by Rick Reed
They were nearing the time to reenlist, so Clint and Book sent a dozen responses to ads in mercenary magazines. They had just deployed from Iraq back to Ft. Hood, Texas, when a letter came addressed to Book. There was no sender’s name or address on the envelope, and inside was a single slip of paper with a telephone number typed on it.
Two weeks before their scheduled departure from the Army, they called the number and spoke to a woman with an East Coast accent, who made them an offer they couldn’t pass up. The deal was struck, and two weeks later they were on a bus to Trenton, New Jersey, and a career change.
The woman’s voice was the only contact with the organization she just called “The Company.” It was a simple setup. She gave them their missions, they carried out the orders, and the payment was deposited into their ever-growing bank accounts.
Until now work had been plentiful, monetarily rewarding, and simple. Until Book screwed up, that is. Book had done some messed-up stuff in Afghanistan, too, but that was war. He knew what was wrong with Book. His mind was still stuck in haji land.
Clint slumped in the seat, sulking. He knew that going back meant more work for the same amount of money. They were paid by the job, not by the hour. Every day they spent in Evansville would come out of their own pockets, and he had just bought a lakefront cabin and a new bass boat. He sure as hell couldn’t afford to lose money.
“We may not be in Evansville more than a day,” Book said. “Let’s head back to Terre Haute.”
“What’s the job?” Clint asked, and Book laid it out for him. As Clint listened, the simplicity of the plan made him smile.
CHAPTER NINE
Jack waited for Liddell to shoehorn himself into the passenger side and push the seat all the way back so his knees weren’t shoved against the dashboard.
“Put your seat belt on,” Jack said.
“Yes, Mother.”
“And call dispatch on your cell. I don’t want any reporters to come around.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Jack accelerated out of the parking lot of the morgue, and then slid around the corner at Garvin Street directly in front of a car driven by an elderly gentleman. Liddell pulled his seat belt tighter as the other car came alongside them, blasting its horn, the old man inside giving them the bird.
“Slow down, pod’na! Are we going to a fire?”
“We’ve got a lead. Murphy’s Law says, ‘You snooze, you lose,’” Jack said.
“We have to get there first,” Liddell said, gripping the dashboard.
Nina Parsons’s house was located in the gated community of Eden Village, a subdivision of newer garden homes built in the seventies and now occupied by senior citizens. Hers was a single-story wood-sided home, painted old-fashioned slate blue with dark blue trim, faux-wood vinyl shutters, and a front porch complete with wicker furniture. A single-car garage was attached on the left. Crime-scene SUVs bracketed the driveway of 118 Village Lane, and Jack stopped behind the nearest one to survey the neighborhood.
The lots had just enough room to run a lawn mower between the houses. Across the street an elderly woman was reading a book on her porch, pretending not to notice the police cars.
Sergeant Walker stood on the porch as the two detectives joined him. Walker handed them paper booties and latex gloves. As they put them on, Jack said, “Eric said she lived by herself.”
Jack put his face close to the front window and peered through a crack in the curtains, where he could see into the living room and down a hallway that led to a kitchen and one or two bedrooms. Nothing looked out of place.
“We just got here,” Walker said. “No sign of forced entry, Jack. We checked the back and we’re setting up a perimeter.” Walker nodded to one of the techs, and she hurried off with a roll of yellow and black tape.
Jack said, “Eric Manson said he came by earlier. He showed up at the morgue and identified the victim as Nina Parsons.”
When the name registered, Walker said, “Nina Parsons? You mean the deputy prosecutor?”
“You know her?”
Walker said he did. He had testified in a couple of the cases she’d prosecuted.
“Eric said she didn’t show up to do pre-charges with another employee and he came to check on her welfare.” How could I forget to ask Eric how he knew Nina hadn’t come to work today? Or ask if he had a key to her house?
“Did he go inside her house?” Walker asked.
“He said he did a walk-through,” Jack said. “To tell the truth, I didn’t ask him a lot of the questions that I should have. He was with the chief.”
