The Fourth Monkey

by J. D. Barker

  I, of course, had the answer, and I raised my hand earnestly. If Mrs. Carter also knew, she chose not to participate.

  Father looked to me, then Mrs. Carter, and back to me. “Well, you did get your hand in the air first. Why don’t you tell us their names?”

  “Mizaru, Kikazaru, and Iwazaru.”

  “You are correct! Give that boy a well-deserved prize.” Father grinned. “Bonus points if you know the meaning of their names . . .”

  Surely he knew that I knew, but Father was fond of games, so I played along. “Mizaru means see no evil, Kikazaru means hear no evil, and Iwazaru means speak no evil.”

  Father nodded his head slowly and tapped Mrs. Carter’s knee. “You’ve probably seen the depiction. The first ape is covering his eyes, the second his ears, and the third has a hairy paw over his mouth.”

  “So when Mrs. Carter used a bad word, she violated Iwazaru’s rule,” I said confidently.

  Father shook his head. “No, son, although foul language is bad and a sign of lesser intelligence, she would need to say something bad about someone else to violate Iwazaru’s rule.”

  “Ah.” I nodded.

  Mrs. Carter growled and tugged at her handcuffs.

  “There, there, Lisa. You’ll get your turn, but you must be faster with your hand,” Father told her.

  She yanked at the handcuffs again. They clattered against the pipe and the cot. She groaned in frustration.

  “Perhaps your foot, then?”

  “There is a fourth monkey, but nobody really knows about him,” I explained.

  Father nodded. “The first three monkeys define the rules we should all live by, but it’s the fourth that carries the most importance.”

  “Shizaru,” I said. “His name is Shizaru.”

  “He stands for do no evil,” Father said. “And that, of course, is the rub. Should someone see or hear evil, there is little one can do. When someone speaks evil, there is fault to be had, but when they do evil . . . well, when they do evil there is no room for forgiveness.”

  “Those people aren’t pure, are they, Father?”

  “No, son, they most certainly are not.” He turned back to Mrs. Carter. “Unfortunately, your husband fell into the latter group, and there is simply no need for people like him on this great planet of ours. I would have preferred to rid the world of his filth with a little more discretion than my wonderful wife deemed appropriate, but what’s done is done and there is no use fretting over that which we cannot control. I’d also prefer you did not discover our shenanigans last night, but alas, your detective skills were exceptional, and discover you did. Hence, our current predicament: What to do with you?”

  “Is she pure, Father?” I had to ask, for I did not know the answer. Surely she had seen and heard evil, but Father had told me before that those offenses were forgivable. Had she spoken evil? Had she done evil? I did not know.

  Father brushed a strand of Mrs. Carter’s hair from her eye. He stared at her for a long time in silence, then: “I don’t know, son, but I plan to find out. Mr. Carter was an unsavory man, there is no question of that, but something set him off—something pushed a final button and caused his steam to come billowing out.” He reached up and touched Mrs. Carter’s black eye with the tip of his index finger. “I can’t help but wonder what that little something was, and whether or not our dear Mrs. Carter here was behind it.”

  My mind shot back to the image of Mother with Mrs. Carter. I couldn’t tell Father. Not yet. If Mrs. Carter’s actions caused Mr. Carter to break the rules, then wouldn’t it stand to reason that Mother was partly responsible for the actions of Mrs. Carter? If Mother broke the rules . . . I couldn’t bear the thought.

  Father watched me closely. Did he know? Had I given it away? He didn’t delve deeper, though. Instead, he stood and gestured to the breakfast tray. “Now I’m afraid your breakfast has gone cold. I guess it will have to do. Perhaps next time you will accept such a gracious meal with a smile rather than such harsh negativity.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Remember, son, no utensils for our guest.”

  “I know, Father.”

  “Atta boy.”

  He retreated up the stairs.

  I turned back to Mrs. Carter and reached for her gag. “How about we give this another go?”

  She nodded, her eyes fixed on Father’s back as he disappeared.

