“Has Dr. Mulrooney had any visitors lately?”
“Students.”
“Any adults?”
“No.”
“Have you seen this guy hanging around?”
I showed him the Unabomber Xerox, which I now carried everywhere.
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw Dr. Mulrooney?”
“Yesterday afternoon. Left the building at his usual time, around one.”
“Did he seem worried? Scared? Distracted?”
“Seemed normal.”
The door opened. The guard went first, leading me down a thinly carpeted hallway to a hollow core door I could have opened by sneezing on it. The first two keys didn’t work, but the third was a charm.
I thanked him, and he waddled off. The office wasn’t much larger than the elevator, and certainly more crowded. All four walls were lined with crammed bookshelves. A desk sat in the corner, covered with papers and folders and clutter. An older model Dell rested on the desk, the monitor partially obscured by Post-it notes, a screen saver bouncing around a Microsoft logo.
I nudged the mouse, and the Windows desktop appeared, which was almost as cluttered as his real-life desktop. I clicked on Outlook and read a few e-mails. Nothing interesting. Then I clicked on the Start Menu and looked at Recent Documents. Nothing there either.
I searched his real desk next, uncovering a combo phone/answering machine beneath a stack of student reports. A number four blinked in the red LED window. I hit Play and began going through drawers.
The first message was from me, canceling our appointment. The machine beeped, and the next message played.
“. . . you’re going to die . . .”
The voice was a whisper, barely audible. A few seconds of silence followed, then a beep.
“. . . today . . .”
More silence. Another beep. I found the volume control and turned it up.
“. . . did you like the video, Jack? You’re next . . .”
That seriously weirded me out. I pressed Play and listened again. The sex of the speaker was impossible to determine. I tried to find the Eject button to save the tape, but the machine had no tape—this was a model that recorded digitally. Whispers could be voice-printed, but I didn’t know if unplugging the machine would erase the data on the chip. I left it alone for the time being.
The desk yielded no secrets, save for a single key with a round green tag that Mulrooney had carefully labeled House spare.
I pocketed the key, closed the door behind me, and took the stairs back to the frog.
“I need Dr. Francis Mulrooney’s home address.”
He had a large black binder labeled Faculty Directory, and I learned Mulrooney conveniently lived a block away, on Fifty-eighth.
The walk was pleasant, though my cheap shoes pinched my toes. Mulrooney’s building was an apartment, three stories, two tenants per floor. The single key fit both the security door and his door, on the ground level. I knocked first, in case he had a dog, and when no noise erupted from within I went inside.
His dwelling was the opposite of his office, everything neat and tidy. I gave the place a thorough toss, beginning in the kitchen, then the bedroom, bath, and living room.
Like his office, I couldn’t find any signs of a struggle. Unlike his office, there were no messages on his answering machine.
I found an address book, tucked it into my pocket, and locked the door when I left.
Abducting someone isn’t very hard. Mulrooney was a slight guy, short and thin. A reasoner, not a fighter. A large man could have muscled him into a car or truck within a few seconds, without attracting much attention. Or he could have been drugged, or tricked, or gone someplace with someone he trusted.
I stood on the curb and called Officer Hajek at the Crime Lab, asking if he had time later to swing by Mulrooney’s office to see what could be done with the answering machine. He promised me he would.
“. . . did you like the video, Jack? You’re next . . .”
I shuddered.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been a target, but that didn’t mean I was used to it.
I walked back to my car, acutely aware of my surroundings.
Chapter 26
HERB WAS WAITING for me in my office. He looked to be in good spirits, and cradled half a large bag of Chee•tos. His walrus mustache had a distinct orange tint. It matched his orange fingers, orange shirt, and orange tie. That’s how I knew for sure Herb wasn’t the killer; he would have left an easy-to-follow trail.
“Morning, Jack. You look upset. Saw the captain?”
“He looking for me?”
“That’s the buzz around the station.”
Great. I left the garbage bag containing the latest video on my desk, told Herb I’d be back in five, and headed for the lair of Captain Bains.
As expected, Bains didn’t greet me with flowers and a big hug. The large vein in his forehead bulged out when he saw me, and I heard him grind his teeth; not a happy sound.
“Goddammit, Daniels. I recall ordering you off the case. Do you recall that?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“And since then you’ve been involved in an arson, a high-profile arrest outside your jurisdiction, and your face is all over national news telling the media you’ll stick your foot up their collective asses.”
“They aired that?”
Bains made a face. I made one as well. At least he didn’t mention the shots fired at Diane Kork’s. When a police officer dischargers her firearm, there’s an automatic IA inquest and a mandatory visit to the department shrink. I didn’t have time for either.
“You’re suspended, Jack. With pay. Report to the commissioner tomorrow at nine a.m.”
“What?” That clocked me from left field. “What’s the charge?”
“Does it matter? Pick one. How about official misconduct? Insubordination? Acting like an ass on CNN? The superintendent wants your job, and it seems like you want to give it to him. I need your badge and gun.”
I was so furious, I could spit. I spoke through my teeth.
“This isn’t a good time. He’s hunting me.”
