“There are some scuff marks along the aluminum sheeting,” Hank Lyman said as he pointed out the light creases and dents in the material. “I think these appear pretty fresh. There’s no build-up of dirt in these crevices. He was running, not even trying to be quiet or careful.”
Frank quickly picked up on which direction the new dents led and followed. Soon, he found himself at the edge of the roof, peering down upon the southbound lanes of Clinton Street and a few police cars, including McLain’s.
“If you look close, you’ll find that he apparently dropped from the roof and landed on the balcony. See the broken flowerpot?”
Frank and Kirby grunted positively as they followed what Lyman was pointing toward.
“I take it he descended to the ground, balcony by balcony?” Campanelli asked. Hank nodded. “Have you looked for witnesses in those apartments?”
“We’ve interviewed both families, sir,” Lyman provided. “We had to track them down at work. Everyone left for jobs starting at seven this morning. That’s around the time Mister Henson was killed and a few minutes later, Martin Kilbourne saw him land on the balcony above him.”
“No street witnesses?” McLain asked.
“None as yet,” his underling answered.
“He’s out there somewhere, just walking the streets,” Frank murmured as he stared into the windows of the mostly empty office building across the street.
“We’ll get him, Frank,” said Kirby.
“We’d better. Four dead in three days.” Campanelli spoke through gritted teeth and adjusted his fedora as he stepped away from the edge of the roof. “We’ve got to get him, quick.”
Frank walked with McLain to the ground floor, leaving Lyman to wrap up his final report and oversee a last sweep for evidence. He opened his cruiser’s door and turned to the head detective of the homicide division. “What are you going to recommend to Treadwell?” Darius Treadwell was the chief of the Violent Crimes Division.
“A high-priority alert, force-wide,” McLain informed him. “I’ll see about recalling patrolmen from vacation. I don’t want to underestimate this man anymore. Might even get the press involved and work for us.”
“Hmm,” Frank grunted thoughtfully and tossed his black hat to the passenger seat. “Dealing with the press can work both ways.”
“I know that.”
“Okay,” Campanelli gave his friend a two-fingered salute. “Later,” he said and dropped himself into the driver’s seat. McLain waved and went to his own car.
***
Frank decided to pay his partner a visit earlier than planned. Marcus’s reluctance was either real or imagined, but the killer had proven to remain a danger to the people of Chicago. If William’s knew something, Campanelli would have to convince him to help.
As he guided his vehicle in manual mode around a right turn, the APB interrupted normal radio traffic with three long tones before the young female dispatcher spoke. “All units. Updated APB for suspect wanted on four counts homicide. Approximately six feet tall with a dark beard. Wearing black hat and long black coat. Race unknown. Last seen at Clinton and Van Buren this AM. Presumed heading east on foot. Subject is highly dangerous, and is known to be armed with bayonet. Assume armed with firearms when confronting.”
Campanelli cussed flatly when the broadcast ended. With all the evidence they had discovered at both murder scenes, there should have been an approximation of the physical description on the screen, but with the DNA reader blocked, they would be flying blind. This must be how they did it in the old days, Frank thought.
The Captain of Detectives parked and went inside the hospital. Surprisingly, he found Williams’s bio-electronic implant within range of communication on the ground floor. He linked with it and was informed by Marcus that he was in the physical therapy department. After walking the maze, Frank located it and went inside.
Under the supervision of a male physical therapist, the ex-SEAL was seated and lifting a light barbell with his right arm. Marcus waved with his left as his partner walked in.
“Good morning,” Campanelli greeted. Marcus and the trainer replied in kind. “Did you get the latest?” Frank asked of his partner.
Without a word, Marcus nodded and held his partner’s gaze for a moment. Besides the therapist working with Williams, there were other patients around them and a couple of other hospital employees.
“Did you see that APB?” Frank thought and sent in an audible message.
Marcus nodded again. His face bore no trace of pain, though he exercised the bare arm and shoulder gingerly. The bullet wound at Marcus’s collarbone was covered with a square adhesive bandage. He knew that the man was healing fast, but it had not failed to take Frank by surprise each day he visited.
“McLain sent that out and is recalling some officers from vacation,” Campanelli stated in his next message.
Marcus listened to it carefully and thought his reply. “The department’s intensifying the search east of that area?”
“Yeah. He’s going to talk to Chief Treadwell about putting it on the air.”
“Hmm,” Williams grunted vocally and narrowed his eyes at Frank.
“It might help,” Frank spoke.
“You’re doing very well, Mr. Williams,” the short, slim therapist said. “Think you can do that with a ten pounder?”
“Sure,” Marcus replied and handed the small one to the man.
“Feelin’ good?” Frank asked of him and took a nearby chair.
“Yeah. Tryin’ to get outta here ASAP.”
“Good man.” Campanelli removed his fedora and fiddled with it in his fingers.
“You’d better hang that thing up awhile,” Williams said and smiled while giving the hat a nod.
Frank grinned. “Yeah, don’t want to be hassled by the man,” he said and chuckled. “When does it look like they’ll spring you?”
“Day after tomorrow,” the therapist said as he handed Williams the heavier weight.
