Unleashed

by Jacob Stone

  The bull terrier looked guilty from almost abandoning Morris over nothing more than a bagel.

  “Forget it.” Morris reached down and scratched the dog behind his ear. “It happens to the best of us sometimes.”

  His mouth felt drier than it should have—no doubt from drinking too much scotch last night—and he made a quick detour to the kitchen area so he could pour himself a cup of coffee. This would be his fourth that morning, but he needed it, and he mouthed a silent prayer of thanks on finding a fresh pot waiting for him. This also meant that Bogle was already in. Every morning either he or Bogle brewed a pot of coffee, depending on who got to the office first. With a mug of black coffee in hand and Parker tagging along close enough that the dog’s thick body bumped against his legs, he continued on to Bogle’s office. No Bogle, though. He frowned at that, but stood quietly in the hallway and soon heard a low murmur coming from Adam Felger’s office. Felger worked as MBI’s computer and hacking specialist and was the lone millennial at the firm. Aside from Greta, he was also the only employee who wasn’t a former LAPD homicide detective.

  Morris knocked and opened the door to Felger’s office. Felger and Bogle were sitting by the computer in consultation. Bogle looked up and commented that it was nice of him to finally make an appearance. Parker squirmed his way past him so he could greet Bogle. The bull terrier was more standoffish with Felger.

  “You know what was even nicer of me? I brought bagels and cream cheese,” Morris said. “They’re in the conference room being guarded by Philip.”

  “You mean Hollywood.”

  Morris didn’t argue about the nickname the other MBI investigators had given Stonehedge. Instead, he commented about Felger being in early that morning. “I’m guessing Charlie roped you into this?”

  “He called me last night,” Felger acknowledged.

  “You better believe it,” Bogle said. “I had an idea that the mystery scumbag we’re looking for wanted Grace for nefarious purposes, so I called Computer Boy and asked him to come in so he could help me look for any unsolved crimes in the area that might’ve been committed by Mr. Scumbag with the wolf’s-face tattoo and Grace.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Not yet. We were just about to expand our search to Long Beach and San Diego.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Morris agreed. “I’ll leave you two to keep searching. Feel free to grab some bagels. Maybe Philip and I will drive around Inglewood and see if we can locate the bar where Grace met this guy.”

  That got Felger’s attention. “What do you know about the place?” he asked.

  “Roughly four miles from LAX. Exterior painted black, name of the bar in gold letters.”

  “Let me see if I can save you some wear and tear on your car.”

  Felger brought Google Earth up on his computer. He used another window to create a list of bars in Inglewood, and soon had them entered into a spreadsheet and sorted by their distances to LAX. After that, he went back to Google Earth and used its street view to visit these bars, starting with the ones four miles from LAX. Using this method, he found one named the High Spot Lounge in less than five minutes that matched the description he was given.

  “Impressive,” Morris admitted. “I need to be paying you more.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly,” Felger said.

  Bogle suggested that it was as good a time as any to take a bagel break. All of them headed over to the conference room, with Parker taking the lead. They found Stonehedge and Dennis Polk waiting for them inside. Polk had sliced two bagels in half and was spreading them with cream cheese. Morris was surprised to see Polk in the office. He was supposed to be out that day working on an insurance-fraud case. Morris asked his investigator about it.

  “What can I say?” Polk said. “I left some paperwork on my desk that I needed. And lo and behold, look what I found.”

  “Bull,” Bogle said. “Wherever you were, you smelled the bagels and came running.”

  “Nah, that can’t be right,” Polk deadpanned. “I don’t have a sniffer like that moocher,” he said, ignoring Parker’s best efforts to mooch a piece of bagel from him. “But who knows, I might have a sixth sense when it comes to tasty food. That could be what sent me here, at least subconsciously.”