  34

  Porter

  Day 1 • 5:23 p.m.

  Located just northwest of the Loop and bordering downtown Chicago, the Fulton River District was at the center of the city’s urban renewal, with old warehouses converted to high-rent lofts and former shoe factories now turned to spas and coffee shops. Scattered among these hipster meccas stood the occasional condemned building. If they had thoughts, Porter supposed they were nervously monitoring their neighbors and waiting their turn at a facelift, hoping the reprieve would come before the wrecking ball arrived, ready to make room for something altogether new.

  Such was the case for 1483 Desplaines.

  Squat compared with the surrounding structures, it was only three stories tall and maybe ten thousand square feet at most. Upon closer inspection, the original red brick veneer poked out here and there but for the most part was lost beneath layers of paint—colors ranging from green to yellow to white. Most of the windows were either boarded or broken.

  At one point it had probably stood proud, but history had not been kind to it. This building had lived through the worst of times. Prohibition had grown from the bowels of politics only to be snuffed out by the gangsters who had once stood in its windows. It witnessed the birth of the city and watched the Great Chicago Fire as neighboring buildings across the river burned to the ground. Porter swore he could still smell the flames and soot in that neighborhood, even though a hundred winters had tried to wash the stink away.

  A single sign adorned the rooftop in faded wooden letters, reading MULIFAX PUBLICATIONS, all that remained of its former glory.

  “Not much to look at,” Nash said from the passenger seat of Porter’s Charger. They were parked on the corner across the street with a direct view of the building. His phone buzzed with a text message, and he glanced down at the screen. “Clair is two minutes out, with SWAT at her back.”

  Porter checked his rearview mirror; Watson was busy typing away on his own phone. Porter had never seen fingers move so fast. “Christ, Doc, that thing is going to catch fire.”

  “Mulifax Publications shut their doors in 1999. This building has been empty ever since,” Watson said without looking up. “Apparently their parent company kept up with the bills until 2003; then they went bankrupt and the city took possession. They tried to rent the place out but couldn’t find a taker; the city condemned it in 2012.”

  “Why not renovate, like these other buildings?” Nash asked. “This neighborhood has gone ritzy. We’re not getting in on a cop’s salary, that’s for damn sure.”

  Porter nodded at Mulifax. “Can your magic phone tell us what’s inside that building?”

  Nash answered. “I can tell you what’s not inside—the Four Monkey Killer. ’Cause he’s resting comfortably down at the morgue.” His gaze played up and down the street. “That brings me to the ten-thousand-dollar question. Why are we waiting on SWAT anyway? No killer means there’s nobody left to shoot at us.”

  Porter shrugged. “Captain’s orders.”

  “Did he say why he wanted SWAT to go in first?”

  “He thinks this might be a trap. Leaving the book like that . . . that’s not like him. Something’s not right.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Look at this.” Watson handed his phone to Porter. The browser window was open to a Wikipedia page. “They used to run bootleg booze out of here. There are secret tunnels running in and out of all these buildings.”

  “He could have used those to get around here unseen.”

  A green Honda Civic pulled up behind them. Clair Norto
n climbed out and ran low around the back of Porter’s Charger to Nash’s window. He rolled it down.

  “See anything?” she asked, nodding toward the building.

  “Nothing. It’s been quiet.”

  “What about that white sedan?”

  Porter had spotted the car when they arrived. A late-model Buick with a nice Bondo patch on the rear driver’s side fender. “No sign of the driver.”

  Watson retrieved his phone from Porter. “Do you think he’s using the tunnels?”

  “The bootleg tunnels?” Clair glanced out at the surrounding buildings, then returned her gaze to the car. “I worked a trafficking case on the East Side a few years back, and the perps used the old tunnels to get around. I heard the phone company expanded them to run cables way back, even created a rail system down there. They were able to get from the river to nearly the center of the city without breaking daylight. Some of the tunnels are wide enough for a truck to pass,” she explained. “You can get around the entire city if you know your way. It’s cold as a witch’s tit down there too—a few of the movie theaters downtown still use working air shafts to bring the cold air in from below to keep the theaters cool.”

