(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind'

by Michael A Diaz

  “You…about finished here?”

  “Yeah…yeah…just about”, Holt said. “We have the sketch, the blood samples and the photographs and I’ll do the autopsy and all the other tests as soon as we get back”.

  Turner glanced at the dark parking lot, at the crummy, dirty buildings surrounding the bar and he shook his head. ‘What a hell of a place to die’, he said to himself. He closed his eyes as he tried to place the killer there, tried to see in his mind how the killer had approached Moore, how he struck the blows. ‘This damn…killer is really smart’, he thought, ‘able to approach two police officers, both experienced, close enough to use an axe or machete to kill them, without either one of them being able to use their pistols’. That both had been able to discern something wrong behind them was obvious, but that was as far as they had been able to go, dying shortly afterward, unable to protect themselves. This killer was intelligent and obviously, had spent some time tracking the officers, getting to know their habits and their whereabouts.

  “Where are you now?” he asked softly, opening his eyes. “Where…are you? What…the hell motivates you?’ He stood still, waiting for answers, getting back nothing but the whisper of the wind. He glanced around at the desolate parking lot, small and dirty and he shook his head. It wasn’t decent for a man to die like this, he thought, alone…drunk…behind a bar, sitting in his own shit and piss.

  There was a killer walking the mean streets of Chicago and he was afraid that this cop would not be the last one. Someone had a grudge, a deep one and cops were the target. He breathed deeply of the cold air, shrugging his shoulders deep into his coat, walking a few paces away from the crime scene, his eyes lingering on the empty parking lot. Another long, frustrating day was ahead of them and probably, there would be a lot more questions than answers. Luckily, Moore was not married, so there would not be a wife and children to comfort and take care of. He probably had quite a few women in his life, Turner thought, shaking his head. They would have to be found and questioned. Not that he thought they would find anything connected to the murder in that way, but they had to look. They also had to find this Gloria woman and her joe, find out if they had seen something in that parking lot where Moore was killed.

  “Yeah…he told himself grimly, ‘questions and no answers’, and I’m afraid our killer will come back…again”. Something in his cop mind was telling him that he was in for a long haul concerning these murders and that whoever was involved was no ex-girlfriend or jealous husband. ‘This is different’ Turner thought angrily, thinking that the way they had being murdered was indecent, cold. Cold and indifferent like the wind whispering softly around him.

  CHAPTER 11

  Chicago January 29, 1995

  05:00

  She woke up with a start, gasping, sitting up in the king size bed, her naked body clammy with perspiration, trembling, and her breathing coming in ragged gulps as her heart beat painfully against her ribs. She hated the nights and the dark, especially the dark She hated the haunting dreams that shattered her soul and left her trembling and weak like a reed in the wind. The dreams were always the same, had been for the last fifteen years, ever since the rape of her young body. The dark shadows that bent over her, steel like claws reaching for her, ripping her apart. Then the smirking faces that leered at her, diffused at first, then changing into the faces of people that she hated the most; police officers.

  She threw the bed covers aside, sliding out of the bed, breathing deeply to calm the wild hammering of her young heart, completely naked. She walked out of the room to the front window, pushing the curtains aside and glancing out at the dark world beyond the window. A world as dark as her soul, terrifying in her loneliness and in her weakness to stop herself from killing.

  It had been two days since she had killed the last man, the one named Moore, and she had thought that the nightmares would stop then. For the first couple of days the bad dreams had stopped, just as they had after Dunbar’s death. She had felt exhilarated, clean and powerful. Then the nightmares came rushing back in, stronger than before, threatening to shatter the tenuous hold that she still had over the reality of her life. She folded her arms against her small breasts, touching the cold windowpane with her forehead. “Maybe I just need to keep on killing cops’, she thought grimly, a grin flickering briefly on the beautiful face at the thoughts running wild in her head. She really enjoyed the sense of power that killing the ‘bad’ people gave her, the incredible clarity of everything surrounding her, the sexual charge as the axe bit deep into flesh and bone, the smell of blood and terror in the air. She also enjoyed the look of utter fear in the face of her prey, the moment of weakness showing clearly on the faces of men that knew they were but seconds away from dying. The arrogant son of bitches were full of crap after all, just like a handful of clay, and when the time to die was rushing at them, they fouled themselves in their own shit and piss, the smell of utter terror drifting in the air. It was a terrific rush and she longed for more, wanting the feelings to stay with her forever. It was the only way her soul could be clean, free of the horrible nightmares in the darkness. She knew where to find them and she knew how to do it, so she might as well continue to rid society of the bastards that were out there ruining people’s life. It didn’t matter who they were any longer. What mattered now was the fact that they would continue to pay, for her and for all the others that had been brutalized by the very men that were supposed to take care of them. The two main ones, the men that had ruined her life, were dead, but…there were quite a few more out in the streets. They were just as dirty and cruel as the two who had died so far.

