The foundation in front of Campanelli, McLain, and Mueller was a rather unremarkable square hole in the ground. The floor was covered with dirt, debris, and miscellaneous trash caught up between the forces of wind and gravity. It appeared no different than any other scar in the landscape of Chicago, and Frank knew for certain that it was not the only one with a car in it.
“Well, I’m going down to take a look,” Campanelli announced.
“Right behind ya’,” McLain uttered.
The rope ladder was well-anchored to a light pole and was hung over the southwest corner of the foundation. Frank dropped to his hands and knees and, entirely without dignity, sent his left foot down to feel for the first rung. Mueller came over and lent a hand to the Captain of Detectives. As his foot grabbed hold, the ladder twisted and knocked Frank’s fedora to the depths below.
“Shit,” he muttered.
“You all right, Detective?” a concerned Mueller asked.
“Yeah, no problem,” Frank answered tersely.
He slowly descended and after what felt like minutes, his feet found the floor. His eyes, still set for night, found the hat. The air was strangely still at the bottom of the square pit. He picked up his fallen fedora, slapped it against his overcoat to rid it of the dirt and placed it back on his head.
“Come on down, Kirby,” Frank shouted up. “I’ll hold the ladder still.”
Mueller assisted the much larger McLain in finding the first rung and down the big man came, no faster than Frank had, however. Neither man trusted the rope very far.
Together, both detectives stepped to the mangled automobile. The gloom of the pit and the eerie silence prompted McLain to pull his pistol from his shoulder rig. Frank said not a word in protest, as he had thought of doing the same.
The sky above them had begun to lighten to a shade brighter than midnight blue. It would not be long until sunrise and Frank was grateful.
The detectives approached the driver’s side of the ruined automobile. Frank shrunk back from a sudden blazing light and blocked it with his hand. His implant compensated quickly.
“Excuse me,” McLain offered. He had lit the area with a large flashlight. “I find a good light reveals a little more than implanted lenses.
“It’s okay. Forget it.” Frank blinked hard while trying to remove the blue and red streak that the large light had caused. His full service prosthetics were far more accurate and sensitive than the standard commercial grade models that everyone else used. It was a fact not appreciated by those with normal sight.
In truth, Frank knew that Kirby was correct. There was simply no substitute for light, even though it threw shadows. With his eyes fully adjusted, he looked where Kirby shined.
Naturally, the car was heavier in the front than the rear, so it had struck the concrete nose first, shoving the engine compartment upward and back. The dashboard was destroyed as a result, bent from left to right. Gauges, in-dash fans, and speakers were exposed and were hanging by their wires.
The anti-collision devices had all worked. The steering yoke was flush with the ruined control panel, having retreated upon threat of impact. The seat had moved the opposite way by angling back and the air cushioning devices had deployed and deflated once the danger had passed. Still, the impact had been great. The entire frame was twisted and not one panel of glass remained intact. The driver’s door, right rear passenger and trunk lid had been thrown open and bent forward.
Campanelli looked into the open trunk. Two spare tires, a case with clothing in it, and some miscellaneous handyman tools lay about.
“There’s blood all over the seat,” McLain announced.
“I’m sending a message to Gherling. I want him to go over this whole car.”
“I thought you didn’t like the boy,” Kirby said and gave a crooked smile.
“Did I give that impression?”
“You were leanin’ on ‘im pretty hard,” the taller man confirmed as he studied his co-worker’s face.
“Well, to hear that nutty tale at four-thirty in the morning was a bit much,” Frank explained.
“That it was.” Kirby nodded and went about the car with the light. Finding nothing but more wrecked car, he turned his light on the ground near the driver’s side. “More blood here.”
“Yup.” Frank moved closer to inspect the seatbelts. With both hands, he gave them a tug. “The driver had to cut himself loose. Strange, the hardware’s not bent.”
“Maybe it was cut before,” McLain opined from over his shoulder. “To remove Werner earlier.”
“Good point.”
“Must have been some knife,” Kirby said as he bathed the area in light. “Look at the material.”
“Whatever it is, it’s surgically sharp,” Campanelli affirmed. The ends of the seatbelt straps were sliced clean, without fraying of any kind. It could very well have been the same knife used to remove the victim’s organs.
Both veteran police detectives had witnessed plenty of hard crimes in their lifetimes, and both had seen things they could not explain and further, did not wish to try. Thoughtful silence washed over them both like a cold wet blanket.
Kirby washed his flashlight’s beam over the area many times, convinced that the driver was hurt and had to be nearby. But the longer he took to inspect the destroyed vehicle, the more convinced he became that the person driving should have been killed.
Similar thoughts were running through Frank Campanelli’s mind. In his experience, fatalities had occurred from much less serious accidents. The car had been traveling at a high rate of speed, blown a tire and had enough momentum to carry it some forty feet into this concrete pit.
“Where the hell is the driver?” Campanelli whispered. He had avoided asking the question, for every bit of reason within him agreed with McLain’s unspoken assessment.
“Yeah.” McLain murmured as he swept the light over the expanse once again. “And how the hell did he get outta here? Sewer access?”
