by J. D. Barker
He should have brought gum—gum helped with the smell.
“Is that our boy?” Nash asked.
“It is,” Eisley said.
The dirt and grime from the road had been washed away, but there was no cleansing the road rash, which covered his skin in patches. Porter took a closer look. “I didn’t catch that this morning.”
Eisley pointed at a large purple and black bruise on the right arm and leg. “The bus hit him here. See these lines? That’s from the grill. Based on the measurements we took at the scene, the impact threw him a little over twenty feet, then he slid on the pavement for another twelve. I found tremendous internal damage. More than half his ribs cracked. Four of them punctured his right lung, two punctured the left. His spleen ruptured. So did one kidney. The head trauma appears to be the actual cause of death, although any one of the other injuries would have proved fatal. His death was near instantaneous. Nothing to be done.”
“That’s your big news?” Nash balked. “I thought you found something.”
Eisley’s brow creased. “Oh, there’s something.”
“I’m not big on suspense, Tom. What’d you find?” Porter said.
Eisley walked over to a stainless steel table and pointed at what appeared to be a brown ziplock bag filled with—
“Is that his stomach?” Nash asked.
Eisley nodded. “Notice anything odd?”
“Yeah. It’s not in him anymore,” said Porter.
“Anything else?”
“No time for this, Doc.”
Eisley let out a sigh. “See these spots? Here and here?”
Porter leaned in a little closer. “What are they?”
“Stomach cancer,” Eisley told them.
“He was dying? Did he know?”
“This is advanced. There’s no corrective treatment when the disease gets to this point. It would have been very painful. I’m sure he was well aware. I found a few interesting things in the tox screen. He was on a high dose of octreotide, which is typically used to control nausea and diarrhea. There was also a concentration of trastuzumab. It’s an interesting drug. They first used it to treat breast cancer, then discovered it helped with other types of cancer too.”
“You think we can track him down with the drugs?”
Eisley nodded slowly. “Probably. Trastuzumab in particular is administered intravenously for an hour, no less than once a week, possibly more often at this stage. I’m not aware of anyone offering this particular medication in private practice, which means he probably went to a hospital or a high-end cancer treatment center. There are only a handful of options in the city. It can cause heart complications, so they monitor patients closely.”
Nash turned to Porter. “If he was dying, do you think he stepped out in front of that bus intentionally?”
“I doubt it. Then why kidnap another girl? I think he’d want to see it through.” He turned back to Eisley. “How much time do you think he had left?”
Eisley shrugged. “Hard to say. Not much, though—a few weeks. A month on the outside.”
“Was he on something for the pain?” Porter asked.
“I found a partially digested oxycodone tablet in his stomach. We’re testing his hair for older medications, things that left his system. I imagine we’ll turn up morphine,” said Eisley.
Porter glanced at the man’s dark hair. Hair retained trace evidence of medication and diet. 4MK cut it short, no more than an inch long. The average person’s hair grows half an inch per month, meaning they should be able to get a history dating back at least a couple of months. Drug testing of hair was nearly five times more accurate than a urine sample. Over the years, he had seen suspects flush drugs out of their system with everything from cranberry juice to consumption of actual urine. There was no flushing out your hair, though. This was the reason many drug addicts on probation shaved their heads.
“He has hair,” Porter said quietly.
Eisley furrowed his brow for a moment, then realized Porter’s point. “I didn’t find any sign of chemotherapy, not even a single cycle. It’s possible they discovered the cancer too late and traditional treatment wasn’t an option.” Eisley walked over to another table. The man’s personal effects were neatly laid out. “That little metal tin right there”—he pointed to a small silver box—“is full of lorazepam.”
“That’s for anxiety, right?”
Nash smirked. “Being a serial killer is an odd choice of pastime for someone with anxiety issues.”
“Generic Ativan. With stomach cancer, doctors sometimes prescribe it to help manage acids. Anxiety leads to increased production, lorazepam cuts it back,” Eisley said. “Chances are, he was calmer than any of us.”
