Campanelli shook hands with both men. “Glad you’re here. He just came ‘round. Nice timing.” Quinne nodded. Ruger was a painting of a man not happy to be where he was or what Kabel had just been saying.
“If that thing’s not yours, you’ve got a big fucking problem in this town,” Kabel said with great agitation. He shook the bed with further futile attempts to free his arms.
“Knock that off!” Frank commanded and leaned both hands on the rails. “Tell us what you saw and where this all happened.”
Williams stepped to the left of Campanelli, giving his friend and the doctor a clear view of Scott Kabel.
“Okay.” Kabel took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “We just rolled into town ahead of the storm. Me and the rest of ‘em went to camp at McCormick’s garage.”
“That’s a known hangout of yours,” Frank informed him and acted as if he was becoming impatient. “What else?”
“Just after we lit the fires to get warm, this…whatever fuckin’ thing…attacked.” Kabel’s voice rose in volume. He noted a stern look from Campanelli and the muscular and taller Williams behind him. Scott took another deep breath and went on. “He started with knives…throwing ‘em into the crowd of us as he ran in a circle around the camp. Then he knocked Nan flat to the floor. She didn’t move after that. This monster...picked up her gun and started firing into us.”
“Still running in a circle?” asked Agent Quinne.
Kabel nodded frantically. “He was incredibly fast. Couldn’t see him. I got on my bike and got the fuck out of there!”
“At what point did he shoot you?” Campanelli asked.
“Um…I didn’t even know I was hit until I was outside. It must have been on my way out.”
“Did you get a look at him? His face?” Quinne asked next.
“No, he was just a…black blur, running around us. Never seen anything so damn fast.”
Williams noted Quinne giving Dr. Ruger a look. Ruger’s eyebrows rose slowly and he crossed his arms in front of him and casually wiped his bearded chin. Marcus could not tell whether the two were having an implant-to-implant conversation, or if it was just a knowing glance, but he did not like it.
Kabel quieted for a moment, but continued when he thought of another detail. “And the damn thing howled,” he said excitedly while his eyes teared with fright. “It let out this noise. It was so damn loud. So loud, I couldn’t hear the rain anymore.”
“Which garage at McCormick Place?” asked Frank.
“Uh…it’s at the corner of Indiana…southwest corner, next to that old expressway.”
“We’ll check it out, Mr. Kabel,” Campanelli said in a calming tone. “Don’t go anywhere, we’ll be talking again.”
Blades lifted both arms as high up as he could make them, making the cuffs clink loudly. “You’re funny.”
With that, the four men stepped out of the small hospital room and walked slowly down the hall toward the elevators.
“We’ve got to roll there right away, Frank,” Marcus opined as the door closed behind them.
“Yeah,” Frank agreed, and linked with the CPD computer, using the hospital’s server. He brought up an overview of the abandoned facility and located the garage of which Kabel spoke. “What do you think, Dr. Ruger?” he asked, while sending the orders.
Mitchell Ruger shrugged. “A FROG is definitely capable of such an assault. They are extremely well coordinated and can sprint for longer periods of time than we can. Their heart and lung capacity is double the efficiency of ours.” He said this with a faint trace of pride.
Campanelli requested a SWAT team, though he was all but certain their maniac would be nowhere near the scene. The men stepped onto the elevator and descended to the ground floor. Once in the parking lot, Williams connected to his cruiser and granted access to Agent Quinne. He walked with Frank to his car and dropped into the passenger seat with a stifled grunt.
“How you doin’?” Campanelli asked as he started the engine.
“I’m good. Let’s go.”
Quinne and Ruger followed Campanelli’s cruiser with lights and sirens once they were away from the hospital.
“So, what’s with this Dr. Ruger?” Frank asked as he guided the car manually. He was not in pursuit of anything, so he kept the pace sane, much to his partner’s relief.
“Quinne told me he was a genetic engineer.”
“Was he part of the team that created these damn FROGs?”
“Yes, but I don’t know just how involved. It’s all classified stuff.”