  “Can you get from A. Montgomery Ward Park to here?”

  “I see where you’re going, Sam, but I doubt that would work,” Nash said. “He took her out of there in a car. If he had tried climbing down a storm drain with our girl in tow, I think somebody would have stopped him.”

  Clair rolled her eyes. “You didn’t see that crew.”

  Porter continued to brainstorm. “Okay, so he takes her in a car. Where next? A. Montgomery Ward Park is less than a block from the North Branch of the Chicago River. Can you enter the tunnel system from there with a car?”

  Watson was tapping at his phone again. “I’m going to guess that you can, but I can’t find any detailed pictures. Makes sense, right? The builders would have wanted access from every major waterway. He could have disappeared underground with her and carried her here without the risk of being seen even if he made part of the trip on foot.”

  “It’s possible he transported all the victims that way. That would explain how he got around the city for so long without a trace,” Nash added.

  “So, she could be here,” Clair said softly.

  “Yeah,” said Porter.

  A dark blue van with TOMLINSON PLUMBING stenciled on the side in bright yellow letters crossed the intersection and pulled into the space directly behind the sedan.

  “That our boys?” Porter asked.

  “Yes, sir. Figured best to keep quiet.” Clair’s phone rang and she plucked it from her pocket and answered. She nodded several times, then: “Copy that, go in three.” She turned back to Nash and Porter. “Ready to gear up? We go in behind them. They’ll clear the building, then we follow on their six.”

  Nash pointed his thumb at the back seat. “What about him?”

  Porter turned back to the rearview mirror, eyeing Watson. “You’re not carrying, right?”

  Watson shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Any chance you brought a vest?” Department policy prohibited anyone from entering a hot crime scene without a bulletproof vest.

  “They’re not standard issue in my department.”

  “Then I guess you’re waiting out here. Sorry, kid.”

  Porter and Nash climbed from the car and walked around to the back. From the trunk, Porter retrieved two bulletproof vests, a shotgun, and a large Maglite. He handed the shotgun along with one of the vests to Nash and donned the other. Nash snapped open the shotgun, checking the breech that sealed the barrel back in place. Porter then pulled a nine-millimeter Beretta 92FS from beneath the spare tire and checked the magazine. A pull of the slide confirmed that one round readied the chamber.

  “Backup piece?” Nash asked, checking his own gun, a Walther PPQ.

  Porter nodded. “I haven’t seen the captain yet. He still has my department-issued.”

  “Technically, you’re not back on the job yet. Probably best you don’t get yourself shot. Injured tagalong civilian carries much more paperwork than injured partner.”

  “Glad you’ve got my back.”

  Clair’s phone buzzed with a text message. “Go in ten seconds.” She pulled the slide on her Glock and chambered a round.

  The Tomlinson Plumbing van rocked for a second, then the back doors swung open and men dressed in full riot gear began pouring out. The first two carried a large black metal ram, the others held AR-15 assault rifles at the ready. They moved in swift unison to the building.

  Nash darted across the street after them, with Porter at his side and Clair on their heels.

  The ram made quick work of the front doors—one hit and they were in. The padlock ripped from the metal frame and clattered to the ground, only to be kicked aside by booted feet as they rushed through. The men holding the ram fell to the side to allow the others to stream past, then they plucked their own rifles from their backs and went in behind them.

  A concussion grenade detonated. Muted shouts of “Police!” and “Clear!” sounded as the team disappeared inside. Porter’s grip tightened on his Beretta as they crossed from the sunlit street to the black void of the building’s entrance.

  “I can’t see shit in there,” Nash groused, staring inside.

  “All the windows are sealed. It’s like a tomb,” Clair said.

  Porter peered around the door frame. The light from the street seemed to pool inside the entrance, nothing more than a ten-by-ten square edged by the blackest of black. The shadows seemed to push back, forcing the light out.