Porter glanced down at the pocket watch, now tagged and sealed in a plastic evidence bag. The cover was intricately carved, the hands visible beneath. “Were you able to get prints from this?”
Eisley nodded. “He got a few abrasions on the hands, but the fingertips weren’t damaged. I pulled a full set and sent them to the lab. Haven’t heard back yet.”
Porter’s eyes landed on the shoes.
Eisley followed his gaze. “Oh, I almost forgot about those. Check this out, very odd.” He picked up one of the shoes and returned to the body, then placed the heel of the shoe against the man’s bare foot. “They’re nearly two sizes too big for this guy. He had tissue paper stuffed in at the toes.”
“Who wears shoes two sizes too big?” Nash asked. “Didn’t you say those go for around fifteen hundred?”
Porter nodded. “Maybe they’re not his. We should dust them for prints.”
Nash glanced at Eisley, then around the room. “Do you have a . . . never mind—I got it.” He hurried over to another counter and returned with a fingerprint kit. With expert precision, he powdered the shoes. “Bingo.”
“Lift them and send them to the lab. Make sure they understand how urgent this is,” Porter said.
“On it.”
Porter turned back to Eisley. “Anything else?”
Eisley frowned. “What? The drug evidence isn’t enough for you?”
“That’s not—”
“There is one other thing.”
He led Porter to the other side of the body and picked up the man’s right hand. Porter tried not to look into the gaping hole in his chest.
“I found a small tattoo,” Eisley told him. He pointed at a small black spot on the man’s inner wrist. “I think it’s the number eight.”
Porter leaned in. “Or an infinity symbol.” He pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.
“It’s fresh. See the redness? He got it less than a week ago.”
Porter tried to make sense of it all. “Could be some kind of religious thing. He was dying.”
“I’ll leave the detecting to you detectives,” Eisley said.
Porter lifted the edge of the white cloth covering the head. The material peeled away with a sound not unlike Velcro.
“I’m going to try and reconstruct his face.”
“Yeah? You think you can do that?” Porter asked.
“Well, not me,” Eisley confessed. “I’ve got a friend who works at the Museum of Science and Industry. She specializes in this sort of thing—old remains and such. She spent the last six years restoring the remains of an Illiniwek tribe discovered downstate near McHenry County. She normally works with skull and bone fragments, nothing this . . . fresh. But I think she can do it. I put in a call.”
“She, huh?” Nash chimed in. “Did you make a lady friend?” He finished with the shoes and packed up the fingerprint kit. “I’ve got six partials and at least three full thumbs. Three thumbprints, I should say. I don’t mean to imply our unsub has three thumbs, although that would make him a lot easier to identify. I’m going to walk these down. Do you want to regroup in the war room? Maybe an hour? I’ll check in with the captain too.”
Porter thought of the diary in his pocket. An hour sounded good.
16
D
iary
Mother saw me, but I did not run away. I knew I should go. I knew this was a private moment, something not meant for my eyes, but I kept watching anyway. I don’t think I could have stopped even if I wanted to. I stayed next to that tree until Mother and Mrs. Carter disappeared from view. More accurately, they sank from view, whether to the bed or the floor, I was not sure.
Beneath me, my bucket wobbled. I wobbled. My legs felt like Jell-O. Wiggle waggle! My heart thudded with a parade cadence. I’ll tell you, it was exhilarating to say the least!
I found myself so ensconced in this activity, I didn’t hear Mr. Carter’s car drive past our house. It wasn’t until it crunched down the gravel driveway next door that I took notice. Mrs. Carter must have heard the car then too. Like a groundhog on the last day of winter, her head popped up in the window frame, her breasts bouncing, her mouth open in a gasp. She spotted me the same moment I saw her. There was nothing to do, I froze looking back at her. She turned and shouted something, and then my mother appeared. She did not look out at me.
