Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1)

by J. Robert Kennedy

“Congratulations, Miss Kai. If there isn't anything else, I have a lot of work to do.”

  “No, I was just calling to let you know about Mr. Coverdale,” she paused, desperately searching for something witty to say. Instead, she said, “Have a nice night, Detective.”

  “Good night, Miss Kai.”

  Then the conversation was over. What a disaster! Aynslee decided she better go to bed before she found another way to make an ass of herself.

  Chelsie had to know if the message was written in blood, but with no way to reach the platform while raised, she waited. Her plan was to wet her hand and rub it on the bottom of the platform when it was lowered, to see if the color changed, but she wasn’t sure how to accomplish this. It would mean waiting until the last second, something she had never done. And what if her touching the platform caused it to sway? If he caught her standing under the platform, he may get suspicious and investigate. Whoever had written the message couldn’t have picked a more ingenious place. Each time he lowered the platform to enter the basement, he himself hid the message from view. Only his victims would ever see it, and she couldn’t risk him finding it. If there were to be others after her, it was only fair they benefit from the knowledge someone, most likely now dead, was able to leave behind.

  She wasn’t sure why she wanted to know if it was blood. Did it make a difference? If it was blood, dirt or marker for that matter, did it change the content of the message, did it change how she would use that knowledge? No, but her curiosity demanded she find out. She searched for alternatives that wouldn’t risk the message being discovered, and, eying the hole, strode over and bent down, cupping her hands and filling them with water. Carefully walking back toward the platform, she positioned herself under it, and, looking up, tossed the water toward the faint letters above. The water splashed across the platform’s bottom and immediately dripped down. She jumped back as she remembered she wore a white blouse with no means to clean it if stained. Removing the blouse and placing it safely in the opposite corner, she repeated the process, this time standing directly under the platform and letting the drops fall onto her hands and arms. What appeared to be dark brown overhead, turned a pale red on her skin. She rushed to the hole in the floor and scrubbed herself, now convinced it was blood.

  Eldridge sat at his desk, sorting through the threats, when Shakespeare wandered in.

  “Watcha doin'?” asked Shakespeare as he sat down, peering across the desk at the several piles of papers spread out in front of his partner.

  Eldridge looked up, surprised to see him. Where’s the donuts? “Going through the threats Logan Rochester received after posting that video of the subway attack on the Internet.”

  Shakespeare nodded and cracked his knuckles as if limbering up for some strenuous activity. “Want some help?”

  “Sure.” Eldridge pointed to a box on the floor, hoping his surprise hadn’t been too obvious. “Help yourself.”

  “Anything in particular we're looking for?” Shakespeare wheeled his chair closer to the boxes and leaned over to pick one up, his shirt escaping the confines of his too tight pants, revealing the top of an impressive plumber’s butt. He picked up the topmost box and wheeled back behind his desk, dropping it at his feet.

  “If the killer sent a threat, I doubt he would have sent just one. These attacks show obsession.”

  Shakespeare tucked his shirt back in, snapped on a pair of latex gloves from his desk drawer, and removed the top from the box. “Makes sense. Found anything so far?”

  “Look at these.” Eldridge handed him three sheets of paper, all from a computer printer, typed in a large font, in all caps. Shakespeare whistled. “The Rochester's dated each one as they received them,” explained Eldridge. “You can see the dates on the back.”

  Shakespeare flipped them over and read them in order. “The day of judgment is coming. Sounds biblical,” commented Shakespeare as he flipped to the second one. “Your blood is on your own head, for your own mouth has testified against you.” Shakespeare compared the first two pages. “Definitely look like they came from the same person.”

  Eldridge agreed. “Seems to be the same font used, anyway, and it seems to be unique amongst what I've seen so far, all very selective quotes from the bible.”

