So enthralled was he with the broadcast of his deed, that the cannibalistic assassin failed to hear the footfalls of the other inhabitant of the apartment. As the room’s relative calm was pierced by a female’s scream, the killer’s entire body spasmed and turned toward the screamer. The blood-covered tongs twirled into the air and clattered to the tile.
In the living room beyond the kitchen, some four meters away, stood the woman of the house. Approximately seventy-five years old, in the hunter’s judgment, her wide eyes bounced from the horrible sight playing chef in her kitchen and the fallen body of her husband. Her hands clawed and covered her mouth in fright and horror. After the first scream, she stood upon shaking legs, unable to move.
With a sound similar to a dart striking a wooden wall, the beast’s carbon fiber blade entered her septum and buried deep within her skull. The body dropped to the floor before the vibrations in the handle ebbed.
The skilled and efficient murderer silenced the HV set and became quite still as he listened and felt for a response to the scream. Slowly, he bent and retrieved the tongs from the floor near his feet and carried on with his grilling.
***
On the third floor, a couple had been slipping into their routine and predictable late night snooze in front of the holovision. The woman heard something beyond the sound of the program.
“Matt?” she mumbled to the man sitting next to her on the couch. “Matt?” She tried again, more urgently, this time with a smack to his thigh.
“What?” he blurted upon being struck. “Christ, woman.”
“Did you hear that?” his wife asked with frightened eyes.
“Obviously not,” he shot sarcastically.
“Smarty,” she fired back. “It sounded like a scream.”
Sighing heavily, he knew that Gertrude was not prone to panic. He muted the program with his handheld controller and listened to the silence of the night with her for more than ten seconds. He shrugged and shook his head questioningly.
“It sounded like it came from the Drakes’ place,” Gert explained and pointed to the wall. “I heard it through the vent.”
Matt gave the slightest nod and continued to listen. He grumbled as he lifted his hefty girth from the comfortable cushions and crouched near the floor-level vent. He scratched his scalp through his thinning, greasy hair as he waited there in silence.
There was nothing.
“It was probably on the show.”
“I don’t think so,” she answered, though she was now doubtful.
“Well, I don’t hear anything,” he answered and dropped himself back onto the sofa. In a matter of moments, the voice in the vent was forgotten as Matt and Gert dozed in front of their holovision set.
***
The killer moved through the apartment with the grace and aplomb of a ghost. He had realized that he had been so hungry that he had forgotten to close the drapes of the living room windows, the very ones that had allowed him to see the light into this place originally.
On his way back to the kitchen, he set his left foot upon the forehead of the unharvested woman and pulled his bayonet from her face. He bent and cleaned the blood from it onto her white nightgown before returning it to his belt.
Returning to the kitchen, he judged the liver to be done well enough, though it remained bloody. Out of a sense of humor rather than etiquette, the killer tore through the cabinets in search of a plate. Finding one, he set the liver upon it and deposited the plate onto the table. He located a large fork and a steak knife and sat in one of the kitchen chairs. Hungrily, he dug into the meat. He smiled at his circumstance and regarding the splayed corpse of the geriatric organ donor near his feet. The old man had been rather tall, the killer noted. He chewed his food and looked a little closer. Like himself, the victim appeared to have a lanky figure.
The hunter choked down the liver sloppily and used several paper napkins from the holder to wipe the mess from his face. He left the table and gave the heart another turn with the tongs. From his experience, that meat would be tougher and would take longer to cook.
In the meantime, he decided to search the closets for clothing.
Part Two
Frank’s sleep was peppered with dreams of mass killings by a race of humanoid creatures that tore through the populace of his adopted home, leaving half-eaten corpses in their wake. He saw himself driving through the streets of Chicago, steering around discarded pieces of human flesh as he tried to get himself and Tamara out of the city.
Dozens of cannibalistic soldiers in green uniforms and old-styled army helmets eyed the car as Campanelli drove by, too busy eating what was already well in hand rather than to chase down the police car.
Frank drove on, fascinated by how quickly two of the huddled soldiers devoured a citizen their size.
“Frank!” Billingsley shouted from the passenger seat.
His head snapped forward in time to see that the road was blocked by a group of the uniformed monsters. Though he floored the accelerator, the cruiser came to a halt. Its computer had detected an impact and slammed the brakes on for him.
In a heartbeat, the automobile was surrounded and the blood-spattered creatures ripped into the car, tearing away body panels and shattering windows to get at the juicy treats within. Their open, fang-laden mouths uttered no sound as they came.
As Tamara screamed in pain and terror, Campanelli awoke. He felt as if he had been thrown a great distance, so disoriented he was upon waking into darkness. Frank was certain he had uttered a shout, but realized quickly that it could have been in the nightmare.
He thought about initiating his implant and giving himself sight, but he decided against it. From the peacefully rhythmic light snoring coming from his left, he could tell that all was well. He took several deep breaths before feeling for his RadarCane and making his way to the bathroom. The cane hummed and wowed as he swung it left and right, outlining the path the blind man needed to adhere to if he wanted to save his toes and shins from the furniture.
