by James Hunt
Cooper started the engine and shifted into reverse. “If they haven’t, then they certainly did their research.” Mud flung from the wheels as Cooper hit the gas, backing into the road. She shifted into drive and peeled out on the wet asphalt of Highway 86.
The trip took thirty minutes, and the trek across town revealed a more-detailed account of the storm’s damage. They passed debris-shattered store windows, downed power lines, felled trees, and flooded streets. But while the rest of the city may have experienced the wrath of the storm, the condition of William Barnesby’s neighborhood looked as though the storm had never happened. The landscaping trucks that lined the streets and the dozens of workers in the yards had restored the estates to their immaculate condition before the rest of the city could turn the traffic lights back on.
Barnesby’s address wasn’t a zip code Cooper found herself in very often, though she knew the area by reputation. The city’s titans of industries, politicians, and other wealthy individuals inhabited this particular neighborhood, and her annual salary was what most of those people paid in income taxes every year.
The community was gated, and the large marble columns that rose high on either side of the wrought-iron gates at the entrance set the precedent of grandeur the neighborhood offered. Massive two-story homes sprawled across luscious green estates. Brand-new luxury cars, shining under the afternoon sun, lined the driveways. Though the community was gated, most of the properties had their own fences that shielded their homes from unwanted guests. A few had video monitors that added a higher level of security.
Hart kept his head on a swivel, glancing between the different castles on either side of the street, intoxicated by the wealth and grandeur. “How much money do you think these people have?”
Cooper narrowed her eyes as she read the small numbers that lined the gates and stone columns as they drew closer to Barnesby’s address. “Enough to get away with anything they wanted to do.” Three-three-five finally came into view on the left-hand side, and Cooper pulled into the driveway, the gate already open.
“It doesn’t look like Mr. Barnesby’s failing storage unit is giving him too much financial trouble,” Hart said, whistling as he glanced out the windows. The perimeter of the property was encased with neatly trimmed hedges that neared six feet in height, and freshly cut grass comprised the open fields right up to the driveway, which ended at a sprawling three-story mansion with a garage bigger than most four-person homes.
“Or he’s just really good at hiding it.” Cooper circled around the fountain centered in the middle of the driveway in front of the house and stopped behind the red Mercedes parked near the front door. She tilted her head up, nearly throwing her neck out to look all the way to the top of the house. “Very good at hiding it.”
Cooper knocked on the door, and she heard a woman’s muffled scream. Hart hesitated a moment, but Cooper reached for her pistol. “Head around back, make sure no one makes a run for it.” Hart nodded and sprinted around the left corner of the house, keeping low past the windows. Cooper reached for the door, which was unlocked, and stepped inside. She padded softly along the marbled tile, the end of her pistol scanning the massive foyer that led to a winding staircase up to the second and third floors.
Another scream brought the aim of Cooper’s gun up the staircase, and she hurried up the steps, reaching for her radio on the way up. “Hart, the screams are coming from the second floor. Secure the back door.” One more shriek echoed through the vaulted ceiling of the mansion, this one followed by the low grunts of a man.
Closed doors and paintings hanging in golden portrait frames lined the hallway as Cooper rushed toward the hysterics, the screams growing louder on her pursuit. She kept the pistol elevated, her knuckles white against the black grips. Without hesitation Cooper reached for the handle and shoulder checked the door open, her finger on the trigger, the adrenaline coursing through her veins reddening her cheeks. “Baltimore PD! Freeze!”
The woman, bent over on the bed and with her skirt down around her ankles, gave another bloodcurdling shriek that was louder than any of the cries prior, while the man behind her, his pants also around his ankles, fell backward, his manhood flinging with him as he crashed to the floor. “Jesus Christ!”
Cooper exhaled and lowered her weapon while the two individuals scrambled to cover themselves. Hart burst into the room, pistol aimed, which he quickly lowered at the sight of Cooper’s holstered weapon. He looked at the scene and connected the dots as he holstered his own weapon, then looked to Cooper and grinned. “I guess we should have called first after all.”
