As the world became darker, Kirby’s heavy chest turned his breathing into raspy wheezes.
Elliot’s ears perked up. He was listening to something that McLain no longer had the ability to hear. Kirby tried to speak again, but failed. Only a weak moan escaped his cold lips.
“Hmm. Sounds like it’s time for me to go,” Elliot said regretfully. “Methinks the nosy neighbors doth ratted us out, eh, Kirbs? Anyway, it’s been fab.” He stood and gracefully scooped the overcoat from the floor and stepped back into the kitchen.
He returned as Kirby’s eyes closed for the last time with a white kitchen towel held to his left side under his coat and a paper bag of miscellaneous food. It did not account for much, but it was better than nothing.
“Oh, damn,” Elliot oozed with phony regrets. “I forgot to ask if you had any last words.” He shrugged and walked away. He retrieved his black hat, reshaped the brim and put it on.
The sirens from at least three police cruisers were quickly approaching.
“Well, it’s now or…slightly later than now, Kirby McKirberson,” Three-Seven said cheerfully and chuckled.
As if he had no care in the world, Elliot stepped into the hallway, ignored retreating footfalls and at least two slamming doors, and briskly walked from the scene.
***
Frank wakened to the sound of sirens. At least two squad cars were leaving District One in a hurry, tearing the silence of his darkness to shreds as they screamed off.
“Time,” he croaked.
“Six-twenty-two, a.m.,” the voice clock reported.
Campanelli initiated his CAPS-Link and crawled out of bed. Sirens at that time of morning were never good, but lately had proven to be far worse than normal. Without bothering with his cane, he felt his way to the bathroom, making it just in time for his lenses to come online and light up his world.
Frank cranked the hot water handle in the shower and went about preparing himself for the day. He accessed the CPD server and read the blotter. He sighed and grunted a profane response to what he had suspected. Another victim of the psychopathic cannibal had been found on Michigan Avenue. It was the owner of an antique electronics shop, found dead just feet inside the open shop door.
He read the rest of the report as he dried himself. Units en route were listed at the right of the data screen as well as the units requested. It accounted for the two marked squads that had awakened Campanelli and homicide detectives, Jorge Chavez and Charles Morgan, men he knew well, were already on scene. The coroner, Dennis Gherling was on the way. One other bit of data caught his eye.
“Head of D1 Homicide Requested” it read, with the tag, “En-Rte”, meaning that Kirby McLane had been alerted and had acknowledged that he was on his way. Frank continued to dress as he stared at the up-to-the-moment report. He expected “En-Rte” to be replaced by “On-Scn” any second. A minute went by with no change. Two minutes turned into three. Kirby did not live that far from the murder scene and Frank wondered what was taking the man so long. The man could have jogged there, one diminished capacity lung notwithstanding.
Campanelli looked at himself in the bathroom mirror as he put on his tie. He watched the “En-Rte” status stubbornly refuse to change. A feeling of dread washed over Frank as he stepped out of the bathroom and into the kitchen to prepare the morning coffee.
As he dumped coffee into the filter, an alert came through his ears. The tone was not overly loud, but as the morning was quiet and Frank’s concern grew, it might as well have been a squad’s siren next to his ear. The repeating medium to high-pitched double tone directed him to a fresh report on the blotter. With a focus on the button and a thought, the dispatcher’s voice was fed to his audio.
“Any units in the vicinity of Twenty-twenty-five South Indiana. Callers, two, report a four-fifteen. Possible fight. Units responding, acknowledge,” she narrated calmly. Two patrol units answered her call and declared themselves en route.
Campanelli poured the water into the old coffee brewer and set the pitcher down hard. “Shit!” he shouted in recognition of the address. Frank scampered for the bedroom and retrieved his shoulder holster rig and pistol. As he strapped it on, he contacted the dispatcher through the implant and advised her that the address was that of Detective Kirby McLain.