“Possibly.”
“I guess we’ll get those answers when the sun comes up.”
“Agreed,” Frank answered.
***
From across eight lanes of highway and atop a vacant office building, the two detectives were being carefully watched. The killer felt his broken nose, found the separation and placed it within the vice-grip of his fore and index fingers. With a click that made his eyes tear for a moment, he squeezed the bones into place.
The ring and pinky fingers on his left hand would be a different matter. Both were broken at the proximal phalanx and would need to be set and placed into a splint, at the very least.
The impact had also taken a toll on his feet and legs, but there was nothing beyond some deep lacerations. The area over his ribs and other parts of his body that he had not yet discovered had been injured would soon bruise badly.
He watched the two detectives climb out of the foundation. His magnified view had brought them up close and personal with him, so he recorded their faces for future reference, if needed.
The naked and battered hominid pulled himself up to his feet and limped to the access door on the roof. He had a building to explore and injuries to heal.
***
That evening, nearing five o’clock, Frank packed up his briefcase and prepared to drive home to the apartment building across Eighteenth Street and the District One Station. The events of the day weighed heavily on his mind. He had attended to regular Sentinel business later that morning, and had driven to the station to take care of the paperwork that had backed up on his desk over the last month. Meanwhile, he stared at the phone, waiting for Lincoln’s phone call. It never came, and when Frank walked past the forensic genius’s labs, they had been closed and locked.
At first, the closed department angered Campanelli, but then as he stormed through District One’s rear exit, he noted Rothgery’s white and rusted van. It was his personal as well as professional ride, unmarked for privacy, and very utilitarian. His assistant, Teri Wilkins, was
apparently still on the job as well, for her tiny electric econobox lay waiting in the large van’s shadow. Among the visitor’s vehicles, Frank discovered the coroner’s black wagon. Gherling was also on the premises.
As much as Frank wanted to go back inside and burst through the lab doors, he knew better. H. Lincoln Rothgery’s work ethic was untouchable. When those doors were locked while he was in, whatever was happening beyond them had become top priority.
Once home, Frank parked the cruiser next to Tamara’s convertible and walked steadily, but tiredly, up the steps. The apartment complex was sparsely populated and, as always, quiet. The other four families in residence were on the other side of the building. He transmitted his identification to the residence’s computer with his CPD-Link and the door unlocked for him.
“Hi, Frank!” Billingsley called before he had even placed his hand on the knob.
“Hello,” he returned as he pushed the door out of his way. The home was filled with the aroma of a nice supper on the stove.
“Oh, ick!”
“Ick? What ick?”
“Ick, as in you sound terrible,” she said as she came to where he stood.
“Oh, that ick,” he said as he tossed his hat and briefcase into the closet.
She swung her arms around his neck and held him still for a kiss. “Better?”
“Yeah.” He smiled. His blue eyes shared it, but only briefly.
“What is it?” she asked as she stepped back.
“That call this morning,” he uttered as he removed his overcoat and draped it over the hanger. “Bad.”
“Oh?” Tam watched him carefully, fearing the worst. She had expected the Ignatola crime family to retaliate against the police department for the Sentinel Squad bringing down their boss, but she hoped that she was wrong.
“Yeah,” he said and turned back to her, unsure of what to say as he tried to read her face. He swiped his palm over his short gray hair and looked to the floor for a brief second. “It just wasn’t pretty, is all. What’s cookin’?”
“Some Italian beef with some mostaccioli in red sauce on the side,” she said in an upbeat tone that did nothing to alleviate her concerned expression. She followed him into the kitchen and watched him closely. Frank was tired and she could tell. He had forgotten his RadarCane in his coat pocket. She would retrieve it later for him when he was not looking. His forgetfulness irritated him.
“That smells wonderful!” he exuded with his nose over the pot of red meat sauce.
“Yeah, I’ve been waiting to find all the ingredients at the stores for a long time,” she explained as she watched him retrieve his bottle of bourbon. Damn it. “I found the pasta just today.”
“Smells almost ready.” Frank poured, took a sip then leaned back against the counter and raised his hand to his neck. Had he the time to put on his tie that morning, it would be about now that he would loosen it.
“Frank,” Tamara ventured as she stirred the sauce. She watched his face for a reaction.
“Yeah.” He locked his eyes on hers.
“Was it…them?” she dug while her eyes squinted in emphasis.
“Them? Who? Ignatola?”
“Yes, Frank. Them…or maybe one of DeSilva’s thugs?” Her voice raised as her mind went through the possibilities faster than her mouth could convey them.
“Tamara, no,” he assured her as he removed his suit jacket. His eyes never left hers. I kind of wish it was, after what I saw.
“Are you sure, Frank?” she pressed while her eyes teared.
“Yes.” His response was immediate and certain.
Tam believed him right away. “Oh, thank God,” she let out in a rush of breath and took a seat at the table. She rested her forehead on one hand and fought tears of relief.
Frank stepped to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “This is what’s been bugging you for the past week? Well, longer than that, I think.”
“Yes, Frank,” she responded weakly.