***
Once they were clothed, Cooper brought Mr. Barnesby down to the kitchen, while Hart questioned the woman in the living room. If there were a magazine for how the wealthy aged with the help of modern science, then William Barnesby would be the cover model. At fifty-six he was in better shape than most twenty-somethings at the station. His hair was cropped short, with the perfect amount of grey peppered into his streaks of black that gave him the Clooney look so many younger women found attractive. He didn’t wear much jewelry, which he made up for with his clothes. Everything was tailored, and everything was designer brand. Despite the early morning, he reached for a crystal bottle filled with liquor and poured himself a drink. “I’d offer you one, Detective, but I know it’s against the law for you to drink on the job.” He smiled, sipping from a matching crystal glass.
“You’d be surprised at what I can get away with, Mr. Barnesby.” Cooper drummed her fingers on the granite countertops and cocked her head to the side. “You’re the owner of the Baltimore storage facility located on Highway 86, correct?”
Barnesby winced, though she wasn’t sure if it was from her question or the liquor. “Owner is a loose term. I bought it, but I haven’t done anything with it in years. It was my ex-wife that purchased the property while we were still together. Though it’s been nothing but a money pit. Not to say that it hasn’t pleased her.” He took another sip and set the glass down. “Do you have a warrant for this intrusion, Detective?”
“A woman escaped from that storage facility early this morning. She told our officers that she was being held there against her will. We searched the compound an hour ago and found a dead body in one of the units. Legally speaking we would call that probable cause.”
Barnesby’s cheeks flushed red. He drained the rest of the whiskey and set it down. “That fucking bitch!” He slammed his fist on the table, the force hard enough to knock the crystal glass to the floor, where it shattered. One of the broken pieces landed on his bare foot, and he jumped back, careful not to step on the shards. “Shit. Margaret!”
A few moments later the woman from earlier hurried from the living room, with Hart close behind. Barnesby pointed to the mess on the floor, and their “relationship” became clear. “Clean that up.” The maid was brown skinned, had thick black hair, and was young and voluptuous. Judging by the way she clumsily handled the dust pan and broom, she was hired for her other more attractive qualities.
With the woman cleaning up the mess and Barnesby fuming, Cooper tried redirecting the line of questioning to him while he was frazzled. “Have you done any recent development on the property?”
Barnesby massaged his forehead while circling the kitchen’s island. “No—well, yes. I fired the real estate agent that hadn’t done anything with the property since it shut down, and the new guy recommended we give it some curb appeal. Some landscaping, new paint job, that kind of thing.”
“Any upgrades to the property’s security?” Hart asked.
Barnesby looked at him as though he were an idiot. “It’s a fucking storage facility, not Fort Knox. Hell, I still haven’t been able to get rid of the shit people left behind!” He kicked the wooden paneling of the kitchen island and cursed under his breath. “Christ, I bet that bitch is laughing her ass off right now.”
“Have you had any buyers interested in the property?” Cooper asked. “Anyone that has stopped by to ta
ke a look?”
“I don’t know.” Barnesby thrust his hands up in the air then reached for his phone, ignoring both Cooper and Hart as he dialed. The maid finished scraping up the shards and sheepishly dumped them in the trash. Barnesby walked to the living room, leaving Cooper and Hart alone in the kitchen, though remained loud enough so the whole neighborhood could hear him. “Yeah, there’s a problem with the storage property… Well, that’s why I’m calling you now… I don’t care what they’re doing. When I pay a million-dollar retainer they come to me when I tell them to! Now get it done!” He stormed back into the kitchen, his demeanor significantly changed from earlier.
“Mr. Barnesby, when was the last time you visited your property on highway 86?” Cooper asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Can you account for your whereabouts last night?”
Barnesby took a few slow steps forward. His height gave him at least a foot on Cooper, and she felt Hart inch closer to her side. He tilted his head to the left and smiled. “I was here. Fucking my maid.”