The Captain of Detectives grunted in response. As he guided the cruiser through a right turn onto Indiana Avenue, he reviewed the orders he had created for the mission.
“Unit five-one-six-two to dispatch,” he called out to his dash radio.
“Five-one-six-two. Go ahead,” the dispatcher replied immediately.
“Revision to orders for McCormick location,” he continued. “I want three or four squads covering the north entrance to the parking garage. SWAT commander is to meet me at the garage exit. We’re going in through the out door.”
“Roger five-one-six-two. Will amend.”
Frank gave Kirby McLain’s apartment building a glance as they drove past. He felt a flash of anger and the lust for revenge rise up in his chest. He drove on, and, despite slowing to check for traffic at the intersection at Cermak Road, his cruiser overrode him and stopped. The police car that Quinne was driving pulled alongside and did the same. The cause for this was immediately apparent as the sound of warbling sirens filled the air. Two marked squad cars rolled through the intersection in response to Campanelli’s orders.
In his rearview mirror, Frank could see the SWAT van, a little more than a block behind. The danger clear, the cruiser continued on. Impatient, Campanelli mashed the accelerator and shot down the street, leaving Quinne and Ruger well behind.
Frank silenced the siren and drove on to the dead end, where Indiana Avenue was interrupted by the Stevenson Expressway. He turned left, entering the parking garage of McCormick through the exit. Not wanting to venture too far inside, he guided the car up the curb at his left and parked. As he and Williams climbed out of the car, Quinne turned in, and was followed by the SWAT van.
Campanelli walked to the van as the SWAT team filed out of the back. “Who’s the commander here?”
A SWAT member pointed to the driver, who was hopping out. “I am.”
Frank noticed the stripes on the man’s sleeve and his name tag. “Sergeant Frohm, I’m Campanelli, Sentinel Division. I’m on loan to homicide.”
“Pleasure,” Frohm smiled and shook Frank’s hand.
“This is my partner, Marcus Williams,” Campanelli said.
“Pleasure,” Frohm repeated with Williams’s giant hand in his. “Jesus, you should be on my team.”
Marcus chuckled. “Naw…waaay too dangerous for me.”
“This is Agent Quinne and Dr. Ruger,” Frank went on, gesturing to the two men standing behind him. The men all shook hands.
“FBI, huh? Just what do we have here, guys?” the SWAT commander asked while readying his automatic rifle. His joviality faded into stern professionalism.
Frank looked over the assembling half dozen men. “We have a suspected crime spree inside the parking area,” he said as his hand pointed toward the innermost depths of the structure, “courtesy of our serial killer. Heard about ‘im?”
Frohm nodded and ran his hand over his curly white hair before placing his black helmet over it. “Oh, yeah.”
“A witness has stated that his biker gang was jumped at this location. We’re here to check it out and I’m taking into account that our suspect may still be here. Probably isn’t.”
“Gotcha,” said Frohm. He turned to his squad, all of whom were young men and not equipped with implants. “Break out the goggles.”
A marked car rolled into the garage and parked, adding to the blue flashes that kept the shadows at bay. Campanelli had not asked for it, but it was
understood that other units that were not occupied could assist. Frank recognized the driver. It was Sergeant Louis Marx, whom he had met at McLain’s apartment.
“We’ll follow your men in,” Campanelli said and pointed to the elderly doctor. “Except for you, sir. I want you to stay here.”
Ruger nodded. To Frank, the man appeared to be quite nervous. He was looking all about the area, as if in search of an escape.
“Sergeant Marx!” the Captain of Detectives called over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir!”
“Watch this man for me. He’s a civvie.”
“You got it.”
Frank turned to Frohm. “Ready when you boys are.”
The SWAT commander nodded and ordered his men through their weapons and gear check. A moment later, they headed further into the parking garage with Frohm in the lead. Equipped with an implant, he needed no additional visual aid.
Frank watched as the SWAT team walked along the wall to their left. He followed with his eleven-millimeter drawn. Marcus Williams and Quinne kept close to Campanelli with their own handguns at the ready.
