The note and the cookie were messages to the police, and there was a good indication that there would be more deaths. Sixty mls of Seconal was enough to knock out twenty to thirty people. Why ask for that much if he didn’t intend to use it?
I scribbled a note to myself to call the DEA and check to see if they had any stats on Seconal ODs. I also wanted to call up Vice and see if Seconal had been used in any recent rapes. Jane Doe may be the first murder, but she may not be the first person our perp used Seconal on.
I picked up the packet of pictures from the crime scene and looked through them for the hundredth time. Something in my subconscious made me linger on a photo of the girl in the garbage can, her rear end sticking out. I studied it further. There was garbage covering almost the whole body, except for the buttocks. But why so much garbage, if it hadn’t been in the can for more than an hour or two?
Maybe he arranged the garbage like that. Almost as if he were saying that he threw away a piece of ass. The FBI called it posing, and I was surprised I hadn’t received a lecture on that as well. Positioning the body like this was the perp’s way of showing how clever he was, and how much contempt he had for the victim. So did he take the time to do this in plain sight, or . . .
I picked up the report with the itemized list of all the garbage found in the can with the body. Mixed in with the cans and bags and wrappers and bottles were twelve receipts. The prices on the receipts were noted on the list, but not what I was after.
I picked up the phone and called Evidence.
“Bill? Jack Daniels.”
Bill had been caretaker of the evidence room since I was a rookie. He was older than God.
“Jack? How are you? I was thinking about you this morning, in the shower.”
“You should be ashamed, a man your age.”
“Chris is on his break. You could come down now. We’ll go behind the storage lockers.”
I laughed. “You’re too much man for me, Bill, but I could use a favor. I need you to look up something from case 93-10-06782. Receipts that were found in the garbage can with a body.”
“That the Jane Doe got all cut up?”
“Yeah.”
“Hold on.”
He put down the phone, and I heard the sliding gate unlock and imagined him walking through the aisles of shelves in the evidence room, looking for the proper case number. I finished my coffee while waiting, then regretted my haste because now I’d have to drink the awful station slop. Eventually I would break down and get a coffeemaker, because the stuff from the vending machine tasted like brewed sewage.
I put off getting more coffee and looked at the latest sheet the Feebies left. Their number one suspect match had a 48.6 percent probability rate that it was our guy. The murder and mutilation of three women with a hunting knife was unsolved, and I was ready to call the Feds and ask for more info on this case when I noticed it took place in 1953. In Nome, Alaska. I filed the paper, throwing my empty coffee cup in after it.
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“Ooohh, your voice makes my toes curl. I found the receipts for you, lamb chop. What do you need?”
“Look at one. Other than the date, does it have numbers in the upper corners?”
“Yeah. Two. The left-hand corner, 193, the right one 277.”
“Try another receipt.”
“Left 193, right 310.”
“Keep going.”
He read all twelve receipts, and the number in the left-hand corner was 193 in eleven out of the twelve. On the odd one, the number was 102.
“Can I do anything else for you, honey? Anything at all?”
“That should do it. Thanks, Bill.”
“My pleasure.”
I got on the horn with Information and was charged thirty-five cents to get the number for the 7-Eleven on Monroe and Dearborn. I already had the number somewhere, but like all public servants I’d been rigorously trained to waste taxpayers’ money at every opportunity.
“Seven-Eleven,” answered a voice with an Indian accent.
I found the deposition on my desk of the manager who’d been watching television while the Jane Doe was dumped in front of his store.
“Mr. Abdul Raheem?”
“No. This is Fasil Raheem. Abdul is my brother.”
“This is Lieutenant Daniels, Chicago Violent Crimes. I’m sure your brother told you about the body discovered in your outside trash.”
“He has not stopped talking about it. Is it true he chased the murderer away by showing him karate moves he learned from Van Damme movies?”
“I believe he was watching TV the whole time.”
“I thought as much. What can I do for you?”
“Tell me what the two numbers are in the top corners of your receipts, please.”
“Simple. The top right-hand number is the order number. The top left-hand number is the store number.”
“Are you store number 193?”
“No, Lieutenant. We are store number 102. I believe store 193 is on Lincoln and North Avenue. Let me check the book.”
He hummed to himself, tunelessly, and I felt a tingle of excitement in my gut because my hunch had paid out.
“I was correct. Store 193 is on Lincoln and North Avenue.”
“Thank you, Mr. Raheem.”
I hung up, satisfied. Benedict strolled in, handing me a sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of Dr. Booster’s prescription pad, except now it had writing on it.
“That was quick.”
“We used fingerprint powder on it, and it clung to the depressions. No prints, but the writing stood out.”
The prescription was for sixty mls of sodium secobarbital, written out by Dr. Booster.
“Handwriting matches previous prescriptions he’d written.” Herb held up the Booster case file.
“So he was killed for the prescription, like we’d guessed.”
“It gets better. We found something else.” Benedict handed me another photocopy. “This was written twenty or so pages into it. Maybe it was just a doodle, or maybe Booster had left a note for us while the killer was there.”
