Shakespeare smiled and leaned toward O'Neil. “Don't worry, Father, we'll do everything we can to make sure he is brought in unharmed.”
O'Neil smiled gratefully. “It may still be nothing, maybe he was upset over something, it might have been a joke.”
Eldridge nodded but didn’t believe that any more than Father O’Neil’s voice suggested he did. “Perhaps. We'll check it out.” He rose as did the others. “Thank you, Father, for bringing this to our attention.” He shook O'Neil's hand. “We'll have his computer picked up as well, see if there's anything on it that can help.”
“Of course.” O'Neil turned to Shakespeare, taking his hand in both of his. “Justin, when are we going to see you in church?”
Shakespeare turned a tinge red and looked away. “Well, Father, I'm afraid I'd probably be struck down the moment I set foot in there.”
O'Neil chuckled. “God loves everyone, even the sinner, Justin. You should come this weekend, you can let me know what happened with young Jeremiah.”
Shakespeare nodded. “No promises, Father, but we'll see.”
O'Neil tossed his head back and laughed. “I'm glad you didn't lie to me, Justin. But do somehow let me know what happens with Jeremiah.”
“That I can do,” promised Shakespeare.
After Father O'Neil left, they returned to their desks, excited at what they had just found out. “I think you might’ve finally got a break.”
Eldridge nodded as he checked his messages. He hung up the phone and stood up. “Might have just got another. I have to go see Vinny, he's got something for me.”
Shakespeare nodded. “I'll get to work on a warrant to search the kid's place.”
Eldridge hadn't known Shakespeare to fill out any paperwork in ages, and not willing to look a gift-horse in the mouth, he headed down to the lab without commenting. “Yo, Vinny, what've you got for me?”
“Detective, your hunch paid off. I compared the DNA from our SUV shooter and from vomit collected on the platform and we got a match.”
“I had a feeling. Our shooter, who we're assuming is also our killer, was on the train that day.”
“Yeah, but if he was one of the passengers who did nothing, why is he killing the others? Shouldn't he just kill himself and get it over with?”
“Maybe it'll end that way. He could be his own final target.”
Vinny nodded. “Serial killer-suicide? Maybe. But why?”
“Overcome with remorse at not helping, maybe? Decides he should kill himself, but if he has to die, then so should the others?”
“Could be. You can't always apply logic to a nut-bar's brain.”
Eldridge agreed. “I assume there were no matches to anything else in the system?”
“No, Detective, you got lucky once today, don't push it.”
Eldridge nodded and headed back to his desk. As he climbed the stairs, his phone vibrated with a message. Flipping it open, he saw another photo from Frank with a tag-line “No ID”. It showed an elderly woman, clearly terrified, heading for the door.
Small sat on his couch, watching some mindless reality television drivel on mute, no longer able to stand the grade three dialogue. I fought a war to protect this shit? He brought up the guide, looking for something better to watch. He found an old Bogart war movie and flicked it on. Navy? Bah! He raised the remote to find something else when he heard what he thought was the officer's radio outside his door. A moment later there was a knock. He struggled to his feet and had to clutch the back of a chair as the room spun around him. Steadying himself, he cursed the bastard who had given him the concussion, and headed to the door. A glance through the peephole confirmed it was the officer. He opened the door.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but I just wanted to let you know that we’ve been called back to the precinct.”
Curious. “Did they catch him?”
The young officer shrugged his shoulders. “Dunno. Must have. I can’t see them calling off a protective detail if they hadn’t.”
“Ok, well thanks for sticking around as long as you did.”
The officer nodded as Small closed the door. He turned slowly, then made his way back into the living room. Hovering over his couch, about to drop onto it, he heard another knock at the door. He swung his arms in circles to keep his balance, and chuckled.
“Forgot something, officer?” he yelled, as he shuffled to the door. Turning the knob, he yanked the door open. His jaw dropped as he saw the barrel of a gun pointed directly at his head, then the muzzle flash as it went off in his face.
