Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1

by Patrick Logan

  There’s no way he made this chair sag.

  Still on his knees, he scrambled over to the chair, and then turned on his back and slid beneath it like a mechanic checking a leak.

  He prodded the material and found that it was indeed loose. And there was something inside; something rectangular, something that moved when he pushed.

  Grasping the corner of the fabric with thumb and forefinger, he was prepared to tear it away from the chair frame. But his efforts weren’t necessary. The material was fastened with Velcro and pulled away easily.

  He grunted as two objects fell out, one of which hit him in the face—a book—and the other on his shoulder—some sort of three or four-inch plastic cube.

  Swearing, he grabbed both items and pulled himself out from beneath the chair.

  In his right hand was a book, a plain notebook with the name ‘MARCUS Slasinsky’ on the cover in black text—the one he had seen yesterday. In his right was a cube of either plastic or some sort of wax. Inside was a preserved Monarch butterfly.

  He swallowed hard.

  “Did you find it in there?” the secretary hollered.

  “Yeah, I uh, I found it,” Drake said, staring at the butterfly as he turned it over in his hand. “It’s just, ugh, missing some pages is all, I’m going—”

  He shook his head and closed his eyes.

  “Fuck it,” he said to himself, then to the woman on the other side of the door, he added, “I’m going to be five minutes. That’s it. Five minutes and then I’ll be out of here, okay?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he placed the encased butterfly on the table and then sat on one of the chairs, the one that hadn’t housed the notebook, and opened it.

  A grainy photograph slid out, and Drake grabbed it before it floated to the floor.

  “Jesus.”

  It depicted a dead woman slumped on a wooden chair. Her forearms were resting on her distended belly, her palms face up. There were ragged, hunks of torn flesh hanging from her wrists. The woman’s eyes were open, the corneas so opaque that they almost seemed to glow in the black and white image. Her mouth was slack, her teeth bared as the gums and lips already started to recede in death.

  It’s Marcus’s mother, Drake thought with a shudder. He placed the photo on the table beside the butterfly, then turned his attention to the book.

  He was looking for anything that would help him find Marcus Slasinsky—an address, a phone number, even a social insurance number—anything at all that might help locate the murderer.

  To locate the Butterfly Killer.

  Drake’s initial elation at finding the book didn’t last. Any hopes of an introductory page, a description of Marcus, perhaps, or maybe even an address, were immediately dashed.

  The handwritten notepad jumped right into it in a familiar interview style format: a single line with the name Kruk, followed by a question, and then a line with the name Marcus, followed by an answer.

  Figuring that the details he sought might be buried in the doctor’s interview, Drake started to read, skipping over the initial preamble.

  Chapter 70

  When Chase opened her eyes again, the only light in the sky was from yellow incandescent street lights.

  She sat bolt upright.

  I fell asleep! She realized in horror. After admonishing Detective Yasiv, I fell asleep.

  Groaning, she stretched her legs, which immediately started to cramp. Expecting the painful tensing to subside, Chase waited, but when she couldn’t get her muscles to relax she opened the door to her BMW and stepped into the street.

  After rolling her neck, she reached down and touched her toes, trying to force the stiffness away. It dawned on her that part of her pain must have been from playing tennis the other day—she couldn’t remember the last time she had done any strenuous exercise.

  Just as she was making a mental note to pick up running again, or maybe yoga, her eyes drifted toward Tim Jenkins’s house.

  “What the hell?” she whispered.

  The door was open. From inside her car, it hadn’t been noticeable, but now that she was outside, she could clearly see that it wasn’t completely closed—the door didn’t quite meet the jam.

  Chase continued to stare at the door for a few seconds, debating what course of action to take.

  I should call Rhodes, the rational part of her brain suggested. But she knew how that conversation would go; Rhodes would tell her to wait it out.

  Conflicted, Chase shut her eyes for a moment, hoping that when she opened them again she would realize that it had all been an optical illusion and that Tim’s door was really closed.

  Only when she opened her eyes again, the door was still ajar.

  Making up her mind, Chase unholstered her gun and strode toward the house.

  Clarissa was right; fuck her career. There were lives on the line.

  Chase moved swiftly across the street, crouching low, keeping her gun even lower. She didn’t think that there would be anyone out at this hour—which she estimated to be around midnight—but it wouldn’t do anyone any good for a nosy neighbor to call the cops.

  When she reached the door, she put her hand against it, standing off to one side and away from the opening. Just a gentle push caused it to swing open two feet.

  “Tim? Tim Jenkins?” she said into the dark interior of the house.

  There was no answer.

  Struck by a sudden sense of déjà vu, minus, of course, Drake’s presence, she opened the door even further.

  “Tim? It’s Detective Adams,” she said, announcing her presence louder this time. “I’m coming inside.”

  When there was still no answer, Detective Chase Adams stepped through the doorway.

  Chapter 71

  Excerpt from Dr. Mark Kruk’s notes, dated March 1st, 2017.

