“What the hell?” The detective stared at the mess on the floor, not having recognized Clare in her disguise. She kept her head down.
“We'll need his clothes as evidence,” Helen advised.
The ARC agents donned latex gloves, peeling the outer garment from the janitor. Underneath his vest and boxer shorts were blood-stained. Clare turned away as they stripped the man of all decency as well as clothing, only turning back once she was sure he had donned the two-piece orange prison uniform provided. He looked undaunted by the treatment. In fact to Clare he appeared expectant, holding his cuffed hands out toward Caruso.
“No. Not this time,” Caruso said, not making a move toward the man.
Not the expected acquiescence. The janitor's eyes hardened. “The Captain… my cousin…”
“Will be informed in due course,” Clare said aloud, causing Caruso to turn and stare at her as if seeing her there for the first time. “We already have you linked to him by DNA results. It's only a matter of time until crime scene evidence is re-examined to link him further. Tell me, where have you been the last few days? Holden, perhaps?”
“You…” Caruso pulled his gun on her. “You're under arrest…”
“Oh Mike, don't be an idiot.” Tina reached out and pushed his gun down. “You know as well as anybody what's going on here. The fact that you addressed him the way you did speaks volumes about whether you're implicated.”
Caruso frowned, holstering his weapon. “You think it ends with this? He's done this before though not for about ten years. Last time I was there to conceal him. Looks like this time he's not so lucky.”
The hardened eyes of the janitor filled with rage and he leapt at Caruso, hands clawed.
Caruso stepped to one side, knocking the man down on his face where several officers pounced on him. The tide was turning.
“Wait,” Clare cried, “stop it. Show me his arm.”
One of her colleagues stepped back, revealing the elaborate tattoo on his right forearm. Inked blue and white, it appeared to be letters in a foreign language.
“I can't read it,” Tina said, stooping to stare at the pinioned arm.
“I doubt anybody here could. It's South American, derived from the Incan language. It means 'Viruñas'.”
“How do you know this?” Caruso asked.
“Research, detective. There's a monster out there draining people dry, and this guy's hacking up the corpses for his own sick pleasure.”
Caruso looked at her like she was mad. “These are murders, plain and simple. There's a killer out there. A man.”
“Mike, stop kidding yourself,” Tina urged. “You've worked for Harley long enough. What Clare says is true.” Tina spoke loud enough so the growing crowd could hear. “The samples are a matter of public record, certified by our own forensics team. You're all welcome to examine them.”
“So it comes back to you,” Clare said to the janitor. “What are you: Some kind of freakish ghoul? A Viruñas wannabe? His personal wet-nurse, cleaning up his leavings?”
“All of the above,” he responded, his eyes still passionate. Whatever this man's problems were, a fierce belief shone from his face. “He's promised me eternal glory if I but serve him.” He cackled. “My cousin too; we serve at his behest.”
“I think you can put him in a cell now,” Tina decided. “We need to pay the captain a visit.”
At the back of the crowd, a detective, one of Harley's from what Clare could recall, began to back away toward the stairwell. “Stop that man!” she shouted.
Several of those nearest turned to pursue him, only to find that as soon as he reached the stairwell, he was forced back in; two more ARC agents, automatic rifles raised and aimed at his head, followed him through.
“This situation is contained, Dr. Rosser. You'd best go give the captain the good news before the word spreads.”
Mute, Clare nodded. Had she won?
Her heart still pounding, nerves shattered, Clare stumbled away from the scene, pulling herself up the stairs, her failing body resisting with pain. Her legs were burning by the time she had climbed to the office level. Her heart felt ready to give out. Please, not yet.
Feigning a strength she lacked, Clare strode down the hallway. Those that recognized her despite the boiler suit stood back; her two ARC agents were close behind and they were not to be messed with. Not this night.