The comment caused the woman to blush, and she lowered her head, taking a step back, trying to absorb herself through the wall. Hart stepped forward with one hand on the grip of his service pistol. “Mr. Barnesby, I need you to calm down.”
“Calm down? Someone was fucking murdered on my property! Do you know what kind of nightmare this is going to cause me?” He slammed his fist into the table again and rattled the salt and pepper shakers.
Cooper stepped around the corner of the island and maneuvered between Hart and Barnesby. “I’m going to need to speak with everyone who had access to that facility over the past three months. And I want it today.”
After a few mumbled curses, Barnesby finally backed down. He reached for his phone once more and dialed a number. “Susan, I need you to coordinate with the Baltimore Police in any of their requests. They’ll be in touch with you soon.” He hung up without further explanation and slid a business card across the slick kitchen counter. “My secretary will give you what you need to know. Now, if you don’t have a warrant, I suggest you get the hell out of my house.”
Hart picked up the card, and he and Cooper let themselves out. Once in the car Cooper slammed the door shut and tightened her grip around the steering wheel, stewing in silence. Hart turned over the business card then pulled out his phone and dialed the secretary’s number. After a brief conversation he hung up and pocketed the card. “She’s going to email us the list later this afternoon once she’s compiled all the names.”
“After she runs it by her boss first.” Cooper stretched her neck, trying to loosen her nerves. She exhaled and took a look at the time. “The body will have arrived at the morgue by now. Let’s go see what the doctor has to say about our Jane Doe.”
Chapter 4
When Cooper pulled up to the hospital and got out of the car, she was halfway to the entrance when she realized she was alone. She looked back and saw that Hart was still in the passenger seat, his head down and rubbing his temples. She walked back and pounded on his window. He rolled it down but didn’t look up. “What are you doing?”
Hart shook his head. “Look, I know this is all part of the job, and trust me when I tell you that I am not the squeamish type.”
Cooper raised an eyebrow. “Clearly.”
When he finally lifted his head his cheeks were pale, and he looked far younger than his age suggested. “I’ll get used to it. But I don’t know if I can see that body again.” He looked back down to his feet, and he gagged.
Cooper leaned in the window and unlocked the back door, pulling her laptop out of the bag and handing it to Hart. “Why don’t you do some research on any convicts who’ve recently violated their parole? Look for offenders of violent crimes, specifically for rape of younger women. That’ll be a good starting point.”
Hart nodded. “I’ll see what I can find.”
Cooper clapped his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You do realize, though, that you’re going to see more of this. I’d like to say it gets better, but it doesn’t. If you can’t thicken that skin of yours, you won’t last.” And with that she left Hart to his research and walked inside the hospital. He’ll transfer out within the week.
The chrome of the table shone under the fluorescent lighting, and the sterile stench of death filled the room. The coroner retrieved the body, which looked much more peaceful with the white sheet over it, hiding the hideous wound that destroyed the victim’s face.
Doctor Hathaway had been the mortician at Baltimore General for twenty years, and it was Cooper’s longest friendship, though it was a term she made sure to use loosely around the doctor. He was an odd man, with skin nearly as pale as the dead he examined. His hairline had virtually disappeared, and the large coke-bottle glasses that magnified his eyes along with his thin frame made him look more insect than man. “The cause of death was from the object that bludgeoned her skull, and the time of death was somewhere between four and six o’clock this morning. The victim is in her late twenties, Caucasian. Early tests show no sign of any diseases or genetic abnormalities. The deceased was healthy.” Hathaway circled the body, continuing his rhetoric. “Most of the bone and brain matter was unsalvageable, though I did find light traces of iron and lead on some of the remaining tissue, which could have been from the murder weapon. The clothes weren’t hers. In fact, they were child sized. I managed to pull some fibers off and sent them in to be analyzed for DNA, along with the rape kit, but upon preliminary analysis there didn’t seem to be any signs of a forced sexual activity.”