Police Officer Daniels, only moments before called off his shit assignment, tapped his toe, eyeing the slowly descending floor indicator. He couldn’t wait until he had a little more seniority, then he'd at least be the one sitting in the car. You're a rookie, what do you expect? He was almost at the ground floor when he heard the shot. Shit! He jabbed at the button for the fifth floor and grabbed his radio. “Shots fired! Shots fired!” The elevator continued its interminable descent, at last arriving at its destination. The doors inched open and Daniels waved off a man who tried to get on. “Police emergency!” The doors finally began to close, his repeated jabs at the Door Close button and string of curses failed to urge them on any faster. They had almost finished closing when a hand grasped the door and forced it open. It was his partner. “Did you hear that?” Daniels asked.
“Yeah, I called it in.” The doors closed and they watched the indicator, their weapons drawn, as it inched toward the fifth floor. The elevator chimed its arrival, and the doors opened to silence. Daniels placed his foot against the door to prevent it from closing, while his partner took position opposite him. He peered out, toward the apartment, and saw nothing. His partner checked the other direction then motioned for Daniels to exit the elevator. He stepped out into the hallway, followed by his partner close behind. The hallway was clear, but the door to the apartment they were assigned to watch minutes before lay open. Daniels was first to see the body lying in the entranceway.
“How the hell did this happen?” demanded Eldridge. “You two were assigned to protect him! Where were you?”
“The detail had just been called off,” explained Daniels' partner, Police Officer Davidson. “Maybe about two minutes before I heard the shot.”
“Yeah, I was in the elevator on my way down when it happened,” said Daniels.
“Called off? Who the hell called it off?”
“I don't know, it came over the squad car computer,” said Davidson.
“The computer?” Eldridge knew immediately what had happened. They were dealing with a computer whiz, apparently good enough to hack the police system. Eldridge looked at the body of Nathan Small as it was wheeled out. I've got to find that old lady before she gets it. He stormed off, shaking his head.
Aynslee's new look had gone over big. For once she made the City page instead of those she used to cover. She was hot. Her image makeover had closely followed on the heels of her career makeover and she was now the co-anchor, having proved herself capable, and with ratings to back her up. Interview offers with national talk shows were still pouring in and she had at last received the phone call she was waiting for, CNN. She had just heard the message and didn't know what they wanted to talk to her about, but she knew the name was for someone she had heard was in their recruiting department. Cloud Nine had nothing on the way she was feeling right now.
She was heading home after the 11pm newscast when the CNN message arrived on her BlackBerry. Her immediate instinct was to return the call right away, but she decided against it, not wanting to appear too eager. When the second message arrived, she was almost home. It was another video. The exhilaration at receiving these messages had worn off, and she sometimes felt guilty she may achieve her lifelong dreams because some depraved person had picked her to be the recipient of videos depicting his vicious acts. Pushing the twinge of guilt away, she instructed the driver to head back to the station.
When she arrived at her office she pulled
the video up on her monitor. The person recording it stood in front of a door, an outstretched arm held a gun, pointed directly at the peephole. The door opened, revealing a man who clearly had been expecting someone else, his jaw dropping at the sight of the weapon. There was a flash then the man collapsed backward. The video panned down to show him lying on the floor, then ended. Aynslee backed up the video to where the man answered the door and paused it. He looks familiar. She let the video play out then froze it on the body lying on the floor, two prosthetic limbs clearly visible. I know him! Her heart pounded in her chest as she realized she may actually have a connection to the victims. If she knew him, how many of the others might she have known, but just not recognized? She grabbed the phone and dialed Hayden's number.
