***
Marcus Williams became restless that afternoon. The possibility of a FROG running loose through the city should not have been alarming, but this one had clearly gone insane. While FROGs were intended to be the ultimate in aggressiveness and self-sufficiency, they were certainly not intended to run rogue and turn cannibal.
Even though it would run up his hospital bill, he made a couple long distance phone calls. The first was to the FBI office in DC that his friend had last been known to work from. The second was to the office in Texas, where he had been reassigned. Williams had left a message for him and stewed for hours in his hospital bed or the slightly more comfortable lounger, waiting.
The sun went by his window as the hours rolled around, reinforcing Marcus’s angst. Another nice sunny day was wasting away in front of his eyes.
At 5:55, the phone rang while he sat watching the holovision and waiting for the 6 o’clock news to start. Marcus picked it up before the tone had a second chance.
“Marcus Williams,” he answered.
“Marcus!”
“Hey, Jerry!”
“How the hell are ya?”
“Getting better,” Williams provided, knowing full well how much press that he had received over saving Mayor Jameson’s life. “Probably getting out tomorrow.”
“Good to hear, man!” Agent Jerry Quinne called. “I’m sorry I didn’t check on you, but you looked fine on the news.”
“I did, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. Other than being flat on your back, that is.”
“Cute,” Williams commented. “Listen, Jerry. We’ve got a situation going on here in town. It should be on the local news tonight.”
“Oh?” Agent Quinne said while the sound of him turning and rolling in an office chair came through. “Do tell, old buddy.”
“I know we’re not on a secure line…” Marcus led grimly.
“Really. That bad, huh?”
“Possibly. We’re not sure yet. We’ve got a crazy running around attacking and eating people. He’s killed four, so far.”
“Holy shit,” Quinne said through a cringe.
“Yeah. Can you get online and watch our local news? My partner said that it was going to be announced tonight.”
“Already on it,” the agent said. “The internet’s getting spottier every week. Wow. You guys are down to three local channels, huh?”
Marcus chuckled. “Yeah. Only two have any news broadcasts.”
“I see that,” Quinn mumbled absently. After a moment, Marcus could hear the same audio feed through the phone that his holovision was receiving, though Jerry’s was a few seconds behind.
“Wow,” Williams said. “They aren’t kidding around. It’s the first story.”
“The bodies of three people have been discovered this morning in an apartment building at four-seventeen Jefferson Street,” the young male anchor began. “The names of the victims have not yet been released by the CPD, but this triple homicide is apparently related to the killing that occurred near the Ashland Avenue Bridge last Monday morning. A brief interview with Homicide Detective Kirby McLain took place this afternoon near the crime scene,” the anchor finished and disappeared, allowing the video of the interview to replace him.
“We do have a witness that saw a person of interest leaving the crime scene,” Kirby said to the two microphones in his face. Behind him sat a police cruiser and a brick building, taped off by the familiar thick yellow ‘Crime Scene’ tape. “This individual is around six feet tall, lean, possibly Caucasian with a darkly colored beard. He was last seen wearing a black hat, possibly a fedora, and a black overcoat.”
“Detective McLain, a question,” a reporter interrupted, “were these three new victims eaten like the first one?”
Kirby looked to the sidewalk he was standing upon and cleared his throat before answering. He was clearly surprised that the detail had leaked. “Let me stress that this is a partial consumption of the victims’ bodies, but yes, some…cannibalism is involved.”
The reporter holding the other microphone spoke next. “What is the next step that the department needs to take to find this man?”
“The entire department is on high alert, looking for this suspect,” McLain spoke deliberately, measuring his words carefully. “This man is to be considered highly dangerous due to the violent nature of his crimes and he is not to be confronted. I can’t stress that part enough. If someone sees this man, we need to be contacted immediately. All we ask is that if seen, do not approach. Call the police immediately and leave the area.”
“Jesus,” Agent Jerry Quinne said when McLain was done speaking.
“Quite a dangerous individual,” the anchor stressed when he reappeared next to a crude drawing of the killer. “So, please, if you see this suspect, keep your distance and call the police immediately.”
“Oh, hell,” Marcus grunted. The picture was bordering on the ludicrous, placing a shadow over the man’s eyes as provided by the wide-brimmed hat. The mouth was wide open in a snarl, and the teeth were drawn with fangs.
Quinne laughed at the sight. “Well, that’s a bit much.”
“Maybe.”
“Seriously?” the agent grunted.
“Yeah.” Williams allowed the silence to accentuate his sincerity.
Jerry Quinne cleared his throat. “Okay, can you get to a computer? Maybe you can email some details to me.”
“It may take some time to find a terminal, but give me your email address.” Marcus’s implant acquired the data from the man’s voice and saved it to the memo file.
“I’ll look for that, Marcus,” the agent promised solemnly.
Williams smiled, happy that his friend and former service buddy did not give him any nonsense about security. They said their goodbyes and ended the call.
Marcus walked to the nurses’ station and inquired about access to a computer. With charm and the knowledge that he was a police officer, it was no problem.
***
“Holy crap, Frank,” Tamara Billingsley uttered after the news story had ended. She did not take her eyes from the creepy caricature.
