Magdalene House

CHAPTER I: SAINT & SINNER

At the age of twelve Bess Scanlon was branded a whore and sent to the Sister’s of Mercy. Cast out in shame, the bloodless brides of Jesus branded her a temptress, never bound for heaven. Women who never glimpsed their wombs, who wilt the grass they walk upon and leech the light from the room, never took her into their hearts of stone. So in this heartless place of charity, the brides of Jesus beat her, to redeem her sin. Even at her tender age, Bess was just a whore.

At seventeen Bess left Holy Mother Church; a mattress strapped to her soul, thinking she might as well be paid for sin. Men soon became lost in her seductive means, and before long, men of means were at her beck and call. At first she only took money; then she collected power. Power, you see, is sometimes an article left behind, like a tie or a handkerchief, and Bess soon discovered, if folded carefully and stored in a safe place, it’s more valuable than gold.

At twenty-five Bess bought an old hotel, a place of prostitutes and the destitute; its primary asset was location, to one side St. Mary’s Church, to the other the Central Police Station. Fixes were made, the church, police, unions and street gangs were bought and sold to restore the old six-story brick hotel. Downstairs was a bar and four star restaurant where the powerful ate and plotted. Upstairs, dessert was served to those who could afford the exclusive menu. Boys and girls, men and older women, any shape, color or talent awaited to satisfy the powerful’s perverted appetite.

At the age of thirty, Bess Scanlon was rich, her clients like blank checks waiting to be cashed as the need arose.

* * *

Monday, December 24

Seven days before the next thousand years.

* * *

Never barter a part of your heart, for despite what smooth lips may say, shame is the consequence of the trade. Bess Scanlon never heeded those words. Deaf and dumb and blind with ambition, she sold herself for Magdalene House and every Wednesday, no matter the weather or season, the judge collected. The only son of a powerful politician, he was man of consequence who every Wednesday became a pathetic “peeping tom.” It wasn’t watching which shamed Bess, it was he never took to bed. For the bedchamber was where she’d controlled and no matter the temperature of the water or the strength of the soap, shame’s seldom washed away.

Wednesday evenings Bess slowly, deliberately stripped. First gown, then stockings, finally lace bra and panties. Leading him by the hand she’d enter her marbled tiled bathroom, jasmine scented candles and soft music setting the mood. He’d never say a word while removing his thousand-dollar suit, only mumble some unnoticed words between perverted breaths. Stepping into the shower Bess began to bathe, rivulets of hot water and lavender soap drifting on her firm breasts, steam saturating the room. Repeatedly washing her body, scented soapsuds circling the drain, she’d sense his masturbation on the other side of the shower glass. He never uttered a sound, until whimpering at climax, like a child who’d lost his mother in a crowded department store. Then, without a word he’d dress and leave.

Bess always choose whom she’d take to her bed, according service performed. Sex was only a means to the end. The judge bestowed no power nor left any gold, only indignity without end. After he left Bess continued showering, using hard working man’s soap. Scrubbing her soft white skin red to remove shame, her only consolation being the new linens, beige, soft, oversized, tight knit and on them printed in gold, “Magdalene House”.

Toweling herself dry Bess was careful where she stepped, avoiding blemishes of semen on the imported marble floor; generations not conceived left for the morning maid.

“Sick son of bitch”, she thought fixing her hair, wearing only a towel around her frame. “Some day someone’s going to teach him a lesson. I just hope I’m there to see it.”

Blowing out the candles, Bess thought the night’s early yet. Tonight she’d write a long letter to the person she loved, a personal Christmas wish enclosed. She never saw the dark shadow in the bedroom corner, never felt quick and sharp blow to her head, then falling to the floor. It was pain conspired with the stench of blood which returned reality. A stench similar to a salty, old, musty, marsh; like a stale sinkhole in dark wet woods. It was a fragrance she knew well.

“Oh Christ... No... Not here.... Not now... Not him”, were her thoughts as time once again began to tick in her head. The once white clean room was red with blood. Stumbling to her feet like a person in a windstorm her body was streaked with blood, her prized whit linen lay nearby ripped and red. Blood covered and nude, slipping on the wet floor, a hurricane in her head Bess staggered to the door mumbling, “Jimmy? Please, Jimmy. Help.” Then swallowing hard, supporting herself along the wall, her soiled hands making childish red finger paintings on the white painted surface; she cleared her throat, gathering the steel of a whore and screamed, “Jimmy, get your ass up here.”