Frank snatched his coat and hat from the closet and, taking no time for a word to Tamara, he rushed through the door of his apartment and flew down the stairs, nearly careening into the glass doors of the lobby. He had ordered the dispatcher to roll additional units and upgrade the four-fifteen to an “officer needs assistance” call. The fact that Kirby was overdue to the murder scene just a third of a mile from his apartment while a fight was happening in his building was too much of a coincidence for the seasoned detective to ignore.
As he set his cruiser to Condition Three and slipped it in reverse, driving it in manual mode, the dispatcher upgraded even his report.
“Shots fired…caller reports shots fired at Twenty-twenty-five South Indiana. Roll code three all responding units.”
“Goddamn it,” Frank muttered as he pulled out of the parking lot. Pressing the accelerator near the floor, the four tires of his car screamed and puffed white smoke as the turbo-charged engine whistled and whined amongst the wailing double siren.
“Unit five-one-six-two,” he called to the radio over the noise of his automobile. “En route to shots fired call!”
“Roger, five-one-six-two,” the dispatcher replied.
Even though it was less than a half mile to McLain’s residence, Campanelli drove like he was chased by a demon. The turn from Eighteenth onto Indiana was made with tires smoking and the car’s rear end kicked out wide. He found relief in the fact that he looked to be fourth on the scene, but it did nothing to quell the feeling that they were all too late.
He brought the cruiser to a sideways stop, blocking the northbound side of the street along with the three other marked cruisers. Frank snatched his fedora from the seat and mashed it on top of his head without conscious thought. He pulled his eleven-millimeter from his holster and charged into the familiar building, bolting directly for the stairs. With his ears peeled, he noted a significant and heart-stopping silence within.
Bounding onto the second floor, he found the six uniformed officers milling about the hall. Their guns were in their holsters and two of them were speaking to residents. The rest looked glum. The youngest officer among them had removed his cap and appeared pale.
Frank Campanelli’s heart sank as his sprint fell off to a sullen shuffle.
The sergeant among the gathered uniforms spoke as Frank approached the open apartment door. “It is Detective McLain, sir. He’s gone.”
Campanelli nodded and forced himself to peer through into the apartment. The place was destroyed. It was obvious that Kirby had fought hard by the wreckage and the bruises on his face. He noted two spent brass casings, one on McLain’s lap, and the other on the floor, between the man’s knees.
“The caller says dat a guy, six feet in height, black coat, black hat,” the sergeant, whose name was Marx, went on, “walked outta here like nuttin’ happened. I’ve called for backup units to comb the area.”
Frank cleared his throat. “Anyone been through the place?”
“Yes, sir,” Marx added. “No one’s inside. There’s a nine-mil lying in da’ hallway. Probably McLain’s.”
“Okay,” Campanelli said and took a deep breath. “Forensics?”
“Just called ‘em, sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant Marx,” Frank replied and cleared his throat several times. He looked down upon the body of Kirby McLain, with his head and shoulders propped up on his foyer closet door. Incensed, Campanelli wanted to scream with such intensity the officers around him would label him mad. He wanted to be free of this and every responsibility, to be taken to a home for the mentally broken and dysfunctional. He wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else at all, so that he could scream, kick, and cry like a child. All at once, he
decided there had been too much pain and misery in this mankind-forsaken world and selfishly, foolishly, he wanted it all to go away. He wanted to shut down his implant and never reactivate it, condemning himself to a world of darkness for the remainder of time. Blindness is freedom. Frank’s fists clenched tightly, so much so that they trembled. His teeth were clenched hard enough that his jaw ached all the way to his ears and his eyes bulged under stress.
Frank was unaware, but he had begun breathing heavily through his nose.
“Detective Campanelli?” the sergeant attempted quietly. He looked around and found that his other officers remained outside the apartment. This was a good thing, he decided, because the detective on scene looked as if he were either going to break down and cry or go on a shooting spree. The man shook with anger, setting the brim of the fedora aquiver and leaving the large handgun to rattle within his grip. “Sir,” he tried again.
