A Gift for Dying
Page 18
‘That’s what I intend to find out.’
‘It doesn’t make any sense. She has no motive.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Plus there’s no way she could have carried out the killings herself.’
‘Just how close are you to Kassie, Dr Brandt?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You seem very protective of her. And as I recall you’ve got form. Your wife was a patient of yours first, wasn’t she?’
‘Go to hell!’ Adam barked. ‘Kassie’s fifteen years old. What do you take me for?’
Gabrielle said nothing. All pretence at politeness was now gone. Adam and Gabrielle had rubbed along well in the past, but their working relationship now lay in ruins.
‘Thank you for your time,’ Gabrielle said suddenly, picking up her bag. ‘One of my team will be in touch to take a full, written statement. In the meantime, don’t go anywhere, ok?’
Adam nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Gabrielle turned as if to leave, then paused to deliver a parting shot.
‘I don’t know what’s going on here, Adam, but let me give you a piece of advice. Cut your ties with Kassie Wojcek today, go back to your day job and then …’ She locked her gaze on his. ‘… Take a long, hard look in the mirror.’
69
Stepping inside the house quietly, she turned to survey the scene. She had expected her mother to fall upon her with an avalanche of recrimination, but actually the house was deathly quiet. The CPD officers had departed ten minutes ago, having made little attempt to tidy up after themselves. It cut Kassie to the quick to think that they had been in here, trampling all over their perfectly ordered, pristine little home.
Upset, nervous, Kassie headed quickly towards the rear of the house. As she padded along the narrow hallway, she heard movement ahead and pushed inside the master bedroom. Her mother was there, but to Kassie’s surprise Natalia said nothing to her, angling only a quick look at her before resuming her packing. One nearly full suitcase lay on the bed, another sat on the bedroom floor.
‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re leaving.’
Kassie said nothing, lost for words.
‘I just got off the phone to Aunt Marija. She’s prepared to put us up for a while, though God knows it’s not ideal.’
‘We’re going to Minneapolis?’
‘As soon as we’re ready. I’ve packed your clothes. If there’s anything else you want from your room, get it now.’
‘We can’t just leave.’
‘You expect me to stay?’ her mother spat back viciously. ‘So the police can come back again? Turn this house – my house – upside down. So, the neighbours can gossip and … bitch.’
She crossed herself, even as she said it.
‘Mama, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t you dare … don’t you …’
She held a finger up to silence her daughter, as she suddenly petered out, emotion mastering her. She continued to pack, tears pricking her angry eyes.
‘I have tried, Kassie. I have tried to bring you up the right way. To respect the church, to respect the law, to respect me. But I have to be grown up enough now to admit that I’ve failed.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Kassie urged her, suddenly tearful herself.
‘I don’t know what you’ve got yourself mixed up in, what you think you’re doing, but I’ll tell you this. I am not staying here to be … humiliated. The Lord knows I’ve had enough of that over the years.’
Kassie stared at her mother, stunned.
‘Maybe we’ll come back, maybe we won’t. But I need help. And you need to get away from here. Maybe your Uncle Max can sort you out, he’s not as soft as I am.’
Kassie shuddered at the mention of her uncle. Her mother called him a disciplinarian. She called him a bully.
‘Anyway, I want to be on the road before rush hour, so don’t stand there like a stuffed fish –’
‘I can’t go, Mama.’
‘Why? Why can’t you go and visit your aunt, who’s always loved you?’
‘You know why.’
‘No, I don’t. And I don’t want to.’
‘People are dying …’
‘So the police told me.’
‘What did they say?’ Kassie replied, suddenly concerned.
‘Never mind what they said. They’re wrong. And if you’re not here, they can’t go poking their noses in, insinuating things. We’re going and that’s that.’
‘But what if I can help?’
‘You never helped anyone but yourself.’
Kassie blinked, shaken by the vitriol of her mother’s reply, but gathering herself responded:
‘Then this may be my chance to make amends. To do some good.’
Natalia looked horrified, staring at her daughter as if she had lost her mind.
‘I am leaving, Kassie. I am leaving this house. If you want to remain part of this family, you’ll come with me now.’
‘But what …’ Kassie hesitated to say it. ‘What if there’s a reason I see these things?’
Her mother stared directly at her, bitter resignation etched on her face.
‘Then you’ve made your choice.’
Without another word, Natalia zipped up her suitcase and marched out, brushing past her daughter. Kassie was left alone in the room, shaken and upset. Despite everything, she loved her mother – loved her deeply.
But she knew now that she would never see her again.
70
She pounced on her as soon as she entered the room. Jane Miller had been trying to get hold of her boss for hours, but had been repeatedly diverted to voicemail. When Gabrielle Grey finally entered the packed incident room, looking distracted and uneasy, Miller hurried over to her.
‘Detective Miller,’ Gabrielle greeted her, as she approached. ‘Please say you’ve got good news for me …’
Miller was surprised by the forced cheeriness in her voice. Her boss was usually such a vital, dynamic presence, but she seemed jaded this morning. In truth, the pressure had steadily been mounting on all of them, as they tried to grapple with this unsettling case. Superintendent Hoskins had put in a personal appearance earlier to remind them of the importance of a swift arrest. He came armed with a copy of the Chicago Sun, whose lurid front page revelled in the deeds of the killer they had dubbed ‘The Chicago Butcher’.