Both disappeared from the window.
Mr. Carter’s car door slammed. He was never home at such an hour. Normally he did not return from work until after five, about the same time as my father. He saw me standing next to the tree, perched high on my bucket, and gave me a puzzled glance. I waved. He did not wave back. Instead, he bounded up his front walk and disappeared into his house.
A moment later Mrs. Carter walked briskly out our front door and crossed the lawn, her hands smoothing her dress as she went. She gave me a quick glance as she passed. I offered her a howdy-do, but she did not reciprocate. When she entered her own house, she did so with caution, closing the front door ever so softly behind her.
I jumped down off my bucket and followed her.
I wouldn’t call myself a nosy child. I was curious, that’s all. So I crossed over to the Carters’ lawn without a second thought. I was halfway to their driveway when I heard the slap.
There was no mistaking that particular sound. My father was a firm believer in discipline, and he had brought his hand to my backside on more than one occasion. Without going into detail, I am willing to admit I deserved a good whack or two on each and every one of those occasions, and I hold no ill will toward him for doing so. That sound was well-known to me, and after being on the receiving end (no pun intended) I also recognized the quick scream that followed such pain.
When Mrs. Carter cried out immediately following the slap, I realized that Mr. Carter had hit her. Another slap quickly followed, then another sharp yelp.
I reached Mr. Carter’s car. The engine still made a steady tick, tick, tick. Heat floated above the hood, and exhaust filled the air.
Mr. Carter crashed through the front door as I stood beside his car. “What the fuck are you doing out here?” he growled, before pushing past me and walking across the lawn toward my house.
Mrs. Carter appeared in the doorway but stopped at the threshold. She held a damp towel to the side of her face. Her right eye was puffy, pink, and teary. When she noticed me, her lips trembled. “Don’t let him hurt your mother,” she whispered.
Mr. Carter reached our kitchen door and pounded the frame with his fist. I found it odd that it was closed. Nearly every summer day, the door was opened in the morning and remained that way until late into the night, with only the screen door to keep Mother Nature’s creatures out of the house. Mother must have—
I spotted Mother standing in a side window. She glared at Mr. Carter on our back stoop.
“Open the door, you fucking cunt!” he shouted. “Open the goddamn door!”
Mother watched him but remained still.
I started back toward the house, and her hand shot up, motioning for me to stay put. I stopped in my tracks, unsure of what I should do. Looking back, I see it was naive of me to believe I could do much of anything. Mr. Carter was a large man, maybe even bigger than Father. If I attempted to stop him in any way, he would swat me as if I were an annoying fly buzzing around his head.
“You think you can turn my wife into your own personal rug cleaner?” He banged at the door. “I knew it, I fucking knew it, you insatiable little cunt. I knew something was going on. Always over at your house. Smelling of your stink. I tasted you on her, you know that? Believe it. I sure as shit could. Now I think you owe me. A tit for tat. Or how about a tit for a twat—if I dumb it down, does it make more sense to you? There’s consequences, you little bitch. There’s payment due. Nothing in this world is free!”
Mother disappeared from the window.
Mrs. Carter began to sob behind me.
Mr. Carter turned and shook an angry finger at her. “Shut the fuck up!” His face burned bright red. Sweat glistened on his brow. “Don’t think I’m done with you. When I finish up over here, you and I are going to have a long, hard talk. Believe that. When I’m done collecting from this hussy, it’s your turn. You think that little scratch hurts? Wait until I come home for dessert!”
It was then our back door opened. Mother stepped out into the light and beckoned him inside.
Mr. Carter stood there for a moment, glaring at Mother. His face as red as a stop sign, his brow all crunched up and sweaty. His hands were balled in tight fists. At first I thought he would hit her, but he didn’t.
Mother peered over his shoulder, her eyes locking with mine for a moment before turning back to him. “It’s a one-time offer. Now or never.” She twirled a finger around a lock of blond hair, then slid it down the side of her neck, a grin playing at her lips.