Frank blinked several times, aware that someone was speaking. “Yes, Sarge?”
“Can I do somethin’ for ya?”
Barely under control, the Captain of Detectives made himself think before he spoke. “This animal likes to head to the rooftops, Sergeant,” he said in a raspy, forcefully subdued tone. “Have your men find the access to the roof and check it. I’m requesting a helicopter.”
“Yes, sir,” the patrol sergeant replied and was off.
Frank knew the possibilities of spotting the killer were slim, but it was a possibility that needed to be covered. Perhaps he was becoming sloppy.
He stood over his colleague for several minutes, simply looking down upon the broken and beaten man with a flood of thoughts and memories running through his mind.
It’s not supposed to end like this…for any of us.
Campanelli stepped back from Kirby McLain, replaced his eleven-millimeter to his shoulder holster and accessed the CPD server from McLain’s computer network, one that the man had put together himself.
Frank entered the helicopter order into the blotter and the dispatcher acknowledged.
Looking about, he began piecing together what had happened. Somehow, the murderer had found out McLain’s identity and had walked into the apartment. Frank shook his head when he pondered the possibility that Kirby had simply let the man in. The door and its frame showed no signs of being forced. He bent to pick up the top half of the recliner, which had separated from the base and had fallen next to the half wall of the kitchen. The base lay broken in the northwest corner of the apartment, next to the couch.
Carefully placing the back of the chair on the floor where he had found it, Frank stepped toward the ruined holovision set. He stopped short and found blood spattering on the living room’s southern wall. Looking down, he found that he had nearly stepped on droplets. Watching his footing, he went to the ruined HV and bent over it. He adjusted his vision to compensate for the shade and zoomed in on the ruined electronics and cabinet. It appeared that one or both of the combatants had fallen on it, or perhaps been thrown into it.
Campanelli stood up straight and looked over his right shoulder. Kirby had some cuts among the bruises, but no tiny cuts, like the sharp plastic of the cabinet or unmachined metal framework would have caused. The wall behind the unit was gouged deep, proving to Frank that it was hit with great force before the cabinet failed.
A thought occurred and he moved to McLain’s body to verify it. He grimaced at the discovery that the thumb and forefinger on the right hand were both broken. The knuckles on the left hand were puffy and bruised.
“Good for you, my friend,” he whispered. The man had landed a few before being skewered by the large blade. Remembering that the sergeant had mentioned the presence of a pistol, Frank looked to the hallway floor. He walked to it and found a mark on the far wall. The nine-millimeter had been flung there, probably removed from Kirby’s hand by the killer. Campanelli deduced from the blood spatter and the proximity of the casings to McLain’s body, that the murdering cannibal had been hit at least once. He looked to the wall with the blood spatter again and found a hole to the left of it.
“Hi, Frank.”
Campanelli looked up and saw H. Lincoln Rothgery and Teri Wilkins in the doorway. Their expressions were somber and reverent. Frank wanted nothing more than to reply, but he was temporarily out of words. He nodded and Rothgery entered.
“The report says there was a gun?” Teri asked of Frank. He pointed it out. “Ah,” she acknowledged and went to it with her hand scanner/camera device.
Campanelli remained crouched there for a moment. A big hand dropped to his right shoulder and he noticed that he had been joined by the lanky forensic genius. He looked over and into the man’s face. The expression was that of deep regret and understanding.
“Frank, why don’t you take off? We’ve got this.”
Campanelli nodded. “Help me get this fucker, Lincoln.” With that, he stood and walked out.
He took a deep breath once he stepped outside. The brim of the fedora shaded his eyes from the morning sunlight above, while his lenses adjusted for the reflected orange light from the concrete at his feet. Frank reached for his lighter and a cigarette. He connected his CAPS-Link to his automobile’s booster and accessed the file for the other murder that morning.
Campanelli let out a cloud of white smoke as he sauntered to his cruiser. He read the report and noted that the body had already been packaged up and moved to the morgue. Gherling’s report reflected the usual missing heart and liver. For the moment, Frank saw no reason to visit the scene.