  Kruk: Now, I want you to tell me about your childhood, Marcus. About your parents.

  Marcus: Well, it wasn’t always so good. Daddy was mean a lot. He would get angry all the time—like real angry.

  Kruk: Did he yell at you?

  Marcus: Oh, yes, all the time. And when he got really angry, he would hit me and mommy.

  Kruk: He would physically strike you?

  Marcus: Yes. And sometimes…

  Kruk: You can tell me, Marcus. This is a safe place.

  Marcus: Sometimes he would put cigarettes out on me. On my back, and on my hands.

  Kruk: And what would your mother do when your father put out cigarettes on you?

  Marcus: She would only cry. She would just sit there and cry. This would only make Daddy madder. He would punch her until she stopped.

  Kruk: Did your mother ever call the police or tell anyone about what your father did to you?

  Marcus: I don’t know. I don’t think so.

  Kruk: Did you tell anyone?

  Marcus: No.

  Kruk: And why not? Why didn’t you tell a teacher or a friend at school?

  Marcus: No, I didn’t.

  Kruk: But why not, Marcus? Why didn’t you tell?

  Marcus: The kids… the kids at school made fun of me. Called me names when I came with the bruises.

  Kruk: That’s okay, Marcus. You’re doing a good thing by speaking to me today. Please, take your time and if you need breaks, just let me know.

  Marcus: I’m fine.

  Kruk: Okay, then we’ll continue. When did your father stop hitting you?

  Marcus: One day he went to work, and just never came home.

  Kruk: And then it was just you and your mother?

  Marcus: Yes.

  Kruk: Did things get better after your dad was gone?

  Marcus: No—a little.

  Kruk: Can you explain what you mean?

  Marcus: Mommy never hit me or yelled at me. But she was always crying. Always, always crying. The only time she would stop crying is when she would sleep.

  Kruk: How old are you, Marcus?

  Marcus: Eight—almost nine.

  Kruk: And after yo
ur Daddy left, did your mommy make you food? Breakfast? Dinner? Did she help you get ready for school?

  Marcus: No. She only cried. I had to do everything for myself. But I was so, so tired. Only I couldn’t sleep because every time I tried, I could hear her crying. And I was scared.

  Kruk: Why were you scared? Were you scared that your father would come home?

  Marcus: Yes; I was scared that he would come home and get angry because Mommy was crying.

  Kruk: Did the crying ever stop, Marcus?

  Marcus: I don’t want to say.

  Kruk: It’s okay, Marcus, you won’t get in trouble. Remember, this is a safe place, and I’m here to help you.

  Marcus: You promise?

  Kruk: I promise.

  Marcus: Mommy fell asleep in her chair one day after Daddy left, and I was just so tired. Only I knew that as soon as I tried to go to sleep that she would wake up and start crying again. I was so, so tired.

  Kruk: What happened next, Marcus?

  Marcus: I went to the kitchen and opened the drawer with the adult knives. I wasn’t supposed to go in there, but I couldn’t ask her, because all she did was sleep and cry. I had been in there before when I needed to cut open a bag of chips—there wasn’t much food in the house. And then I walked over to Mommy and tried to wake her up, to ask her not to cry anymore.

  Kruk: And then what happened?

  Marcus: She wouldn’t wake up, so I cut her. I cut her arms, her wrists. There was… there was so much blood and I thought that she was going to wake up and get mad at me for getting her dress dirty. It was her favorite dress, she used to say that. It was the one that daddy liked best.

  Chapter 72

  The notebook trembled in Drake’s hands and his eyes darted to the photograph of Marcus’s mother, dead in her chair.

  Beckett and Dunbar had been wrong.

  Martha Slasinsky didn’t commit suicide, she was murdered.

  She was murdered by her son.

  “Jesus,” Drake whispered.

  Who are you, Marcus Slasinsky?

  He shuddered, then started reading again, the air in the office suddenly feeling very, very cold.

  Chapter 73

  Excerpt from Dr. Mark Kruk’s notes, dated March 1st, 2017.

  Kruk: What did you do after your mother stopped bleeding?

  Marcus: I tried to wake her up again, but she just kept sleeping.

  Kruk: And then what did you do?

  Marcus: I made dinner and went to sleep. It was… it was the best sleep I ever had. Mommy didn’t wake me up crying at all.

  Kruk: And the next morning?

  Marcus: I made breakfast, kissed mommy on the lips and went to school.

  Kruk: Alright. Now I want you to move ahead a little bit. I want you to tell me about the butterfly.

  Marcus: Okay—it came around the time that the neighbor lady asked me if everything was okay. She said that there was a smell in the hallway, and wanted to know if we had a problem with the toilet. I told her everything was fine and when she asked to talk to Mommy I said she was sleeping. I told the woman that Mommy was very happy now, that she had stopped crying. The lady went away and I opened the window just in case.

  Kruk: And then what happened? Where did the butterfly come from?