Frohm reached the corner, crouched and peered around it. He could see motorcycles, metal drums and the body of a male. He stood, stepped back, and relayed his findings to the team and the others.
Frank and Marcus sighed. Both men were relieved that the tip was not bogus, but the prospect of another murder scene removed any joy from it.
Frohm moved in with his team closely behind. Frank and company followed with their guns up and eyesight adjusted for darkness. The only light to be found within was from the entrance on the far side.
The SWAT team cleared the immediate area and encircled the gory crime scene. One of them let out a string of profanity over the horror.
“Can it,” Frohm ordered.
For several tense minutes, the nine men searched and listened for signs of any live occupants within the garage. It was soon clear they were the only living creatures within the dark structure save for insects and rats, some of which had long before discovered the bodies. They scampered away with the approach of live humans.
Frank stared down into the face of a young woman. Her clothes were torn from her body and she had been beaten. Her body had been assaulted in almost every way possible and left with her legs splayed far apart.
“Son of a bitch is a rapist, too,” he grumbled.
“Nine men, two women, Frank,” Williams informed him. “Looks like he raped both females.”
“I’m calling for Rothgery and Gherling,” Campanelli said as he connected to the cruiser’s computer. The signal was weak, considering the location, but the order went through.
Quinne returned his pistol to the holster under his suit jacket and kneeled next to a body lying near one of the drums. “You were right about that cannibalism, Marcus,” he said to his friend. “Heart and liver cut out. Crude and fast.”
“Yep,” Marcus agreed. He was not yet ready to stand down. He kept his nine-millimeter in his hand and his eyes wandering about the garage.
“Looks like there’s remnants of meat on this grill over there,” Frank said from his place near the other. “Watch your step, there’s blood everywhere.” He moved from it as the other two came to inspect his finding. His eyes passed over the bodies as he sauntered around the kill zone. “He only took from five.”
“What’s that, Frank?” Williams asked and walked over to his partner.
“He killed all these people…and only chose to feed on five,” he reiterated and pointed them out. “Quinne?”
“Yeah.”
“What might this Dr. Ruger be able to add to this?”
The FBI agent stepped closer to Campanelli before answering and kept his voice low. “Well, from what Marcus described to me, we were thinking this was a FROG. Dr. Ruger was part of the team that designed them from the DNA up. He’s not convinced that one of them would turn this…psychotic.”
Williams walked up to the two men, listening with interest, though his eyes never stopped moving.
“Great,” Frank muttered. “What’s your analysis?”
“I’ve seen some training video of these FROG guys,” Quinne said as he looked over the carnage in the circle of abandoned motorcycles. “There’s no way these bikers were unarmed, so they must have put up a fight.”
“I’m calling Marx. Telling him to bring Ruger in here,” Frank announced and connected with the officer.
Quinne nodded and moved off, observing the scene, but being careful not to disturb anything. His stomach churned from the sight and the smells that had begun to emanate from the corpses.
The SWAT team formed a loose circle around the sight. None of them wanted to come any closer, but as experienced officers, they knew that the crime scene needed to be inspected by a forensics team. Frohm approached Campanelli.
“The area’s clear.”
“I’d like you boys to stick around awhile,” the Captain of Detectives directed. “Your role is one of security now.”
“Sure thing,” Frohm agreed. He moved off and called out orders to his squad.
As Frank sauntered around the sight, he noticed a blood trail. Looking closer, he noted that it was, in fact, tire tracks that had rolled through the blood. He followed it around and saw that it faded halfway around the circle of dead.
“What is that? Oh. Tracks,” Marcus said.
“Looks like he can ride,” Frank said lowly. “Stole a big one, too. Wide tires.”
The two of them noticed Ruger and the two uniformed patrolmen approach them. It was dark for the doctor, as he was without bio-electronics. Marx touched his elbow to keep the old man from stepping into the blood pool at his feet.
“Dear God, what is that smell?” Ruger asked the moving shadows around him.
“Thought you might need this,” Sergeant Marx spoke up and handed the doctor a flashlight.