  Morris was thinking about how to best word a crack along the lines of how moochers should be careful about throwing stones at glass houses, when his cell phone rang. Doug Gilman. He’d been planning to call Gilman after the news Rachel had dropped on him and Nat, thinking he’d ask his future son-in-law to join him after work for some drinks. That had been his intention, anyway, but searching for Grace Warren yesterday had kept him off-balance. He stepped out of the conference room so he could have some privacy when he answered the call.

  “Doug, I’ve been meaning to call you—”

  Gilman’s voice held a cold formality to it when he cut Morris off and told him he’d been planning to call also. Morris had heard this tone from Gilman several times before, and so he was expecting it when Gilman informed him he was calling in an official capacity.

  “Detective Walsh told me she picked up a bad homicide,” Morris said. “A woman who was murdered in Marina del Rey. Is this related?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. We now have a second victim. Or a third. Or you could say a fourth, depending on how you look at it. And to call it bad doesn’t do it justice. What was done to these women is beyond sickening.”

  “Doug, you’re doing a good job confusing me. Were two women murdered, or were there more?”

  “Two women were tortured and butchered, but there are other victims, one of which is expected to make a recovery; the other might not. The mayor wants you and MBI to take charge of the investigation. I’ll explain everything after you sign the NDA. Can we count on you?”

  “Is Hadley onboard?”

  “He is.”

  Morris knew some arm-twisting must’ve been needed to get Hadley’s approval. Maybe not that much, though. While Hadley would hate the idea of seeing Morris involved, he was first and foremost a shrewd political animal. If these murders were as bad as Gilman was suggesting, Hadley would want the cover that Morris and MBI could provide.

  Morris said, “Tell me where you need me.”

  Gilman gave Morris the Echo Park address where the latest murder occurred.

  Chapter 26

  Morris found Doug Gilman sitting on the curb four houses away from the Campbell residence. The mayor’s deputy assistant was a good-looking man who could easily be mistaken for a Hollywood star, given his bronze tan, perfect head of hair, chiseled features, and slim, fit physique, but at that moment he was looking green around the gills and his face was shiny with perspiration. He looked shaky when he got to his feet so he could offer Morris his hand. Morris took hold of him by the elbow to make sure he didn’t fall.

  “Are you okay, Doug?” Morris asked. “There’s no shame in lying down if you’re not feeling well.”

  “It got to me in there,” Gilman admitted. He made a face and gritted his teeth. “But I’m not going to lie down out here and be a joke to the police.”

  “Let’s get you to your car, at least.”

  Morris took Gilman’s briefcase and walked him back to his car, holding Gilman’s arm so the man wouldn’t fall. Gilman nearly collapsed onto the driver’s seat. He leaned forward, holding his head in his hands.

  “You really should lie down,” Morris said, concerned.

  “I’ll be okay. I just need a minute.”

  Morris wished he had brought a bottle of water with him. He searched the inside of the car, but didn’t find any. When he popped open the trunk he found a cooler that held, among other things, bottles of organic coconut water. Morris brought one of these to Gilman, who greedily emptied it. His color quickly improved.

  “This is so damned embarrassing,” he said. “What you must think of me marrying R
achel.”

  Morris clapped him on the shoulder. “What I know is that you’re a good man who’ll be treating my daughter right and making her happy.”

  Gilman clenched his jaw. “I guess Rachel’s tough enough for the both of us,” he said.

  “That she is.”

  He stared straight ahead, almost like he was ashamed to look at Morris. He said, “Please don’t tell Rachel or Natalie about this.”

  “Tell them about what?” Morris said, as if he had no idea what Gilman was talking about.

  The mayor’s deputy assistant looked relieved. He dug through his briefcase for the NDA. Morris was surprised he still needed to sign these forms, since he and the rest of the MBI staff had been deputized, but he didn’t see any point in arguing with City Hall. He put his John Hancock on the bottom of the NDA, and took extra copies for MBI employees who might get involved in the investigation. At this point, Gilman was looking more like his old self.