‘Suarez and I have been looking at Rochelle Stevens’ financial footprint. And on last month’s bank statement we found this …’
She handed Gabrielle a printout with one entry highlighted.
‘Eighty dollars paid to CleanEezy. I rang them and they confirmed the job – carpet cleaning at her home address. And guess what? The operative was –’
‘Conor Sumner.’
‘Aka Kyle Redmond.’
Miller watched as Gabrielle digested this.
‘So, both victims let this guy into their house,’ Gabrielle continued, thinking aloud. ‘He would have had plenty of time to plan their abductions …’
‘Sure.’
‘… and if we’re right about the connection to Kassie Wojcek, then he’s a good fit to be her accomplice. Has anyone got a lead on where she might be?’
‘Not so far.’
‘What about Redmond?’ Gabrielle continued, clearly frustrated.
‘No sightings as yet, but we spoke to a couple of CleanEezy’s clients, who’d dealt with him in the last couple of months. According to them, he’s driving a brown Ford pickup truck with Louisiana plates. We don’t have the full registration, but –’
‘Let the Traffic Unit know anyway. We need their eyes and ears on this. And make sure the whole team is up to speed. We should get our own people on the streets ourselves, see what we can turn up.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘In the meantime, I’ll chase down the warrant. We need to get back to that trailer –’
‘Came through an hour ago,’ Miller replied happily, handing it to her.
Gabrielle turned and marched away to her office. Miller felt a small flush of pride, but swallowing it down, she hurried back to her desk to gather her things. Finally, they were making progress. They had a prime suspect.
All they had to do now was bring him in.
71
He put the cigarette to his lips and drew on it, filling his mouth with its bitter fumes. As he did so, the lit end flared violently, its glowing tip becoming intensely bright, sending a shiver down his spine. He found meaning in even the small things these days – the tiny, crackling embers seemed to him a fitting testament to his power.
The TV was playing in front of him, the sober newscasters concealing their excitement as they jabbered on about the body in the parking lot. They had talked about nothing else for the past few hours. Another nice, middle-class do-gooder had been abducted from her home, ending up in pieces in the trunk of her own car. For the overly made-up woman mouthing the news and her knuckle-headed viewers, it was a terrifying thought. Violence could come to them. Could find them in their own homes, as they slept, took a shower, said their prayers … It thrilled him beyond measure to think of the thousands of middle managers, school moms, newlyweds and singletons who would be tossing and turning tonight. The nightmare was no longer in their heads, it was standing right in front of them.
‘The Chicago Butcher’. It was predictable, given the media’s prurient interest in the state of Jones and Stevens, but it angered him nevertheless. It sound boneheaded and brutal, as if these folk were selected at random and sliced up. Yes, the pain, the fear excited him – the horror in their eyes as life spurted out of their flapping throats – but that was not what this was about. The media, the police, had no idea why these deserving folk had been chosen, nor how much planning had gone into their destruction. None of this was accidental. None of this was luck.
He took another long drag on his cigarette. Maybe he was stupid to get over-excited – none of it mattered anyway. They could call him what they liked, but it didn’t change the fact that the city was running scared. Chicago, his hometown, this bitter, messed-up, careless metropolis, was quaking with fear, terrorized by its own. How little they had cared. How much they would be made to suffer.
Jones had got what he was due. Rochelle Stevens too. And they would not be the last. Out there somewhere, amid the millions of doomed souls in the city, was another whose hour had come. She did not know it yet. She could not know it. But that unsuspecting bitch had a date with the butcher’s knife.
72
Madelaine Baines looked out at the sight in front of her, moved and inspired. She knew that her rallying cry to the community had gained a lot of traction on Facebook and Twitter – and subsequently a mention on the local news bulletins – but still she hadn’t expected such an impressive turnout. People were heading into Granary Park from all quarters, carrying flashlights, lanterns, candles, as well as pictures of Jacob Jones and Rochelle Stevens. It was at once intensely sad and also incredibly moving, deep grief mixed with defiance and determination.
The vigil was due to begin shortly, so Madelaine took a moment to cast another eye over her speech. She had had to write it quickly and hoped that she would acquit herself as well as the other community leaders on the hastily erected stage. They had the local priest, a prominent politician, a friend of Rochelle’s, but it would fall to Madelaine to conclude proceedings. She hoped she’d prove worthy of the task – she had not asked to be the de facto leader of this vigil, but as she had set the ball rolling, it had kind of just happened. Now she suddenly felt nervous, as well as excited – she was used to community work, but public speaking was not her thing.
She had been so invigorated this morning, contacting local dignitaries and opinion shapers, mobilizing those whom she knew would care, that she had never stopped to think what she might have started. Now, as she looked down at the local citizens gathering in the small community park, she started to get an inkling of it. The square was filling up quickly; soon not an inch of grass would be visible. It was heartening to see that there were still so many people out there who cared. A couple of TV crews circled, talking to local residents, taking shots of the growing crowd. Madelaine had wanted the media to be present of course, but still the sight of them set butterflies dancing in her stomach.