  She walked back into the bedroom, reaching inside the closet for the leather bag and taking the axe out. She caressed the handle, bringing the face of the axe close to her, the lips mumbling soft, unintelligible words, her breathing coming shallow and fast. The eyes took on a glazed look as she spread her legs, starting to flick her wrist, the axe moving swiftly. Within seconds, she was moving, the axe cutting through the air with a sibilant sound. She moved and weaved with incredible concentration and an economy of movement that was impressive, as impressive as the way she handled the axe, first one handed then switching and using both hands, the axe coming alive like some striking snake. It was obvious that she was completely familiar with the axe and the particular characteristics of it, the weapon glinting in the semidarkness of the room, cutting the air right to left, stopping in midair, coming back left to right in ever increasing speed. Sweat ran in rivulets down her breasts and face and her breathing became ragged with her efforts, the muscles in her arms standing out, tight, supple, the weight of the axe beginning to tell on her. She kept at it until her chest was burning, her arms leaden, feeling the adrenalin rushing through her and the strong beat of her heart hitting against her ribs. Satisfied, she put the axe down, breathing deeply, closing her eyes, her mind reliving the killings of Dunbar and Moore, thinking hat soon…very soon, more of the ‘bad’ people would die by her hand.

  With those thoughts in mind she turned around, making her way to the bathroom and turning the hot water on. She needed to wash the stink of those men from her, wash away the pain and the rage that the nightmares engendered in her. She smiled a happy smile as she thought about killing again, feeling the wetness spreading in her loins. She entered the stream of hot water, her hand going to her vaginal area, long, tapered fingers spreading the lips, probing gently at first, then harder and deeper, moaning sounds escaping from sensuous lips. She closed her eyes, giving herself to the only way she could experience pleasure, her mind conjuring the murders of Moore and Dunbar once again, her fingers going deeper, faster, getting her to the peak, a cry of passion and rage exploding from her as her legs turned to jelly and she gasped and trembled with the strength of her emotions.

  For a long time afterward she lay huddled under the stream of hot water, eyes closed, mind blank. When she finally moved, she stood up swiftly, her face a mas
k of pure hate. She finished her shower, stepping out and drying herself. She wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at the image of herself. She had a funeral to attend, so she needed to hurry up.

  “Soon…very soon”, she told herself softly, hard, cold eyes fixed on her mirror image.

  “Soon…”

  CHAPTER 12

  Chicago police Department 3151 W. Harrison St. January 29, 1995 1600 hours

  “There is no doubt in my mind. It’s the same weapon…the same cut, and the same oil residue as the last time”, Holt said, taking a drag of his cigarette, flicking the papers and the pictures in his hand. “This time we also have some more of those carpet fibers that we are trying to identify, but it looks to me like normal household carpet and I’ll bet by the time we finish that it will be the same.” He was sitting in front of Lt. Turner, the report of the autopsy performed on Moore resting on his lap. Turner shook his head at the words coming from Holt. He had known all along that was going to be the case. His gut feeling had been telling him that these murders were related, that there was a common denominator between them. The same MO, the same weapon…the same murderer. Was the same motive involved in this last slaying? He ran his tongue over dry lips, chapped by the cold, leaning back on his chair, eyes resting on Holt Lambert, waiting for him to continue. The man had an inquisitive mind, always probing, always asking questions and Turner appreciated the way his mind worked at a problem.

  Holt flicked the ashes from his cigarette, reaching for the coffee cup on the desk and sipping the dark, strong brew slowly. He ruffled some more papers, glancing at Turner, continuing. “This time we have a defensive wound on the left arm and another cut on the forehead. Probably Moore heard something, turned around when the axe swing was already coming, the axe taking him on the raised arm, deflecting the blow just enough to cause a blow to the forehead.” He stopped then, sipping more coffee, sighing deeply, trying his best to get all the facts straight in his mind.

  “Then the killer swung again, right to left, taking his head off.” He reached for another form among the many papers in his hnads, bringing it up. “BAC (blood alcohol level) was 0.27, well over the legal limit, meaning he was quite drunk at the time he died.” He paused briefly, shaking his head slightly. “The ABO typing of the blood samples come back with Moore’s blood type, and so far we are sure all the blood at the crime scene comes from him, just like…Dunbar. We will know more when the DNA samples come back”. He searched through the papers for a moment, pulling one out from the small bundle, grunting as he move around in the chair. “Test on his pistol revealed that it wasn’t fired, just like we thought…and all the fingerprints on it are his”. He flipped another page on the report, clearing his throat; “The wallet…we checked it also for fingerprints, no luck either, so I’ll guess our killer was wearing gloves.”

  Turner stood up, his eyes hard, a frown on his forehead, his jaw clenched tight. The Assistant Chief had left the office seconds before Holt arrived, giving him the news that it had been decided that a task force consisting of ten more men would be put together for the investigation of the murdered cops. Turner was to be in charge, which had taken him by surprise but pleased him greatly, considering the fact that Assistant Chief Crawly was no friend to him. “Probably the son of a bitch is hoping I fuck up somehow and then he will get me”, he had said to himself. Regardless, it was good news; he sure as hell could use the manpower to run the few leads they had. Now they had to check on Moore’s background, talk to neighbors and friends and also look into the arrests he had made before his death.

