He expected them to eventually find Andrews, but not this quickly.
No matter. He’ll just jump ahead in the plan a little.
There’s an empty plastic soda bottle next to the security door. He snatches it up and enters the building.
It’s hot. Dark. He pulls a pair of latex gloves out of his front pocket, and they make a snapping sound. They’re tight on his large, sweaty hands.
He has a slight headache, but the aspirin is keeping it under control. He’s here for business, not pleasure.
But his arousal is apparent.
He knocks on Andrews’s door.
“Chicago Police Department.”
Silence. He knocks again.
“Open the door, this is the police.”
“You ain’t getting in without a warrant.”
A male voice. Scared.
“We have a warrant,” the killer lies.
“Slip it under the door.”
He looks left, then right. All clear.
Taking one step back, he sets his shoulder, and then charges the door.
The frame snaps like balsa wood. Colin Andrews sprawls backward, hands clutched to a bleeding nose. The killer enters and shuts the door, shoving it hard so it fits back into the splintered jamb.
“Colin? Who’s there?”
He grins. A woman. He hadn’t expected that.
This is gonna be fun.
Colin is on the floor, scrambling backward, eyes wide as dinner plates.
He considers kicking him, decides he doesn’t want to get blood on his pants, and pulls out his throwaway piece: a 9mm Firestar that he liberated from the evidence locker at the same time he’d taken Colin’s cell phone.
The gun presses against Colin’s forehead.
“Ask her to join the party.”
Colin opens his mouth. No words come out.
He taps him on the skull, hard, with the butt of the gun.
“Get her in here, now.”
The blubbering begins. Colin calls for his mama, voice cracking though the sobs.
Colin’s mother is wearing a T-shirt and jeans. She’s younger than the killer expected. Prettier too.
“Hi, Mama.” He blows her a kiss. “Go sit on the sofa. The three of us are going to have a conversation.”
Mama cops an attitude, hands rising to her hips. “What the—”
“Mama, sit down!” Colin screams at her, blood and tears rolling down his face.
His mother nods, then sits.
“Okay, here’s the dealio.” The cop smiles at his use of street slang. “I’m going to ask some questions. I get answers I like, I go away and never come back. I don’t get answers I like . . .”
He slaps the gun across Colin’s face, knocking him to the floor.
“Do we understand each other?”
He looks at the mother. Her eyes are cold, but she nods.
Colin is hugging the floor like a security blanket, trembling. The killer nudges him with his foot.
“Do you know who I am, Colin?”
Colin stares up. Nods.
“Tell me who I am.”
“When I got brung in, you the one that locked me up.”
“That’s right, Colin. Do you remember what I said to you?”
Colin swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a basketball.
“You told me not to cancel my phone service.”
“Or else?”
“Or else you’d hang my ass from the nearest lamppost.”
“Good, Colin. You remembered. Did you believe me, when I said it?”
“I didn’t cancel the service! I didn’t!”
“I know, Colin. That’s why you’re not swinging from the streetlight out in front. But you did talk to the cops about me, didn’t you?”
Colin shakes his head so fast it’s comical.
“I din’t say nothin’!”
“Are you sure?”
“Jesus, I din’t say nothin’!”
“Get up, go sit next to Mama on the couch.”
Colin pulls himself off the floor, plops down next to his mother. The cop knows he’s broken him. Knows he’s telling the truth.
He checks his watch. There’s still a little time for some fun.
“Is your boy lying to me, Mama?”
She puts an arm around Colin’s shoulders as he cries into his hands.
“Colin don’t tell no lies.”
The killer admires the defiance in her eyes. He becomes even more aroused. “He doesn’t? But Colin deals drugs, doesn’t he?”
She strokes Colin’s head, as if petting a dog.
“I heard him, when those other cops came. He din’t tell them nothin’.”
The cop moves closer to the sofa. He feels ready to burst.
“You seem like a smart lady. If you and your boy want to live through this, you’re gonna have to do something for me. You know what it is?”
Colin’s mama stares at him, nods.
“There’s a condom in my front pocket. Take it out.”
Her hands are hot in his pants.
“Put it on me and get to work, Mama. Make me happy and I’ll spare your life.”
She’s not the best he’s ever had, and the condom limits some of the sensation, but she’s much better than his bitch of a wife.
“Hey, Colin, I think your mama’s done this before. She’s got some good moves.”
A few minutes pass. The only sounds are Colin’s sobs and the killer’s breathing, which gets faster and faster.
“That’s right. Yeah. Good.”
As he nears climax, he places the base of the plastic bottle he’s been holding against the top of the woman’s head. He puts the barrel of the 9mm into the bottle opening.
“That’s it!”
His hips spasm, and at the same moment he fires into the bottle, the slug shooting straight through her forehead, embedding itself in the sofa.
The bottle traps most of the noise, and the sound is no louder than a hand clap.
Colin’s head snaps up, staring as his mother falls away.
“Don’t look so surprised, Colin. You know you can’t trust cops.”
