragher@nj.rr.com


http://www.seanfarragher.com
http://www.seanfarragher.com/Joss
http://www.seanfarragher.com/taximurdersbook/




Taxi Murders the Novel Chapter 102
Malachi Mac Donagh (1930-1993)

Malachi Mac Donagh, 60 years of age in 1990, had been a
homicide detective for almost twenty-five years.

Working first as a State Cop and then as Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania homicide Detective, he had trimmed the hard edge
of his righteous kick ass state cop mentality to become
better at what he did: solve terrible murders in the Allegany
section of the old city.

"I got tired of the hate," he told one politician who offered
him this and that to run for state wide office.

When Malachi refused politely, the politico accused him of
"shortsighted cowardice."

Malachi told the Congressman "my life is my own barren plate.
I don't need the problems of twenty million people. I will
leave the stupidity to you."

When his wife Carol died, and with his kids grown, in 1986
Malachi left Pittsburgh for home town Bradford on the
northern tier of Pennsylvania. Poor but beautiful country, he
loved the long miles of roads and few people. He longed for
retirement, but like most, in six months, hated it.

He missed the action and life of the city. He felt himself
dying. His kids lived hours away and had their own lives, and
he became a cipher and without any other pedigree than ex-
Cop.

Working part-time he did background investigations for local
lawyers and businessmen. He hated and refused to take divorce
cases, but Malachi never tired of discovering the large
foliage of human nature.

He wanted to know why folks cheat themselves when confronted
by choices neither good nor evil. Grey is the hardest choice
and few us know even how to define it. Fewer still know how
to measure their options so they have a chance at a life with
some integrity.

In early 1988, his daughter Laurie, then 23, wrote him a
loving letter asking if she could visit him in Bradford. "I
need to get my life together and you are the only human I
trust," she wrote.

Eventually, Malachi closed up the old house, and moved near
Laurie and her mother Helena in Ridgefield, N.J.

Malachi was not surprised that he was still attracted to the
blonde woman who resembled Jean Harlow, and the romance
between the old lovers became another story.

Laurie was thrilled. Malachi helped Helena reduce her
drinking and encouraged her to endure life. She in played his
sexual fantasies until they ran out. It was a very ordinary
story with the usual trite everyday chores mitigated by the
dirty roads of survival.

Malachi moved to New York City. "I always wanted to live
there, and he worked as an investigator for this criminal
lawyer helping truth, as he put it, find a balance.

Malachi never a simple man appreciated the morning light at
earliest dawn. Many days, when the sunrise had a pale green
cast (from chemicals he laughed) he would pace the palisades
during a brisk five mile run. Other days, in the middle of
the night, he would stalk the Manhattan streets remembering
the ordinary fear of being in combat.

As a bystander Malachi memorized the colors of crime for he
did not really have to solve them.

Driving his 1961 white wire wheel MGA, he was invisible in
the empty streets of the west side or the north end of
Central Park. That slow, low-slung car was hardly passed for
an undercover vehicle. Pulled over once by NYPD, he laughed
when the cops grimaced then he showed them his retired law
enforcement officer ID. He was glad they didn't run him in to
check if the paperwork he presented was fraudulent.

Helena had hoped Malachi would live and love with her and
resume a life that really never got started in the early
1960s.

Bradford Pennsylvania is not For Lee, Malachi thought. Why am
I surprised although the folks in Bradford and Pittsburgh
have been known to spill a fair amount of blood for no good
reason and offer no defense? Sociopath and maniac have no
claim on this son of a bitch town.

Reading the Gadfly column on the latest Genesis murder victim
drove him very close to volunteer to work in the task force
that might stop the self described beasts.

The murders seemed even most unreasonable because the victims
were pregnant mothers, murdered after giving birth by the so
called Genesis killers, the man called Abel and woman called
Lilith.

After all the suffering I have witnessed, "Why am I surprised
by these practiced deaths, he asked himself.

Watching Helena wearing almost nothing laughing at the TV
seemed surreal, Malachi thought. She is really an empty woman
and I know why I loved her. She is smart but doesn't care to
know more than a good fuck and the best booze. Her pretense,
her desire to be known as a bright woman, really was just
that, a fabrication. Sure she was bright, but she was not
pure wool.

She is the woman I remember: selfish and self-serving, and I
am the anal retentive jerk.

Unable to hurt her again by his presence, he continued his
"courtship," by his friendship with Laurie. He helped her
take her life back from a deadly problem with crack cocaine.

Yes, I am her father not her stepfather not that being a
parent had anything to do with genes.

Helena had told him at the outset that Laurie was his child,
but at the time, married with another family, Malachi
withdrew.

Helena furious wrote Huw Fallon's name on the birth
certificate. For twenty-four years, Helena reluctantly
allowed Laurie to know this man as one of her stepfathers.

Malachi visited twice but as time wore him down, unable to
accept the dysfunction of the Fallon household, he withdrew.

In 1990, only work could call Malachi away. In early 1991, he
moved to LA to help an old crony, now a private dick, solve a
series of brutal murders called the Happy Clown Killings. The
private cop, hired by the family of the man accused of
helping the twin gay brother murder three men, proved that he
was a victim.

Malachi stayed in LA after the man was acquitted. Meeting the
girl of his dream, Malachi fell in love with an old child
actress from the thirties who needed a hard man to keep her
soft life on target.

