She cannoned off it, but the wood split slightly around the lock. So she went at it again. And again. And on her third assault, her heavy boot went right through the door. She was marooned temporarily, almost falling over as she lost her balance, but then roughly tugging her foot back out, she reached an arm through the hole and, finding the latch, turned it quickly.
The door swung open and, as it did so, she saw a flash of movement. A large black shape passed in front of her eyes, darting away to her right. Hurrying inside, her eye was drawn not to this fleeing figure, but instead to the living room. Jan, who was tied to a chair, was staring straight back. He looked confused, stupefied even, and as Kassie took in this appalling vision, she realized why. In addition to the cuts and bruises on his body, there was now a large slit across his throat. It opened and closed hideously, as he moved his head, silently appealing for help.
She had a split second to decide and surprised herself by tearing after his attacker. She had no weapon, had come ill-prepared for a fight, but there was no way she was letting him get away this time. She reached the kitchen seconds after him, but he was already halfway out the window on to the fire escape. Desperately, Kassie threw herself across the room, managing to grab hold of his left leg, before he made it fully out. She tugged with all her might and to her surprise a large patch of cloth came off in her hand, as the trouser tore down the seam. Suddenly she was unbalanced, but so too was he, stumbling slightly back into the room before hauling himself back out again. Once more Kassie lunged and this time her fingers found flesh, as she grasped his trailing leg. Instinctively she dug her fingers in. Outside, she heard a low grunt of pain, prompting her to increase the pressure. She had him now.
His leg was flailing wildly, as he tried desperately to escape her clutches, but she could sense victory. She could hear shouting outside, the cops would surely be here any second now, then all this would be over. All she had to do was hang on. She raised her head to take in her attacker, to see if he was weakening, but she was a second too late to react to the crowbar that was swinging towards her. She barely had time to jerk her head back, before it struck her a glancing blow to the temple. Suddenly she was flying backwards across the room and a second later her head hit the floor.
Then everything went black.
129
He would keep drinking until he could no longer feel.
Adam knew it was weak of him, that it would end badly, but he didn’t care. Oblivion was calling to him and he was happy to accept the invitation.
He had no idea where he was, but that suited him fine. He had roared away from his confrontation with Kassie, his car slewing dangerously back into the traffic, but he was too wired to drive and had abandoned his vehicle a few blocks further on. Stumbling out on to the sidewalk, he had chanced upon a bar. The place was filling up with office workers, who gave him a wide berth, keen to enjoy their Happy Hour drinks in peace. Barging his way to the bar, Adam had ordered a whiskey, then another, keeping his eyes away from the mirror behind the bartenders. He had no desire to see his haunted face.
Another couple of shots followed and eventually he quit pretending, paying for the rest of the bottle upfront. It sat next to him, his only company, as both stools beside him remained resolutely empty. Ignoring the discomfort his presence was obviously causing, he set to work on the bottle, but so far it was having little effect.
Kassie’s words continued to spin round his brain, pulling him back to Faith’s studio. To that night. Mindless fool that he was, he had been slumbering nearby, but the two women had been awake, staring at each other, as Faith sketched her subject. He could see her hand faltering, could see her chin resting on her chest, could see the tears running off her nose. Annabelle, she was talking about Annabelle, and her whole body was shaking. Kassie had risen now, was trying to comfort her, placing an arm around her shoulder. But Faith would not be comforted. She wanted to know. And she believed Kassie could tell her.
‘Will I ever have a child?’
Faith’s voice was shaking, as she wiped her tears away. Her face looked ravaged, suddenly older, as it gazed up at Kassie imploringly. As if she somehow was the seat of all knowledge.
‘Will I be a mother?’
Kassie continued to comfort her, but said nothing in response.
‘Please, Kassie, I have to know …’
And now Kassie was speaking. But it wasn’t the teenage girl mouthing the words. Horrifically, it was Annabelle, her dimpled, innocent face perched on top of that gawky torso, who was speaking.
‘No, Faith, you will never be a mother …’
Roaring, Adam lashed out at this horrific image – sending his whiskey bottle crashing to the floor. Snapping out of his daydream, he realized that pretty much the whole bar was now staring at him. Unrepentant, he threw a fifty-dollar bill over the counter and stumbled to the exit. Fuck them, he thought, his only regret was that so much good whiskey had been wasted.
Barging out on to the street, he tried to shake off the nausea that his hideous daydream had provoked, but it was useless. He was sick to his soul. Because of her. She was selfish and sanctimonious, a spreader of contagion and he now bitterly regretted having let her into their lives. When Faith had invited her to stay, he should have trusted his instinct and asked her to leave. Why had he not listened to the little voice in his head? He had followed its promptings many times before now and been proved right.
This was his fault too, of course. He should have stayed home with Faith that day, he could tell she was in a strange mood. Why hadn’t he reached out to her? Why hadn’t he insisted that she tell him what was troubling her? He was tortured by the thought of her alone in that big house, while he was running around with the author of their misfortune. His beloved Faith had been alone for her last day on earth, wrapped in silence, consumed by despair. The thought of this ripped his heart out and he knew instinctively that he would never forgive himself, that he would hate himself for ever.