“Who is?”
“The killer.”
“The killer’s in Indiana, in a coma. Case closed. Take a week off and let this blow over.”
“Bud Kork isn’t the guy we’re after. The guy we’re after came by my apartment last night and gave me another videotape. A videotape of Dr. Francis Mulrooney getting skinned alive.”
The anger melted off the captain’s face. It was replaced with a tired kind of sadness. When he spoke, the venom was gone.
“He’s dead?”
“You remember him?”
“I’m the one who asked him to assist on the Charles Kork case.”
“Well, I’ve got thirty minutes in screaming color of him dying an agonizing, horrible death. And it was dropped off at my house, Captain. I’m a target. You can’t pull me off now.”
Bains didn’t seem to be listening. “Francis was my cousin,” he said in a soft voice. “I used to baby-sit him when we were kids.”
“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t sure what else to say. “He never mentioned that.”
“Did you bring him in on this?”
“I had an appointment with him, but had to cancel. I think he knew someone was stalking him, but didn’t mention it to me. There were some threatening messages on his office phone. The same person also threatened to kill me.”
Bains put his hands on his desk and stared at them, spreading out his fingers.
“I know the suspension is bullshit, Jack. It’s out of my hands. But the paperwork hasn’t been done yet, the official charges haven’t been filed.”
“How long do I have?”
“Two, maybe three days. You can fight it, of course. Contact the union rep. Request a hearing. But you’re being suspended with pay. Doubtful you’d get much sympathy.”
“The super can suspend me for a year after I catch
this guy.”
Bains nodded. He looked smaller than he normally did. “We never had this conversation. Go find this animal. And keep your face off the boob tube, or it will be both our jobs.”
I reached into my pocket, placed Mulrooney’s address book on the captain’s desk.
“Did you want to inform his family?”
“I’m part of his goddamn family.”
I waited.
“I’ll make the calls.” Bains took the book.
Back in my office, I gave Benedict the blow-by-blow.
“Bains is a careerist. He’s bucking for commander. He won’t go down with you, Jack.”
“He’s a good cop.”
“He’s a politician. Shit trickles down. If the super wants you out, you’re out.”
“I can fight it. Unreasonable termination. Discrimination.”
“No you won’t. You’re not the type.” He looked at the garbage bag on my desk. “Couldn’t find a purse you liked?”
“I got another video this morning. The graphologist, being skinned.”
Herb winced. I didn’t want to watch the tape again so soon, but I snapped on a glove and popped it into the VCR.
Three minutes into it, Herb excused himself to go to the men’s room.
I made myself be analytical. I freeze-framed on the gloves, to try to read the tag inside the cuff. I freeze-framed on the pliers, to try to see the manufacturer mark. Emotional detachment was impossible, but I owed it to Dr. Mulrooney to do my job as best I could.
By the end of the tape I had no leads, and I was quivering with disgust.
I spent a few minutes trying to calm down, trying to distance myself from the images. The phone rang, scaring the hell out of me.
“Hiya, Jackie. What are you wearing?”
Harry McGlade.
“A frown,” I answered.
“We on for later?”
“Unfortunately.”
“How’s three o’clock?”
“I’m at work.”
“Take a day off. You deserve it. Meet us at Mon Ami Gabi, on Lincoln Park West. I’ve got reservations under the name Buttshitz. You’re bringing a date, right?”
“I think so.” Phin hadn’t called yet.
“Rent a guy if you have to. Or bring that fat partner of yours. Tell him it’s free eats; he’ll come running.”
“Good-bye, Harry.”
“Don’t be late. You’re late, I’ll make sure your TV character gets her own spin-off series.”
He hung up. I searched my desk for aspirin, finding the bottle just as the Feebies walked in. Well, a single Feeb anyway.
He nodded at me, wearing the same gray suit he had on a few days ago. Or perhaps a completely different gray suit that looked exactly the same.
“Lieutent Daniels. How are you?”
I was tired and bitchy and not in the mood to suffer fools.
“Now’s not a good time, Agent Coursey.”
“I’m Dailey.”
“Where’s your partner? Aren’t you guys always side by side, holding hands?”
“He’s ViCAT’s liaison with the Gary Police Department, investigating the Bud Kork murders. And our relationship is purely professional.”
“So you don’t give each other oily back rubs after a long day of securing our personal freedoms?”
His lips twisted somewhere between a grin and a wince.
“I understand. You’re attempting to assert your control over this situation by belittling my masculinity.”
I got wide-eyed. “Wow. You BSU guys don’t miss a trick.”
“Now you’re using sarcasm to undermine my professionalism.”
“It’s like I’m under a microscope. All of those Quantico classes have given you tremendous insight into human nature. What am I doing now?”
“You’re giving me the finger.”
Herb returned, a bit green around the gills. He surveyed the situation.
“Am I interrupting an intimate moment?”
“Special Agent Dailey was just leaving. He’s got a samba band to chase.”
Dailey cleared his throat. “We believe the Gingerbread Man wasn’t working alone.”
That got my attention.
“What do you mean?”