He tosses aside the bottle, now filled with swirling white smoke. Then he picks up a sofa cushion and shoves it into Colin’s face, jamming the gun into the fabric.
Four shots. Colin goes slack.
Condom still on, the killer zips up his pants, picks up the plastic bottle, and leaves the apartment. There’s no one in the hallway, and no one outside.
His headache, happily, is gone.
The cop hops into his car and checks his watch. He’s on his lunch break, and has already used up fifty-five minutes.
He speeds back to the station. After ten blocks, the condom goes out the window. A few blocks later, so does the soda bottle.
On his way back to the district house, the killer stops in front of the Wabash Bridge and pulls over to the curb. Palming the gun, he gets out and walks over to the Chicago River.
No one gives him a second glance as he drops the gun into the greenish water.
When he arrives back at the station, he doesn’t see Benedict’s Camaro in the parking lot. He’s beaten them back.
The cop parks and walks into the building, wondering whom he hates more, Jack or that fat piece-of-shit Herb.
He climbs the stairs, heading for Benedict’s office. His plan, such as it is, is deceptively simple.
He’ll keep killing women and leaving various things belonging to Jack and Herb at the crime scenes.
Eventually, they might get close to figuring it out. When that time comes, he’ll kill them both, making it look like they’ve killed each other.
Then he’ll solve these current murders himself, framing his mortician friend Derrick Rushlo.
Sadly, Derrick won’t make it to trial.
Simple. Effective. And so much fun.
The killer makes sure no one notices as he slips into Herb’s office.
He’s looking for
something, anything, that Herb will recognize when he sees it on the next victim. A tie clip, a wrist watch, a picture of his ugly wife . . .
“Here we are.”
In Herb’s desk drawer, he finds a library card. Without hesitating, he picks it up.
“May I help you, Officer?”
His head snaps around. Benedict is walking into the office, holding a large coffee. One of his eyebrows is raised in silent inquiry.
“Hi, Detective Benedict. I was dropping these off for you.”
In one smooth motion he slips the library card into his chest pocket and removes a small bottle of pills. He hands it to Benedict.
“Non-aspirin pain reliever?” Herb reads.
“Remember that bottle I borrowed last month?”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Benedict slaps him on the shoulder, like they’re best buddies.
“Well, back to work,” he says. “TOSAP.”
“That’s what we get paid for.” Herb chuckles. “To Serve and Protect.”
Too bad there’s no one to protect you from me, old man.
Leaving Herb’s office, he bumps into Jack, causing her to spill some coffee.
“Good afternoon, Officer.”
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”
Bitch.
Well, if things go as planned, Herb and Jack won’t be around to irritate him for much longer.
He walks back to his desk, sits down, and takes a deep, full breath.
Close one.
He thinks about Herb Benedict, thinks about killing the man. He’s never killed someone that big before. It might actually be a challenge.
A challenge could be fun.
He decides, when the time comes, he’ll do it hands on. Mano a mano. No gun. No knife. He’ll beat him to death.
As for Lieutenant Daniels . . .
The good lieutenant is tough, and strong. She’ll be good for a whole evening’s entertainment, in his little plastic room on the South Side.
And maybe, if he’s careful, he could make her last the whole weekend.
CHAPTER 14
It took most of the afternoon to set up the surveillance.
After playing catch-the-subpoena at the courthouse, Herb and I managed to get access to the call log from Colin Andrews’s cell phone. There were only three numbers on the list. One was to Davi McCormick’s place, one was to a call girl named Eileen Hutton, and one was to a TracFone owned by someone named John Smith.
Eileen Hutton had a record—she worked for a high-roller escort service similar to Davi’s. A search of her apartment found it empty and without any signs of foul play, and a call to her employer found them worried sick because Eileen had missed her last two dates.
A TracFone was one of those prepaid cell phones that could be bought at drugstores, electronics stores, or on the Internet. They’re a cop’s worst nightmare. It’s simple to set up an anonymous account by using a fake name and then buying phone cards with cash.
We obtained another subpoena and secured the records from the TracFone that the killer had been calling. No calls listed going out, and the only calls coming in were from Colin’s cell.
After talking at length with several people at the phone company, it proved impossible to set up any kind of tracking or tracing of the phone. But we were able to track the prepaid cards being used for minutes. The phone had been bought two months ago at an Osco Drug on Wabash and Columbus. Two weeks after that, a twenty-minute phone card had been purchased at the same place.
According to the recent bill, those minutes were due to expire tomorrow. Which meant a new phone card would have to be purchased, hopefully from the same drugstore.
Since we suspected the killer to be a cop, I was climbing the walls trying to figure out who to put on the surveillance teams. I played the sexism card, and put two teams of three female officers on eight-hour shifts. If the killer was a woman, I might have been blowing the entire stakeout, but I just couldn’t reconcile a woman cutting off someone’s arms.
Anyone who bought a phone card or a new phone at the Osco would be tailed. Anyone with access to the county morgue—cops, morticians, doctors—would be red-flagged and I’d get an immediate call.