  He snapped on the Maglite and swept the beam over the interior, expecting a wide-open warehouse. Instead, the light played across a narrow entranceway of rotted wood. The acoustic-tile ceiling was crumbling, the plaster walls were chipped and cracked, and the floor was covered in the debris that had broken away over the years.

  Porter heard the team deep inside the building, their boots pounding against the concrete as they swept room after room.

  Then silence.

  “You hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “SWAT stopped moving.”

  “They might be too far into the building. You just can’t hear them anymore.”

  “No, that’s not it. They stopped moving.”

  “Maybe they found something?”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s too quiet,” Clair said.

  “Let’s go,” Porter said. “Stay close.”

  They moved slowly, the beam of the Maglite slicing through the gloom. The entryway turned into a hallway that turned into a narrow path as they made their way through boxes, crates, and other assorted items stacked against the wall. Porter counted no fewer than five mattresses within the first fifty feet, the cloth rotted and worn, damp with mildew and insects crawling in and out of the fabric. The concrete floor was a cesspool of dirt and grime dotted with small puddles of piss-scented water. The sound of needles crunching underfoot was enough to wish his attention elsewhere. He pictured tiny rodent skeletons snapping under each step.

  There were doors every ten feet or so, the wood frames cracked and splintered. Porter knew the SWAT team had made quick work of them either with a kick or the battering ram they had used on the front door. Porter shined the Maglite through each room as they passed, even though he knew he wouldn’t find anything worthwhile—a cautionary move at best.

  At the third door he stopped and forced his ears to listen.

  He heard the steady drip of water.

  Nash and Clair, breathing, a few paces back.

  The ticking of his watch.

  He couldn’t hear the SWAT team, though. Not a single sound came from up ahead.

  Porter slowed down enough to allow Nash and Clair to catch up. “Something’s wrong; I don’t like this.”

  A loud crash followed by two quick gunshots came from deep within the building.

  “Go!” Porter ordered, rushing toward the gunfire
.

  Clair and Nash chased after him, following the bouncing Maglite.

  Moving fast, Porter followed the sound. He felt as if he was going to choke on the mildew. They came upon a broken freight elevator with a set of stairs trailing down to the left. Voices rose from below.

  Without hesitation, they descended the steps two at a time, avoiding the trash and debris, careful not to slip.

  “What the fuck!” someone shouted.

  “Where are they coming from?”

  “I can’t tell!”

  “Pull back!”

  “No, wait!”

  A bright red light illuminated the doorway at the base of the stairs. Someone had set off a flare. Porter squinted against the bright light. He raised the muzzle of his gun so it pointed to the ceiling. He wasn’t about to risk an accidental discharge.

  From below: “They’re scattering!”

  “Set off another one. Over there, in the corner!”

  Nash grabbed Porter’s shoulder and held him still a few steps from the bottom, then shouted, “Espinosa? It’s Detectives Nash, Norton, and Porter. We’re at the stairs. Hold your fire!”

  “Hold on, Detectives!” Espinosa shouted back.

  “Clear!” someone else cried out.

  “Fucking things are everywhere!”

  Another flare burned to life with a loud sizzle and landed at the base of the steps.

  At least half a dozen rats darted past, their tiny feet clambering over Porter’s and Nash’s shoes. Clair let out a yelp.

  “Fuck!” Nash shouted, jumping back against the wall.

  Porter stared in awe as six more ran by.

  “All right—you can come down; just stay in the light,” Espinosa told them.

  “I ain’t—” Nash said.

  Clair gave him a push. “Move, you baby.”

  They stepped out into a large basement, which appeared to span the length of the building. Illuminated by the red flares, concrete floors and redbrick walls spread out as far as Porter could see. The floor was littered with trash: boxes, loose paper, soda cans, and—

  “I’ve never seen so many rats,” Porter said, his eyes locked on the ground just beyond the flare’s reach. The floor shimmered and moved. A living blanket of rodents. They crawled over one another in an attempt to retreat from the light, only they had no place to go. Little nails clicked against the concrete, digging into the backs of others as they scrambled back.