by Anne Frasier
She put a hand to her mouth. "Oh my God."
She turned and ran, her feet pounding against the sidewalk, her legs and arms and heart pumping madly. The park was a blur. Streets flashed by, the colors streaked like images caught in time lapse.
It seemed as though it took hours, but finally she was home. She pulled open the door to her house, her sanctuary, shouting for her mother, her voice wobbly and choked.
In an instant, her mother appeared at the top of the stairs wearing her sleep shirt with the pictures of stuffed bears, her processed hair sticking out all over, her mouth hanging open in fear. She and Darby had fought last night, arguing about something stupid. That was forgotten.
"Mom," Darby managed to gasp, her chest rising and falling. Her legs, legs that were used to running twelve miles, could hardly support her. "You have to call the police."
Her mother floated toward her, one hand on the railing, her mouth still open, her face a panic-filled question of wanting to know and not wanting to know. "W-what's wrong? Are you hurt? Did something happen?"
"Oh my God!" Darby burst into tears. "I think I found a dead person!"
She had purple butterfly barrettes in her hair.
That was what Ivy focused on. The butterfly barrettes, catching and reflecting the morning sunlight. All of the murders were horrendous acts of grotesque brutality, but why did it seem so much worse when they were staged in such an idyllic setting? The previous, more recent murders hadn't taken place in such a public place. More unusual was the fact that this baby was close to a year old.
The mother was beginning to draw flies.
Not houseflies. These were the heavy-bodied flies that laid eggs in dead things. Bloat flies. Maggots. One of the flies crawled across the victim's cheek, to the corner of one bulging eye, and stayed there awhile. . For the fly, the body was simply a meal, simply a place to lay eggs that would turn into larvae, that would also feed until there was nothing left but fabric and bone, perhaps some hair. Perhaps some teeth. Everything had a purpose.
Another fly settled in the dried blood near the woman's nostril, then it took off and began to circle her mouth, which was taped into a smile, her swollen tongue protruding.
One arm was bent, a hand on her hip in that "come hither" pose the Madonna Murderer liked so much. Making a mockery of his victims. Her print dress had been cut almost completely off, her blood-soaked bra pulled down around her waist. Her panties were wrapped around one ankle, her spread knees bent, her vagina exposed to anyone who dared to look in her direction. Jammed deep inside her was the handle of a broken hockey stick. Across her abdomen were the usual multitude of knife wounds.
The police had cordoned off the area. Five squad cars were strategically placed, their lights flashing, dispatch radios squawking. An ambulance was parked at an angle, on a rolling incline, its back doors open while two attendants stood holding a gurney, waiting for the coroner and crime technicians to finish so they could bag the body and take it to the morgue.
Everybody had a purpose.
Outside the yellow crime-scene tape the press was accumulating, shutters whirring and video cameras rolling. The cover of tomorrow's Herald would most likely feature the body bag being wheeled into the ambulance. The headline would be something like,
MADONNA MURDERER CLAIMS TWO MORE VICTIMS. And people would buy more weapons. They would put additional locks on their doors, and check them several times throughout the night. If they could afford it, they would have a security system installed.
And they would quit going for walks. And they would quit smiling and nodding at strangers. Because they would know that behind one of those responding smiles, a killer lurked.
People would talk about moving away, getting out of Chicago. But then they would read about a random murder in some small town of 350 people, and they would know that no place was safe. And so they would have their continuously more withdrawn, insulated lives, but they would not feel secure, not even in their own homes. And if they went somewhere—to a movie, out to eat—they would always be looking, always wondering. . . .
Max's mind must have been heading up the same path, because he said, "Even if we catch this guy, there will be another one out there. And another."
"You can't think about that," Ivy said.
He'd just finished taking Darby Nichols's statement, and during the entire procedure, he'd been cold and distant. When it was over, he'd handed her a card, saying, "There's a number of a psychologist you can call if you need to talk to anybody. It's free." He kind of smirked, mocking the fact that Chicago had hired a full-time psychologist whose only job was to deal with innocent people who'd come upon murder scenes.