It was a chicken scratch, only two words, practically illegible. It said “Buddy’s Son.”
“So the killer is Buddy’s son?”
“Could be. Or maybe his buddy’s son. Or maybe it has nothing to do with anything. I called Melissa Booster and she doesn’t know anyone named Buddy.”
I puzzled over it.
“How about the patient list? Someone with the first or last name Buddy?”
“I checked. Nothing even close.”
“Let’s have Booster’s entire life checked out, see if he ever knew someone named Buddy.”
“Tall task.”
“We’ll give it to the task force.” I grinned, changing the subject. “I know how the killer dumped the body in the can without being seen.”
Benedict raised an eyebrow. I’ve always wanted to be able to do that; raise one eyebrow in silent inquiry. Unfortunately, both of my brows are hooked up to the same muscle, and whenever I try to raise one I do an involuntary Groucho Marx waggle.
“He swiped a garbage can from a 7-Eleven on Lincoln, took it home, and arranged the body in it, then dropped it off at the 7-Eleven on Monroe and took the other can with him. He could have switched cans in twenty seconds, if he had a ramp and a hand truck.”
“Maybe a garbageman?”
“Maybe. Check through Booster’s patient list again, check out occupations; garbagemen, mailmen, delivery men, anyone who drives a truck. Check with the DMV as well, run down all truck owners on his list.”
The phone rang, and I snatched it up and slapped it to my ear.
“Daniels.”
“This is Detective Evens, Palatine PD. I hear you’re picking through the Booster case.”
I ran it down for him, ending with the discovery of the prescription pad.
“I can’t believe we missed it.”
“You weren’t looking for it. Does the
name mean anything to you?”
“Buddy? Nope. Can you fax it over, along with the prescription form? My cap’s gonna rip me a new one for not finding this.”
“How many interviews did you do?”
“Over thirty. Friends, neighbors, relatives. Anyone who knew the guy since high school.”
“Any suspects?”
“You’ve got the report.”
“It doesn’t list hunches. Any interview strike you as an oddball?”
“Half of his family were oddballs. But not in the murdering sense. Everyone liked the guy. We couldn’t find a reason someone offed him.”
“I take it you’ll be looking closer now.”
“Now that we know he died for a prescription? Hell yeah. Now I can start pulling in dealers, junkies, a whole slew of people.”
“We’re looking for someone who owns or drives a truck. I could float some manpower your way, you need it.”
“Nope. This murder really pissed people off here. Palatine’s a nice little town. We got more than enough guys who’d like to take another crack at this case.”
“Keep in touch, Evens.”
“Right back at you.”
I put the phone back in the cradle and sneezed. I fished out another of Herb’s tissues. “So let’s check out the 7-Eleven on Lincoln, see if they saw anything. Did you run into the Feebies at the lab?”
“Yeah. Thanks for sending them. I had to fake a case of diarrhea to get away from them and their nonstop monologues.”
“Did it work?”
“No. They followed me into the can.”
“Any prints on the candy?”
“None that we could find. But they’re going to run some tests.”
“How’s the mouth?”
“It hurts, but I’ve got my taste back. You up for a bite?”
“I’ve got more reports to go through, then I was going to call it a day.”
“Since I’m going out, I’ll check the 7-Eleven on Lincoln. If memory serves, it’s right next to a great Mexican place.”
Herb’s stomach rumbled, seconding the motion.
“See you tomorrow, Herb.”
“Bye, Jack.”
Benedict left. I attacked the pile of paperwork in front of me, including typing up the results of our hospital visit and our trip to Melissa Booster’s. This was the computer age, but I still used a standard electric typewriter, aware that fellow officers regarded me as a dinosaur in that aspect. Even if I did go high tech, I don’t see what good a computer would do me. Ten words a minute is ten words a minute, no matter what I’m typing on.
When I was done I remained sitting there, staring at the page.
There wasn’t anything else I could do at work, but I had no compelling reason to go home. I had no family there, no boyfriend waiting for me. It was just a place where I kept my meager possessions, ate, and tried in vain to rest.
“All I’ve got is you,” I told the report.
The report didn’t answer.
I sighed, then got up and left, resigning myself to yet another sleepless night.
Chapter 12
HIS CELLMATE HAD SPOKEN OF THIS place, during the long, boring night hours when rambling was the only way to kill time.
“Just go to the bartender, bald guy named Floyd. Tell him you need a TV repaired.”
The Gingerbread Man had taken it with the same grain of salt he took all prison bullshitting. Besides, if he ever needed someone taken care of, he was more than happy to take care of them himself. If doing time taught him anything, it was self-reliance.
But this situation is different. He doesn’t want to be connected with the act in the slightest way. Doing the job personally, though rewarding, is too risky. Besides, it feels godlike to be pulling the strings while staying safely behind the scenes. It adds more awe to his persona.
The idea came to him after violating the whore. He really hurt her. Brought her so close to death so many times. Payback for the humiliation, for the defiance, for picking on the wrong guy.
After he had finished, when he was lying naked with the body, he thought of his adversary, Jack Daniels.