“Listen to me,” he began as he crouched next to her. “Those poor dumb bastards are in jail, awaiting trial. Some are already in Joliet and some are in county. A couple of those jokers had Federal raps already pending and were shipped outta state.”
Tam moved her hand from her face and found his face with wet eyes. “DeSilva’s men.”
“Dead. Well, except for his driver. I’m trying to pull some strings to get him a light sentence in minimum security. The kid don’t deserve to die for crashin’ a few squad cars.”
Tam smiled as she remembered the young African-American limousine driver. Frank was right, he was just a kid and did not need to be exposed to the rampant disease and influenza of the prison system.
“What do you say, kiddo? Can we eat?” He smiled and kissed the top of her head as he stood up.
With the weight lifted from her heart, Tamara smiled and bounced up from the kitchen chair like a woman half her age. The pair set the table and settled down to eat.
Campanelli could not keep himself from thinking of the murder and the wrecked car, however. He wished he had taken the time to visit Marcus, but he had chained himself to his desk with the expectation of Rothgery’s call. He promised himself he would drop by the hospital tomorrow.
“I think I found a new place to open,” Tamara said in between bites of her Italian beef.
“Oh? Where?”
“It’s on Michigan. Next to that mart where you buy your cigarettes.”
“Oh, yeah. I know that place. They’re selling?”
Tam nodded and grunted in the affirmative. “They’re moving west,” she supplied once her mouth was no longer full.
“Do you know where?” he asked, more as the second in command of the Sentinel Squad.
“Now, Frank,” she admonished with a wagging finger, “these people are pushing seventy-five years old.”
“That’s still a good age to take your chances and try to migrate.”
“Honestly?” She regarded him with disbelieving eyes and tilted her head. It was a pose that suggested utter doubt. He was quite familiar with it as Tamara Billingsley was naïve about a great many things.
“I’ve seen older.” He shrugged and took a sip of bourbon.
“Well, forget it this time, copper,” she teased. “They’re a married couple trying to get out of the city.”
“We’ve got too much of that, too.”
“I know,” she answered. She did not want to start that discussion again. Though the holovision news channels speculated that the population of Chicago would stabilize with the end of the Ignatola/DeSilva human trafficking ring, Frank had insisted that it would only slow down. People were still leaving the city for what they hoped would be safer towns or rural areas.
With dinner finished, Frank and Tamara quickly cleaned their plates. Tam sent Frank to the living room to rest. It was clear that he was exhausted, especially after being wakened so early in the morning.
Frank retrieved his lighter and a cigarette from the pack in his suit jacket. He placed the tobacco between his lips and stepped into the living room. He dropped into the couch cushions, lit the cigarette, and thought the command to activate the holovision set. A re-run of an old comedy show appeared above the projector. Campanelli recognized the show immediately and smiled. He wanted to stop thinking about the morning’s grisly puzzle, but he knew better. The half-hour program rolled into the next one, and as both were familiar, they did little to distract him from shifting the facts around in his head.
More than once, he was tempted to link with the CPD computer to check his messages, peruse the case file with Gherling’s pictures, or reach out to Rothgery for an update. A moment later, it mattered not. The six o’clock news broadcast began.
“Chicago police have a shocking murder case on their hands as of this morning,” the lovely female anchor announced with a hint of distaste. “A body of a wanted man was found on the south side of the Ashland Avenue Bridge. No name has been released to the public, but according to a source wi
thin the department, the middle-aged male victim was on the Sentinel Squad’s wanted list. It was also stated that the body had been badly mutilated and bitten by his assailant.”
“Jesus, Frank,” Tamara said as she joined him on the couch.
“There were no signs of an animal attack and a handgun was found on the scene, unfired. There have been no suspects as yet, but it is being given a high priority by homicide and Sentinel detectives,” the anchorwoman finished and changed the subject.
“That was the call this morning?” Billingsley inquired. She crossed her arms and her expression was that of horror.
“Yeah.”
“Who was he?”
“Just what the girl said, Tam,” Frank explained, wishing to keep it vague. “Just some guy that we thought had bought his way on one of the human trafficking networks. That’s all.”
“Yes, but to mutilate the body and bite into it…blech!” Her body shivered as she said it. She curled her legs underneath herself and looked at the newswoman with the same horrified expression. Her blond curls took a moment to settle upon the shoulders of her tan blouse.
Normally, Captain Campanelli would be annoyed by the leaking of the news item, but his mind was too occupied with Gherling’s account on how Werner was murdered and how the perpetrator had escaped a car crash that should have been fatal. He decided to contact McLain in the morning and see what his detectives had found.
The rest of the newscast and a couple of holovision shows passed quickly, and Frank, exhausted, turned in early. Tamara remained awake for a time, as she had since before she left the hospital. She had become accustomed to reading old books and staying up late to do so. With her diner gone, there was no reason for an early rise.
Frank shut his implant down none too soon. Its network of power cells was mostly depleted, and if he had attempted to stay awake, he would have been doing so blindly within minutes. It would take much of the night for the implants to glean enough electrical energy from his brain and nervous system to recharge them.
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 3