Madelaine ran through her lines once more, reminding herself to speak slowly, to make the words count. After all, this wasn’t about her feelings, it was about keeping people safe. If she could alert people to the dangers, if she could focus minds on rooting out this evil, then she would have done her job. And who could doubt this crowd’s determination or their reach? They were packed into the park, linking arms, lighting candles, occasionally even breaking into song. It was awesome to behold, an expression of stoic solidarity as young, old, black, white, gay and straight stood shoulder to shoulder, their candles and lanterns flickering in the breeze. It was more than just a statement of an intent.
It was a thing of beauty.
73
The pretty teenager was clutching a photo of Rochelle in one hand, a flickering candle in the other. She was singing, as were many others at the vigil, but the camera remained glued to the young girl’s face, as tears crept down her cheeks. She was defiant, she was vocal, but the teenager was also distraught that one of their own had been taken from them in such brutal fashion.
Adam turned away, unable to watch. The bar’s TV had been tuned to WGN for some time and most of the regulars were glued to it. Adam just wanted to blot it out, however, so returned his attention to his drink, only to find that his pint glass was already empty.
‘Another, please.’
The barman refilled it without even looking at him, far more interested in the rolling news than his strung-out customer. Adam took it from him and drained half of it in one go, but didn’t feel any better. Perhaps he needed something stronger? He diverted his eyes to the long line of bottles on the back shelf, which stood proud in front of the grubby mirrored wall, and caught his own reflection staring back at him. Was this the mirror that Gabrielle Grey had been referring to, he thought to himself bitterly.
Ever since he’d taken refuge in the bar, he’d been replaying their conversation. It seemed impossible that their relationship had soured so quickly. But then nothing about the last few days seemed normal. A week ago, he was a respected psychologist, a friend to the police and confessor to many, with a happy wife, a baby on the way. And now what was he? A man drowning his sorrows, wishing, like so many others in this seedy bar, that he could turn back the clock …
Was he going mad? Having some kind of breakdown? When he was with Kassie, he was borne along by her passion, entertaining thoughts he knew were preposterous, doing things he knew were risky and unprofessional. But as soon as he was away from her, back in the real world, he came down to earth with a bump. Gabrielle’s words had been so cutting, her tone so full of scorn, that he couldn’t help but reflect on his recent actions with embarrassment. She was right, he had been foolish, reckless, indulgent.
Yet could he hand on heart say that Kassie was lying? Playing him? Her description of the murders had been detailed and affecting and her performance under hypnosis appeared genuine. Normally he would have marked her down as suffering from some form of delusional psychosis, but she had accurately predicted Rochelle’s death. Which meant that she was either involved in the killings or knew something about the perpetrator and was involving Adam as … what exactly? A diversion? A fig leaf? During their session today, he had wondered for one crazy moment whether the woman whose laughter Kassie had heard was actually Kassie herself, that she was somehow mentally repackaging her involvement in these murders, leading Adam towards the heart of this riddle in her own twisted, roundabout way? This explanation of events was not fully satisfactory either, however – he had never encountered a fugue state this deep before and he
was pretty sure she wasn’t acting. Then again, the only other possibility was that Kassie’s gift was real, which was impossible.
Looking down, Adam noticed that his glass was empty again, even though he had no recollection of finishing it. Even the most mundane actions seemed to have taken on a surreal quality these days, leaving him barely able to function. What should he do for the best? Carry on drinking or head home to Faith? Call Kassie to alert her to the police’s suspicions or cut her off for good? For the first time ever, Adam Brandt genuinely had no idea what to do.
It was at times like this that he missed his father. Throughout Adam’s life, his father had been a source of guidance. He was a man with rigid views, a strong sense of personal morality and a strong, decisive nature. Tonight, hunched over an empty beer glass in a down-at-heel bar, Adam felt a pale imitation of him.
74
The smell was overpowering. As they levered open the reinforced, metal door, the acrid aroma hit her. It was sharp, industrial, nauseating. Slipping a mask over her mouth and nose, Gabrielle turned to check that Miller was ready. The pair of them looked faintly ridiculous, dressed up in forensic suits and shoe coverings, while clutching flashlights and firearms, but there was no alternative. If this was the kill site, they needed to preserve it, but they also needed to protect themselves. Gabrielle didn’t expect anyone to be inside – the place looked cold and lifeless – but it wouldn’t do to take any chances, especially with a junior officer in tow.
‘On the count of three. One, two, three –’
Gabrielle pushed inside, flashlight on full, gun raised. Movement to her left made her turn, but it was just a shadow dancing on the wall. They pressed on, Gabrielle scoping the left-hand corner, while Miller covered their right flank. They prowled forward, eyes searching the darkened trailer for signs of life. But there was nobody here – the place was echoing and empty, save for a pile of cleaning aids and machinery in the far corner.