“Yeah Bess, I’m coming, give me a minute ... Hang on a sec,” yelled Jimmy slowly making his way down the hallway. Jimmy was a man trusted in Magdalene House. Caring more for drugs than sex, Jimmy looked after the girls, the rooms and the linens. Old, bald, dirty and dressed shabbily, Jimmy entered finding Bess leaning against the wall. For a little moment he never spoke, just stared in disbelief at the sight beheld. “Holy shit! Bess, what the fuck happened? Bess ... You didn’t?”

“No, Jimmy. I’d never do something like this. You know if I kill it’d be neat and clean and not here. Someone knocked me out and made this mess ... this mess of the Judge.”

“Bess? What’a we gonna do? Ahhh, Bess we’re in deep shit now. Of all people, the Judge.”

“Calm down Jimmy. Think ... just think a minute. Get me my robe while I figure what to do.”

Grabbing the white robe from Jimmy, throwing it on her shoulders Bess again to speak. “Okay Jimmy ... okay. Here’s what we do. Go to the rooms, calmly ... real calmly ...tell the girls to get rid of their customers. Then, go down to the bar. Get Sam and tell him to close down. Keep it low key. Won’t be many around tonight, being Christmas Eve. Do it Jimmy, and keep your mouth shut about what you seen here. Don’t tell anyone. Not even Sam. I’ve got calls to make. You got it? When you’re done get back up here.”

“Got it Bess. I’ll do what you say. But ... Geez Bess, this mess, him gettin killed like this.”

“Jimmy do as I say. Now get going and on the way back up bring some ice; my head’s killing me.”

“Okay Bess. Anything you say. But I tell ya we‘re in deep shit now.” Said Jimmy wobbling down the hallway, still mumbling about the circumstances, as Bess started making calls; thinking through her splitting head, “Why here? Why in my place?”

* * *

Mister Thomas was just about to unwrap his Christmas present from the Judge when the phone rang. She was fifteen, blond and firm breasted, and arrested for standing on the wrong street under the right lamp post. Sentenced by the now dead Judge to be a seasonal gift, she was one of the fringe benefits of Mr. Thomas’s job. To most in the city his name was Mister Thomas but to the powerful he was “hanger on, opportunist and fixer”, who was simply addressed as Tommy.

The Judge was up for re-election and Tommy was the man to get the election won, the man who made the fixes and the deals, so the election was in the bag before the first ballot was cast. Tommy Thomas and the Judge had plans. Two years from now the real prize, Governor; then maybe after a respectable amount of time, a shot at national office. After all, the Judge was only thirty-seven and a good family man. It was all within their grasp if only Tommy kept “the fix” going. Meantime Tommy intended on enjoying the Judge’s Christmas present. But the phone kept ringing, then the voice on the answering machine.

“Tommy it’s Bess. I know your there, pick up God damn it! Get your ass over here right away, something’s happened to the Judge."

“Okay honey, were done for tonight”, were Tommy’s words. “Get out and don’t come back.”

Maneuvering through the cold Christmas Eve night to Magdalene House all Tommy thought was, “This better be good. That son of a bitch. Shit, gives me that girl and then takes it away, going on one of his binders.”

* * *

Detective Halloran was also unwrapping his Christmas present, a can of soup when his phone rang. Not many called him “Detective, Sir, Cop or Kevin”, most addressed him as Halloran. He lived alone in a one-bedroom walk up, which he shared with the ghosts of family and friends, lost to whiskey, women and death. A can of soup, a cheap bottle of whiskey followed by Internet chat room was his Christmas Eve plan.

Halloran answered on the second ring. “Okay .... Okay ... Calm down Bess. Take it easy. I’ll be right there. Don’t let anyone in. I’ll get the right boys to handle the job."

* * *

“And a Merry Christmas to all and to all a goodnight. Now children it’s bed time." the mother spoke to her three squirming children.

“Where’s Daddy? We want Daddy! We want to stay up for Daddy and Santa!” the children pleaded as Maria, their nanny tried to usher her charges to their beds.

Their Mother appeared impatient by her children, sometimes she love them with all her soul, other times they seemed to be props for photo-ops for her husband’s political career. Yet she too had ambition and although tonight was Christmas Eve she only wished them to bed.