Ivy had felt compelled to say something to the poor girl and her mother, offer them some measure of comfort. But what was there to say? In the end, she thanked them for their statements and finished with, "I'm so sorry this had to happen."
They stared at her with shocked faces, nodding mutely, and Ivy felt so incredibly sorry for them, because she knew they didn't yet know how this one incident would impact the rest of their lives: At the moment, it was still something that had happened that they needed to distance themselves from, something they thought they could forget, or at least put behind them. They didn't yet know that would never happen. They would never be able to distance themselves, to forget or put it behind them.
The baby had been found a few yards away, under the shelter of the stone bridge, his body wrapped in a baby blanket as blue as his face. On the blanket were pictures of frolicking lambs. Little lamb. Little innocent lamb. Not a mark on him. Next to him, on the ground, was the signature snow globe.
The technicians finished collecting site evidence. The gurney was brought in, the bodies tucked into black body bags. Soon there would be no sign of what had happened there. Soon children would be running, laughing, screaming, down the hill to the pond to feed the ducks.
Max was staring at the ambulance attendants, watching as one of them carried the baby to the ambulance, no need for a gurney.
"Let's go," Ivy said.
At first, he didn't seem to hear her. He just kept staring in the direction they'd taken the baby.
"Max?"
He seemed to come out of it, shaking off a trance. "Yeah, let's get the hell out of here."
It wasn't that simple. As soon as they reached the security tape, the press attacked. Cameras clicked. Microphones were jammed in his face. Fifteen questions were thrown at him at once, over and over.
"Who are the victims?"
"Was it the Madonna Murderer?"
"What are you doing to protect the citizens of Chicago?"
"What leads do you have?"
"Is the FBI involved?"
"If not, why not? Shouldn't they be?"
Without saying a word, Max pushed past them, parting the sea of people, Ivy following as the wave closed in behind her.
"A press release will be issued later today," Ivy said.
Five microphones were immediately shoved in her face. "Who are you, and what is your official involvement in this case?"
Chaos. Everybody was speaking at once. Ivy repeated her statement, then jumped in Max's car. He was already behind the wheel.
"You shouldn't have said anything," Max said, honking his horn as he slowly pulled away. Cameras were still clicking.
"Somebody had to say something. Of course, it should have been you rather than me. . . . That will make nice front-page fodder. You and I fleeing the scene."
"They know they're supposed to wait for a press conference or press release. Is nothing sacred? Jesus. They're like a bunch of tabloid paparazzi."
"Are you okay?"
"I don't know." He wrenched the steering wheel to the right. "What does a nervous breakdown feel like?"
"Maybe you should see somebody, talk to somebody."
"I'll be fine just as soon as we catch this son of a bitch."
The weight of the case was on his shoulders. He had the task force, he had the F
BI, but he was in charge; he made the decisions.
"We're moving too slowly," he said.
"We have to move slowly, otherwise we might miss something."
He suddenly pulled over and stopped the car. He wiped his face, then stared straight ahead through the windshield. "It was the hockey stick," he finally said.
"He's never done that before. Do you think it has some significance, or was it simply the right tool for the job?"
He was quiet a moment, his breathing uneven, a little ragged, as if he were struggling for control. "Ethan plays hockey."
Christ. "Okay, let's suppose for a minute that there is a connection somehow. What's the message he's sending?"
"He's playing with our heads, that's what he's doing."
"He's also communicating in his own twisted way. He's letting us know that he's watching us. The hockey stick could be purely coincidence, but say it isn't. Then he's telling you he knows enough about you and your family to know that Ethan plays hockey."