“Yeah,” he replied and took another bite of his dinner. “They can really overdo the artwork.”
She turned to him, looking for a sign of humor, though there was none. “That’s not what I mean. That guy sounds absolutely ruthlessly…evil.”
“It looks that way,” he agreed, and chewed while staring at his plate.
The news broadcast switched to another topic, but the killer remained at the forefront of Frank’s mind. That fact was clear to Tam, as he was quiet for most of the evening and kept the telephone close by while the two of them tried to relax for the evening in the living room.
“Damn it,” he muttered as they watched the holovision.
“What?” Tam asked without removing her eyes from the images.
“That’s it for HV for me tonight,” he explained with a tap to his temple. His implant’s main battery was depleted.
“Already? It’s not even eight-thirty,” Billingsley marveled as she rose from the couch. “Where’d you leave it?”
“Coat pocket…I think,” he replied.
“It’s a little early in the evening for that to happen, isn’t it?” she asked over her shoulder as she searched his overcoat’s inner pockets for his RadarCane.
“It is,” he agreed glumly then ordered the holovision set to mute. “I couldn’t help it. I kept checking my work email.”
“Frank!” she called with disdain on her way back. “Why? If there was something urgent, someone would call,” she said as she placed the cane in his hand and retook her seat on the couch.
“I know,” he said and turned his head toward her voice. He tapped the white folded cane on his knee.
Tam hated to look at Frank when his implant shut down. He was no less handsome as his eyes, unseeing, but constantly searching for light, seemed to beg for something. Perhaps they sought an answer to a question that remained unasked
throughout the time that she had known him. Maybe the reason for it was the uncomfortable darkness over which he had only part time control. Unconsciously, his orbs swung to and fro, his eyebrows lifted from the center, while the outer corners of his eyelids angled ever-so-slightly downward. Whatever the cause of the subtle change in his expression, the appearance conveyed despair and chipped pieces from her heart whenever she saw him in such a state.
“Well, it’s not your case, anyway,” Tam said softly. She angled her eyes away from him and back to the mute HV. “You’re second in command of the Sentinel Squad, anyway. You have other business.”
“There’s not much on our agenda that the boys can’t handle,” Campanelli dismissed. “I told you the caseload’s been lighter since Ignatola ‘n’ DeSilva were put out of business.”
“I know,” she said bitterly, more so than she had intended. She crossed her arms and pouted, knowing what he would say next.
“I’ve always been a homicide detective, Tam,” he quipped. “I can’t help that.”
“Well, forgive me if I don’t want you in the middle of this one,” Billingsley said harshly. “This creature is…an…animal!”
The frown that had appeared over Frank’s face retracted quickly, shifting beyond the doleful, questioning blind man’s expression on its way straight into humor. He chuckled before rolling into unrestricted laughter, disarming Tamara Billingsley’s concerns for his safety.
She laughed with him and slapped her knee as her heart lifted. Tamara believed this man in front of her, laughing, showing his teeth while his body trembled with humor, this man was the real Frank Campanelli. Or, at least he had been once.
“That creature is an animal, Tam,” Frank rephrased and laughed once more.
She fought for a breath in between her gales. “Shut up!” she howled gleefully before making the effort to stamp out further laughter. “Okay, listen. What I mean is…”
“I know what you mean.” Campanelli nodded and likewise, quieted. The humor disappeared as fast as it had struck. “I’m just consulting with McLain and my old squad.”
“Yeah, well, maybe,” she conceded. “But I know how you get when you become obsessed over a case. You’re either at the department until late or, because you can’t stop thinking about it, you end up like this…without the use of your lenses for the evening.” She made an effort not to say the word “blind.” She never understood why.
“I have a bad feeling about this one, is all.”
These words sent chills throughout Tamara Billingsley’s body and she studied his face closely. His unseeing eyes steadied upon her face. Two people stared while only one saw. Tam shivered violently and gripped her knees with trembling fingers.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Tamara blew out a breath that she had been holding. “Oh, not at all. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say something like that, Frank.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Well, I do. I believe that more people will die before we can catch up to this thing,” he opined while unfolding the cane. He stood and let the humming, beeping cane guide him toward the kitchen.
She watched Frank for a few moments as he felt his way into the cabinet for a short whiskey glass. He sidestepped to his left and retrieved his bottle of bourbon. With well-practiced precision, he poured, stopped when he felt he had poured a few fingers then replaced the bottle’s cap. He turned and sipped the deep amber liquid, remaining in the kitchen, standing at the counter.
Tamara turned off the silenced HV and walked to him with her arms crossed. Her thoughts at that moment were hopelessly scrambled. She knew she was not over the shock of being brought into Frank’s last case. The bruise around her left eye socket was still present, though it faded a little every day. She stepped next to him as he took his second sip, wrapped her left arm around his hip, and kissed his cheek.
“Why, thank you,” he responded and smiled.
Billingsley sighed and placed her head on his shoulder. “Frank,” she said in her leading way.
“Yes?”
“You ever think of leaving Chicago?”
“Sure.”
“Well?”