Throwing the door to his office open, Clare stormed inside, the anger she felt at such a desecration overriding her natural cautious nature. The door crashed against the wall, the noise hurting her ears, and closed on the rebound.
“What the hell do you think you're doing, man?” Harley asked, the shock in his voice betraying his ire at the intrusion. He placed the phone back in its cradle.
He hadn't recognized her. She removed the baseball cap and threw it onto his desk. “I might ask you the same question,” Clare retorted. “Did you think that you could carry on covering your tracks for all this time and nobody would notice? Or did you seriously believe that the people in this station, this city, even this county would remain blind to the facts?” Clare wanted to throw it all in his face before he had a chance to gather his wits. You sly sonofabitch; How dare you. How DARE you abuse the trust of those that rely on you as a leader?
Harley leaned back, dispassionate, his face hiding any surprise. “Well, well, well… I think the only fact here, Miss Rosser, is that you have overstepped the mark for the last time. I know about the FBI file.”
Clare stared at him and just for a moment the captain began to sneer. This inflamed her more. She balled a fist. The best defense was a good offense. “Congratulations. I know about Detective Logan. I've been to Ashby, and despite your puppet captain's best efforts, I got to the truth. I know about the connection to the janitor, your cousin. The detestable individual who dismembered those kids, accounted for my parents, and just spilled somebody else's guts on the floor downstairs. Logan knew this too, but he's not in a position to tell the tale. I have proof that will attest to all of this.”
Clare gauged the captain's response as she delivered this blow. She was in her element now and he was getting angrier by the second. You come at me and you have nothing. Logic is cold. Merciless. Absolute. She licked her lips, feeling the dry skin cracking under her tongue; she was so thirsty, so tired. Some things were more important than health. A resolution required resolve. The cold lucidity of facts fought inside her with the tight knot of anger she maintained. The best combination was a balance of both.
The captain stood, stepping round his desk with the confidence of a predator stalking trapped prey. He was a good six inches taller than her, an imposing man to stand off against despite his age and burgeoning weight. Harley leaned over her, his mouth by her ear. She could smell the stale reek of sweat, the soured cologne. His muscles were taut, straining to reach for her. He was afraid.
“You listen to me, you insignificant little bitch. You will hand over the folder regarding your parents, now. You will give me any evidence you believe pertains to the link between my cousin and I, as well as all documentation you have on Logan. If you do not, I won't turn you over to the Feds. I have a select group of friends who will make your sterile lab downstairs seem like a five star palace compared to the pit in which you will end up. And you won't be alone. They will violate you in every way known to man and a few more that are not. They will keep you alive, suffering until you no longer remember who you are, only that pain is your only comfort and oblivion is denied you. That is my promise. Now give me those files.”
Clare's heart thumped in her chest. The pressure Harley's intimidation put on her threatened to make her lose control and pee herself. “You make a good argument,” she conceded, stepping back.
Harley stepped after, backing her into the one corner of his office where there were no windows. She had heard tales of this office and the spurious reasons Harley had never moved to better quarters more befitting his rank. If she wasn't careful, Clare was going to bec
ome one of those tales. Just try it, she dared him.
“The files…”
“…are not here. You honestly think I would risk myself by bringing them to your office? Your cousin is downstairs surrounded by the body parts he pillaged from the morgue. Sooner or later someone down there is going to wonder why their vaunted captain isn't making it his concern.”
There it was; the killer blow. Her opponent flinched as his mind processed the information. Harley punched the wall beside her head, his fist smashing straight through the plasterboard to the bricks behind.
Clare covered her mouth from the dust. “You might want to watch that temper. The files are safe. You touch me at all, and they go where you can't. I would get used to tight quarters, Andrew.”
Harley smiled, tipping his face so he could stare down her blouse. She felt the warmth of his breath, the eagerness of his hands to touch her.
“You are turning into a scrawny little wretch but I'll still make use of you.” He turned to leave; her bluff had failed and the captain knew it. “Your files are exactly where you stored them, in the detachable drawer base in your office. Don't for a second think that I don't know every single thing that goes on in my precinct.”