Liddell interjected, “Jack has a lot on his mind. Eric and Jack’s ex are—”
“Drop it, Bigfoot.” To Walker, Jack asked, “What do you need, Tony? Do we need to bring Eric out here?”
“It would be nice to know what he touched. What rooms he was in,” Walker said.
“We’d better get him over here to show us. I’m assuming he has the key, so we won’t have to damage the door.”
Liddell gave Jack a questioning look. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“It would be helpful,” Walker agreed. “And he’s already been inside once.”
Jack grinned. “Yeah. Why should we have all the fun?”
CHAPTER TEN
Dr. John Carmodi, known simply as Doc, or Dr. John, was a forensic pathologist by trade, but his hobby was collecting antique ambulances and lovingly restoring them. In his job he took bodies apart to see why they had quit working. He was proud of what he did, but it didn’t satisfy his creative spirit like taking apart an old ambulance and bringing it back to life. People thought it strange that a medical examiner would own a hearse, but it was no different from a cop owning a donut shop, as far as he was concerned.
That Sunday morning Dr. John had been looking forward to working on a recently purchased 1962 Pontiac hearse that was first off the line when limo builder Stageway merged with the Armbruster factory in Fort Smith, Arkansas, in 1962 to form Armbruster Stageway. Most people thought of hearses as Cadillacs, Lincolns, or Mercedeses, and all of those were built on a Pontiac body manufactured between 1960 and 1974, so he had a real collector’s item. Now he had to find parts, match the original paint and carpeting, a headlight, and it would be ready for the Frog Follies in the next year or so.
He owned two other hearses, and he was driving one of these, a 1963 Pontiac Superior Ambulance, almost identical to the one that transported John F. Kennedy’s body after the assassination in Dallas. He hardly noticed the stares he was getting from other traffic as he took the road to Illinois.
He knew he was close to his destination when he drove by a road sign that declared, “Welcome to Harrisburg,” and beneath that, “Home to 4,000 nice people and one old grouch.” Painted on the sign was a hillbilly with a straw hat, missing teeth, wife-beater shirt, and no shoes, holding a jug of whiskey. It made him think of something Jack Murphy would say: “He’s got summer teeth. Summer there, ’n’ some ain’t.”
Although his medical practice was based in Vanderburgh County, Dr. John’s job as a forensic pathologist took him to several adjoining counties. This time he was responding to a request from the coroner in Saline County, Illinois. He was just entering Harrisburg when he got the call from Lilly. A woman’s dismembered head and an arm, presumably from the same body, awaited him upon his return at the Evansville morgue.
He turned onto Main Street and looked for the coffee shop, which, according to Harrisburg detective Mike Jones, was the only thing in town that was open on Sunday. After the two-hour drive from Evansville, he needed a strong cup of coffee, and Jones had assured him it was strong enough to stand a spoon in.
He had never met Jones, but there was only one customer inside, a man in his forties sporting an old-fashioned brush cut, his hair graying on the sides. He was heavily muscled, as evidenced by his black knit shirt straining at the seams. He reminded Dr. John of the Hulk, only shorter.
“Dr. John,” Detective Jones said, extendin
g a hand.
Dr. John took the offered hand and felt the heavy calluses and strength in it.
“Saline County ain’t big but it can boast two things, Doc. It’s home to the smallest post office and the biggest Kentucky Fried Chicken in the United States,” Jones said. “Backwater, USA. But having said that, I’ve got to show you something.”
They ordered their coffee and Jones led Dr. John outside. “We can walk from here,” he said, and they hoofed it half a block to a brick building with boarded-up windows and a sign over the door that read FRED’S. Jones had a key to the door and led him inside.
Dr. John checked out the tiny morgue and thought it looked like an old-fashioned meat market, evidenced by the scarred chopping-block table, steel counters and sinks, and the door to a walk-in freezer.