The nightmare haunted him as he went about his business. The cool of the night paired with the horror and he shivered so violently that he shook his head hard to push the memory of it away. He cussed as he washed his hands. He felt for the towel and dried them. He knew he was tired and should go right back to sleep, but the violent nightmare had been intense enough that Frank decided that he would not try for a time.
Campanelli returned to the bedroom and felt the surface of the nightstand for his pack of cigarettes and lighter. He dropped them into his robe’s front pocket and followed his cane into the living room.
He stopped next to the glass patio doors and placed a paper tube of the tobacco between his lips. By feel and with much practice, Frank spun the wheel of his NYPD lighter and lit his smoke. He clicked the lid shut and opened the patio door as he expended the first puff into the cool night air.
Frank probed the night with his cane and found the short brick wall at his patio’s far side. There he stood, smoked, and thought. The night air was driven by a steady breeze out of the north that gave him a sharp chill, so he cinched his robe around himself tightly and flipped the collar up to cover his neck.
Since being moved to the Sentinel Division, there had not been a case that had kept him up late at night since the Ignatola/DeSilva mess. A missing person was simply that, missing, and most likely, voluntarily. The citizens of Chicago were not prisoners, after all. They could move to another part of the country if they wanted. America was still a free country, freer than ever, perhaps, as the federal government’s influence had been weakening for over two decades due to the loss of population.
This Werner murder case, however, gave Campanelli a deep worry. He could not imagine a military man like his partner being driven to cannibalism to survive. Any thoughts of the perpetrator being sane had left Frank as soon as Lincoln’s findings came to light. He shivered to think that a man genetically engineered and built like Williams could be out there in his city, preying on inn
ocent people, drilling into them a fear of living in the city and possibly driving more of them out.
Frank finished his cigarette and crushed it out on the cement. He yawned deeply and knew that he had to try to get some rest, even if he laid flat and remained mostly awake. He went inside and crawled back into bed.
Once he decided that he would bring in the feds, if Rothgery had not already done so, his mind felt enough relief to drift to sleep, where the nightmares did not return.
***
Frank awoke a few hours later, feeling every minute of lost sleep. He prepared himself for work, shuffling like a zombie from place to place. Once in the shower, the hot water invigorated him, though not as much as Tamara’s coffee.
While he sat in a recliner in the living room, watching the holovision news, the phone rang. He lifted himself from the chair and snatched it from the coffee table.
“Campanelli,” he answered and sat back down.
“Frank, it’s McLain.”
“Good morning,” Frank greeted, but he could tell that it was not to be so.
“Mornin’, sir,” Kirby replied and quickly pressed on. “We’ve got quite a mess out here…an apartment building. I’ve been over it, Gherling’s going over it, now. He’s called Rothgery.”
Campanelli squeezed the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tight. “What kind of mess, Kirby?”
“We have three dead, here. The address is on the blotter. It was reported at six-thirty this mornin’.”
Frank accessed the CPD server and found the case. He read it over quickly and stood up from his comfortable chair. “Okay, got it. No one in or out of the building and no one talks to the press.”
“Already done, sir.”
“Good. Be right there,” Frank said and hung up the receiver.
“What is it, Frank?” Tamara asked as she stepped to him from the kitchen. Her face had that trademark look of worry. Her eyebrows were up, her eyes slightly bugged out and her lips were clamped thin.
“Triple murder. Possibly our guy, again,” he answered while putting on his overcoat. He kissed her goodbye and exited the apartment. Tam called after him to be careful as the door closed. He promised that he would.
Campanelli jumped in his cruiser and commanded it to take him to the crime scene. As the car zipped through traffic with lights and siren, he looked at the address on the dashboard monitor. 417 Jefferson Street. Frank selected a satellite imagery of the area, and although the picture would be almost thirteen years old, it would still be at least somewhat accurate.
“Damn it,” Frank said and struck the seat next to him with his fist. The apartment building was right across the 290 expressway from the empty foundation where the perpetrator’s stolen car had crashed.
While the cruiser made its way to the scene, Frank fumed over his failure. The car turned onto Jefferson, passed underneath the expressway, then carefully passed between two marked police cars that had blocked off the street. Frank took manual control and guided the car into the apartment complex’s parking lot.
He met Kirby McLain at the front door. Immediately, the cut glass took his attention.
“Hi, Frank,” McLain began. “He used some tool to cut these holes, reached in an’ unlocked the door.”
“Prints?”
“None.”
Campanelli bent at the knees so he could inspect the holes in the glass. “Two panes. Not a perfect circle. Both are a little different.”
“I noticed that. We’ve got both pieces in evidence bags…neither one is shattered,” Kirby explained. “Handheld tool. It looked to me like there was a drop or two of blood on each one.”
“Rothgery’s on his way?”
McLain nodded. “Should be here any minute.”
“Okay,” Campanelli said. “Get those to him the second he gets here. He’ll be able to test them on scene.”
McLain called over another detective and passed the evidence with the instructions to him.
“Frank.” Kirby spoke in a low tone once the other detective had moved on. “We’ve got a couple of witnesses this time.”