“Now children you know Daddy works hard, putting the bad men in jail. He’ll be here in the morning when you get up and see what Santa Clause brought you. Be good and go with Maria. Sweet dreams my loves."

Disappointed, their father not being home, her two boys and little girl trudged with hard steps up the grand staircase of the mansion followed by the nanny. Ignoring her children’s disappointment, she wandered into the den for a drink. She knew where “Daddy” was, he was with his whores.

Years ago, when first in love their names were Darling and Love, but those nights were past. Last born Judy, that sweet innocent little girl was more a product of violence than love. Her father now considered her a political prop, after all the photo-ops were enhanced with three young children with their loving, religious father. He had polls which told him so. Since four-year-old Judy was conceived, they hadn’t made love but she didn’t care, having no desire for him. His name was lost to the river of life, now he was branded “The Judge”. To most, the woman in the expensive evening gown was know as Mrs. Murphy, to friends Mary, but when she looked in the mirror her given name was “Whore”.

Taking a long, strong swallow of Crown Royal, staring at the burning crackling logs in large marble fireplace, Mary’s thoughts wandered to love. Like a child longing Santa, she desired that special person who held her tight at night. The one with whom she’d cry and laugh over old movies and jokes. The person with whom she sit in bed, drinking coffee and eating sweets. The one who pointed out the beauty of the flowers in spring. She yearned to hear her voice, but it was too early, her place wasn’t close yet. She’d call later and maybe tomorrow steal away to see her; if only for a few minutes. Mary Murphy would see Bess Scanlon tomorrow, if just for a few minutes.

* * *

When Tommy arrived at Magdalene House there was a crowd of reporters, cops and bystanders standing outside the front entrance. The midnight winter air was crowded with winter snow and rumors. Entering through the back alley service entrance he knew something “big” was happening and making his way through the kitchen, up the back stairs he overheared people saying. “Jesus Christ, what a blood bath. Sure must have been one sick son of a bitch to do that. Really must have suffered. Shitty way to die."

All Tommy could think was, “Shit ... did the Judge get out of control and kill a whore?”

Arriving at the top floor Tommy met ashen complicated Halloran standing in the hallway outside the crime scene room. “Christ Halloran! You look terrible, been out on one of your binders again? Once a drunk always a drunk. This better be good to get me out on Christmas Eve. Where’s the Judge?”

“He’s in there,“ Halloran said pointing to the room off the hallway. “But I’m tell ya it’s a scene. Worst I’ve ever saw. Tommy hope you got an empty stomach, it’s a mess in there."

“Shut up and get out of my way,” said Tommy, pushing Halloran aside. “I need to talk to the Judge. Keep everyone out of here till I get him outt’a here."

Tommy had no idea before he entered the room, no idea how much blood a human body contained. The once white painted room was red, the dead Judge lay on the bed. His arms and feet bound to the post of the bed; throat cut so deep that with one quick jerk his head pop off. The white, fat Judge’s torso was slit from crotch to sternum. His internal organs, heart, lungs, liver and stomach thrown against the wall. The heater in the room was still set high, which enhanced the coagulation and stench of flesh and blood. Harsh fluorescent overhead lights left no detail unseen, the blood covered floor was like a snow covered field, testifying every footstep.

Most gruesome was the little Christmas tree on the table in the corner of the room. A concession to the season by the normally cheap Bess, all the rooms contained a small Christmas tree. “Make the customers think of the season and leave a little something extra," was the logic behind this decoration.

The two-foot innocent Christmas tree was something from hell because over the tinsel and colored lights the Judge’s intestines were wrapped like garland. The hot blue, red and white lights were baking his intestines as little puffs of cooked human flesh smoke rose above the tree.

Grasping the horror, Tommy turned and vomited on the floor. Thinking he’d collapse, turning to leave the room above the doorway he witness a bloody mad man’s scrawl pronouncing, “Come Jesus!”

Standing in the hallway, watching Halloran smiled as Tommy staggered, ashen white from the room. He knew it! That cocky son of a bitch puked, he only regretted not seeing it.

“Told you it was a mess.”

“Fuck you Halloran! You should’a said something before I went in there. You set me up. Where’s Bess? She’s got some God damn explaining to do!” was his abrupt response, wiping his mouth with a white handkerchief, forcing himself from gagging again.

Halloran, leaning against the wall only pointed and said, “In her office, she’s expecting you."