  “I’m sure when you see what was done to Meagan Campbell you’re going to want to take this on,” Gilman said. He frowned as he checked the time. “I’m scheduling a press conference for noon. Call me before then to let me know what needs to be held back and what I should emphasize.”

  Morris was glad to see the more confident Doug Gilman back. He told him he’d do exactly that, even though he hadn’t fully committed in his mind to taking the case. He’d been happy over the last six months not having to think about catching depraved serial killers, and he wasn’t sure he was willing to dive back into that blood-drenched pool even though he now had Nat’s blessing to do so.

  Satisfied that Gilman was no longer on the verge of passing out, he gave his future son-in-law a good-natured pat on the shoulder and left the car. He called Annie Walsh on his way back to the prototypical California-style ranch home where Meagan Campbell was murdered. Earlier he had spotted Walsh’s car and also Roger Smichen’s, who was Los Angeles County’s chief medical examiner. Walsh answered on the first ring.

  “I’m walking to the house now,” Morris told her.

  “You’ll need to go in through the side entrance. I’ll meet you there.”

  “What do we have?”

  Morris heard her on the move as she told him that Meagan Campbell was stabbed and cut over a hundred times and that her husband was found at the scene unresponsive with severe head injuries. “The psycho used a club on him and mutilated her,” she said, her voice low and angry. “He cut off both nipples, her nose, one ear, and cut deep grooves into her face like he was carving a pumpkin for Halloween. Roger’s here and he believes cause of death was from heart failure due to a combination of shock and low blood pressure.”

  “Is this the same as you saw at Marina del Rey?”

  “With the female victim, yeah. Her fiancé was struck once in the head with a club and kicked in the jaw. He suffered a severe concussion, but that was the extent of his injuries. At least his physical ones.”

  An olive tree covered the right side of the Campbells’ home, and that kept Morris from seeing Walsh until he climbed six of the steps leading to the front door. She waved to him. He waved back. When he got to the top of the stairs, he followed the pathway to the side door. Walsh, with a hard grin, asked where his better half was.

  Morris was confused by that. “Natalie?” he asked.

  “Your other better half. The handsome devil with four legs and a tail.”

  “Handsome is right. Devil also, at least at times. Parker’s back at MBI.”

  Walsh seemed to have reached her limit for chitchat. She told Morris that the attack started at the front entranceway, and she’d walk him through it. They both slipped on paper shoe covers before entering the house.

  Chapter 27

  The side door led into a great room decorated with sectionals, built-in bookshelves, a large, flat-screen TV on a wall, and a portable bar in the corner of the room. Inside the house, a small mob of crime-scene technicians dusted for prints and vacuumed the carpet for hairs and other debris. Morris spotted a technician he knew from his time on the force and nodded to her. He also nodded to Roger Smichen, who was standing by the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest and an exceptionally dour look creasing his face. Morris soon understood why Smichen was on break. A thick-bodied police photographer had taken over the murder scene. As the man shot photos, he also blocked Morris’s view of the victim.

  Roger Smichen was a tall, cadaverous-looking man with a head as bald as an egg. Since Morris had last seen him, the coroner had grown a wispy white beard, and if his beard were longer, he might’ve looked like a wizard from Lord of the Rings. Smichen joined Morris and Walsh. He was never one for the custom of shaking hands and this time was no exception. Morris never took it personally.

  “Morris, I’d say it was a pleasure if the circumstances were different.”

  “Same here, Roger.”

  “This was a brutal one. A true sadist at work. I’ll go over it with you once the photographer is done in there.”

  “I’d like to say I’ll be looking forward to it, but I don’t think that will be the case.”

  Smichen’s expression grew more morose. “No sane person will want to see what I’ll be showing you,” he agreed.

  Morris and Walsh left him to continue on to the front door. On the carpet was a fist-sized bloodstain, almost as if someone had spat out a mouthful of blood. The stain looked congealed, tacky, as if it would be damp to the touch.