“After careful analysis of the twelve previous Charles Kork murder videos, we’ve deduced the recordings were made on two different camcorders. Each particular brand leaves a unique signature when laying down an electromagnetic control track on—”
I held up my palm. “Spare us the details. What difference does it make if there were two recorders? So he used one for a while, it broke, then he bought a new one.”
“The camcorder recovered at Charles Kork’s residence matches six of the videos. The other six were done on a different machine, an RCA DSP3. The recent videotape that you were sent was also done on an RCA DSP3. It’s an older model, discontinued years ago.”
That was compelling, but not enough to get me excited. “I’m sure they sold thousands of that model. Any way to prove the same camcorder recorded both?”
“Not conclusively. But let me show you something. Do you have a DVD player?”
“Not in the budget this year.”
Special Agent Dailey put his briefcase on my desk and opened the clasps. Sure enough, he had a mini DVD player. It took him a minute to attach it to my TV, and then he inserted a disc.
“This is from one of the RCA tapes. Number seven, which Charles Kork titled ‘Fresh Meat.’ We had it cleaned up and transferred to digital. A videotape is normally an analog signal, so during the transfer—”
“No technospeak. Please.”
“Fine. Just watch this and tell me what you notice.”
This was one I hadn’t seen, and had no desire to see. Dailey retrieved a remote from his attaché, pressed a few buttons, and the image showed Charles Kork brutally slapping a bound woman. The slapping went on and on, the camera zooming in closer and closer, until you could clearly see the marks Kork was making.
Dailey paused the video.
“Did you notice that?”
“I saw a woman getting beaten. It was revolting.”
“Of course it was revolting. But what else did you see?”
He began the scene at the same point, and again we witnessed the atrocity, starting with Kork full body and ending with him right in our faces, close enough to see his sweat.
Herb pointed at the screen. “The zoom.”
Then I got it. Kork was in front of the camera. If he was in front, who zoomed the lens in?
Now I got excited.
“Was it an automatic zoom?” I asked. “Or a remote control?”
“That RCA model doesn’t have one. Not only that, we analyzed this frame by frame. The camera is mounted on a tripod, but at the beginning of the zoom, the picture jars slightly. Consistent with someone behind the camera, pressing the zoom button.”
“The Gingerbread Man had a partner.”
Dailey nodded, somber.
I sat on my desk. Bud Kork, though a serial killer himself, couldn’t have been Charles Kork’s accomplice. Bud was in a coma when I received the videotape this morning. And the cameraperson who taped Diane Kork’s death had steady hands; Bud’s were racked with Parkinson’s.
“Who?” Herb asked.
“We’ve discovered that Bud Kork had a common-law wife for twelve years. She’s doing life for manslaughter—she sliced up a girl she believed was sleeping with Bud.”
“She’s still in prison?”
“Yes. And she had a boy of her own. We know he was one year younger than Charles, and they lived together for a while.”
“Remember what Bud Kork said yesterday?” Herb nudged me. “No flesh of my flesh. This kid lived in his house, but wasn’t Kork’s son.”
I tried to picture two little boys, growing up in the hell house of Bud Kork. They’d both be majorly screwed up. Chances are they relied on each other. Bonded. Maybe developed the same grotesque appetites.
; “Where’s this guy now?”
“We haven’t been able to locate him. Last known address is in Michigan.”
“Record?”
Dailey paused. “Assault and battery. Burglary. Armed robbery. Rape. Did a few stints in prison. But three years ago, the guy just disappeared.”
“Have you asked his mother where he is?”
“Not yet. As of today, the special agent in charge of the Chicago office is sending me to Gary to assist Special Agent Coursey.”
Now this generous sharing of information made sense.
“You came to us, knowing we’d want go and interview her.”
Special Agent Dailey smiled. “We’re all on the same side, right?”
“Fine. What’s her name and where is she?”
Dailey played coy. I stated the obvious.
“You want something.”
“The Behavioral Science Unit is facing cutbacks. Homeland Security is getting all of the funding. We’re going to be downsized. A major bust would go a long way to preventing that.”
“You want the collar.”
Dailey nodded. “We’re willing to share. But we’d like to be in on it. If I give you the woman’s name, and you find out where her son is, we’d like to assist in the arrest.”
“Won’t that only matter if state lines have been crossed?”
“We can still be there to smile pretty for the cameras.”
I mulled it over. “We could find her on our own.”
“Maybe. But it will be tough. You don’t have access to all of the information that we do. You’d need subpoenas to obtain records. All of that will take time.”
I glanced at Herb. He shrugged.
“Deal.” We shook hands on it. “What’s her name?”
“Her name is Lorna Hunt Ellison. She’s currently in the Indiana Women’s Prison in Indianapolis. Son’s name is Caleb.”
I wrote the info down, then hit the Eject button on my VCR.
“I got another tape this morning. It shows the death of the handwriting expert who helped with the Gingerbread Man case.”
Dailey raised an eyebrow. “You believe Diane Kork was killed on the first tape, correct?”
Jack Daniels Six Pack Page 59