Corktown

by Ty Hutchinson

  “Agent Kane, Agent Wilkinson. Good to see you two again.”

  I shook his hand and returned the smile. “Why can’t we see Michael Garrison?”

  Walczak reached around and huddled us in. “Look guys, I’m sorry to break the news to you, but inmate #04291144 is deceased.”

  Did I hear him right? Deceased? “Wait. You’re telling us Michael Garrison, the guy we just questioned a week and a half ago, is dead?”

  Walczak lifted his shoulders up and squinted. “I’m afraid so, guys.”

  Wilkinson had the same dumbfounded look on his face that I probably had on mine. Nothing could have prepared us for that.

  “When? How?” Wilkinson asked.

  “Just yesterday. He hung himself with his sheets.”

  I wonder how much help he had.

  29

  I won’t lie and say that wasn’t a blow to our investigation, but now wasn’t the time to get hung up on Garrison’s untimely death. As a concession, I asked Walczak if we could take a look around Garrison’s cell. I hoped to find something that might help us.

  “Normally that wouldn’t be a problem,” he said, “but it’s already been cleaned out and his personal belongings have been boxed.”

  I flashed another smile at Walczak and grazed his arm with my fingertips. “Any chance we can take a look at that box?”

  Walczak caved instantly and tripped over himself as he went to get the box.

  “They teach you that move at the Academy?” Wilkinson asked as he mimicked my arm touch.

  “You’re so funny when you get jealous.”

  Wilkinson stuttered. “I—I’m not jealous. What makes you say that? Huh?”

  I didn’t respond, just continued looking straight ahead. I had won that little exchange.

  Fifteen minutes later, we found ourselves in a tiny office with Walczak placing a box on a table.

  “You got twenty minutes,” he said before exiting.

  Wilkinson grabbed the box and unloaded all of the contents onto a desk. “Looks like there’s a bunch of writing, some drawings, a bible, a heavily used Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition—”

  “Ewww,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’m not touching that either. Everything else appears to be junk.” Wilkinson removed the writings and drawings and gave me half the pile. As I picked through my pile with the help of a pen, I realized most of Garrison’s wrote was incomprehensible—really a bunch of babble scribbled down. No glorious mantra or letter to an important someone, just a lot of repetitive writing of a couple of words.

  “These drawings appear to be snapshots of what happened in the bank that day,” Wilkinson said. “Look, these are bodies and that’s a gun. This one has a knife. It’s mostly the same visual drawn over and over.”

  I took a closer look. “Wait a minute.” I grabbed the drawings from his hands and started to lay them out on the table. “They’re numbered in the corner. These are drawn in the order the hostages were killed.”

  “You’re right.”

  Wilkinson grabbed a pile and helped me organize the papers.

  “So it looks like two women were the first to go,” I said. “The word ‘bank’ is written next to them.”

  “Hold on; let me grab my notes.” Wilkinson dug in a shoulder bag. “Okay, there were three bank tellers, and they were all women.”

  “Okay so the first to go were two of the tellers. This next drawing is of a dead guy with the word ‘pizza’ next to him.”

  “Okay, yes, one of the hostages was a teenager who delivered pizza.”

  Garrison had labeled each person based on what they did or what career they were dressed like. We already knew how they were killed, but now Garrison had provided us with an order.

  “So, let’s run through this again.” Wilkinson counted off with his fingers. “First to go were the two bank tellers, then the pizza delivery kid, the librarian and security guard were next, then the old lady and two of the businessmen, his girlfriend, the trainer, the construction guy, another teller, the bank manager, and lastly, the third businessman.” Wilkinson added the order in which they were killed to his notes. “His girlfriend was the last person to die by a knife. Every person after that was shot.”

  I shifted my weight. “Okay, so the killer finally gets the girlfriend. That sets Garrison off and he proceeds to kill everyone, hoping he kills the one who did it. So we know all the people killed before his girlfriend couldn’t be the killer. It has to be one of the last seven hostages.” He told us the truth. “We should be short two bodies since there were two survivors.” I counted the bodies in the drawings. “Yep, we’re short two.”