He almost felt sorry for Thomas, not because of the death of the Judge, but Bess. Tommy was no match for Bess Scanlon. Halloran known her better than fifteen years; she a street whore, he a cop who walked a beat. He’d always admired her intelligence, honesty, and looks. Maybe if things were different they could have been more than friends, but that was wishful thinking. How could a woman with her talents ever consider an aged cop. He never communicated his admiration, being too ashamed thinking she’d reject his advances.

Turning from watching Thomas walk to her office door Halloran took control of the crime scene. “Okay boys let’s get the crime lab in here and get it cleaned up. Better hurry or the Judge’s guts are going to barbecue on the tree. Oh yeah! That puke on the floor? Isn't the murderers, it’s Thomas; the big shot. See, they puke and shit just like us poor folks.”

The crime scene technicians laughed nervously, making sick jokes while going about their work. None ever seen a murder this gruesome and some wondered. “How long it’d be till Bess was arrested and the best whorehouse in the state would close. After this happening the Senator destroy her. Too bad, but after all Bess was just a whore.”

***

Tommy didn’t knock before he entered, men like him don’t bother knocking on a whore’s door. Magdalene House was six stories of mostly small bedrooms. The top floor was private with only one large bedroom and larger office. Few men were privileged to be allowed on the sixth floor. Entering, Tommy Thomas was unprepared for her office, large in scale, bathed in soft lamplight; it spoke of wealth, power and intelligence. Gleaming hardwood floors accented by oriental rugs. Mahogany paneled walls, collectable oil paintings, bookshelves contained the works Shakespeare, Bryan, Keats, Shelly, Hemingway, Faulkner. From the white plaster ceiling hung a cut crystal chandlers. The furniture was classic and upholstered with leather and crushed velvet. Set in the corner a large mahogany desk, on it a small lap top computer, pen and a drink in crystal glass. The corner behind the desk was floor to ceiling smoked glass which afforded a view to the main entrance of the next door church. Tommy immediately realized he was dealing with the worst possible person, a whore with intelligence, power and money.

“Bess, God damn it. What the hell happened here tonight!” was his greeting.

Bess looking from the computer screen, a reaction of interruption in her voice said, “Didn’t Halloran fill you in?”

Dressed in faded jeans, t-shirt, no make up, hair tied in a ponytail, she despite her attire conveyed supremacy. Power was her currency, her life and sometimes her only love and she counted it well.

“Yeah he did ... But I want to hear it from you. You're supposed to run a high-class place here. A safe place! These things aren’t suppose to happen at Magdalene House. How’d some nut get to the Judge on a private floor and do that? It’s like a slaughterhouse in there! And you mind telling me where the hell were you? Probably passed out drunk, typical whore.”

“You know better Thomas. I never lose control. I don’t get drunk with men. I fuck them.”

“You mean to tell me you didn’t see or hear anything? Christ, how the hell am I going to tell Mary and the press! Shit ... they’re gonna have a fucking field day with this! Then the Senator! What the hell am I gonna tell him?”

“How about the truth Thomas. That’d be a change”, she said not looking up from her computer.

Confident, cocky and horny Tommy Thomas was shaken. His candidate was dead in the worst possible way, in the worst possible place. He worried that his career was as dead as the Judge.

Bess never looked at Tommy speaking his complaint, she’d heard them before from little men like Thomas. Decisively gazing into his eyes, taking a sip from her drink, she then spoke in the low voice of guard to prisoner.

“Tommy? I’m tired and my head hurts. Get the details from Halloran. As for me, I was cold cocked. Who’d do this? Fuck if I know and I don’t give a shit. I do care he was killed in my place. Someone is gonna pay for that. And little man, if that someone is you? If you set this up to have this done at my place I’ll be only too happy to make sure you pay in full.”

Bess’s cold steel brown eyes cut into Tommy’s soul, she was colder than any political boss. “She must cry tears of stone“, he thought.

“Bess? Who killed the Judge? Hell if I know. That family, the Senator and the Judge had so many enemies it could have been one of a hundred people. But killed like that, cut open, gutted like a fish that’s just plain sick Ah hell! ... It’s late, nothing much is going to be settled tonight. I got’a call the Senator. I told Halloran to keep me informed on the investigation. If you find anything out call me at my private number. You have it right? Oh! ... By the way Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah I got your number. I’ve got everyone’s private number. Close the door on the way out.”

Just before he reached the door Tommy heard Bess speak for the last time but this time in a louder voice.