But not as much as he hated her.
130
She cut a strange figure in the empty room. Dressed in a paper suit, her hair piled up on top of her head, Kassie sat at the pockmarked table, tearing pieces off a polystyrene cup. She was alone and her constant rip, rip, rip was the only sound disturbing the silence.
She felt like crying – she wanted to cry, for herself, for Adam – but she couldn’t somehow. She felt utterly drained by the experience of the last few hours. She had come around in the back of an ambulance, groggy and confused. Once she’d got a handle on her bearings, once she’d recovered her breath, she was suddenly full of questions. What had happened to Jan? Had his attacker been apprehended?
The paramedics of course could tell her nothing – they were far more concerned with whether she had concussion. It was only later, once she’d been passed as fit for questioning, that she began to glean what had happened. She wasn’t questioned straight away – her fingernails were swabbed, her clothes taken away for forensic analysis – but during this grim, intrusive process, Kassie had worked out that the news was bad. The faces of the investigating officers said it all.
After that had come the interview, Kassie face to face with Gabrielle Grey, in what was increasingly taking on the feel of a recurring nightmare. Grey confirmed that Jan had not survived and that his attacker had escaped, but had offered little more than that, taking Kassie’s statement, then promptly disappearing, summoned away by an urgent phone call. Suarez, a fellow detective, was hot on her heels, leaving Kassie quite alone.
Unsure of what to do, Kassie had risen to leave, but the sight of a uniformed guard standing outside the interview room made her pause. Was she under arrest? She didn’t think so, but it was hard to tell. Gabrielle Grey had seemed less hostile, more willing to accept Kassie’s explanation for her actions this time, but if she wasn’t under arrest, then why hadn’t she said she could go? What more did they want from her?
The cup was now destroyed, lying in two dozen pieces on the table in front
of her. The sight of it filled her with a sudden sense of her powerlessness. She longed to get out of here, but what could she do? An attorney was on the way but had not yet put in an appearance. So, who else could she call for help? Her mother wouldn’t take her call, so the only other person she could phone was Adam … but contacting him was the last thing she wanted to do.
Now finally the tears came, Kassie suddenly overwhelmed by the awfulness of her predicament. Her time was nearly up, yet here she was stuck in a festering interview room, while the killer was still at liberty. Was it really possible that this had all been for nothing? That she would die a sudden, pointless death while he continued to stalk the city? The thought made Kassie sick to the stomach and she crumpled on to the dirty table, sobbing her heart out. She had tried her best, risked everything, but she had failed.
She would die knowing that it was not a question of if he would strike again, but when.
131
‘Listen up, people …’
The whole team turned to face Gabrielle. Having been ordered to attend an urgent briefing, they were curious to find out what was going on.
‘The lab has just sent over their results. They ran the skin samples … and we’ve got a name.’
A buzz of excitement rippled around the room. Everyone had been hoping that the skin cells extracted from underneath Kassie Wojcek’s fingernails would provide a concrete lead, but you could never rely on these things. If the sample was contaminated, or if the offender was not on the system, then you were likely to draw a blank.
‘Take a look at this.’
She handed a sheaf of papers to the nearest detective, gesturing to her to pass the pile on once she’d taken one herself. The single sheets had a photocopied mugshot of a round-faced, white male and underneath it the offender’s rap sheet.
‘Jan Varga’s attacker is a Joseph White, more commonly known as Joe. He’s originally from Cicero. His family still live there and Detective Suarez is with them now, but obviously our man is currently in central Chicago.’
The team were already taking in White’s ‘credentials’.
‘He has multiple convictions for trespass and public order offences. He’s a Peeping Tom. He also likes to expose himself, to intimidate people, and has been involved in a couple of fights – presumably when his victims took against him. Interestingly, he has been arrested three times on suspicion of burglary, but never charged. Given the MO of our killer, given the fact that his physical description matches the description given to us by Wojcek, I’d say this is our guy.’
A couple of officers whooped a heartfelt ‘yeah’ and there was a smattering of applause. Gabrielle held up a hand to calm them.
‘I’ve circulated his photo to all the major media outlets. We are naming him as our prime suspect and asking members of the public to be vigilant. I’ve asked for extra operators to man the hotlines – and I’m pleased to say Superintendent Hoskins has agreed to the request – so your job is to get out on the streets. Talk to community leaders, uniformed officers on the beat, shop owners, bartenders – this guy has to eat and drink, has to buy gasoline, has to take the “L”. He was in work today, but left early afternoon, presumably so he could execute his attack on Jan. He probably won’t return to work once his name is in the press, but I’m going to send a pair of you there anyway.’
Gabrielle’s phone started to buzz, but she ignored it.
‘Top priority now is to bring this guy in safely. He has little violent crime on his record, but is clearly highly dangerous and will be armed, so if you spot him, call for backup immediately. I know this is a big case, but I don’t want anyone playing the hero.’
Still her phone buzzed and looking down Gabrielle saw that it was Suarez. Immediately she broke off, snatching it up and answering the call.
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m at the family home now,’ Suarez replied down the phone, his voice hushed. ‘I think I may have an address for you.’