Had Jack gotten the candy yet? Had she eaten it? Maybe she shared it with her squad, and fifteen or twenty pigs all got deadly little surprises. He had to know.
So he placed another call from the pay phone.
“This is Peters from the Herald. I’m following up on an anonymous tip. Were any police officers injured at work today?”
“We’re not disclosing any details at this time.”
“So you’re confirming the rumor?”
“Sorry, this is part of an ongoing investigation.”
“How about off the record?”
“Off the record, we got a detective with eleven stitches in his mouth.”
“A detective? My source said it was a lieutenant.”
“Your source is wrong.”
So Jack hadn’t eaten any. All that work for nothing.
The Gingerbread Man seethed. He’d imagined her with needles in her tongue, and this was a giant letdown.
There had to be another way to get her attention. To show he was taking their rivalry seriously. To put her in the hospital without exposing himself to unnecessary risk.
And then he remembered this place.
The tavern is dark and smells like cigarette smoke, even though it’s empty this time of day. Behind the bar is a skinny guy named Floyd, the man his cellmate told him about.
The Gingerbread Man hands Floyd a photograph of Jack, the one he’d taken during the crime scene visit on Monroe. He also gives him Jack’s address, license plate number, the calling card, and five hundred bucks.
The normal price to beat someone senseless was four hundred, but Jack is a cop, so it’s higher.
Leaving the calling card is risky, but there’s been no mention of it in the papers yet. He wants Jack to know who did this to her. Even more, when this is all over, he wants the cops and the world to know that they could have stopped him, if they’d only been smarter.
But they’ll only see the connection after he’s long gone.
Floyd takes everything, making an obvious effort not to look directly at his face. Smart business.
“Whaddaya want done to her?” he says, eyes on a TV at the end of the bar.
“Break her knees.” The Gingerbread Man grins. The idea that Jack will be forever crippled is appealing. When he calls on her, she won’t be able to run.
Floyd says he’ll get someone on it right away, maybe even tonight.
In the meantime, he has to dump the whore. It’s been a delightfully busy day, and he’s tired, but if he keeps her around too long she’ll begin to stink. More than one killer has been caught because neighbors complained of the smell coming from the death house.
So he has to do the garbage can trick again. Labor intensive, but effective. While it would be much easier just to dump her in the sewer, he wants the body to be discovered right away. The networks will eat it up.
Something for Jack to watch on TV while she’s recuperating in the hospital.
Chapter 13
MY ANSWERING MACHINE WAS BLINKING WHEN I got back to my apartment. It was Don. He didn’t want me back, but he did want the rest of his furniture, and for me to arrange having it put into storage. I was to call with the storage location.
Right. And then I might also slip him a few bucks.
I decided to be fair and meet him halfway. I called him back and got a deep female voice on the answering machine that identified itself as Roxy. I informed her and Don that I would move all of his things . . . out into the hall.
He had a lot of crap, and it took almost two hours. When I was finished the apartment looked barren. Except for my grandma’s rocking chair, a beanbag, the bed, and my cheap dinette set, every other stick of furniture was his. I was shocked to find out I only had one lamp. It was a crappy lamp too, with a switch that didn’t work unless you wiggled it. I must have had more lamps before he moved in
, so what the hell happened to them?
The only conclusion I could draw was that once he moved his things in, he began moving my things out. I suppose I never noticed because I never paid much attention. Or maybe it was because I was rarely home.
It’s a wonder he left me.
I checked the fridge for food products and managed to put together a salami and mustard on rye. The mustard was Don’s, some imported brand that cost more per ounce than silver. It was too tangy. When I was done with the sandwich I tossed the mustard into the hall with the rest of his things.
Flipping through my mental appointment book, I checked out my itinerary for tonight. It would be a titillating evening of television, then tossing and turning in bed trying to fall asleep.
Be still my beating heart.
I considered making a drink and drawing a bath, but then I was seized by a fit of spontaneity and decided to actually go out and do something. Two nights in a row. I’m such a party animal.
Changing into jeans and a sweatshirt, I once again took the route to Joe’s Pool Hall. The night was crisp, and it being Friday, the streets were packed with kids. I passed a group of guys who were tossing out catcalls to every girl that passed.
They didn’t catcall me at all, the little snots.
Joe’s was busier than usual, but Phineas Troutt had secured a corner table, methodically pocketing ball after ball. He wore khakis and an open flannel shirt over his T-shirt. I bought two beers and carried them over.
“Are you looking for a game, or do you want to play with yourself all night?” I asked.
He banked an eight into the side pocket.
“You willing to put money on it?”
“I got two bucks says I kick your butt.”
“That’s a boastful two bucks.”
I let him see the color of my money, tossing two singles on the rail as if they were hundreds. Phin sunk his final ball and squinted at me.
“Loser racks. And if memory serves, you lost our last game. The last several, in fact.”
I handed him a beer.
“All part of the hustle. I’ll own your car by midnight.”
He took a pull on the bottle.
“Thanks. I’m really glad you stopped by.”
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