TEN
Police Officer Stewart sipped his coffee, enjoying the last few minutes of his 10-63. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, dreaming of the Dominican beach he and his girlfriend would be on next week. Sandy beaches, blue-green water, sunshine. No clouds, no rain. And beaches full of scantily clad women. Life is good! He’d have to watch himself; his girlfriend was the jealous type. He’d never dream of cheating on her, but a guy’s allowed to look, just not touch. That’s what they invented sunglasses for. A squeal of tires startled him and he opened his eyes in time to see a car careening toward him. He tossed his coffee and dropped the car into reverse, hammering on the gas. The car surged backward as the oncoming vehicle continued to gain. He spun the wheel to the right and the squad car jerked to the side, the other car narrowly missing him as it sped past and collided with a nearby light standard. He slammed his brakes on and breathed a sigh of relief, taking a moment to regain his composure. Turning his cherries on, he pulled in behind the car, blocking its escape, then radioed it in. He climbed out and drew his weapon. As he approached the car he saw the occupant asleep on the steering wheel. Fucking drunks! He holstered his weapon and pulled out his nightstick, tapping on the window. Nothing. He tapped again, this time harder. The man stirred and looked at him. “Howdy, Officer!” he waved.
“Please exit the vehicle, sir.”
The man nodded, and, with difficulty, opened the door. He swung his legs out and tried to stand, only to be pulled back in by his still clasped seatbelt.
If this were a movie, it might be funny.
“Unbuckle your seatbelt, sir.”
“Jusht a minute.” After a few seconds of fumbling he freed himself and stumbled out, grasping the door for support.
“How much have you had to drink tonight, sir?”
“Nothing.” He hiccupped.
“I'll need you to take a breathalyzer test, sir.”
“I d-don't need that.”
“Sir, if you refuse to take the test, you can be charged.”
“Charged for not taking a test?” asked the man. “If I'm going to be charged, it should be for something—”. He paused as if to vomit. “For something good,” he finished. He swung at Stewart, catching him on the chin. Stewart staggered back and drew his weapon, calling for backup. The man stood laughing for a few seconds, then collapsed in a heap, passed out.
It was warm. Comfortable. Relaxing. Chelsie slowly woke, and it felt wonderful. She opened her eyes, preparing to moan in ecstasy, when the reality of the new world she lived in yanked her mercilessly back to the horror of her new life. She was in the bathtub, her captor stood not five feet away, his head in the medicine cabinet. And he was humming. That same, annoying, droning tune. He straightened as he removed something from the cabinet then flipped the mirrored door closed. Chelsie snapped her eyes shut, praying he hadn’t seen her in the reflection. His humming continued.
She had been ravenously hungry, and had finally given in, eating half a sandwich. Not even half. But it had proven enough to knock her out within minutes. How long was I out? She knew he waited about an hour before collecting her, and her wet hair suggested he was finished cleaning her, which she thanked God she had been asleep for. Half a sandwich means 90 minutes. She’d know for next time to try a quarter.
The humming neared and she sensed he had sat on the edge of the tub. He picked up her leg and held it in the air, the water pouring then trickling off her leg, the warmth of it quickly replaced by the relative chill of the room. He rubbed something over the entire exposed surface of her leg. It felt soft, smooth. Skin cream? Something hard ran over her leg, accompanied by a scraping sound. Oh my God, he's shaving my legs! Her instinct demanded she kick out, try to stop him, but she resisted, knowing she had no hope of overpowering him from her current position. Or any position for that matter. She already knew he was too strong. She would need to outwit him somehow. Brains would win this, and that knowledge calmed her. She endured the grooming session, and after a few minutes, was carried into the bedroom, the ritual of toweling her dry and blow-drying her hair hopefully signaling the near end of tonight’s activities.