According to the store, they sold between five and ten phone cards a day. I hoped three officers on the scene would be enough, but I did have the resources for more.
“We’re getting close,” Herb said.
“It’s still a shot in the dark, Herb. The person who owns the TracFone might not even be an accomplice. It could be someone who doesn’t even know the perp.”
“If we look at the call logs, it works out. The perp called Davi’s place at two forty-five P.M. She called him back at six fifteen. Then, at nine twenty, the perp calls the TracFone. In Eileen’s case, the perp calls her yesterday at ten thirty A.M., then again at three twelve P.M. Three hours later, at six oh two, he calls the TracFone.”
“You think he’s abducting these women, then calling someone to join the party?”
“Or to help with the disposal.”
I mulled it over. My eyes drifted to the phone. I’d called Latham three times, and he hadn’t called back. I fought the urge to check my messages again.
I’d also called my mother, twice. She still wasn’t accepting my calls.
I wonder if Alexander Graham Bell knew, back when he invented the telephone, how much control his device would have over the lives of so many people. Especially mine.
I switched gears. “We might be missing a connection between Davi and Eileen.”
Benedict flipped through his notes. “There doesn’t have to be a connection. Both have priors. The killer could have been searching for likely victims by going through arrest records. All cops have computer access.”
Chicago had several psychiatrists specifically for its law enforcement officers. Cops had the same problems as everyone, but they tended to be amplified. I’d called the three doctors in the city’s employ, and all gave me the same lecture about patient confidentiality. The off-the-record question of “Do you know of any cops who might be capable of this?” was met with three enthusiastic “yes” answers.
Herb popped something into his mouth, chasing it with old coffee. He looked at his watch.
“I’ve got to hit the road, Jack. These things kick in pretty fast.”
“You took a Viagra? Herb, can’t you give the poor woman a rest?”
“Do you want to try one? For Latham?”
I crossed my arms.
“Latham’s fine in that area, thanks.”
“You sound defensive.”
“I’m not defensive.”
“Jack, all couples have problems sometimes. I’m sure he finds you very attractive.”
“We’re not having any problems in bed, Herb. That is, when we find the time to go to bed.”
“I thought, last night . . .”
“Did you hear about the shooting at the Cubby Bear?”
I watched Herb put two and two together in his head.
“You know, I was thinking that might be you, but when you didn’t say anything this morning . . .”
I gave Herb a quick rundown of the events last night, ending with my argument with Latham.
“So I didn’t get laid last night, because he was acting like a jerk.”
“Wanting to move in with the woman he loves is him acting like a jerk?”
“I . . . uh . . .”
“He’s told you he loves you, right?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“Have you said it back?”
“I . . . uh . . .”
“You called him today?”
This I could answer.
“Three times. He hasn’t called me back.”
“When you called him, did you apologize for acting like a horse’s ass?”
“Why should I apologize? He wants to stick my mother in a nursing home.”
“He wants to figure out how to share his life with you, and you told him he was tooting his own horn.”<
br />
Oops.
“Jack.” Herb turned a shade of red usually reserved for apples. “I don’t mean to cut out on you, but I have to run, and you might want to avert your eyes.”
“Why? Oh—the Viagra’s kicking in?”
“I just pitched a tent in my pants.”
Herb picked up a manila folder and held it out well in front of his lap.
“That stuff really works,” I said, for lack of anything better.
“Good night, Jack. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
“Good night, Herb. Give Bernice my best. Er, I mean, your best. Have a nice evening. Have fun. I’ll shut up now.”
Herb slunk out the door while I counted the ceiling tiles.
After he made his embarrassing exit, I picked up the phone, swallowed pride, and called Latham. His machine picked up.
“Hi, Latham. Look, I . . .”
Say you’re sorry, I told myself. Say it.
But nothing came out.
“. . . I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Why the hell had I choked? Why was apologizing such a big deal? I could admit to myself I’d made a mistake, why couldn’t I admit it to Latham?
“Lieutenant?”
I looked up, saw Fuller standing in my doorway.
“Come in.”
He set a computer printout on my desk.
“I finished the database. There weren’t any connections between your previous cases and County’s sign-in book.”
“Thanks. I’ll go over it later.”
I’d intended that to be a dismissal, but he stayed put.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Look, Lieut, I . . . I’d just like to help.”
I considered it. The only person I really trusted was Herb. But Fuller had been extremely helpful to many of my investigations, going above and beyond his normal duties. I didn’t know very much about him, personally, but as a cop he was smart, efficient, and always 100 percent professional.
I made a judgment call, and decided to let him in.
“Okay, there is something you can do. I want you to add some names to the database.”
“Sure. What names?”
“Start with this district, then the surrounding districts, until you get all twenty-six.”
Fuller furrowed his brow. “Cops? You think this might be a cop?”
I had to play this carefully, lest the rumor mill begin to turn.
Jack Daniels Six Pack Page 32