  Shakespeare held up the third one, dated three months ago. “The Lord examines the righteous, but the wicked and those who love violence his soul hates! Definitely seems like an escalation.” He flipped through the box in front of him, looking for additional matches. The two detectives worked in silence for almost an hour before Shakespeare stopped. “Look at this.” He held up another page and read, “Your hands are stained with blood, your fingers with guilt.”

  Eldridge took the page and compared the fonts. Turning it over, he looked at the date. “About a month ago.” The two men dug through their boxes, looking for any more matches when Eldridge smiled in triumph. “Look! Even now the ax of God's judgment is poised, ready to sever your roots.”

  Shakespeare leaned back in his chair. “Definitely sounds like our guy.”

  Eldridge took the five sheets of paper and placed them in a large Ziploc bag from his desk. “I'm going to take these to Vinny and see if he can find out anything.”

  “Say hi to that whop bastard for me,” said Shakespeare as he bent back down and continued searching the box.

  Eldridge smiled. “Yeah, I'll be sure to.” He found Vinny in the autopsy room with the coroner, Miles Jenkins, taking prints off a bloated corpse. “Hey, Vinny, another floater?”

  Vinny grunted as he manipulated the corpse's left hand. “Be with you in a second, Detective,” he said. “I just need to finish with our Jane Doe here.”

  “Where'd you find her?”

  “The Hudson,” replied Jenkins. “Some kids found her yesterday.”

  “How long had she been in there?”

  “At least a couple of days. I'll know more when I'm done my examination.”

  Vinny stretched his back and winced.

  “Back acting up again?” asked Eldridge.

  Vinny nodded. “Yeah, damned thing'll never be the same.”

  “You got shot in the back,” said Jenkins. “You're lucky to be alive so quit your bitchin' and get outta here. I've got work to do.”

  “Love you too, Miles,” said Vinny as he blew him a kiss. Eldridge followed him back to the lab. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “Shakespeare and I found some death threats sent to one of my vics that I need you to take a look at.” Eldridge handed the envelope to Vinny. “Prints, trace, anything that might give me a clue as to where these came from.”

  “You and Shakespeare? You're telling me that waste of space did some real, honest to goodness police work today?”

  Eldridge chuckled. “And he sends his love.”

  “The only love he'll feel is my fist up his—”

  “Thanks, Vin,” called Eldridge as he left the lab, “let me know as soon as you have something for me.” Eldridge closed the door, cutting off Vinny's tirade.

  Aynslee sat in the editing booth, her back to the door, spinning the control back and forth absentmindedly, the same footage racing forward, then back, with each flick of the dial. She heard a knock then the opening of the door.

  Not Reggie again!

  “Excuse me, I'm looking for Miss Kai?”

  Aynslee smiled and spun around, immediately recognizing Hayden’s voice. “Well hello, Detective.” Was that the start of a smile I saw?

  “Ah, sorry, Miss Kai, I didn't recognize you.”

  She flipped her hair with her hand. “You like?”

  He nodded, any trace of a smile, if there had ever been one, nowhere to be seen. “It looks fine. You have a new video?”

  I can't win. “Yup.” She replayed the video and winced when the shot was fired. The fact she wasn’t shocked at all by the latest video left Aynslee feeling ashamed. She had immediately called Hayden and her producer to let them know, then headed to the office to do a morning ne
wscast followed by a couple of morning talk shows, the story now the talk of the nation, speculation running rampant as to what the connection between the victims might be, the fact two of them hadn’t been identified publicly by the police only fueled the frenzy. “He was about to say something there at the end,” said Aynslee. “And who is this she that she's talking about?”

  “I have no idea,” he replied. “Do you have a copy ready for me?”

  Aynslee nodded and picked a CD up off the desk. Rather than handing it over however, she leaned closer to him, holding the CD between two fingers over her right shoulder. “So you like my hair?” she asked in a playful tone, not believing how bold she felt, but sure she had picked up a vibe from him when he first saw her.

  He looked at her then reached out and took the CD. “Thank you, Miss Kai,” he said, smiling from one side of his mouth.