  “And of course there are no case files on our John and Jane Doe,” Wilkinson added.

  “If what Lieutenant White said was true, with the surveillance coming up empty, Garrison most likely shot the real killer,” I said.

  “It seems that way.”

  “Wait a minute.” I flipped through Garrison’s writings until I came to a page with the same thing written over and over. “I think we have another clue.” I showed it to Wilkinson.

  “The Professor and The Student,” he said.

  “Garrison seemed obsessed with these two.”

  Wilkinson ran his index finger back and forth across his chin. “So the surviving hostages were a professor and a student.”

  “Maybe. He seemed obsessed with the two labels.”

  “And you said Lieutenant White had surveillance on both parties, and nothing came out of it.”

  “He did say that, but there’s no evidence of that being true either, because there are no files on it.”

  My partner shook his head and threw his head back. “So our killer could be a professor or a student, male or female, or Garrison could really have shot the killer.” Wilkinson threw his hands up into the air. “Well, that’s considerable progress made.”

  I didn’t blame Wilkinson for being frustrated. I seemed as though every step forward we took, we got knocked back a mile. But for some reason, I still believed Garrison. Over time, I think he had started to doubt the killer was the businessman and suspected it could have been one of the two surviving hostages. He could only have been sure if he killed everyone. Thinking about this day and night must have driven him crazy.

  30

  Everybody knew Stevie Roscoe. Born and raised in Detroit, he grew up in the same Brush Park project housing as Diana Ross and Smokey Robinson. He may not have been blessed with a golden voice, but Stevie had something just as moving, the gift of gab. He could talk anybody, even a person he had just met, into doing something for him. The story on Stevie was that he could talk the archbishop of Detroit into skimming donations and handing it over to him, if he wanted. He did.

  He was charming. That was his talent—the ability to make people around him carry out his will, none of it good. Morally corrupt doesn’t even start to shed a light on how blackened his soul was.

  Stevie walked into the lobby of the City-County Building a little before eight every morning and smiled at every person he passed. He would always follow that up with a, “How you doin’?” or a, “Lookin’ good.” He didn’t care much about their response.

  He would then enter the elevator and ride it up to the eleventh floor alone—the way he preferred it. A finger point with a smile was how he always addressed the administrative assistant, Louisa Sweeney. She never paid him any attention—the only one to ever get away with it.

  Closing the door behind him, Stevie would then take a seat in the same chair he had sat in for the last twelve years and waited patiently. That day, his mind drifted, and Stevie was lost in dreamland when a booming voice yanked him back to reality.

  “Stevie!” The gentleman behind the desk called out. He was off the phone and looking straight at him. “What’s this fucking bullshit I hear about that agent trying to talk to Garrison again?”

  “It’s been dealt with.”

  “What the fuck do you mean by ‘dealt with’? Don’t give me some b
ullshit story now.” The man followed with a finger point and a raised eyebrow.

  Stevie smiled. “I ain’t never let you down and I ain’t about to. Garrison won’t be a problem, and that’s all you need to know.”

  “I keep hearing whisperings in my ear that she’s investigating the old case.”

  “That I won’t lie about. She’s a tenacious little bitch.” Stevie stood up and walked over to the wet bar. “Scotch?” His boss nodded and Stevie poured two glasses.

  “How close is she to catching the copycat?”

  “From what I hear, she’s making progress. The problem is, she’s also making progress on the old case.”

  “What about the other agent?”

  “He ain’t no worry. That girl’s the brain of the bunch. We misunderstood her diligence and stubbornness. I’m making a few changes.” Stevie handed a glass to his boss.

  “Who’s watching her?”

  “I am now. Have been for a while.”

  “Good. I know I don’t have to tell you how important it is that nothing get out. I want you to get rid of everything having to do with the old case. Should have done it years ago.”

