(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind'

by Michael A Diaz

  “Jesus H. Christ’, he said, looking at the carnage on the sidewalk, blood everywhere. He shook his head, biting his lips and standing up swiftly. His eyes searched for Holt, wondering where he was. He caught sight of Thompson coming in, stopping suddenly, eyes glancing all around, centering on the two dead cops and the beehive of activity. His face drained of all color as he stood to one side watching the investigators at work and Turner walked toward him.

  “Where is…Holt?” he asked, spitting the words. His voice was hard, with an edge to it and Thompson fixed his eyes on his boss. He had a pretty good idea what was going on in that head of his. Turner was a man that prided himself on solving some of the worst murders around, in getting down and working the cases until somebody would pay for the crime. And here he was now, with four police officers dead and hardly any clue about what was really going on. He knew the feeling well. Hell, it was the same way he was feeling, he told himself. I feel like a useless pawn in a game where the stakes keep mounting and the end is nowhere in sight.

  “He is in the van”, he said, nodding his head in the direction of a van parked next to the curb, black markings on the side indicating it was the Crime Lab for the forensic team. Turner nodded his head in acknowledgement, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

  “Let’s go”, he said quietly, eyes hooded, his mind working all the angles. His trained eyes had taken in the bloody scene and now he was ready to start slowly and break it apart. ‘Maybe, he thought grimly, ‘this time we will get lucky and something will come up’.

  They walked to the van together, ignoring the shouted questions of TV reporters, men and women pushing at each other to get to him, restrained by the uniformed officers. Turner was about to climb inside when the tall, thin figure of Holt Lambert stepped out. There was an impish smile on his face and he shook an evidence bag that was in his hand.

  “What the hell…are you smiling at, Doc?” he asked, eyes following the up and down motions of the hand in front of him.

  “This”, he said and the up and down motions stopped. Turner looked at the plastic bag and his eyes opened up wide. Inside the bag was an axe, or what was left of the axe. The handle had snapped in two and the killer, probably in hurry, had left the axe head at the crime scene.

  Turner reached for the bag, eyes bright. The axe head was covered with blood and there was about two feet of handle left with it.

  “About damn time”, Turner said, passing the bag to Holt.

  “And that’s…not all”, Holt said, the grin still on his face.

  “What…else?” Turner asked softly, his heart pounding hard, painfully inside his chest at the unexpected news.

  “We have a…witness”. Holt said, his head nodding in the direction of a black man, looking extremely uncomfortable, standing just outside the police tape.

  For a moment, Turner looked at Holt in disbelief and then a smile creased his face

  “Great…just great”, Turner said, turning toward his partner. “Thompson, you talk to him…while I look around.”

  Thompson whirled around, his eyes glancing at the body and the head close to him, shaking his head. Maybe this time the killer had made a mistake and maybe this time the son of a bitch could be found, Thompson thought, making his way to the witness.

  Josh Turner lighted a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply, eyes roaming over the crime scene. He shrugged his broad shoulders deeper into his coat, wishing for a hot cup of coffee. A gust of wind slammed into him, making him close his eyes to slits to avoid the dirt flying on his face, feeling the cold seeping into him.

  He approached the body laying on the sidewalk first. The body was against the brick wall, a pool of blood underneath it, and the pistol still in its holster. He glanced away from the body, looking at the head, a few feet away. The eyes were still open, staring into empty space and Turner realized that the officer had been incredibly young, probably just out of the academy. “Hell…he was just a kid’, he told himself softly. Turner remained where he was, his mind racing, and the eyes taking in everything slowly. Something moved behind him and he swiveled his head. Dr. Lambert was there, this time with one of his stinking cigars on his lips, hands deep in his coat pockets.

  He remained silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the dead man and then, shaking his head slowly, he pulled a pad from his pocket.

  “Officer…Morgan”, he said softly, glancing at his notes. “Twenty three years old…just out of the Police Academy”. He glanced down again, closing the pad. “And that was Officer Mullhollan, a twenty-year veteran.”