Max pulled out his mobile phone and dialed. Moments later, he was speaking to his son. "Ethan? Yeah, I know it's early. Do you have practice today? A game? No, nothing's wrong. Okay, I'll pick you up when you get off work. Nine o'clock." He disconnected. "No practice, no game," he said, sounding relieved.
"I don't think he'd go after Ethan. It's not what he's about. Ethan is practically an adult, and he's really after the mothers anyway. The children are secondary."
"Logically, I know that. But I have this pain in my chest and throat, and I just realized what it is. Fear. In all the years I've been in this business, I've never felt fear."
She could offer him no words of comfort. There was no greater fear than the fear of a parent for a child.
Chapter 28
"Looks good, don't you think?"
Alex Martin sat at his desk, admiring his byline on page three of the Chicago Herald.
"Not bad," Maude agreed.
Was that a grudging agreement? Alex wondered. Was she toying with him? Maybe even teasing him a little? With Maude, it was hard to tell. She always had a hint of a smirk about her.
Alex had had a hard time convincing her to even run it past editorial, but she'd finally relented and once she made up her mind about something you were pretty much in. She'd been around so long, and her track record was so good, that no one argued when she pushed a piece, even one as unusual as Alex's.
Maude left, and he concentrated on the paper in his hands, reading his article for the third time. . . .
The newspaper was almost ripped from Ivy's hands as the Green Line train roared into the underground station, the noise deafening as the back draft tried to suck her closer to the narrow ledge.
The double doors opened and she stepped inside. There were two tone-dead dings before a prerecorded monotone male voice announced, "Doors closing. Next stop is Pulaski. Doors open on the right."
Ivy dropped into the nearest empty seat, quickly continuing with the newspaper article.
MADONNA MURDERER STRIKES AGAIN
Early Sunday morning the bodies of April and Joshua Rodrigez, a young mother and her one- year-old son, were found in Crocus Hill Park. When asked about the progress of the case, police refused comment. Investigators involved in the slayings include Ivy Dunlap, a Canadian academic with a degree in criminal psychology, and Detective Maxwell Irving, who heads the case. Detective Irving has an impressive list of solved cases to his credit, the most famous being the Roth Family Slayings, and the Child Welfare Poisonings.
An accompanying piece was titled: THE CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT—HOW MUCH DO CITIZENS HAVE THE RIGHT TO KNOW?
If police had issued a warning to young mothers, would April Rodrigez and her baby still be alive?
That was followed by comments taken on the street "I'm scared," said one young mother of two children. "I'd just stay home with my doors locked, but I have to work. I have to take my babies to the sitter."
"I don't think the cops are doing enough. Why can't they catch this guy?"
"I heard the police don't care because the victims are unwed mothers."
"I'm thinking about moving. I hate to quit my job, but my son's safety is more important."
"They don't care. The cops don't care. They see so much of this. They've become desensitized. They're just punching the clock, putting in their time like everybody else."
Then came an interview with Darby Nichols, the girl who had found the body.
Ivy had read enough.
Alex Martin. That little shit. And she'd thought Irving was too rude to him. Now she knew he hadn't been rude enough. But the newspaper articles had given her an idea, one she wanted to run by Irving.
She glanced up in time to see the redbrick building with the tarpaper roofs and JESUS SAVES sign warning that her Central stop was coming up. She tucked the paper under her arm, grabbed a handrail, and got to her feet along with about ten other people. Above the opening double doors was a sign that said: MOVE TO ANOTHER CAR IF YOUR IMMEDIATE SAFETY IS THREATENED.
Ivy was living in a fishbowl. The Police Department had relocated her neighboring tenant so they could set up shop in the apartment next to hers. Two officers were stationed there at all times, keeping their eyes on monitors feeding back images of every outside door in the building, the hallways, and stairwells, plus the door to her apartment. Ivy couldn't pee without someone knowing about it.