  Marcus: Every morning before I went to school, I kissed Mommy on the lips and told her I loved her. Then, one day, when I kissed her I felt her lips move. At first, I thought she was waking up, and I was very happy—only she didn’t open her eyes. I watched as her lips moved and I thought she was trying to tell me something. I leaned in close and then the most beautiful thing I have ever seen came out of her mouth.

  Kruk: A Monarch butterfly?

  Marcus: Not just any butterfly—the most beautiful butterfly that ever lived! It had bright orange wings and black spots on them that looked like tiger eyes. I let it walk onto my finger and when it stretched its wings I kissed it; it was like kissing Mommy, but instead, I was giving the butterfly kisses.

  Chapter 74

  Drake was aware that he was clenching his jaw and that his stomach muscles were so tight that they were making it difficult to breathe, but there was nothing he could do to make them relax.

  What had happened to the boy was horrible, unimaginable.

  But there was also something very strange about the transcript.

  Dr. Kruk himself didn’t look a day over forty, and yet Martha Slasinsky was murdered something like thirty years ago. He couldn’t possibly be the psychiatrist who had seen the boy back then.

  What about after the coma?

  That didn’t make much sense either; even if he overlooked the fact that in the notes Marcus claimed to be eight, and very much spoke like an eight-year-old might, Dr. Kruk had to be less than twenty at the time of the incident at the Butterfly Gardens.

  And the notes themselves were dated from earlier in the month.

  It doesn’t make sense.

  Drake scanned forward in the notebook. It was filled with pages and pages of the same format: Kruk with the question, Marcus with his answer.

  It went on and on and on, with seemingly no end.

  Frustration began to mount inside him, and his thoughts suddenly flicked to Suzan, and the way that she had screamed at him, told him that he had ruined their lives.

  Drake placed the notebook on the table, and then picked up the butterfly encased in the plastic and stared at it as he turned it slowly in his hand.

  It was bright orange, just like the one that Marcus had described. Even the dark spots on the majestic wings appeared to look like cat’s eyes, vertical slits that ran their length.

  Where are you, Marcus? Where the hell are you now?

  Drake closed his eyes, and he was instantly bombarded with an image of Clay’s face, blood and spit clinging to his bearded chin. In his mind, Drake leaned in close to his friend’s lips as they parted, half expecting to hear his final words.

  Only they weren’t words. They were the wings of a butterfly as it emerged from his dead mouth.

  Drake shot to his feet.

  “Where are you Marcus!” he yelled and flung the crystal butterfly with all of his might.

  The cube flew across the small office and struck the end panel of the bookcase.

  Drake expected one of two things to happen: either the cube would shatter, or it would thonk off the wood and leave a dent.

  Only neither happened. Instead, the butterfly made a scraping sound and embedded itself in the wood.

  “What the hell?” he muttered.

  “Is everything okay in there, Detective?”

  Drake ignored the secretary on the other side of the door and quickly made his way over to the bookcase. The entire structure looked to be made of solid wood, except for the section at the very end where the cube had struck and was now embedded in. This section appeared to be made of veneer. Drake grabbed the cube and pulled it free and his suspicions were confirmed.

  Without thinking, he put his hand in the hole and pulled. The veneer, which he realized ran floor to ceiling, bowed outward, but didn’t come free.

  Drake pulled again, and although this time he heard splintering wood, it still held fast.

  “Detective!” the woman shouted, her voice shrill now. “Detective!”

  Drake forced the first two fingers of both hands in the hole now.

  “Oh, shut the fuck up,” he muttered and then yanked with all his might.

  The veneer came free in one long sheet, and Drake stumbled backward. He tripped on his heels and went down, pulling the veneer on top of himself.

  He swore and thrust it aside before turning his attention back to the bookcase.

  Despite all the air being sucked out of him, he was still somehow able to utter three words.

  “Oh my god,” he whispered as suddenly everything became clear.

  Chapter 75

  “NYPD! I’m inside your home, Tim!” Chase shouted. “I’m inside!”

  There was still no answer, and Chase
felt adrenaline flood her system. She quickly scanned the rooms near the entrance, then made her way upstairs.

  Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest when she made it to the top landing. She gave a cursory glance around, but went straight for the bedroom that she had found Tim in when he had tried to escape out the window.

  The window was still open, which she found odd, but she was grateful for the moonlight that flooded in.

  Chase found Tim lying on his stomach in his bed, the covers pulled up to the back of his neck.

  “Tim?” she whispered. Chase stared closely at his still frame for a few seconds, a feeling of dread starting to wash over her.

  He wasn’t breathing.

  “Tim!” she said more loudly this time. Gun still at the ready in case this was some sort of ploy, she reached down and grabbed the bed sheet.

  Chase took a deep breath and then yanked it down.

  “No,” she moaned as the moonlight reflected off the bloody butterfly drawn on Tim Jenkins’s back, giving it a strange blueish hue.

  How is this possible?

  The sound of a car backfiring drifted up to her from the open window and she rushed over to it. Leading with the gun, she scanned the street, wondering how she had let this happen.