  Tuner nodded his head in acknowledgement. Once again, his thoughts went to the killer. Whoever the hell was doing this killings had to have a lot of guts. To kill two police officers in the middle of the night, in downtown Chicago, that was brazen. He had gotten away with it again, at least for now. He glanced in the direction of Thompson, seeing him in deep conversation with the black man who was supposed to be a witness. He took a deep drag of the cigarette, exhaling slowly, throwing the butt on the street and stepping on it. He approached the body of the young police officer and squatted down, staying away from the puddle of dark blood. His eyes closed to slits as he tried his best to recreate the murder in his mind, wondering how in the hell someone could get to two men, one a hard core pro, and kill them both in a matter of seconds. The killer was incredibly strong and fast, of that there was no doubt. The glare of the lights gave him a perfect view of the body, slumped now against the brick wall. His blue eyes took in the ripped cloth where the badge had been, and then the wound, starting on the right shoulder, coming down, almost half way through the chest. That wound alone would have killed him, Turner thought briefly. He stood up and something on the brick wall caught his attention and he leaned forward slightly, inching his face to the wall. The brick wall, red in color, was marred with a long, white streak about head level. He inched forward again, fingers tracing the surface, coming up stained with dust and red. Something heavy had struck the surface of that wall recently. He took a step back, running his fingers through the short, black hair, eyes roaming the surface of the wall. Halfway down the wall, his eyes caught a similar spot and once again, he ran his fingers over it, bringing them close to his face. He saw the same dust and particles and also a red smear of blood. He shook his head, beginning to see what had happened. The axe head that Holt had shown him had been split in half and he realized that the killer, probably in hurry, had struck the wall a tremendous blow, not just once, but twice, causing the axe to split. A grin flickered on Turner’s face momentarily and he turned to warn Holt. “Get one of your boys to take some pictures of this wall, here…and here,” he said softly, his fingers pointing at the spots on the wall.

  Holt didn’t reply, just nodded his head, turning around and calling for one of his men. Turner walked away toward the second body, seeing the head of Officer Mullhollan and then the body. He stopped a few feet away, taking the cold air deeply into his lungs, clearing his mind of everything but the dead man in front of him. Without the glare of the portable lights the place would have been almost in darkness, he thought briefly, the nearest working light pole about twenty feet away, the one nearest to the corner obviously not working. ‘So how had the killer enticed two officers to stop…and then kill them,’ he asked himself, closing his eyes and trying to create a mental picture of what had happened. Car trouble…or what? If they had stopped to help someone that appeared to be in trouble…had they called central with the license plate? The killer had picked the perfect place, obviously confident on how the murders were to proceed, reinforcing the thought that had previously entered Turner’s mind about this killer. He was extremely intelligent, methodical and with a great deal of fearlessness. Footsteps behind him made him open his eyes quickly and whirl around. Thompson was there and for the first time since the murders had started, there was a slight grin on his face.

  “What?” Turner asked.


  “Witness is Thomas Baker…on his way to work. He saw an SUV, probably silver in color, parked at the curb…hood open, police cruiser behind. He was coming in the opposite direction and…and saw what he thought was a fight, saw the officer next to the wall falling down and someone sprinting away, getting in the car…speeding away. He…ah, wasn’t sure what the hell was going on so…he turned around. When he got here…he saw this and called 911.”

  “Did he get a plate…make…model…a look at the guy?” Turner asked, feeling his heart beating painfully against his ribs.

  “No. He is not even sure of the color, or if the killer was black or white. The lighting here is not the best…as you can see”. Thompson flipped a page on his notes, his upper lip chewing his lower in what was a characteristic way for him when he was nervous. He raised his eyes to Turner, continuing; “This guy…Walker is his name…he said he just got a glimpse of him when the figure dashed away. It was…dark and the killer was dressed completely in black and was moving fast.” Thompson stopped then, glancing quickly at his notes. “He is sure about the SUV and that the killer was tall, slight of build…dressed completely in what he thought was a black outfit…and this is interesting Lt.”, Thompson continued, “the man is not sure what the killer was, man…or woman.”

