Corktown

by Ty Hutchinson

  “That’s not good.”

  “Yeah, our killer is definitely targeting car guys.” Solis flipped through his notepad. “He’s married. We’re still trying to track down the wife, but I doubt she did this.”

  I agreed. “It’s not her.”

  “I wonder if our guy is progressing, switching it up.” Wilkinson said.

  Solis turned to him. “Could be. Maybe we’re closer to him than we think, and he’s trying to throw us off track.”

  I motioned to the various techs. “Could everyone in the room clear out for a few minutes with the exception of Detective Solis and Detective Madero? Thank you.”

  I waited until the last person had exited the room before closing the door. I then brought the two detectives up to date on our theory that the original killer was never caught and was the one killing again. I had to take a chance that they were not involved in the cover-up. I needed people on our side we could trust.

  From the dumbfounded looks on their faces, it appeared my gamble had paid off.

  “Are you sure? A cover-up, dirty cops?” Solis shook his head.

  Madero stared at the carpet. “That means we’re ruling out the wife?”

  I acknowledged Madero with a nod. “I would still follow up, though. Also, one of the victims from the Comerica robbery was scalped. I don’t believe that information was public.”

  Madero started to mutter. Solis couldn’t stop tugging at his collar. I hoped I wasn’t losing them.

  “It’s crazy. I know that. But it’s not implausible. The information connects the dots. Nothing else we’ve explored has led anywhere.”

  Solis placed his hands on his hips. “Okay, say this is all true. What do we do?”

  “First off, we keep this to ourselves. We continue to work the case like it’s a copycat, knowing we’re after the original killer. The two of you need to familiarize yourselves with the old cases. These new kills are just a continuation from the past. Talk to the neighbors. Someone had to have seen something. And check out the local sex shops. See if we can get the names of everyone who’s recently bought an orange ball gag.”

  33

  The first recognizable sign was an overbearing, metallic smell. The second sign was unavoidable. The crimson substance was everywhere: pooled on the patio tiles, dripping from the tables and chairs, soaked into the lawn, and smeared inside the bounce house. In some of the areas where multiple bodies congregated, the puddles were still splash-worthy.

  Preston sat quietly on the patio chair, admiring his handiwork. A total of twenty-two bodies lay strewn about the backyard. Blood dotted Preston’s face and clothing. The grin on his face still stretched from one side to the other.

  He had finished them all off, starting with the parents. From there, he moved on to the fourteen children. They were easy—surprisingly, even his own. The last to go was his wife. He still held onto the scalpel he used. In his other hand, he gripped his wife’s hair, holding her head up. Her neck had been opened from one end clear across to the other side. Blood still dripped onto the cement. It was the only sound, except for the buzzing of flies.

  A scream woke Preston up from his dreamy haze.

  “Help!” a little girl shouted. She was in the grasps of the Tickle Lady who tickled her victims until they screamed mercy. It was Lorenzo’s birthday. The Carters were celebrating. And everybody was still very much alive.

  Fourteen boys and girls high on sweet stuff were running, screaming, laughing, shouting, and crying. Fueling that revelry was a clown making larger-than-life balloon animals. There was also a face painter hard at work, turning children into dogs and cats and zombies. Four kids were flipping and flopping their brains out in the castle-shaped bounce house. Spread out amidst the chaos were carts serving hotdogs, pizza, popcorn, and ice cream. Colorful balloon bouquets dotted the yard, while a criss-cross of paper streamers hung above.

  The children weren’t the only ones enjoying themselves. The parents had gathered around a few tables and were content to chit-chat and dine on this same child-friendly diet. Preston graciously mingled with each guest while his wife played the perfect host, ensuring no wine glass went empty.

  Before heading back into the house to fetch a lighter, Katherine signaled to her husband.

  Preston put two fingers into his mouth and let out the whistle of all whistles, gaining the attention of every moving body.

  “Gather around,” Preston called out as he walked over to the cake table. “It’s time to sing happy birthday.”

  The cake itself was an elaborate creation spanning twenty by thirty inches. A detailed carrousel sat in the center, while a roller coaster ran along the borders. There was also a balloon vender, game booths, and a cotton candy maker. It was the perfect amusement park scene, except all of the people were zombies, Lorenzo’s current fascination. Katherine had caved on the cake but held firm on not turning their backyard into a graveyard.

  She lit eight candles. Lorenzo took a front and center position and, with much anticipation, clapped like a seal. Preston started the singing with a hum from his baritone voice. He flailed his arms like an amateur conductor, encouraging everyone to join in. When the crowd hit their last note, Lorenzo let out a huge breath of air, extinguishing the candles. A second later, they flickered back to life, forcing him to try again and again. The joke candles were a big laugh for everyone, including Lorenzo. Katherine and another mother doled out plates of cake and ice cream to the mob of sugar-crazed children.

  Later, Preston followed his wife into the house, where he watched her return a bucket of ice cream to the freezer. His groin tingled as he approached her.

  “The party’s a hit. You did a wonderful job, dear,” he said as he spun his wife around and kissed her.

  “I’ll have to agree with you on that,” she said playfully.