  He shook his head slightly as he ran his fingers through his short hair, glancing at Holt, who was looking at him with a bemused expression on his face. They had known each other for years, worked together on a hundred murders and this was the first time that Holt had seen Turner stumped by a case. The young man was the best detective he had ever had the pleasure to work with. He was tenacious and smart, never giving up on a case. He had the education, a Master’s in Clinical Psychology, and the experience to solve any murder and it was a rare occasion when he failed to produce results. ‘But hell…I’m stumped too’, he told himself, thinking that he had never worked a case with so little evidence available. What they really knew about the killer could fill a single page so far. The rest…was just suppositions and not much of that either.

  “This damn killer…is getting to me”, Turner said softly, perching on a corner of his desk. “And there is no doubt now that the killings are related. We found out that Moore and Dunbar were partners years ago, when Moore was a rookie. They spent a few years together, so I’m willing to bet that whoever killed Dunbar is the same person that killed Moore…and for the same reason.” He stopped for a second, gathering this thoughts before resuming. “Now…if we can find the damn reason…the motive, then we might just get somewhere.” Finding that motive is going to be problematic, Turner thought grimly. There was nothing on either of the men’s records that showed any red flags concerning something they had done, or any arrest that would show somebody was angry enough to kill them. Both of them had been investigated more than once by IA (Internal Affairs) for the usual complaints of police brutality and taking bribes, which taking into consideration the times and the city they worked on, was not that rare. Moore had been suspended for three days without pay after a woman had complained of sexual harassment, and there had been other policy matters when he has been investigated, but nothing that would give Turner a reason for murder. They both had people that were not exactly on friendly terms with them, but nothing that would make one of them kill a cop in such a gruesome way. But somewhere, something that he was missing was the clue for the motive. There was always a motive for murder and these murders were no different.

  Gloria and her joe had been found and interviewed at great length and both had failed to shed any light on the killer or the murder. They had been too drunk and too full of each other to see anything in the parking lot and therefore, had not been able to give any information concerning Moore’s killing. They had given permission to search their respective dwellings and the detectives had done so, ruling them out as suspects when nothing was found. They had even searched Moore’s apartment, talked to as many girlfriends as possible, but nowhere could they find anything that would give them a clue as to the killer or a motive.

  “We are back to square one on both counts, Holt”, Turner said, standing up and stretching his body. It was late in the evening and he was tired of reading reports and making phone calls all day long with very little to show for it. He had spent an hour watching the videotape of Moore’s funeral, looking for anything that might be a clue to the killer. He knew it was a long shot; the killer showing at the funeral, but there was always hope the crazy son of a bitch would attend. He knew serial killers sometimes would do things like that, relive the moment of glory when they had killed another human being and gotten away with it. In the meantime, the killer’s trail was getting cold and he had to ask himself if the killings would stop now or if they would continue. If someone was out there targeting cops, then the killings would continue, if it was just revenge against Dunbar and Moore, then it was over.

  “But I’ve got a feeling that this is not over”, he mumbled to himself. “Not by a long shot.”

  Now they had to wait for the killer to strike again, something that irritated the hell out of Turner. He didn’t like to react to things, he was proactive and it bothered the hell out of him when he had to wait for things to happen…especially murder. Holt stood up, gathering the papers, closing the file and glancing at Turner.

  “You remember Bill Moyers…the FBI profiler?”

  Turner fixed his green eyes on Holt, his forehead creasing in thought. “Yes…the guy that came down for the training session last year.”

  “That’s him. I thought you might want to call him, talk about the cases with him.”

  “Any…particular reason why I wan
t to do that?” Turner asked, his eyes still fixed on Holt. He knew his friend, knew that he didn’t make comments like that unless he had something on his mind.

  “I just finished reading his last book…on serial killers, and I think it’s right on the money with this one of ours.”

  Turner shook his head, his forehead creased in thought. He didn’t like the idea of running to the FBI for help on anything…but he had to admit, these murders had him stumped. No matter what they looked at, they kept coming back empty handed. No witnesses, no idea what the motive could have been, except that whoever was doing the killings was extremely good at it, had killed two experienced cops as if they were just rank amateurs. They knew the killer was full of rage against cops, or at least, that was the way they it appeared. Turner sat back down in his chair, his mind still full of thoughts concerning the FBI profiler. It probably would not do any harm to call the guy at Quantico, send the files and maybe get something back from him. He had his own ideas about the killer and it would be interesting to know if the profiler in Quantico was going to come up with the same responses. He glanced at Holt who was looking at him expectantly.

  “I think…you are right…I’ll do that”, Turner said. Holt shook his head in agreement, dropping the file on top of Turner’s desk and exiting the room.

  Once alone, Turner rummaged through his desk until he found the business card Moyers had left. He looked at it, his mind running through the ramifications of what he was about to do. “Another fucking thing the Chief will get pissed about”, he thought grimly. But what the hell…it was his investigation and every one was expecting results. He sighed deeply and his hand reached for the phone, his mind made up. The way his investigation was going, he could use whatever help the FBI could come up with, that was for sure.