  Turner heard the words coming out of Thompson’s mouth and he shuddered, his mind going back to the figure in the tapes and the thoughts that had been running wild in his head for a while. ‘Damn…a woman…a woman’, he told himself, shaking his head, puzzled now. If the killer was a woman…that was one hell of a woman, he thought grimly. He stood still for a second, his mind working furiously, finally turning toward Thompson.

  “Why…is he not sure? he asked, eyes raised to Thompson’s face

  “The guy said something about the way the figure moved…the way it ran away. He is just not…sure”

  Turner shook his head slowly, mind churning.

  “Call dispatch…and see if they called the plate in…and if so…when.”

  Thompson nodded his head in assent, his hand going to the portable radio on his belt.

  “106 to dispatch”, he said into the walkie-talkie.

  “Go ahead 106”

  “Unit 1203…give me their last transmission. Check to see if a 10-28 was requested.”

  In matter of seconds the dispatch officer was back with the information requested and Thompson listened to it, lips tight, shaking his head slowly.

  “A location was given, Officer Mullhollan giving a signal twenty (motorist assist). Plate was given for a 10-28 but they didn’t request any information on it. Now it just comes back 10-44(stolen) a couple of hours ago…apparently from a mall parking lot.”

  “Damn…damn it all to hell”, Thompson said angrily. It seemed to him that the damn killer was getting all the breaks in the case

  He glanced at Turner, who was standing still, listening with a grim look on his face. Turner shook his head angrily, cursing softly.

  “Get that guy back to the station”, he said, his head nodding in the direction of the witness. “Let him sit a while and…then…get him to write a statement, everything he remembers…everything!”

  Thompson grunted, whirling around, approaching a patrol unit and talking briefly with the officer. Seconds later, the witness was hustled into a unit which sped away.

  Turner watched him go, wondering if the man was going to be able to shed some light into the murders and then he turned his attention back to Holt, who was approaching him.

  “We got everything I need from here”, he said softly, his voice tired. “I’ll get started on the autopsies as soon as we get back…see what else I can get, but from the look of things…it’s our killer”.

  Turner shook his head, glancing at his friend, lighting another cigarette, inhaling deeply. ‘It’s going to be a long night’, he thought, casting a last glance at the crime area. Two more men killed; both in a most gruesome way, their bodies left where they had fallen and Turner wondered for the hundredth time in the investigation what was the damn motive, the reason for their murders. Was the killer just picking police officers at random? Or was there something methodical about the killings? Was it a woman…a man with some kind of vendetta against cops?

  Turner flipped his cigarette away, eyes hooded against the wind. He sighed deeply, glanced at the bodies one more time and made his way after Holt. ‘Too many questions and no damn answers’, he told himself as he walked away.

  CHAPTER 15

  Chicago February 3, 1995

  04:35

  She drove fast, much too fast, her mind still full of the deed she had accomplished. Her heart beat a wild staccato against her ribs as she drove and her breathing came in shallow gasps. She slowed down, watching the traffic, checking her rearview mirror constantly to make sure nothing was behind her. Stopping at a red light, she glanced at the hood of the SUV, realizing that the dark stain on top of it was blood, the blood of the first officer she had killed. She glanced at herself briefly, realizing that her clothes were also stained with blood, as well as her gloved hands. She took her bearings, turning into a side street looking for an all night car wash. Finding a deserted one, she entered it, and minutes later, the SUV was clean, all signs of blood on the hood gone. The broken handle of the axe went into the trash bin, as far down as she could push it, together with the stolen license plate and then she was done.