  “Anything else planned?”

  “Nope. The cutting of the cake was the last thing to do.” She looked at her watch. “The entertainers have an hour left on their booking. We should be good to wrap things up then.”

  “That sounds great, but I’m wondering if you had anything planned for me.” Preston flashed his wife a diabolical smile and lowered his voice. “The urge is there,” he said. It had only been a week since the Tanner kill, but Preston was hungry again.

  “I do, dear. Be patient. I have a few kinks to work out and then my sweetie can have fun. Terrible fun.”

  34

  A full day of poring through case files would turn anyone’s brain into dead matter. Wilkinson and I were beat. We needed a break. That meant steaks and a couple bottles of good wine. White recommended the London Chop House, a Detroit legend, only a few blocks from the station. We wasted very little time with the wine list and ordered a bottle of red.

  “To the Bureau,” Wilkinson said as he raised his glass.

  I tinged my glass against his and smiled. We were well into our second glasses. It was full of flavor, bold and very yummy—perfect for the aged rib-eyes we had just ordered. I was having a nice time. I kicked off a heel and playfully kicked at Wilkinson’s foot.

  “Someone let her guard down and decided to relax,” he said, smiling.

  “Maybe it’s time I relax, Wilky.” I wasn’t sure what I was doing or where it was going. All I knew was we got along really well, and he looked dreamy.

  He reached over and clinked his glass against mine. “I’ll drink to that.”

  I kicked off my other heel and tag teamed him while I wondered out loud, “Sure could use a foot massage…”

  Wilkinson laughed. “If you finish all of your dinner, we’ll see about a massage.”

  Wilkinson’s constant eye contact made me giggle and feel lightness in my chest. I suddenly wished we weren’t sitting on opposite sides of the table.

  “How’s the family handling you being away?” he asked.

  Before I could answer, my phone started to buzz. Damn! I took a peek and smiled. “Speaking of family.” Lucy had sent me a text. “Can I stay up?”
I texted her back to go to sleep and I would talk to her tomorrow. I looked back at Wilkinson, who hadn’t stopped smiling. “It’s the little one, Lucy. Ever since I taught her to text, it’s been nonstop.”

  “Must be tough.”

  “It is. I want to be there for them. This is Lucy’s first year in an American school, kindergarten. Every day is an adventure for her. It’s so fun to hear her talk about what she’s learned.”

  “What about the older one? Is he handling the change well?”

  I nodded my head as I tilted my wine glass against my mouth. “Oh, he’s acclimated fast. He’s in the third grade so schools not a big deal. He loves the city and has a few friends in the neighborhood. I’ve got nothing to worry about with him.”

  “That’s great to hear.”

  “Po Po on the other hand,” I tilted my head from side to side, “she’s something else. I know she means well, though.”

  “What about Hong Kong?”

  “Hong Kong I don’t miss. There’s nothing there for me.”

  “What about your folks?”

  “They moved north to the city of Harbin years ago after my father retired. He thought it would be great to run the big ice festival the city puts on every year.”

  Wilkinson topped off both our glasses. “You ever thought of doing something else?”

  What, like marry you and move to the south of France where we can frolic naked in the countryside? “All the time,” I chuckled as I raised my glass. “Here’s to figuring that out.”

  No sooner had I taken a sip than my phone went off again. That time it was a call.

  “Agent Kane, here.”

  “Agent. It’s Elliot Hardin.”

  I mouthed the columnist’s name to Wilkinson.

  “Mr. Hardin. I didn’t recognize the number.”

  “I’m calling you on one of those disposable phones. I have reason to believe I’m being watched.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Let’s just say digging around has stirred up the nest. I think someone broke into my house the other day, and a strange car sat in front of the house all night.”

  “Did you report it?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Agent. Listen, I don’t have much time. I have some information for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Not over the phone. Tomorrow. Meet me at the Coney Island on Fourteen and Maple. Nine o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”

  Before I could say anything, Hardin hung up.

  “What?”

  “Whatever it is, we’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Our steaks came soon after. We tried to salvage the evening, but the call had put both our minds back into work mode. We’d had a fire going, and Hardin had come by and pissed on it.

  35

  The next morning, we arrived at the Coney Island at nine sharp, just as Hardin had instructed. I spotted him in a booth at the back of the restaurant, chewing on his nails. He looked scared and like he hadn’t slept much.

  I slid into the seat opposite him, and Wilkinson swung a chair around and sat at the opening of the booth.

  “Can I get you two something?” a waitress asked.

  “Coffee for me. Hot water for her, please,” Wilkinson answered.

  I pulled out a little tin that held my loose leaf tea and set it on the table.

  Hardin had a good growth on his face and smelled like he could use a shower.

  “What’s going on? Earlier you said someone was following you.”

  “I don’t have much time. Back in the eighties there was a young group of executives at GM—hotshot up-and-comers. From what I understand, they secretly formed a pact and became very influential in the company. There were rumors about them, but nobody knew who they were.”

  “A secret pact?”

  “Yes, they called themselves the Redline Rogues or RRs.”