‘Go on,’ Gabrielle replied, turning away from the team.
‘It’s in the Lower West Side, 353 West Cullerton Street. It’s a shared house, I think, mixed tenants. I’m texting you the details now.’
‘Why there?’
‘His sister says he left it as a forwarding address. Welfare cheques for him occasionally get sent to the family home, though if you ask me the sister hasn’t been too diligent about passing them on –’
‘When did he give this address to her?’ Gabrielle interrupted.
‘Six months ago, he moves around a lot.’
‘That’s good enough for me. Stay with them, get as much as you can.’
Ending the call, she turned back to the team with a broad grin on her face.
‘Right, boys and girls, saddle up …’
The team rose, grabbing their jackets.
‘… we’ve got a killer to catch.’
132
Scowling, he stared at the flickering screen. There was no TV in the communal room downstairs – a tenant disappeared with the last one – so Joseph White had bought a portable, second-hand one, hiding it at the back of his closet in his bedroom. He’d often enjoyed watching Late Night Live after a long shift at the Phone Shack, guzzling down a four-pack of Millers and a bag of Doritos, but what he saw now did not please him at all.
His own face stared back at him – his mugshot paraded on the evening news bulletins, as the excited newsreader gave out his name, details of his previous arrests, his family history. Briefly photos of his victims – Jones, Stevens, Baines, Varga – filled the screen, before once more being replaced with his own chubby, goateed face. The fact that he had shaved his beard off, that he had been living and working under false names for months, gave him little satisfaction now. The more people – colleagues, fellow tenants – came to look at the photo, the more they would notice the features that he couldn’t change – his piercing green eyes, the distinctive mole on his right cheek, and the thin scar on his neck, the legacy of a childhood accident. They would realize, they would know, and then they would contact the authorities. The generous reward being offered by the CPD for information leading to his arrest would ensure that.
Cursing, he switched off the TV and yanked open his closet. Pulling out a battered khaki duffelbag, he started stuffing clothes into it haphazardly. Satisfied, he threw a couple of cereal bars inside, a half-drunk bottle of vodka, a map of the city and, having removed it from his rucksack, the cleaver. He had destroyed everything else he’d taken to Jan’s flat and he was tempted to ditch the weapon too, given the potential DNA residue. But he didn’t fancy marching into a store and buying a new one, facing unwanted questions, so he’d wiped it clean and kept it. He had a feeling he would be needing it again soon.
Crossing the room, he teased up a loose floorboard. In the cavity below was a roll of ten-dollar bills. It wasn’t much – a few hundred bucks that he had squirrelled away for an emergency – but it would do for the time being. Shoving it roughly into his jacket pocket, he left the room and hurried down the stairs and out the front door, leaving his temporary home for the last time without farewells or fanfare.
As soon as he stepped out into the clean, crisp air, he heard them. Sirens, distant but getting louder. Probably some traffic fatality, he thought to himself, but he didn’t dawdle, hurrying from the house and away down the street. Remembering his Cubs cap, he removed it from his jacket pocket and slid it on to his head, pulling the peak down. Right now, he wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.
The sirens were getting louder. White picked up his pace – he couldn’t break into a run, but he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the house as he could. He was right to be concerned because, as he reached the intersection, four police cars, lights flashing and sirens wailing, skidded around the corner, racing past him and away down the street. The sight made him stumble to a halt, instinctively following their progress. Thirty seconds later, they pulled up outside his house. Immediately a posse of officers jumped
out, removing their guns from their holsters, and hurried towards it.
Joseph White didn’t linger to watch the show. A couple of the other tenants were at home and might have seen him leave. It was time to be elsewhere – and fast. Breaking into a trot he hurried away down South Ashland Avenue. His heart was thumping – the sweat crawling down his back, as his eyes examined the street for signs of danger. He knew he’d just had a very lucky escape.
133
He stumbled into the room, colliding with the door frame. Off balance, he lurched to the left – for a moment he thought he might fall – then suddenly he righted himself, taking in the scene in front of him. The whiskey was clouding his vision, everything seemed fluid and shifting, so that even the small, neat room seemed unfamiliar. Stupid really – he had been in their guest room hundreds of times, making the bed for Christine on one of her visits, but today it seemed strange and elusive, as if it were deliberately trying to frustrate him.
Marching forward, he threw the trash bag on to the bed. Kassie had slept in here while she was living with them and her meagre possessions – some old clothes, a battered laptop, a Linkin Park cap – still lay on the floor. Taking in the assorted items, Adam felt a rush of rage, this evidence of her presence in their lovely home underscoring her ruinous impact on their lives. When he’d first met Kassie, he was happy, confident, hopeful. Now he had lost his career, his reputation and, worse, much worse, than that, Faith and Annabelle. How was it possible that he had fallen so fast, so quickly?
Grabbing the cap, he stuffed it into the trash bag. A pair of pants, the laptop and a torn magazine soon followed, Adam ramming them into the plastic sack with venom. He wanted Kassie out of his house, he wanted to obliterate all evidence of her existence, to pretend for a second that this terrible catastrophe hadn’t happened.
A Gift for Dying Page 32