  She made her way home, still feeling the adrenalin rushing through her veins, the feeling of incredible power still with her. She hurriedly put the SUV in the garage, feeling the moistness in her loins. She walked quickly into the apartment, peeling off her blood stained clothes as she walked in. As if in a trance, she stepped into the bathtub, turning on the hot water, stepping into it, and washing the stink and blood from her, reliving the moment the axe had bitten deep into the men, ending their miserable lives. She stood under the hot water for a long time, fingers moving fast, pent up emotions running through her like molten lava, her body trembling, soft, moaning sounds escaping from her lips.

  A long time later, she stepped out, feeling tired, the rollercoaster of emotions draining her of all energy. She put a robe on, walking through the apartment, picking up the dirty clothes and the shoes. She made a load of the dirty clothes, including the gloves, putting it into the washing machine. She glanced at the running shoes, stained with spilled blood now and for a split second, she thought about putting them in the machine too. But then she shrugged her shoulders, thinking that she would clean them up later, by hand. That done, she walked into the ‘room’, sitting on the carpet floor, and pulling the wooden box open. She put the silver badge, the one from the young officer in the box, together with the one from Dunbar and Moore and then she pulled the small diary from its niche and slowly, she started writing. Minutes later she was finished, putting the diary away, closing the wooden box. She closed her eyes, her mind working over the murders slowly, visualizing every move. She retraced her steps, making sure she had not made a mistake, had not left any clues. For a moment she thought about the broken axe, wondering what the cops would make of it, what they could learn. Probably a lot, she told herself, eyes open now, thinking that she had been stupid in leaving such evidence for the cops. Not that they would be able to get prints off it, but still…and someone had seen her SUV, of that she was sure; she had seen the car turning after slowing down. She had to hurry then; get out of there and in her haste, the axe was left behind. So they had an axe head and the color of an SUV. They couldn’t trace her by the license plate since it was stolen and the driver of the car, she was sure, had not been able to get a good look at her, so he wouldn’t be of much help either. A grin flickered on her face momentarily, thinking that the cops were a long way from figuring out who the killer was.

  She felt exulted in her new found power, the power of life or death against men that were evil. The blue eyes became
hard, cold as she frowned, deep in thought, the cold, calculating mind working all the ramifications of the last murder again. She locked the wooden box, turning the key, replacing the gold necklace around her slender throat. That done, she stretched on the carpet and seconds later, she was asleep, the beautiful face relaxed now.

  CHAPTER 16

  Chicago Police Department 3151 W. Harrison St. February 5, 1995 0800 hours

  Josh Turner dropped the file on top of his desk, fingers massaging his tired eyes. The results of the autopsies on the two dead officers had been completed and were just about what he expected…nothing much. The axe head was the only good news so far, but even that had not been of much help. No finger prints on it, so in all probability, the killer had used gloves. It was an odd axe, something that he had never seen before, looking more like an antique than anything new. According to Holt Lambert, this particular axe had no traces of carpet fibers and no oil residue and also the cut made by the blade was slightly different than on the two previous murders. The axe edge was smaller than the one previously used by the killer, meaning that the killer had access to more than one axe. But it was the same MO, so he was sure it had been the same killer, even if it wasn’t the same weapon as previously used.

  Holt had found particles of bricks and mortar cement on the edge of the axe, mixed with blood. The killer had probably missed the first time while trying to kill Officer Morgan, striking the brick wall instead and then again when the killer finally cut his head off. They had followed up on the license plate and it had been stolen from a car parked at a mall, just hours before the killings. Their witness was still unsure of what he had really seen. except for the color of the SUV; it was silver, probably Japanese made, but he had not been able to determine what make. Concerning the killer, he was still confused, unable to give straight answers about the sex. He was more inclined to say it was a man, but in Turner’s mind, doubts lingered. He had called Moyer, the FBI profiler, filling him in on all the new details, sending copies of the crime scene photos, and Moyer had assured him that he would get back to him in a couple of days at the most, after studying the new crime scene photos and reading the new files.