Calarugus Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Murder Weekly. This episode is titled
Redemption. The bullpen was quiet, the only sound the rustling of papers and
the occasional ring of a phone. Detective Jack Sip malloy sat at his desk,
his head in his hands, the weight of unsolved cases bearing down on
him like a ton of bricks. Well, well, well, if it
ain't the great Detective Malloy, A voice drawled from across the room. Sip
looked up to see Detective Meldrick leaning against the door frame, a smirk on
his face. Not now, Meldrick, Sip growled, his patience wearing thin.
Meldrick sauntered over to Sip's desk, his eyes gleaming with mischief. What's
the matter, Sip, Another day, another m You can't solve the great
detective, always on the hunt, never catching the prey. Sip's jaw clenched,
his eyes flashing with anger. You got something to say, Meldrick?
Or are you just here to bust my chops? Meldrick held up his hands
in mock surrender. Hey man, I'm just calling it like I see it.
You're like a dog chasing its tail, always running in circles, never
getting anywhere. Just as Sip opened his mouth to fire back, the phone
on his desk rang. He snatched it up, his voice clipped and professional
molloy homicide. He listened intently, his brow furrowed. Yeah, I got
it, be there in ten. He slammed the phone down, his eyes
meeting Meldrick's duty calls. Try not to solve all the cases while I'm gone.
The crime scene was a dingy alleyway in the heart of the city,
the body of a young man lying face down in a pool of his own
blood. Sip crouched down, his eyes, scanning the scene with a practiced
eye. We he got, he asked the uniformed officer standing nearby. Victim's
name is John Doe. For now, no id, no wallet. Looks
like he took a brick to the head blunt force trauma. Probably died instantly.
Sip nodded, his mind already racing, and he witnesses suspects. The
officer shook his head, Nah, this alley's a ghost town at night.
But we did find something interesting. He held up a clear plastic bag,
a small silver key glinting inside Sip's eyes. Narrowed a key to what no
idea, but it was lying right next to the body. Figured it might
be important. Back at the precinct, Sip and his team poured over the
evidence, trying to piece together the puzzle of John Doe's murder. The key,
as it turned out, belonged to a storage unit on the outskirts of
the city. When they opened the unit, they found a treasure trove of
stolen goods, electronics, jewelry, even a few guns, and on the
wall a list of names and addresses, each one crossed out with a thick
black line. Looks like our John Doe was a thief, Sip mused his
eyes scanning the list, and not a very good one if this is any
indication. As they dug deeper, a picture began to emerge. John Doe,
whose real name was Michael Simmons, had been stealing from some of the
city's most notorious criminals, drug dealers, gun runners, even a few corrupt
cops. And one of those criminals, a vicious enforcer named Tony the Hammer
Rossi, had a reputation for using bricks to teach his enemies a lesson.
Sip checked his gun, the weight of it familiar and reassuring in his hand.
You ready for this, he asked a young officer, his eyes scanning
the building for any sign of trouble. The cop nodded, her, jaw
set with determination. Let's nail this bastard roached the shop, the smell of
grease and metal heavy in the air. A mechanic looked up from under the
hood of a car, his eyes widening at the sight of their badges.
We're looking for Tony Rossi, Sip said, his voice calm but authoritative.
The mechanic hesitated, his eyes, darting towards the back of the shop.
He's he's in his office, but he don't like to be disturbed, Sip
smiled, a cold, humorless thing. I'm sure he'll make an exception for
us. They made their way to the back, the sound of their footsteps
echoing off the concrete floor. Tony's office was a small, cluttered space,
the walls lined with auto parts and racing memorabilia, and there, sitting behind
a desk piled high with paperwork, was Tony Rossi himself. He looked up
as they entered, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. What the hell do you
want, He growled, his hand inching towards a drawer in his desk.
Sip's gun was out in a flash, leveled at Tony's check. Keep your
hands where I can see them. Tony's face twisted with rage, his fists
clenching on the desk. You got nothing on me, Cop, I'm a
legitimate businessman. Tell that to Michael Simmons. For a moment, Tony looked
like he might fight, his muscles tensing beneath his grease stained shirt, but
then with a sigh of resignation, he stood up, his hands raised in
surrendered. The interrogation room was cold and bare, the fluorescent lights casting harsh
shadows on Tony Rossy's angular face. Sip leaned, in his voice, low
and dangerous. We know you killed Michael Simmons. Tony. We found your
DNA on the brick and your fingerprints all over that storage unit. It's over
a harsh grating sound. You got nothing, Detective. I ain't saying a
word without my lawyer, But Sip was undeterred. See that's where you're wrong,
Tony. We've got a witness, someone who saw you in that alley,
saw you bash Michael's head in with that brick, and they're willing to
testify. It was a bluff, a last ditch effort to get Tony to
crack. But to sip surprise, it worked. Tony's face drained of color,
his eyes wide with fear. All Right, all right, I did
it, he stammered, his voice shaking. But you got to understand,
Michael was stealing from me, from my boss. I had no choice.
Back at the precinct, Sip stood in front of the whiteboard, his eyes
fixed on Michael Simmons's name. With a heavy sigh, he picked up an
eraser and began to wipe the name away, the red ink disappearing like a
bad dream. Another case closed, Mildrick said from behind him, his voice
uncharacteristically somber. Sip nodded, his eye still on the board. Simmons wasn't
a saint, but he didn't deserve to die like that. Meldrick clapped a
hand on Sip's shoulder, his grip firm and reassuring, you can't save everyone,
Sip, but you got justice for Michael, and that's something. Sip
turned to face his colleague, a wry smile tugging at his lips. I
thought, you said I was a dog chasing my tail, never getting anywhere.
Meldrick grinned his eyes, twinkling with mirth. Even a broken clock is
right Twice a day, Sip even a broken clock. Murder Weekly is a
Calaogua Shark Media production, written and hosted by Aidan I Flanagan, produced by
Mark Francis. Executive producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of AI Calaroga Shark Media.