“Tomorrow,” Marcus amended.
“No way,” the medical professional said with a shake of his head. “You’re healing fast, but not that fast.”
“Tomorrow,” Marcus repeated with his eyes on his partner.
The therapist chuckled. “We’ll see.”
“Marcus, I need you to be as forthcoming and honest with me as you can be on this,” Frank sent in an audible. While bio-electronic implants did not emulate the emotion of the sender’s voice well, there was no mistaking Campanelli’s earnestness in his facial expression.
“I understand, Frank,” Marcus sent back.
“This killer is nothing like we’ve ever seen.” Campanelli went on describing the murder scene and supplied Williams with the few pictures that Frank had the wherewithal to save to his implant. “I’ve got to know all that you know about this creature or whatever he is.”
While he lifted the ten-pound weight with ease, Marcus stared into his partner’s eyes, breaking on occasion just long enough to take in the pictures from Frank’s implant. He grimaced at one point, making the therapist think that he was feeling pain.
“I think that’ll be it, Mr. Williams,” the younger man said as he reached for the weight.
“I’ve got it.”
“You’re in pain,” the therapist protested with his hands out, ready to relieve the bigger man of the small barbell.
“I’ve got it,” Marcus repeated sternly. He continued lifting the weight over his head and down repeatedly. The therapist backed away.
“Frank, I did keep some information from you,” Marcus sent in an audible transmission. “I’m sorry, but I had to be sure.” He looked back into Frank’s face solemnly.
Campanelli pursed his lips in anger and tossed his hat onto a chair behind him. He leaned all the way back in the chair and crossed his arms expectantly.
The young therapist, sensing the mood between the two policemen change, strolled away.
“I believe this killer may part of a group called FROG. They we
re intended to replace SEAL and the standard Marine Force Recon. It means Force Recon Optimized Genetics.”
Frank ran his hand over his hair and blinked while he listened to his partner’s digitized voice in his ears.
“The Navy retired the entire SEAL program in anticipation of these Marines. They had no parents, only sperm and egg donators,” Marcus went on as he placed the weight on the floor and stood from the chair to stretch. “A couple of years ago, we heard that the Marines had put an end to the FROG program due to budget cuts.”
Marcus hesitated, but could tell from his senior partner’s expression that he was to continue.
“The FROGs are rumored to have high-bone density and extremely fast healing capabilities,” Williams explained as he looked about the therapy room. “This explains why there was no body in that car. He was inactive for a day, telling me that he hid somewhere, allowing his body to heal.” He halted and looked to Frank for a moment.
“Go on,” Frank commanded.
Marcus crossed his arms over his big chest as he sent the next message. “FROGs also have scaled skin and gills. The skin was supposed to be able to change color for camouflaging. They can make themselves appear like any race, short of changing the shape of their bone structure.”
“What else?” Campanelli pressed at the next hesitation.
“Their muscle strength was highly improved over a standard human without needing to be bulky,” Williams explained and began to pace. “The gills were to save on the cumbersome scuba equipment.”
“What else?” Frank asked aloud.
“Everything else truly is rumor,” Marcus replied, keeping his voice down. “Or it’s classified. I’m not even supposed to know this.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?” Campanelli transmitted. While the voice in Williams’s ears was mostly flat, the expression on the Frank’s face more than made up for it.
“Frank, I told you. This is all classified information. Besides, there wasn’t enough info to go on.”
At this, the Captain of Detectives flew from his chair so quickly that it slammed against the wall behind him. The room silenced as all eyes turned to the two policemen, now standing toe-to-toe.
“Goddamn you, Marcus. Four people have been killed by this creature,” Frank sent as he stared up into the bigger man’s face.
“Frank, if this is a FROG, there’s nothing you could have done to prevent it,” Marcus replied.
“Bullshit. We could have swept the area. Cornered him in that building and caught him by now,” Campanelli sent as his face grew red and his eyes drilled into Marcus’s.
“That’s a long shot at best.”
“Why?” Frank asked aloud through seething teeth.
“Look, just let me make a call to an old SEAL buddy,” Williams said, keeping it in digital audio form. “He’s with the FBI now, but he has connections in the military.”
“You’re that convinced that this…” Frank whispered harshly, looking around for eavesdroppers, “…thing is that dangerous?”
Marcus nodded. “I honestly can’t think of what else this could be, Frank.”
“How many of these Marines were created?” Frank whispered.
“I have no idea,” Williams replied in kind with a shrug. “I can’t imagine that very many could have been made. There was barely a budget to keep the SEALs going.”
Campanelli turned from his friend and partner, snatched up his black hat from the chair and paced. He was clearly agitated and Marcus knew from experience that the need to act immediately boiled within the man. It was what made Frank Campanelli a great hunter of fugitives, but a feisty, gruff human being at times.
“Frank,” Marcus said gently and lowly, “if you had rushed into his hiding place, your first responders would most likely have been killed.”
“You said yourself he was probably healing, sleeping,” Campanelli said as he stood still, eyeing his partner’s face with a trace of skepticism.
Marcus said nothing in reply, letting a slight shrug, a tilt of the head, and raised eyebrows do it for him.