“Well…what?” His right arm encapsulated her shoulders.
“Any reason why we can’t?” she whispered.
“What about your diner?”
“I can…maybe, do that somewhere else.”
“I don’t know, Tam.”
She sighed once again as she tried to bring her thoughts into line. “I just don’t want to see you hurt again. Last time was a close call, Frank.”
“I know, but Chicago needs good cops.”
She withdrew from him slowly after planting another kiss. “There are other cops, dear.”
“You need to understand something here and now, Tamara,” he said as he set down his drink. His blind eyes searched for her in his darkness. “There aren’t many new recruits these days. No academies, no criminal justice courses at the local colleges. Nothing but veterans trying to teach the young ones the ropes.”
“I know, Frank, but Chicago’s shrinking,” she retorted. “The mayor keeps closing districts. How long will it be until you’re out of a job?”
“I can’t allow that to happen,” he shot with agitation.
“You can’t?” Tamara questioned with her arms folded over her chest. Her eyes searched his face. “You can’t stop it. This…society is degenerating, Frank.” She bit her tongue before spilling the next words on her mind. When are you going to see that? Instead, she closed her eyes and turned away.
“Maybe,” he conceded. “But we will come to a day where the people of Chicago will refuse to leave, and they will need protection. They will still need police.”
The two of them were silent for a long time. Campanelli sipped his bourbon until the glass was empty. He poured himself another and followed his cane to his recliner, next to the couch. Not knowing what else to say, Tamara abandoned the conversation and picked up her Sherlock Holmes novel. She read it on the couch and watched Frank drop into the chair from the corner of her eye.
“What would you have me do, Tam?” he asked of her after another sip. “Quit?”
“Just forget it,” she murmured. “I don’t know what I’m asking you to do.”
“I understand it, if it helps,” he replied and stood up. His restlessness was not abating with the alcohol.
“I think it does,” she said with an audible smile.
Frank nodded. “I’m gonna get some air ‘n’ try to relax.”
“Okay.” Tamara watched her love walk away until he was out of sight. She listened as the cane sounded its way to the closet, where he took his overcoat from the hanger. With another topping off of the whiskey glass, the troubled Captain of Detectives slid the patio door open, stepped into the cool night air, and closed the glass panel behind him. With a thoughtful sigh, she went back to her book.
Campanelli popped a cigarette into his mouth and felt his way to the plastic patio table. He set down the bourbon and pulled out his lighter. His deft fingers flipped it open with a click and spun the wheel. Sensing the heat, he lit the tobacco and shut the lighter.
His first puff was let out with a loud sigh. With it, the night air worked a chill up his spine which set his muscles trembling involuntarily. The RadarCane let out a “wow” to let him know that he had found one of the chairs. Pulling it closer, he sat down. He folded his cane and placed it inside his coat to give himself a free hand. In the complete darkness that was his blindness, he felt for the glass and brought it to his lips.
Frank Campanelli had no choice but to think about the current case. As a longtime inspector for the NYPD and a detective with the CPD for the last few years, the thought process had become instinctive.
He settled into the flexible chair, took a puff of the cigarette and balanced the glass on his knee. The images of the murder victims of the past couple of days tumbled into his mind. He thought of Werner, the Drakes,
and Matt Henson, imagining how each met their fate. Frank then thought of young Martin Kilbourne, the only one that had, so far, laid eyes on the creature.
Creature, he thought and smirked. Campanelli had to stop thinking of the psychopath that way. He hoped that this government issued and trained killer was not as dangerous as Williams had alluded to, but time would tell. I wonder where he is and what he’s doing, he contemplated with another puff and another swig.
With these thoughts and more rattling around in his head, Frank’s exhaustion pressed upon him. Unnecessarily, his eyelids drooped.
***
From less than twenty meters away, the Captain of Detectives, Frank Campanelli of the Sentinel Squad was seen exiting his apartment and taking a seat on the patio. He did not wear his hat, but the coat was present. The hunter became perplexed with the noisy device in the policeman’s hand. In the darkness, his night vision studied the white stick with its red tip and wondered about its function.
The FROG sat upon the quiet L tracks next to the Campanelli residence and contemplated his quarry. He had retrieved Campanelli’s identification and address from an active CPD squad car’s computer, which his military-grade implant had easily hacked into. With the trains being only part time, the electricity was shut down to conserve energy, making it extremely easy for the Marine to make his way along them.
He inhaled the air a moment after watching the detective light his cigarette. A Turkish blend, it was clear, grown not very far away. A second sniff brought the traces of alcohol to his olfactory senses. The FROG turned his nose up in disgust. His body was engineered to detest alcoholic beverages and reject the fluid with violent consequences if it was ingested.
A gust of wind lifted the brim of his stolen hat and threatened to remove it. Quickly, he mashed it upon his head with a hand and continued to watch Campanelli with interest. He was not sure why the man interested him, but it was clear given his service record that he was an intelligent man.
“Ah,” the cannibal hissed as he reread the report on the man. As the District One Station was just across the street to his back, the CPD computer was now well within range to be hacked into once again. “Blind? How interesting,” he whispered as the wind pressed against his back once again.
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 9