  Aynslee, a grin on her face, watched as he walked from the editing room. Oh yeah, he liked it.

  Chelsie lay on her mattress, her eyes closed, her breathing steady, as steady as she could manage. She was wide awake, having decided not to eat any more food, a decision that terrified her. She had no idea what he did to her when she slept, though she was pretty sure he hadn't raped her. Yet. In fact, she was convinced he had only used the opportunity to clean the room, install the light and leave the mattress. But if he was going to rape her, did she want to know? The debate had raged in her head for some time, and eventually she decided her only opportunity for escape was to use this new knowledge to her advantage. And so she took the sandwich, stuffed it in the water hole, and lay down on the mattress, pretending to sleep.

  It had been about an hour, or so she guessed, before she heard the familiar sounds overhead. Her heart insisted on pounding like a drum as the platform lowered toward her. She tried to control her breathing, to keep up her charade. If he discovered she was awake, what he might do to her terrified her. The rattling of the chains and creaking of the platform stopped. This time was different however. This time she heard something she hadn’t heard yet. Something that had her clenching her teeth to hold back the scream threatening to erupt from within.

  Footsteps.

  Footsteps on the dirt floor, his shoes softly padding toward her. She could tell he was now standing over her, only inches away. Her heart thumped harder, the sound of terror rushed through her ears, the scream she knew might end her life only moments away from bursting forth. Desperate to take a deep breath, to calm her out of control nerves, she faked a yawn, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly, doing her best to fake sleep, something she hadn’t done since she was a child. It hadn’t worked then, her mother always able to tell, but this time was different. He appeared fooled, most likely because he was fully expecting her to be drugged. She continued her deep breathing, regaining control enough to hopefully survive whatever was to come.

  She felt him pick up her handcuffed wrist, then a clicking sound was followed by the feeling of the metal cuff being removed, her hand freed for the first time since she had been taken. It felt strange, almost light, as if he didn’t continue to hold it, it might escape on its own. She felt his arms slide under her then pick her up. A few steps and he lay her back down on a hard surface that could only be the platform. The sound of the chain as it was pulled, followed by the feeling of the ground swaying, confirmed her suspicions. After almost a minute the platform stopped moving and he lifted her again, the ease with which he carried her suggesting whoever her captor was, he was strong. A sensation of bobbing up and down, along with heavy footsteps on a wood floor, convinced her they were climbing a set of stairs, followed by a hallway, the closed in sound of his footsteps changing as he made a turn, replaced with the sensation of a larger area, most likely a room, her belief confirmed when he placed her on what must be a bed.

  A switch clicked to her left and her eyelids glowed pink from a light now turned on in the room. Creaking floorboards gave away the location of her captor as he walked about, then, to her horror, the bed shook as he climbed on it with her. Oh no! Oh no! He began by unbuttoning her pants then unzipping the fly. Pulling them off, he positioned himself behind her and lifted her back off the mattress. He reached around and pulled her top off over her head, removed her bra and gently laid her back down. He finished with her socks and panties.

  She wanted to scream, her heart raced out of control. She knew what was coming. Why didn't I eat the food? Oh please, God, please, don't let this happen. The bed shook again as he climbed off, then his footsteps faded from earshot. Terrified, she didn't dare open her eyes to look. The creak of the stairs confirmed he was definitely gone, but still she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. A few minutes later she heard him return. The thunderous beat of her heart filled her ears as he picked her up and carried her to another room. As he lowered her she was shocked by a strange sensation she at first couldn’t place. Water! The warm liquid enveloped her body, helping calm her down slightly. Surely he's not going to rape me in here?

  She heard him pick up something, then splashing, the water lapping against her breasts as whatever he did disturbed the surface. Struggling to maintain her unconscious façade, she almost yelped when he took her by the wrist and washed her with what felt like a sponge. Gently he scrubbed her arm, raising it over her head to reach her armpit, then down her side.

  He started to hum.