  “I’ll personally take care of it.” Stevie grinned and took a sip of his drink.

  The man sitting on the other side of the desk put his glass down and leaned forward. His eyes narrowed. “Don’t fuck this up, Stevie. You’ve got to contain this bullshit because if it gets out and comes back to me, I’mma take every muthafucker involved down with me. You got that?”

  Stevie nodded and wiped his palms on his pants. Time to tighten the screws. A lot of people didn’t like Stevie; some even feared him, and rightfully so. As chief of staff, he had a lot of power. But even Stevie himself feared someone. And that was Leon Briggs, mayor of Detroit.

  31

  The tiny bar located at the back of the strip mall was near closing when the front door flew open and out walked a boisterous Rick Tanner. GM’s chief engineer loved one thing more than cars, and that was variety. With his wife out of town visiting her sister and her newborn, Rick indulged.

  Hanging on his arm was a giggling brunette, dressed in a short black dress with heels to match. She cooed over him as he openly pawed at her. When the cat’s away, the mice will play, he thought.

  Rochester Hills was two towns over from Birmingham, far from his neighborhood. Rick preferred it that way. He enjoyed the anonymity it afforded him. It made it easier to drag a bar babe home without having to worry about whether anyone was watching him.

  Tonight someone was watching.

  Preston Carter observed the couple from his silver Mercedes. Their playful grabbing, the light kissing… His wife was doing a wonderful job with Rick the Prick. Preston couldn’t help but give him a nickname; the man was, after all, groping his wife.

  The two made their way across the parking lot, got inside a black Cadillac Escalade, and drove off. Preston started his engine and followed the SUV. He wasn’t in any hurry and didn’t bother to keep up. He knew exactly where they were going. By the time he put his car in park and turned off his lights, the happy-go-lucky couple had already exited the Escalade parked in the driveway of the blue and white Victorian.

  Parked under a large maple tree, Preston sat unnoticed in the vehicle, patiently tapping his fingers against the leather steering wheel while he hummed. He kept checking his cell phone like a teenage girl. Close to an hour had passed before his phone finally beeped.

  “I’m ready for you,” the text message read.

  Preston exited the vehicle and stuck to the shadows as he moved across the street. A tingling sensation overcame his body as he closed in on the house. Within seconds he stood on the porch and reached for the door handle. He quietly let himself in, gently closing the door behind him. He could hear moaning—a man’s voice. His footsteps were muffled as he made his way up the carpeted stairs. With each step, his chest tightened, making him even more aware of his beating heart. He loved the lead-up; it was almost as exciting as the act itself.

  Down the hall he moved, toward the room where he heard moaning. He pushed the master bedroom door open. There was his beautiful wife, naked except for her heels and latex gloves. She reached for her dress on the floor.

  “Don’t,” Preston said. “Stay the way you are. I love it.”

  Katherine returned a devilish smile to her husband while waving her finger at him. Preston walked over to her and kissed her on the lips while he reached around to her behind and gripped a cheek in each hand and squeezed. His penis grew erect. “I want you,” he whispered.

  “You can have me when we’re done here,” she answered.

  Preston kissed his wife once more before looking over to the bed, where an unconscious Ricky Pricky lay naked and tied up. “He doesn’t appear to be excited.”

  Katherine looked at Rick’s genitals. “Hmm, he showed signs earlier. I guess the scalping turned him off.” She laughed.

  The top of Rick’s head was a bald, bloody mess. It wasn’t enough to kill him, but it appeared to be awfully painful. Preston reached inside of his jacket and removed his own set of latex gloves and a fresh scalpel. He snapped them on and removed the safety cap from tiny but deadly blade.

  Earlier, Rick Tanner had no clue how grim his situation had become when he brought home the woman from the bar. Even when he let her strip him down and tie him up, he was having a jolly time. She had squatted over his face and teased him, staying just out of reach of his lickity-licks. He had been so enamored by the view, he hadn’t noticed her smile had disappeared. He only whined and begged her return when she left her perch.