She stepped off the el, aware of the weight of the fourteen-ounce Chiefs Special revolver and mobile phone Max had insisted upon in the messenger bag that lay snuggly against her, the strap crisscrossing from right shoulder to left hip. She took paint-peeled metal steps to street level, where she sidestepped a dead, flattened rat, then hurried to catch her connecting bus to Area Five.
"Anybody seen Irving?" she asked when she reached the task-force room. She wanted to run her idea past him.
It looked like they were holding a telethon. Phones were ringing, and the new recruits Max had ordered weren't enough to keep up. They would have a lot of bullshit to sort through, and now, with the new articles written by their buddy, Alex Martin, they would also have to waste time dealing with the outraged public.
Ramirez, a phone to his ear, called to her, "He was here a while ago, but left, saying he was going to see Superintendent Sinclair."
Max dropped into the leather chair with a sense of defeat. "Nothing like having the press on your side," he said sarcastically.
Abraham was semi-reclined in his office chair, balancing a pen between the fingertips of both hands. Spread out on top of the desk was the article by Alex Martin. "I knew that little runt would be trouble. But you didn't come here to talk about him, did you?"
Max rubbed his face and distantly noticed that he'd forgotten to shave again. "Ethan found out about Cecilia."
"Oh." Abraham let the information sink in. "That has to be tough."
"And now he wants to find his birth parents. I told him I'd help him."
"Haven't you tried before?"
"Yeah. I thought it would be wise to have the medical history of his parents. Ran into a dead end."
"I know a guy who's really good." Abraham flipped through his Rolodex, quickly copied down a name and number, and handed the paper to Max.
"Thanks." Max pocketed the slip. "I'll give him a call. But that isn't what I came to talk about either." He got straight to the point. "I don't know if I can do this anymore, Abraham."
"What do you mean? You want out of Homicide?" Abraham asked, clearly stunned. "What else would you do? It's not that easy to walk away from."
"There was a hockey stick left at the crime scene yesterday."
"Oh, shit." With Abraham, there was no need for Max to explain his anxiety.
"I can't put Ethan's life in danger."
"He's just messing with your head."
"It's working."
Abraham leaned forward, elbows on his desk. "Have you talked to anybody down in Stress Management? They turned Detective Blackwell around."
&
nbsp; "I don't need a shrink. And Blackwell.. . He's still going to snap. Haven't you seen that weird gleam he gets in his eyes? The man's hanging by a thread. The only difference is that now he doesn't know it."
"How about if we put you down for a temporary leave of absence once this case is over? A sabbatical, if you will."
"I don't know if that will do the trick." Max got to his feet and Abraham followed.
"Think about it, will you?" Abraham asked.
"Yeah. Sure."
"I quit once," Abraham told him. "It didn't do me any good. In fact, I got worse. Started drinking more. Had some pretty good blackouts. I had to pass my unsolved cases on to CHESS. The problem is, there's no closure when you quit. You're left with an open wound of what-ifs."
"We're all victims," Max said. "You, me, Sachi Anderson and her baby. Darby Nichols, even Ethan indirectly. All victims. All touched by the hand of a murderer."
Max's phone rang.
It was Ivy.
"A technician from the crime lab is on his way here," she told him. "He has some results for us."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
When Max reached Area Five, the technician was already there.
"Tox screen on the baby is back," the technician said. "Our guy used the same stuff as before."
"Anything else?" Max asked.
"The tattoo is real."
That announcement brought about a mixed reaction. Some people laughed, some cheered, and some just shook their heads.
"That's not all," the crime-lab technician said, apparently saving his best for last. "The tattoo isn't new."
"What do you mean, 'isn't new'?" Ivy asked, getting up from her desk and moving closer.
"I mean it's been soaking in formaldehyde for a long time. Possibly years. We won't have a definitive answer until we run more tests."
"Care to make an educated guess?" Max asked.
"Ten years old at least."
Somebody whistled. "So this guy cut off his tattoo years ago and put it in formaldehyde," Ramirez said. "Why?"