I'm counting on it.
Outside the office there was a commotion, many bodies pressed together in the narrow corridor, dark uniforms blocking the rare gap Harley had allowed in his window blinds. With a satisfied smile at her, Harley reached for the door, stepping back as it was opened for him. Satisfaction turned to confusion. “Chief Goldsmith…”
“Mr Harley,” an elderly gentleman walked into the room. His stooped frame held ample sagging skin, enough to show that this man was once full of vigour and vitality in his younger days. The old chief had been big and strong, a real leader among men. He had been a legend. Even in his current state, wearing a Worcester P.D. baseball cap and a green and white polo shirt, he was still a force to be reckoned with. Keen blue eyes shone out from beneath shaggy white eyebrows, the goatee on his chin just as snowy. Behind him several officers waited. For the first time in her life, Clare saw real doubt on the face of the captain.
“Mister?”
“That's right.”
“What are you doing here?”
The chief nodded at Clare, who smiled in response. He perched on the edge of the desk as if standing were too much effort and pointed at Harley. “I'm removing you from your position, Andrew. It's come to my attention that your endeavours in this department no longer align with what we stand for. I have the authority to remove you should I see fit to do so.”
“Stan, you can't do this,” Harley hissed.
“I am doing this, Andrew. Don't make it any harder than it has to be.”
“I get a board of review. Due process requires that I…”
“We're leaving the board of review and your cronies out of this one, son. You're being placed under arrest.”
Harley's eyes narrowed. “On what charge?”
The chief shrugged. “Larceny, corruption, homicide. Take your pick. Cuff him.”
Two officers Clare had never seen before entered the room. They were outsiders; untouched by the sour taint of Harley's push for power.
With rapid jerks of his head, Harley frowned, looking like he sought an escape, but his own trap of an office held him now and the chief had positioned himself right where Harley's gun sat on the desk. There was no way out. Harley turned back to Clare, raising his hands.
“Don't, sir.”
Harley paused, his head turning even as he reached for her, hands murderous, ready to squeeze the life from her. One of the officers pointed a gun at him; face calm, ready to fire if he even twitched.
It was at that point the resistance bled out. Harley shook his head, pushing at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. He'd been beaten and he knew it. The officers moved in and cuffed him. All the while he stared at her, his gaze very much like that of his cousin. The rage seethed under his mottled skin as the pair led him away.
Harley paused at the door. “It's a shame about your imminent illness. You should get that looked at. However, not everybody realizes the bloodwork is in fact yours, not your brother's. Your closest friend can be your worst nightmare. You're dead, you hear me? Dead!” He glared through the window at her as he was led away.
Clare stood alone with the chief in the office as the information sank in. “The janitor isn't the monster,” she said to the chief. “He's known that all along. He knows who it really is.”
“Maybe,” the old man agreed. “Young lady, even this old man can see you're not well. Why don't you get that looked at?”
Clare's phone began to ring. Several people all calling at once.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Terrick, Helen, Tina. Who to answer first? “I'd better get these, sir,” Clare said with respect to the chief.
“Please go ahead, my dear girl. You look like a woman with a lot on your mind.”
If only you knew. “Hello, Helen? Tell me you got something.”
“What else do you need from this slaughterhouse? There's enough analysis to be done down here to keep us busy 'till Judgement Day. Did you ever come across anything about your intended target being a shooter?”
“I never found anything specifically, why?”
“Are you done up there? You might want to come back down to the forensics lab, take a peek.”
The old man gave the appearance of a mother hen hovering over a fledgling brood, as if reluctant or unsure as to whether to let them free. “Nothing that can't wait, young lady,” he said with a smile.
“On my way,” Clare said and turned the phone off.
“One thing, if I may,” Chief Goldsmith said, holding his hand out to stop her. “You like this office?”