Frank got behind the wheel of his cruiser and sat for a moment, reading over the details. There weren’t many, as there had been no witnesses to that killing, unlike the show that had gone down when he went after McLain. The victim was an antique electronics collector, dealer, and refurbisher by the name of Bart Stauros. He lived alone and owned the building on Michigan Avenue. His only other possession was a sixty-year-old gray cargo van.
“Hmm,” he grunted as he put his car in reverse. The report said the van was missing. As he turned the car to the north and began to leave, his eyes scanned to his left. “Shit!” he cried out and brought the car to a jerking stop.
Campanelli found himself parallel to a gray cargo van, parked on the west side of the street. He put the car in park and jumped out. With his hand on his gun, he stepped across the street and waved a uniformed patrolman over.
No driver was visible, but with his free hand, Frank grabbed the door handle and found that it was unlocked. The van’s cabin was empty. He quickly stepped to the front of the van and matched the license plate number to the one on the report. This was Stauros’s vehicle.
“What do we got?” the uniform inquired with trepidation. His hand was on the butt of his handgun.
Frank told him and sent a message to Lincoln and Teri that Stauros’s van was outside and was to be given a looking over. Considering what they had found so far, he knew there was little to be gained by an in-depth search of the vehicle, but it was evidence, and evidence needed processing.
Frank watched two uniformed officers tape off the van and decided to head to Bart Stauros’s shop after all. The drive was short, as Michigan Avenue was only one block west and the crime scene, two intersections south. He parked his cruiser on the west side of the street and walked across, noting that one unmarked cruiser remained in front of the shop. There was little pedestrian traffic, and the few who passed gave the tape a cursory glance and kept moving.
Campanelli unhooked the tape from one side of the open doorway and replaced it as he passed through. The shop was larger than it appeared from the facade, being very deep with a high ceiling. It was also dimly lit, despite the sunlight spilling through the windows. The walls were finished with darkly treated wood paneling, covered by an impressive collection of audio equipment and computer technology manufactured by a variety of long-defunct manufacturers. Counters to his right were full of these components, all of which appeared to be no newer than thirty years of age. All had ridiculousl
y high price tags, in Frank’s opinion, but he was not in the market for such things and the value of the dollar seemed to plummet daily.
A large pool of blood stained the dry wooden floor several meters from the front door, lit by a single light bulb hanging by a cord from the ceiling. Frank noted streaks of blood on the wall and on some of the items on a shelving unit there. Where the body had fallen was taped off as well.
“Hi, Frank,” Detective Charles Morgan called from the wooden stairs at the southeast corner of the shop. The man’s dark suit and the low light virtually guaranteed that he would not have been seen unless purposely searched out.
“Charles,” he replied. His voice broke halfway through the man’s name.
“We heard about McLain,” Morgan said with a thumb thrown back toward the stairs he had just come down. Frank deduced his partner, Jorge Chavez, was still up there.
Campanelli nodded and looked about the shop, unsure of what to say.
“Was he…well, treated like the other victims?” Morgan inquired with a whisper.
“No,” Frank answered. “He fought like hell, though. I don’t think the bastard had time to do anything but get out of there once he heard the sirens.”
“Is it true that McLain got a shot in?”
“Yeah,” the Captain of Detectives provided. “Shot ‘im once before he died.”
“Jesus,” Morgan mumbled.
“Anything interesting here?”
Charles Morgan shook his head. “We can’t tell if the murderer had time to rummage through the place or not. If he stole anything, we wouldn’t be able to tell short of dust patterns on shelves and such. Stock primarily consists of clocks, audio equipment, some computers, automaton parts, miscellaneous high quality wires, and other junk. If Stauros had an inventory list, he must have kept it up here,” he finished with a tap to his temple.
“I see.” Frank sighed deeply as he looked about the heavily stocked shop. “Did you know that Stauros’s truck was found outside McLain’s?”
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 11