“Good thinking, Sarge,” Campanelli commended then turned to Mitchell Ruger. “That is the stench of eleven dead people, Doctor.”
Ruger reluctantly searched out the light’s switch and gulped as he pressed it. Immediately, the ripped open chest cavity of a young biker was lit upon. Mitchell covered his mouth and gagged within a few seconds.
Quinne guided the old man away. “You okay, Professor?”
Ruger could not speak. With his back turned and well away from the crime scene, he released his breakfast.
Frank turned to Marcus. “This may take a while.”
Williams nodded, unsmiling.
After a couple of moments, Mitchell Ruger returned to the corpse and lit it up with his borrowed flashlight. To his credit, the initial reaction seemed only to strengthen him.
Holding his white handkerchief to his mouth and nose, the old genetics expert walked around the entire crime scene. Frank followed him closely with Marcus and Jerry Quinne just behind.
When Ruger discovered the body of the younger of the two women, he stopped and let out a sympathetic groan.
“You okay?” Campanelli asked of him.
Mitchell nodded. “Looks…looks like my daughter…a little.”
“This girl was raped by the suspect before he ran his bayonet through her neck,” Campanelli stated flatly, but not unkindly. He pointed out the entry wound, located on the right side of her neck, just under her jawline.
“Triangular,” Ruger muttered and gagged. He stood and took a step back. “That fits.”
“How so, Doctor?” Campanelli pressed as he studied the man’s face.
“That bayonet was standard equipment for the FROGs’ assault weapons,” the old man said. “Carbon fiber, eighteen inches long, with a short handle.”
Frank nodded, but studied the old geneticist’s face.
“What I don’t understand is this…cannibalism,” Ruger nearly whined as he looked to Quinne.
“Do you consider it an impossibility?” Campanelli pushed.
“They weren’t designed for it,” Ruger explained. From behind him, H. Lincoln R
othgery’s van entered the garage, halting at a SWAT member’s guidance. “For that matter, neither was this rape. They’ve been taught to respect noncombatants. This…all this…took rage. They weren’t supposed to be capable of this.”
“This one’s learned new tricks, Dr. Ruger,” Frank said accusatorily.
“We haven’t even proven this is a FROG yet, Detective,” Quinne interjected in defense.
Campanelli ignored the FBI agent and turned to the approaching Rothgery. “Lincoln. Good morning.”
“For some,” the tall man replied as his eyes passed over what he could see by the light of his and Terry Wilkin’s flashlights.
Frank introduced Ruger and Quinne to his forensic scientists.
“Lincoln, Dr. Ruger requires some kind of proof that this…thing is his or not,” Campanelli said.
“Certainly. I have something to show you, Doctor,” H. Lincoln said as he set his toolbox down upon the cement floor. Opening it, he retrieved a manila folder. From within that, he removed an eight by ten print and held it out to the elderly geneticist.
Mitchell placed the light on the picture, angling it so that it did not glare. After a moment, he nodded, reluctantly. “These pictures are of a FROG epidermis. I recognize it.”
“Taken from the Drake residence, this matches the sample we retrieved from Detective McLain’s body,” Rothgery said to the group. He turned to Wilkins and pointed to the dead female near them. “Check her fingernails, would you?”
“Sure,” Wilkins responded and removed a handheld device from the box. She stepped to the dead woman and looked her over with the flashlight in her mouth. After a moment, she straightened to her full height, well shorter than Rothgery, and held the scanner up to him. He nodded. She turned the device so the geneticist could inspect it.
“I…just…” Ruger looked about, uncertain. He nodded at Wilkins and Rothgery, confirming the pattern was identical. It was clear he had much more to say. “Not sure why…this,” he finished with his arms outspread. The man was close to tears.
“Let’s go somewhere and talk,” Campanelli more than suggested. “Lincoln, a full report, when you can.”
“Yep.”
The Captain of Detectives led the other three out the way they came in. He and Marcus got into his cruiser and left the garage with Quinne and Ruger once again in the car behind them.
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 16