Clare stared back past the chief, at this remnant of an episode she hoped to forget. The tar stains on the walls, the grimy window, the thick, claustrophobic nature of looming walls. “No sir. I hate it. These offices should be torn down and refitted. The longer you give decay its freedom, the deeper it digs in. Sometimes a total clean out is the only way to get rid of all the vermin.” Clare smiled at the old man, who nodded thoughtfully as he digested her words, and left him alone.
She descended once again into the belly of the beast, gripping the rail in the stairwell until she felt as though her hands would cramp up. The halls were still buzzing; this was a city in chaos and work remained to be done.
“There you are,” Helen said as Clare pushed the glass door of the forensics lab open, the weight almost too much for the strength in her arms. “Let me show you what I've got.”
Helen led her over to a counter where the team had begun to sort through the evidence. Items that had already been bagged and tagged sat in a series of evidence boxes. Helen reached into the middle of the pile and pulled out a long wrapped black object with a grunt.
“You found a rifle?”
“Not just any rifle. This is a Tango fifty-one long range rifle. One the professionals use. We are talking SWAT teams. We tested the janitor for G.S.R. and he checks out. He doesn't even want to deny it. He seems sort of proud.”
“I was shot at recently,” Clare mused. “That would make all sorts of sense. Why don't we know his name?”
“It's not on any record we can find, Clare. It's like he doesn't exist.”
“I found a crime scene cleaner ID in his room labeled 'Juan Mendez',” Clare supplied. “We could ask his cousin if that's him.” Clare took the gun, the weakness in her arms causing her to unbalance as the weight of the weapon burdened her. “However I think Harley is less than likely to talk.”
She placed the rifle back amidst the bags on the desk. “There is no conclusion, it seems, only the next dead end.”
“There were also these…” Helen picked out a bag and tossed it to Clare. Clare turned the bag over in her hands, the plastic pliable enough to feel the thin brown discs inside. “Are these what I think they are?”
“We've haven't done
any more than bag them but they look like they've been cut from a cactus and dried.”
“Look up the Peyote cactus. It's a source of natural mescaline. Our janitor was a fanboy for the real killer.”
“And you're sure this is not him? It's pretty damning.”
“It's meant to be. Yet this time last night, I was face to face with the real thing.”
Clare walked over to the water dispenser and poured a cup, swallowing it in one go. It wasn't enough. She took another and a third. By the time she had a fourth cup in hand, Helen laid her arm over Clare's, preventing her downing the drink.
“The thirst just won't go away.”
“You need to get back to hospital, love.” The compassion in Helen's face was without pretence. There could be no stopping her though. It was still out there.
Hospital. Terrick.
Clare pulled her phone out. She had totally forgotten about the sheriff. He had called several times, a sequence of missed calls on the screen of her phone blotting out any sign of Tina having called. She was close by. Terrick must have wanted something real bad. Clare pressed call back.
“Where you been, girl?”
“I'm sorry, Terrick. It's gotten very busy round here. We're caught in a deluge of incident and evidence.”
“Well we got information that might just prove critical, given where you are. We've finished lookin' over the security footage. One guy did come onto the ward. He didn't leave.”
“It wasn't the janitor,” Clare said.
“I know. This guy had a blue hoodie on but he turned just for a second. It was enough for the nurse who was watchin' with me to ID him. She described him as the guy who plays and I quote 'Awesome guitar at the Lucky Dog'.”
Clare struggled to think. An innocent invitation to the open-mike night the week before gained a darker meaning. “Go on…”
“She said somethin' like Dean Ascobar. She couldn't be sure.”
Everything slammed into place. Clare's mind became totally lucid. Every memory she retained; every stolen glance at him from other women as well as her own covetous looks. The recollection hit her with a pain she wasn't prepared for. Clare dropped to her knees, spilling the phone on the floor.
The Eyes Have No Soul Page 27