Malachi obliged and was drawn away from Ridgefield New
Jersey. Laurie was pissed that he left her again. In some
ways, she acted more the spurned lover than the daughter.

When Laurie Fallon was kidnapped on April 10, 1992 and then
declared a missing person, Malachi rushed to New Jersey but
once there was ordered by local police task force and FBI to
stay away. You will make it worse for your stepdaughter they
said. If she is alive and you are involved as an active
investigator, they may just kill her and not keep her alive
for months like they did the others. Malachi agreed.

Friends and contacts with the police fed him leads,
and he pushed all the buttons talked to all the right
people, did all he had done in the past that had been
successful. Nothing seemed to work.

Breaking their pattern, Abel and Marie committed no more
crimes. They seemed to disappear. "All the fucken stake outs
and all the snitches in the world are not going to help to
apprehend these assholes, Malachi told one old cop who now
worked as crossing guard.

Malachi believed Laurie was alive. "When she dies," he said,
"the world will appear different." Malachi meant it. They
will come up for air sometime.

In the middle of June, Malachi reluctantly returned to Los
Angles to begin the commute of death, as he called it.

"Here I am," he said, "an expert on crimes of violence and I
cannot find my own daughter."

Commuting between the cities, he took over the investigation
when the police essentially gave up. Declared dead by the
police and then the press, public opinion moved on to other
more difficult issues like the Presidential election and the
aftermath of the Rodney King police riots.

Malachi was angered by the verdict. Rogue cops must be
punished for hurting anyone. Malachi was a purist.

In August 1992, Malachi returned to New Jersey to find his
daughter. If she is dead, I will bury her. If she is alive I
will not stop. I will have my answers he told his new
California bride.



August 11, 1992

"Sometimes I get lost in the pain of this place, Malachi
thought. Yes, understatement I know. Terrible exaggeration.
All very confusing. Life is that way, and once I thought it
was all very simple. You did you job, paid your bills and
life went on. Now, life doesn't go on easily for many and it
doesn't matter if you are good, you will still get kicked in
the ass.

The more Malachi searched the less he found. As a
professional he expected results. As a father he found none.

Malachi drank more and more each day. Before losing Laurie,
Malachi rarely drank. Less than a social drinker, he had
become what he hated. A coward who finds answers in the art
of imperfect forgetting.

Two beers that's all I will drink tonight, and when he
reached for the fifth, killing the six pack, throwing it out,
he got another from the refrigerator and cursed that it was
not ice cold.

Reading another murder story about an apparently related
crime in the press had unnerved him. As it turned out, the
perps were two teenage boys who had raped the girl and
decided to cover it up when they accidentally strangled her.
Dismembering her body, they left it in a body bag in a vacant
lot.

Dumb ass reporter called it another Genesis murder. Horrible
stuff, but it didn't fit. The victim was young but not a
known cokehead. She wasn't white and middle class like all
the other Genesis victims.

Malachi could not imagine the Genesis killers snuffing a
Haitian girl who worked in that local fuck motel. No one
tells the truth.

Lost in process, finding himself, Malachi forgot too much and
loved too little in his youth, my childhood, he said. I was a
man and a child at once. Should never have slept with
Laurie's mother, but I followed my cock.

Malachi was miserable, feeling the failure, the block, the
death, and he drank more and more each day.

Sometimes I get lost in death imagery and I feel as if I want
to kill murder by closing down the press.

Yes, there was a bit of the fascist in Malachi.

Speaking like drunks do, telling Helena, who was drinking
with him, that she had been a miserable fucking mother and I
am a creep for a father. How do you let men abuse her when
she was a child? Why did you let me fuck you, when you were a
child? Why did you encourage her to suck the cocks of your
boyfriends when she was seven? Why did you lead her to
suffering, you miserable whore, he said.

Helena just smiled and told him that she offered him the
chance to be Laurie's father and you choose your other
family. Well that is OK, but do not blame me for your
failures.

Bullshit, Malachi said. You loved it from what I could tell.
You sucked cocks for money, sure, but you loved it.

Turning away from Helena, Malachi looked out the window at
the railroad years that ran next to the Hackensack River.

"You know how windows shake when a freight train passes,"
Malachi said, almost crying, speaking to Helena like she had
murdered her own daughter. "And get this," he continued we
all admire how ocean storms rob the beach of sand like it is
a sick circular joke. Partial ideas, right. That's one way at
looking at Fort Lee. Everything changes when lapsed years
collide like freight trains.

Fucken poetry, Malachi smiled, almost passed out drunk. Yea,
everywhere is ground zero in this fucken town some day or
another. No one knew I was a poet.

"What unholy drivel," Malachi laughed at himself.

Helena rested, turned her back to observe Malachias,
shortened to Malachi, who Helena also called "Mike," as an
easy charm, not to affront.

Standing up looking at himself in the bathroom mirror,
looking back at the naked Helena he had just fucked, Malachi
discovered himself and would bring Laurie home.

Malachi in a screaming rage emptied her house of booze. Every
fucken bottle, and then he slept for two days.

When he woke, with the worst hangover of his life, he began
to take his daughter's missing person case apart. On his way
home, he would find honor by offering his own life to
save his daughter Laurie.

That is a story for another day.







For more TxM6 Taxi Murders the Novel http://www.seanfarragher.com






END

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