“Do me a favor,” Frank said as he stepped closer to his partner to whisper the rest. “Call your friend. Give him whatever reports he needs. Get his advice on this.”
“I will just as soon as I return to my room.”
Frank nodded. “Okay. See you tomorrow?”
“Yes, at the office,” Williams replied with certainty.
With that, Campanelli left the hospital. Once in his car, he updated the APB that McLain had issued on the suspect that he was not to be confronted, but tracked until sufficient back-up arrived, which was to include the SWAT team.
***
After the morning’s escape from the police, the killer was left exhausted. The burst of speed which he had required to hurl himself from the roof of the apartment building had been sizeable. The act was exhilarating and invigorating at the same time. However, it had been a long time since he had experienced such a rush of adrenaline.
Thinking about it as he walked, he smiled. Some of the pedestrians around him returned the smile, for other than the out-of-style hat, the man appeared to be nothing more than a handsome, six-foot-tall male. The façade he kept on his face, though it took energy, did smooth out his appearance. A happy chill went up his spine when he thought of his newly acquired clothing. He felt fortunate that he had acquired a hat and coat similar to those he had seen on the police detective that had shown up to investigate the wreck he had made of the stolen car. The murderer especially liked the hat, for not only did it intrigue him, it saved a little bit of energy. All he had to keep camouflaged was his face and parts of his neck. The shade provided by the brim helped his eyes as well.
As he traveled north on foot, he realized an increase of population and, therefore, police patrols. The last one was a marked cruiser driving southward, and as he strode across a street with no one near him at that moment, it had prompted the fugitive to make a sudden right turn. This soon brought him to an alcove of an aged building that, while not particularly tall, appeared to take up the whole block, as did the parking structure he had just walked past.
From behind a pillar, he looked back into the sunlit day for the police, but they were gone. He was trying to be careful not to shows signs of paranoia, but it was difficult for him, considering what he had done. The killer retreated into the shade and read the sign on the glass door: Chicago Union Station Museum.
He opened the door and went inside. As he did, he changed his face, approximating a light brown mustache, a shadowing effect on the chin that gave the impression of a dimple. He used a similar trick to make his eyes, now dark blue, appear more deeply set.
“Good morning. Are you here for a self-guided tour, sir?” a voice called to him.
Spinning too quickly, he found he had been startled by a short, middle-aged Caucasian female. She gazed at him with a steady smile. Confused as to how he had not detected her, he answered in the affirmative.
“Very well, welcome. If you are equipped with an implant, please link with the server labeled, ‘Union Station Tour’ and step to your right, following the red velvet ropes to the stairs. The tour begins in the Great Hall.”
It was then he understood that the woman was a hologram. He had triggered the interactive playback by entering the building.
“Thank you,” he said and proceeded in, not bothering to link with the museum’s computer. He walked quickly down the marble steps to the Great Hall, a place where once tens of thousands gathered daily to meet trains that would take them to various places in the country. Union Station’s tracks met underground, he knew from the encyclopedia of knowledge within his own memory. Projected upon his artificial lenses was the layout of the immense structure, above and below the surface.
Within the Great Hall, a few people wandered from exhibit to exhibit, scattered all around the massive wooden benches in the center. Ahead of him, an exhibit featured a train car, set atop a fixed piece of track p
laced on the marble flooring. A family of five boarded it from the west end for a walk-through.
The killer walked ahead into the Great Hall, bearing right as he headed for the terminals. He passed beyond a large set of sliding glass doors that were, for the moment, kept open and proceeded within, not paying attention to the other visitors to the museum. He rode up an escalator and looked about him. Where once there were restaurants, shops, and a bar, there was now only a cafeteria, not yet opened, and a gift shop. Most of the other places were not in use, and served only as more exhibits.
It was all very interesting, the cannibal decided, but all he required at the moment was a quiet place to rest. He walked aimlessly for a time until he came to a terminal. Through the windows, he could see a train, this one complete with a diesel engine and what looked to be four or five train cars attached to it. Stepping toward the glass, he found that it was nonresponsive. Withdrawing a pale right hand, he tugged at the separation, trying to part it.
“Pardon me,” someone said from behind him. This time, the trained killer was not startled, for he had heard footsteps. “I’m afraid access to the terminal part of the museum is only available for the guided tour,” the automaton said. It was male, short and dressed like a conductor.
“Oh, I see,” the killer said and activated his device hacking program. The automaton was called a Model Six by the manufacturer, the McAllen Corporation, but their software security had been outdated since the company lifted off for the colony planet. He was able to obtain access to the machine’s computer and communicate his will directly.
In a moment, the glass door slid out of the way. As it was done in front of a security doppelganger, it was given little notice by a few of the passing patrons.
The killer slipped inside, allowed the glass doors to close, and released his connection with the doppelganger. The machine’s memory of the incident was wiped, so it strode away on its beat.
The murderer’s hopes for a cushy rest on a train car’s seat were dashed by the presence of a few security cameras, easily spotted from their mounts. Instead, he climbed down onto the tracks. Hunkering down, he tucked himself within the shadows of the platform and promptly went to sleep.
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 8