“She wasn’t raped?” Cooper asked.
Hathaway pointed to the victim’s thighs and pelvis. “The tests will give us a better indication, but I didn’t find any bruising or lacerations normally associated with rape. I also checked the fingernails for any skin cells, but they’d been wiped clean.” He pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Actually, aside from the brutal deconstruction of the victim’s face, the body was well cleaned and manicured.” He lifted the hand, and the nails were neatly painted and pristine. “The assailant did an excellent job of leaving the body in a preserved state.”
Cooper circled the victim in the same way the doctor had, thinking aloud. “So when the power goes out, the digital locks are useless, she escapes, and he chases her.” She leaned closer. The woman’s thick black hair still contained a vibrant sheen. She took a moment to examine the woman’s body. Fair skinned, a similar build to Kate Wurstshed, which suggested the killer had a profile he looked for in his victims. “The nails. The clothes. The hair. He wanted to make her look pretty. He wanted to give us a hint as to the type of person he is. He wants us to think that he cares about these women.” She shook her head, the words leaving a sour taste in her mouth, and she propped her hands against the table. “How much longer till we get the DNA results back?”
“Tomorrow. I marked it as priority.” Hathaway set the clipboard down over the woman’s stomach and crossed his arms. “Do you think the assailant has done this before?”
“I hope not.”
Hathaway stepped around the table, the shadows of the overhead lamp shifting and accentuating the extremes of his face. “But what do you think, Detective.”
“I think he’s done this before. And I think he’s done it a lot.” Cooper felt the coldness in her voice. Most of the deaths she dealt with were accidents, moments of passion. It was rare she came across something calculated, something evil.
Cooper stepped around the body and shook Hathaway’s hand. “Thanks, Doc.” When she returned to the car, Hart had buried his nose in the computer screen. She climbed behind the wheel and peered over his shoulder. “What’d you find?”
“So far we’ve got four possible matches.” Hart clicked through the screens, allowing her to see what they were working with. “Most of them robbery with assault, but nothing sexual, except”—he held up his finger, typing quickly into the search field—“this guy. His weekly check-in with his parole offic
er hasn’t been logged in, so I contacted the Maryland DOC, but the PO was in a meeting. I left a message for him to call me back.”
Cooper narrowed her eyes as she looked at the file. “Two rape accounts.” She shook her head and started the engine. “I don’t understand how these animals get back on the streets.” Hart buckled his seat belt as she shifted into drive. “We’ll head back to the station until we hear back from the probation officer. I want to have a chat with Mrs. Wurstshed before she leaves.”
Hart kept his head down most of the ride over, avoiding looking Cooper in the eye. She knew what he wanted to ask, but still he kept silent. Finally, halfway to the station, looking as though he were about to burst, he spoke. “Thanks. For back there.”
“It happens to everyone their first case.” Cooper shrugged. “You know how everyone you speak with that’s worked in homicide for a long time says you get used to it?”
“Yeah.”
“If you find yourself getting used to it, then quit. You start getting sloppy when that happens.” Cooper tightened her grip on the wheel. “Everything just becomes about the pension at that point. If the department gets too full with those bastards, then it sinks. And right now I’d say we’re barely staying afloat.”
“You talking about the captain?”
“The captain, and a third of the detectives and officers in the Baltimore PD. They’re just milking it, hoping they can squeak by for another few years, and the old boys at the top are content with letting them slither onward.” Her cheeks reddened just thinking about it.
Hart was quiet for a moment before he spoke. Then he turned and looked at her. “You know, a lot of the guys at the station don’t like you. And it’s not just our precinct—all of Baltimore PD knows your name.”
“The devil detective.” Cooper glanced at Hart. “That’s what they call me, right?” She chuckled at the nickname. “Could be a lot worse, I suppose. I’m sure there are some other variations out there that I haven’t heard.”