“Oh?” Campanelli brightened a little.
“The wife of victim number three said that they both heard a woman’s scream last night,” McLain explained. “Didn’t check it, ‘cause she said they thought they were mistaken. It was late, so they went to bed. This morning, Gertrude Henson gave a call down to the Drake residence. No one picked up. Matthew, her husband, went down to check on the Drakes. Got jumped.”
“Cut up?” Campanelli inserted.
“No. His head was twisted from behind. Broken neck,” Kirby supplied and then took a step closer to Frank. “Matthew Henson’s a big man, Frank. Our killer must be extremely strong.”
Frank took a deep breath then let it out. “Okay, show me.”
Kirby opened the door and walked straight for the stairs. At the second floor landing, he left the staircase and turned right at the hallway. At the first door on the right, he stopped and gestured to the inside of the apartment.
Frank stopped at the doorway and took in the sight. Closest to the door was Henson, lying on his front with his head turned around and his feet stretched out toward the door. Beyond him was the mutilated corpse of an elderly woman. Her chest cavity was splayed wide and her face was distorted by some sort of injury. Campanelli walked inside, looked about the room and stopped to take in the sight of the deceased Matthew Henson. He figured the man to be just over six feet tall and at least three hundred pounds. He would have fallen face down had the perpetrator not twisted his head nearly off. From the stretched skin at the neck and the odd angle that the head lay, it appeared to have been accomplished with amazing force.
“Pardon me, Detective Campanelli,” Dennis Gherling said from behind him.
Frank covered the fact that the young man had startled him by reaching up to remove his fedora. He turned to look at the young forensic technician expectantly.
“Looks like the killer showered and ransacked Mr. Drake’s wardrobe. Umm, Mr. Drake is victim number one.” Gherling pointed toward the kitchen.
Without comment, Frank looked upon the gutted corpse and took note of the smell emanating from the small space. From experience, he could tell that this man had not been dead long. The stench of decomposition was the one thing Detective Campanelli would never miss about being moved to Sentinel. He nodded at Gherling to have him continue.
“It seems that Mr. Drake was taken by surprise at the stove. He was run through with that triangular bayonet.” The young forensic investigator, as resilient as he seemed on the outside, swallowed hard and went on. “Then he was…you know, dissected and had his heart and liver removed…as did Mrs. Drake, who was killed by the bayonet being…thrust into her face…with great force. Both sets of heart and liver are…missing.” Gherling halted and placed his hand on the half-wall that separated the kitchen from the dining room. His other hand wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I’ve tested the…remnants of what was left behind in the broiler pan on the stove…”
“Dennis,” McLain said lowly from the doorway.
“Blood traces indicate that bovine blood is…mixed with both Mr. and Mrs. Drake’s blood.”
“Dennis,” Kirby tried again. “It’s okay, son. Go for a walk.”
Gherling nodded and forced a smile as he wasted no time leaving the place.
Frank moved into the kitchen, carefully stepping over Charles Drake. He inspected the countertops, the stove, the pan, and the table. Anger and disgust met in a crescendo.
“That filthy son of a bitch sat here, calmly consuming these people like he was at some goddamned diner!”
Kirby McLain stepped inside just enough to watch what Campanelli was doing. He had already inspected the kitchen as Frank was doing now. He could think of nothing to say.
“That son of a bitch,” the Captain of Detectives repeated, fuming with his hands tightened into fists.
“Frank…” Kirby attempted.
“He was ri
ght across the fuckin’ street, Kirby,” Frank seethed and took a step toward the taller man.
“Frank, I know.”
“Probably watchin’ us from the roof, laughing at us!”
Kirby raised both hands, showing that there was no argument. “Would ya listen a minute?”
Frank nodded sharply and kept his eyes on McLain’s.
“We had no idea what kind of animal we were dealing with,” Kirby explained calmly as he stood between the bodies of Brenda Drake and her neighbor, Matthew Henson. “If we had a clue, we would have cordoned off the entire neighborhood and done a building by building search. We’re both angry that we didn’t listen to our inner voices on this. My instincts told me that something…beyond our understanding was happening. I’m sure yours did, too.”
Campanelli nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but could not.
“There’s no point in blaming yourself, Frank. I was there, right along with ya.”
“I know.”
“Let’s get outta here,” Kirby said with a heartbroken expression as he looked over the bodies.
Both detectives stepped into the hallway. Kirby pulled the apartment door nearly closed and met Campanelli on the stairs.
“Hey,” Frank called behind him. “Gherling said that the perp ransacked the closet for clothes. How does he know that?”
“Mr. Drake’s clothes are tossed all over the bedroom,” McLain answered him as he descended the steps. “He’s assuming some items are missing. Oh, that and we have a ten-year-old boy who witnessed a man jumping from the roof of this building onto the balcony above his.”
“What?”
“The building next door,” Kirby explained and jerked a thumb to the east. “It’s six stories tall. This one’s five. The boy says that he saw a tall bearded man hurl himself from the roof and land on the balcony one level above him.”
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 6