  “Elliot, I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head. “How does this tie in to our investigation?”

  “The plant closures that took place in Flint were all because of the RRs.”

  The waitress returned to our table and placed two cups down on the table. We barely noticed. “Yeah, and… ?”

  Hardin clapped his hands together. “Closing plants is an unpopular thing to do. It’s not the first thing that a company thinks of when they need to save some money.”

  “But that’s part of doing business, right?” I still didn’t see the importance of what Hardin said.

  “Yes. But the RRs, they championed the project. They pushed for it. They convinced the heads of GM at the time that it was in the company’s best interest.”

  I sat back, wanting to hear more. “How?”

  Hardin shrugged. “That I don’t know, but you can imagine this might piss a person off.”

  I glanced at Wilkinson but couldn’t tell if he bought the story. “What happened to the RRs?” I asked.

  “They supposedly went on to have great careers. It was about personal gain. I wouldn’t be surprised if some other folks outside of the group benefited as well.”

  “How big was this group of RRs?”

  “There were six.” Hardin gave the restaurant another quick look. “I have to go.”

  “Wait. Were any of them our victims?”

  “I’m out of time.” Hardin stood up. He removed a piece of paper out from his shirt pocket and placed it on the table. “I’ll text you the others when I have them,” he said over his shoulder as he moved toward the door.

  I picked up the paper. There were four names written down.

  Wilkinson eyed the paper as he sipped his coffee. “What does it say?”

  “There are four names. Three are our victims. The other one is Archie Becker.”

  “You believe him?” he asked.

  “Right now, I don’t know what to believe. This whole case is getting stranger by the minute.”

  I put a call into Solis and Madero and filled them in. I wanted them to track down Archie Becker for questioning and put a patrol car on his residence. For all we knew, the killer could have been targeting him as we spoke.

  36

  With Hardin admitting he was being watched, I had to assume we were, too. Whoever was responsible for the cover-up was eager to make sure it remained that way. It seemed like every person we came in contact with didn’t want to talk or appeared to be scared of something.

  With the revelation of the Redline Rogues, Eddie Bass’ sister, Claire, quickly became a person of interest. I somehow had a hunch “The Motor” might have known about them. And if he did, my hope was that he had mentioned them to Claire or his daughter. I was glad Hardin had emailed me Claire’s address the day after we met.

  The drive down to Mansfield, Ohio took us a little less than three hours. We were told she lived by herself just outside of the city in an old farmhouse.

  When we arrived, the structure looked a lot older than I’d pictured. It was quaint and cozy, and the wood had that aged look that’s all the rage for country living in the Hamptons. Still, I wished I had a hard hat for entering.

  Wilkinson parked the Yellow Jacket near the front of the house. Besides a few chickens pecking around, there didn’t seem to be any other signs of life—no noises coming from or around the house. Claire lived off the highway at the end of a quarter-mile dirt road. She had no neighbors.

  The screen door rattled when I knocked on it. Wilkinson tried peeking inside through one of the windows. That’s when we heard the voice behind us.

  “Can I help you two?”

  We turned to face an elderly woman dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and had a blue and white handkerchief tied around her neck. But the 12-gauge shotgun in her hands was what really caught my attention.

  “Easy, lady,” Wilkinson said.

  “Claire Bass?” I asked.

  “Yes, that’s me,” she responded, calmly and without waver. Her eyes were squinted and her finger was wrapped around the trigger.<
br />
  “We’re FBI agents. You’re not in trouble. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

  She remained quiet and focused.

  “We’re going to reach into our jackets and take out our IDs, okay?” I said.

  She kept a close eye on both of us. Her arm seemed to be shaking a little. Either the gun was getting heavy, or it was some uncontrollable tick. I didn’t want to find out. She took a few steps closer and leaned forward, examining our identification.

  Satisfied, she lowered the gun. “I’m sorry about that, but I live alone and I’m old. I’ve got to be careful.”

  “We understand,” I said. “You snuck up on us there.”

  Claire chuckled a little. “It’s a good skill to have.” She stomped her shoes on a worn mat before entering the house. “Make yourself at home while I put a pot of coffee on.”

  It was impossible to ignore the décor. The inside of Claire’s house was neatly cluttered with little Hummel figurines. Where there was space, there was a little boy or girl carrying a bucket of water, praying, or picking flowers.

  Fifteen minutes later, Claire shuffled back into the living room with three mugs and placed them on the coffee table. She appeared to be in her sixties and able, though she didn’t stand fully upright. “Any of you take cream or sugar with your coffee?” she asked, pausing in front of her rocking chair.

  We both shook our heads and watched her sit and slowly start to rock.

  I spoke first. “Claire, I’m Agent Abby Kane and this is Agent Trey Wilkinson. We’re investigating a series of murders that have taken place in Detroit—”

  “Wasn’t me,” she shot back.

  I gave Wilkinson a quick look before speaking. “We’re aware of that. We’re here to talk about your brother, Eddie Bass.”

  “He’s dead. So it wasn’t him, either.”

  I smiled. “We’re aware of that, too. We understand your brother was a vocal supporter of GM while he worked there.”