“Are you kidding me?”
Mother turned back into the kitchen and nodded. “Come on.”
He watched her disappear through the doorway, then turned back to his wife. “Consider this part one of the lesson. When I’m done here, I’ll be home to teach you part two.” He snorted as if he had made the joke of all jokes, then walked into our house, slamming the door behind him.
Mrs. Carter sobbed.
I was but a boy, and I had no idea how to comfort a crying woman, nor did I have any desire to. Instead, I raced back around the house to Mother’s window and hopped back up on my bucket. I found the room empty.
From somewhere within the house, I heard a horrible scream. It had not come from Mother.
17
Emory
Day 1 • 9:31 a.m.
Emory was going to throw up.
The vomit crept up the back of her throat, thick and vile. She choked it down, cringing at the foul aftertaste.
She took a deep breath, the air catching between sobs.
He had cut off her ear! What the fuck? Why—
The answer came to her in an instant, and she drew in another breath so hard and fast that she whistled before coughing out another sob. The tears welled in her eyes and dripped on her knees. She tried to wipe them from her cheeks, but more came, salty and sharp.
She hiccupped between ragged breaths.
Her body shook with violent spasms. Snot dripped from her nose and mixed with her tears. Just when she thought it was over, her mind would flood with a mix of fear, pain, and anger, and the pattern would start again, lessening only a little each time.
When the fit finally ended, when she was able to reel in a breath and keep it, she found herself sitting in utter silence. Her mind was painfully hollow and quiet, her body sore, muscles aching, her face puffy and red. Her fingers brushed over the handcuffs, searching for some kind of release, hoping they weren’t real handcuffs but the kind you buy in a sex shop or a toy store—her friend Laurie had told her about those, how her boyfriend wanted to use them and she said no way, nohow.
There was no release switch, and the band around her wrist was tight; they weren’t coming off without a key. She could try to pick them, but that would mean finding something to pick them with, and that would mean exploring.
Who was she kidding? She had no clue how to pick a lock.
The handcuffs had an abnormally long chain on them too, at least two feet, the k
ind you find in prison movies where the bad guy’s hands are shackled to his feet and he’s forced to shuffle down some dark hallway. The cuffs were designed to allow some movement but not much.
She knew of the Four Monkey Killer. Everyone in Chicago did, possibly everyone in the entire world. Not just that he was a serial killer, but the way he first tortured his victims before killing them, mailing body parts back to their families. First an ear, then—
Emory’s free hand went to her eyes. The room was dark, but she could still make out faint outlines. He hadn’t touched her eyes.
Not yet. Maybe he’ll have time when he gets back.
Her heart pounded within her chest.
How long before . . .
She couldn’t think about it. She just couldn’t.
The idea of someone taking out her eyes, taking them out when she was alive.
Your tongue too, dear. Don’t forget about the tongue. He likes to take that third and mail the little stump of flesh back to Mommy and Daddy. You know, right before he finally—
The voice in her head seemed oddly familiar.
You don’t remember me, dear?
Then she knew, just like that, she knew, and anger swirled.
“You’re not my mother,” Emory said, seething. “My mother is dead.”
Christ. She was going crazy. Talking to herself. Was it the shot? What had he given her? Was she hallucinating? Maybe all of this was just some kind of nasty dream, a bad trip. She might be—
You should try to figure the rough patches all out later, dear. When you have more time? Right now I think you should focus on finding a way out of this place. You know, before he gets back. Don’t you agree?
Emory caught herself nodding.
I only want what’s best for you.
“Stop.”
When you’re safe. Until then . . . this is a tough spot, Em. I can’t write you a note and get you out of this one. This is way worse than the principal.
“Quiet!”
Silence.
The only sound was that of her own breath and the blood pumping at her ear, warm and throbbing under the bandage.