  Morris squinted at five small pieces of police tape, three of which were inside the blood splatter and two within inches of it. He asked, “Let me guess: Those are to show where teeth were found?”

  “Yep. Five teeth were knocked out of George Campbell’s mouth.”

  Walsh touched her two top front teeth and then three of her bottom incisors to indicate which teeth Campbell lost. “The medical personnel who examined him claimed he was struck with a great deal of force here and here.” She pointed under her chin and then to her left cheek. “Forensics are certain that he must’ve been struck under the chin when he was facing the door.”

  Morris said, “Because of the way the blood splattered.”

  “Also because there’s no blood on this wall,” Walsh said, indicating the wall to their right.

  “So the perp is at the door and when Campbell opens it, the perp surprises him, swinging a club upward. A leather sap?”

  “It could be. The striking surface is smooth and could be leather. It could also be iron or wood. All we know for sure is it packs a wallop and the blow not only knocked out teeth but demolished his jaw.”

  Morris raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, demolished his jaw?”

  “Four breaks and numerous fractures. His jaw is a mess.”

  Morris grimaced at the thought of that and absently massaged his own jaw. “Is he down for the count at this point, or is this where he was struck a second time?”

  “The second blow happened in the kitchen, so he’s probably out cold here. The hospital is going to test for elevated liver enzymes to see if smelling salts were used to wake him up, but I think we can assume that was done. So after the perp dispatches with Campbell, he chases down the wife and incapacitates her.”

  Walsh led Morris to a bathroom off to the left of the main hallway. Another piece of police tape was attached to the carpet outside the bathroom.

  “That tape marks where crime-scene techs found recently dried saliva. Meagan Campbell must’ve been trying to get to the bathroom to lock herself inside, but the perp struck her from behind, breaking her right collarbone. The same thing happened with the first victim. Crime-scene techs were able to tell from marks in the carpeting that he must’ve grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her into the kitchen. He did the same with the husband. And this is exactly what he did to the first victims.”

  “Also breaking the woman’s collarbone?”

  “Yep
.”

  Walsh led Morris back to the kitchen. The police photographer was done documenting the murder scene, but Roger Smichen still stood off to the side, looking exceedingly glum. He joined them as Walsh explained what happened inside the kitchen and how the husband had been duct-taped to the chair opposite Meagan and forced to watch as his wife was tortured.

  With the photographer gone, Morris was able to get a good look at the victim and it sickened him to see what was done to her. She was only twenty-seven. He had spotted a wedding photo earlier where she looked just a year or two older than Rachel. A beautiful young woman whom the killer had reduced to a grotesque mockery.

  Morris asked, “Is this the same or worse than the first killing?”

  Smichen said, “They were disfigured in the same way, but overall this one was worse. The first victim suffered ninety-three cuts and stab wounds. This one endured a hundred-and-twenty-two, if my counting’s correct.”

  Morris picked up on his use of the word endured. “None of the wounds were done postmortem?”

  “From my preliminary examination, no. I’ll be able to answer that more definitively after the autopsy. It appears that the killer repeatedly cut and stabbed her until her heart stopped working, partially from shock, and partially from a loss of blood contributing to a lower blood pressure. As vicious as these two killings were, none of the wounds by themselves appear to be fatal.”

  “Do you know what type of knife was used?”

  “We have a good idea,” Walsh said. “A carving knife is missing from a knife set that the first victim received as an engagement present.”

  Morris felt a coldness deep in the back of his skull, almost as if ice was pressed against the bone. “The first victim was engaged?” he asked, his voice sounding distant to his ears.

  “They’d just gotten back from their engagement party,” Walsh said angrily.

  Smichen offered, “The coroner’s office tracked down that same knife set, and the wounds on the first victim are consistent with the missing knife. These wounds look similar. A six-inch blade. Thin. Very sharp. Solidly constructed.”