She heard him walk into the hall again and then the definite creak of the stairs as he descended. Opening her eyes, she looked around. Deep red with gold gilded wallpaper adorned every wall, the plastered ceiling with deep cove moldings and gold trim, reminded her of her grandmother’s place in Maine. Several expensive looking rugs accented the hardwood flooring, including a dated brown and burgundy afghan directly in front of a large dresser with mirror at the head of the bed. She raised herself up on her elbows and gasped. Her hair was a bright blonde, puffed into an almost eighties style hairdo. What shocked her more was she had worn it this way before, but only at her retro-eighties nights. Could he have seen me at one of those? She continued her search, finding no evidence of a phone or any other means of communication in the room. The window to her right, still covered by heavy drapery, disguised whether it was day or night. She looked again at the photo she had glimpsed last time. It was of a small boy, hugged by what he assumed were his parents, and next to that, a picture of two teenagers on a swing together, an awkward smile on the boy’s face, a look of boredom on the girl’s. Her stomach churned. The girl could have been her.
A creak on the stairs startled her and she lay back down, closing her eyes. He reentered the room and dressed her in clothes so warm they felt fresh from the dryer. He picked her up and carried her out of the room. Her head lay on his right, turned toward his back. She opened her left eye a sliver, revealing a tight stairwell, as if in an old house. When they reached the bottom, a doorway, clearly to the outside, shoes and several men's jackets in evidence, was tantalizingly close, but impossibly far. He turned and walked down a hallway stretching almost the length of the house, a living room with a phone sitting on a table, made her heart leap as they passed. They entered the kitchen, its modern appliances a drastic contradiction to the obvious age and style of the rest of the house. A cordless phone lay on the kitchen counter, almost within reach. She made note of this, thinking if her arm had been free, she might have been able to grab it, and perhaps hide it somehow from him. Next time. He placed her on the floor, near the kitchen’s far end and she heard him pull the chain, triggering the lowering of the floor. He obviously doesn't get any visitors. A few more minutes and she lay on her mattress, waiting while he collected the water bottle and tray from earlier. Recalling what she had just seen, she built a mental map of the house in her head.
Clarice Viktora eyed her client, held between two bailiffs, his head lolled on his shoulder, reeking of God knows what. Why do I always get the drunks? She knew why. She was the low “man” on the totem pole, doomed to the shit assignments until a new crop of newbies came aboard, at which point shit would become crap, and with each new crop, she would work her way up, eventually, hopefully, switching to the prosecutor’s office. But this was her first month in the Public Defender's Office, a stepping stone on the ambitious road she had laid out for herself. Her client belched then farted. Oh, that’s nice. She took two steps sideways.
“How do you plead?”
Clarice smelt the vomit on her client's breath. He looked at the judge, the look of bewilderment al
most comical. He isn’t answering. He opened his mouth, then dropped his head to his chest and snored.
“Not guilty,” she said.
“Bail?”
Thankfully the prosecutor replied before she had to think up some line of BS she didn’t even believe. “Your honor, the plaintiff has refused to identify himself, has no identification, was driving while under the influence in a stolen car, and assaulted an officer. We recommend remand until such time as he can be identified.”
“Defense?”
I just want to go to bed. “The defense has no objections to him being held overnight until his identity can be established.”
“Very well, bail is denied until such time as identity can be established.” The judge swung her gavel, ending the proceedings. Bailiffs led, or dragged, her client toward a holding cell, from which he would be transferred to Rikers. Clarice stifled a yawn as she picked up the folder for the next case. Oh goody, another DUI.
Aynslee walked slowly toward her office, her now used “go” bag slung over her shoulder, a bag the life of a reporter had her in the habit of always keeping stocked with a change of clothes and toiletries to freshen up with in the station's gym facilities. She had slept at the station on a pull-out couch in her office, too afraid to go home. She couldn’t believe Hayden hadn’t come to protect her. Wasn’t that his job? Maybe if you hadn’t scared him away! She started to reassess their relationship. Maybe I’m reading way too much into this?
She stepped into her office and found Hayden sitting in a chair in front of her desk.
Thank God!
“Where were you?” she asked, the fear from the night before still in her voice. “I slept here all night, I was terrified!”
Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 22