  And she tried not to gag.

  She had had a sponge bath once before, her first boyfriend after high school had given her one, the experience of having a lover bathe her so erotic, he wasn’t able to finish, her level of arousal demanding she pull him into the tub with her. The excitement of the unique situation, rather than the boy, still gave her goose bumps.

  But this was nothing like that.

  It was everything she could do not to throw up. She willed herself to take slow, steady breaths as he washed her breasts then moved to her other arm. When he washed her left leg she braced herself for what she knew was about to happen. Biting the inside of her cheek, she almost let out a yelp when he began to wash between her legs. She thanked God he didn't stay there long. He seemed intent on cleaning her; she sensed nothing sexual about this. When he moved onto her other leg she relaxed, realizing the worst was over.

  Clanging noises were followed by the sound of running water from a shower attachment as it sprayed in the tub, then on her head and back as he rinsed her hair. After a minute the water turned off and she heard the sound of a shampoo bottle spurting, then his hands softly worked the shampoo into a lather in her hair. She had always enjoyed having her hair washed at the hairdresser's, and for a moment forgot where she was.

  Then he started to hum again.

  And the moment of pleasure was shoved aside as the stark reality of where she was and who was doing this to her returned. A moment of disgust with herself quickly turned. He's pathetic! Finished lathering her hair, he rinsed it thoroughly then removed her from the tub and carried her to the bed. He toweled her off, starting on her left arm. After finishing with her torso he raised one of her legs in the air and placed it on what she thought might be his shoulder, rubbing her skin dry, the towel inching toward her vagina.

  She flinched.

  And he stopped.

  She held her breath for a second then thought that might tip him off. Slow, steady breaths, slow steady breaths.

  But still he did nothing.

  Oh, God, he knows! An idea sprung into her head. She flinched again, this time on purpose. She waited. Would he buy it? A fake flinch when he's doing nothing?

  The humming resumed and so did the drying. She breathed a sigh of relief. In her head. He towel dried her hair then placed her in a sitting position, her legs dangling over the bedside, his hand firmly in the center of her back. He blow-dried her hair for several minutes and when done, positioned himself behind her, his legs wrapped around her waist, his groin pressed against her as he combed her hair. He hummed again, but this time gyrated his pelvis slowly into her back.

/>   I'm going to be sick.

  But that was all he did. After a few minutes, he lay her back down on the bed then left the room, the floor creaking as he made his way down the hallway. Emboldened by the knowledge he would be gone for a few minutes, she opened her eyes a sliver as she waited to hear the stairs creak. The glare from the lamps in the room blinded her for a moment, but she soon confirmed she was in a bedroom, lying on the left side of a four-poster bed, a door to her left, in the far corner, led to the hallway, and to her right, a window, thick with curtains blocking out any light or sounds from the outside. On the nightstand sat a pewter framed photo. She peered at it closer.

  A creak from the doorway tore through the silence of the room. He didn't go downstairs! She snapped her eyes shut, thanking God her head faced away from the door. She listened as he approached then climbed on the bed with her. Something slid up her legs, and after a few seconds of uncertainty, she determined it was a pair of panties. He finished dressing her, the swiftness with which he was able to manipulate her limp body suggested he was well practiced. The ritual complete, he carried her downstairs and returned her to her basement prison. He placed her on the mattress and snapped the handcuff over her wrist. It's almost over!

  Something warm, soft, and slightly moist pressed against her lips. He's kissing me! Panic set in as she realized she was about to get raped.

  “Goodnight, my darling.”

  Then he left her.

  “Listen you son-of-a-bitch, I don't know what you got me into, but I don't want any part of it!” Messina was in a panic. He hadn't slept all night and when he received another call back, he raced from the dinner table and into the garage. Lowering his voice, he continued, “I need to know, did you have anything to do with what happened at the hospital?”

  “I think we should meet to discuss this.”

  The calm tone raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “What's there to discuss? Either you did or you didn't!”