Jones said, “If you’re thinking this looks like an old meat market, you’d be right. The county bought it after Fred went out of business. It’s not state of the art, but it has what we need.”
Jones opened the freezer door and Dr. John’s eyes went wide as the detective brought the items out.
Jones put the trays on the butcher block, and despite his training, Dr. John gave an involuntary wince. On the first tray was the head of a female and next to it the head of a male. The male was approximately thirty years old, maybe ten years older than the female. The man’s head was intact, but the female’s eyes had been carved out of their sockets, and the teeth and lips were smashed and crusted with blood.
This wasn’t the first time Harrisburg had requested him to examine decapitated heads. It’d had three others in the last four years. But the level of violence that had been inflicted on the young woman before him was the work of someone truly evil.
“Is the coroner on his way in?” Dr. John asked.
Jones explained, “Les Winters is the coroner now. He was a city councilman, but after Dr. Wilbert passed away he ran for coroner. Just between you and me, I don’t expect he’ll keep this job. He was at the scene all of one minute before he barfed and said he was going home sick.”
“Where exactly did you find the heads?” Dr. John asked.
“We found these side by side on the back steps of the Rent-A-Center. Just down the street a few blocks. A big dumpster was ten feet away from them, so whoever did this didn’t try to hide them, or they could have chucked them in the trash.”
“The bodies?” Dr. John was thinking of the earlier murders. The police had found the heads of the victims, but no bodies were ever found.
Jones shook his head. “No sign of the bodies. But they weren’t killed where they were found. The site was staged. Not much blood. One of our patrol cars spotted them around noon, and I can tell you, the officer damned near messed his drawers. I’ve put it all in the report.” Jones handed Dr. John a big manila envelope. “Near as I can figure, they weren’t there before eleven last night, so they were put there sometime between then and noon today.”
Dr. John started to take some digital pictures.
“My narcotics guys think they know who did this,” Jones said, adding, “and I’m pretty sure I know who these belong to.”
Harrisburg was a tiny town, so Jones’s remark came as no surprise to Dr. John. But even so, a legal identification would require more than that. Forensic dentistry might be able to identify the remains of the female’s mouth and jaws, but the amount of damage done meant he’d have to get DNA to confirm the identities.
“We’ll need DNA on both of these if we ever get to court. So, who do you think they are?” Dr. John asked.
“I’m eighty percent sure her name is Hope Dupree. She was in the hospital a few days ago. Domestic violence. Her pimp beat her up.”
“And the man?” Dr. John asked.
Jones grinned and pointed at the male’s head. “That’s her pimp.”
“Ahh, of course it is.”
As Jones took a sip of his coffee, his eyes searched the doctor’s face. “You did the older cases, right?”
Dr. John absentmindedly raked his bottom lip with his teeth as he glanced again at the horrors on the table in front of him.
“It was a field day for the news media back then. Two heads propped up in the middle of Main Street, in a small town. It had news written all over it. But then another head was found two years later. Hell, even the national stations sent crews to cover the discovery. I think it was even given a mention on the Today show in New York.”
That head had been found behind the same Rent-A-Center. With the rise of drug sales came the proliferation of violence and death. But he had determined the other heads were hacked from the bodies, not cut cleanly like these two. Dr. John added, “Also, those victims weren’t beaten after death like this woman.”
He looked with foreboding at Jones. “Do you think it’s starting again?”
Jones tossed his paper cup in the trash. “Sure as hell hope not, Dr. John. I still have nightmares from that time.”
“Let’s get these bagged by your crime-scene guys, and I’ll take them with me back to Evansville.”
“I’m doubling as crime scene today, Doc,” Jones said. “Harrisburg PD isn’t big enough to have a full-time crime-scene technician on weekends.”
Dr. John suspected as much. “By the way,” he said, “I’ve got another one of these severed heads waiting for me at home.”