  She’d removed a pair of beige latex gloves from her purse and then a ball gag that she had slipped over his head, gently. At the same time, she gripped his erection lightly. He wasn’t thrilled about the gag, but how could he resist? She had his cock in her hand. He played along. Nothing to worry about. Harmless fun. Why, it wasn’t long ago that he had the best view in the house. What threat could the woman pose? They were playing a game, right?

  Nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. She raised her hand and revealed a small surgical blade. Rick’s eyes widened; so did Katherine’s smile. She quickly jumped up onto the bed and plopped herself down on his chest, forcing the air from his lungs. Even though he struggled to catch his breath, he never lost sight of the threat in her hand. She slid up and down his chest and moaned.

  What the hell is going on? he thought. Before he knew it, she had placed the blade against the side of his head.

  Katherine looked down at Rick and realized she didn’t really need the gag. Rick Tanner appeared to be a crier, not a screamer. She then proceeded to cut into the flesh along his head. It wasn’t long before she held his scalp in front of him for his viewing pleasure. He screamed and she giggled. Finally she had leaned in and whispered into his ear. “Do I still turn you on?”

  “Wake up!” Preston called out, slapping the unconscious man in the face.

  Rick opened his eyes and blinked repeatedly until he could focus on the man sitting at the foot of the bed. To see another blade set loose the tears, accompanied by muffled moaning. The more he cried, the more he bled. Boohoo.

  Preston scooted closer to the head of the bed. He grabbed hold of Rick’s inner thigh and nicked the femoral artery. The instant eruption of thick red left a spattering of tiny dots on Preston’s face. He continued with the other leg. Rick screamed uncontrollably when he saw the mini geyser of life spurting from both legs.

  Preston grabbed Rick by the face, forcing the man to look him straight in the eyes. He leaned in close, his stare never wavering. He brought the scalpel up and held it off to the side. Rick’s eyes darted to the blade, but Preston yanked on his head to bring his focus back. He wanted to see the terror in Rick’s eyes when he opened up the prick’s neck.

  32

  The early morning rain had brought some temporary relief to the punishing heat; finally, a day where I wasn’t perspiring like a man. Unfortunately, it d
idn’t bring any relief to our jobs. We were back in the town of Birmingham for the same reason we were first brought here.

  A young uniform from Birmingham Police escorted Wilkinson and me inside the residence at 813 Hazelwood. We were told Detectives Solis and Madero were already upstairs in the master bedroom, looking over the body. We maneuvered around a crime scene investigator on the steps, dusting for prints, and headed on up.

  Right off the bat, I noticed similarities with Marian Ward’s crime scene. Both victims were tied to the bed and gagged. Both were found in blood-soaked sheets.

  “Let me guess—three incisions?”

  Detective Solis spun around followed by Detective Madero.

  “Very observant, Agent,” Madero snickered.

  I completely ignored him. Sometimes I meet people I just don’t get along with and never will. Madero was proving to be one of them. I’m sure the feeling was mutual.

  “He’s also missing a scalp,” Solis added.

  I walked over to the bed. It looked like someone had placed a rice bowl on his head for a guide. Did scalping the victim mean anything? Was our killer trying to communicate with us? None of the other auto executives had that done to them. Rick Tanner and Marian Ward were both tied and gagged. Dennis Walker, along with his wife, had been staged in their vehicle, though I suspect the wife was collateral damage. Why the sudden change in his ways? Was our guy bored?

  Wilkinson joined me near the bed. “Everything appears to be the same except for the scalping.”

  I whispered. “Wait a minute. Wasn’t one of the hostages at the Comercia robbery scalped?”

  “You’re right. I remember coming across that information.”

  I looked back at Solis. “Does he work for one of the big three?”

  “Yeah,” Solis said. “Rick Tanner. He was a top engineer at GM.”