“Seriously?” Jones asked, and when Dr. John nodded, he asked, “Mind if I tag along?”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The stretch of Interstate 70 running between Indianapolis and Terre Haute was straight, flat, and unremarkable. Clint drove a little over the speed limit, but not too much. To his mind, they had already stayed in Indiana past their comfort zone. Most of their contracts were in-and-out jobs—never an overnighter. He wasn’t nervous, but mistakes could happen. He was in this for the money, pure and simple. He wasn’t so sure about Book anymore.
Clint grew up on a farm in Wisconsin, so he knew all about slaughtering—if you don’t kill, you don’t eat. Then in the Army they’d taught him another kind of slaughtering. He killed for his country at first, but then it became easy, like a regular nine-to-five job. He was aware that was a sick comparison, but it helped justify his actions. By the time he had been discharged from the Army and went into business with Book, it was too late to stop. Killing was the only thing he knew, or felt comfortable with. He wasn’t that Wisconsin farm boy anymore. That guy was dead as well.
But for Book it was different. When they were in Iraq together, Book told him of growing up in infamous Cabrini-Green on Chicago’s north side and being raised by an uncle. Book said that when he was eight years old, his father had been robbed and killed while driving a cab. His mother deserted him a short time later. She just left him sleeping in the hallway of an apartment building one morning with no money, no food, and no options. He was twelve the first time he was arrested.
Book knew firsthand what violence had done to his own family, so why was he so eager to visit this on others? It was a puzzle to Clint. He didn’t look forward to the contracts, but Book lived for the next kill. No, Book was in it for other reasons. Maybe he hated all women because of the betrayal of his own mother. Maybe that was the reason Book didn’t have sex unless it was violent and depraved.
Clint drove west for over an hour and was almost to Terre Haute when Book sat forward and said, “Take the ramp.”
Clint had seen the sign for Hulman International Airport two exits back. He had intended to pull off anyway, but Book liked to be in charge, so Clint said nothing and slowed for the off ramp.
They exited the interstate and cruised the parking lot of the airport until Clint found a Chevy panel van with dark tinted windows that would serve their purposes.
“Let’s leave the Taurus here in the long-term lot,” Clint suggested.
Book gave him a questioning look. “Don’t you think we need the car? What if we need to ditch the van real quick-like? We take them both.”
Clint didn’t feel like arguing, and two h
ours after stealing the van he was following Book down Highway 41 to the Flying J truck stop, just across Interstate 64 from Evansville. They left the Taurus in the lot of the Flying J, where cars and trucks were parked, sometimes for days, by over-the-road truckers.
Book got in the van with Clint. “Turn right.” He directed Clint westward on a narrow road that ran parallel to the interstate.
“Where we going?” Clint asked.
“Just keep going.”
“Turn here,” Book said, and Clint obediently turned down a farm road where, nailed to a tree, was a hand-lettered sign that warned, “No Hunting.”
Clint continued on across a dry ditch and stopped at the edge of the woods.
“We’re here,” Book announced, and they both went around to the back and opened the cargo doors.
Both men were sweating and covered in welts from large black mosquitoes by the time they had unlatched the bench seats in the cargo area and tossed them into the woods. The back of the van was windowless. It would make the perfect killing ground.
“When are you going to tell me the plan?” Clint asked.
“Sorry I been so quiet,” Book said, and reached his hand out for the keys to the van.
Book started it up, hands gripping the steering wheel. “The job tonight will be easier with the van. When we’re done, we go back to the Flying J, trade vehicles, and head back to Indy. From there we go home.” Book held out a big fist.
Clint felt his stomach rumble and realized he was starving. He bumped knuckles with Book and said, “Let’s eat first.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Eric Manson parked his new black Mercedes-Benz SL in front of the house where the elderly woman sat reading in a cane rocker on the porch. Eric nodded a good afternoon to her and pointed the car key back over his shoulder as he walked to Nina’s. The car made a chirping sound as it locked.
“Liddell. Jack. Sergeant Walker,” Eric said as he stepped onto Nina’s porch.
“Did you bring the key?” Jack asked.