Damn, she died.
A few cops wandered around, interviewing and talking with people. He spotted a bald, bigger man wearing a suit. Another thin man, dressed similarly, followed him. They walked from group to group, taking notes. Both men showed noticeable bulges from shoulder-holstered firearms under their suit coats. They looked like detectives. The bigger one held a cup of coffee. His body language was casual. He looked to be in charge. That could have been the officer whose job it was to catch him—but not yet.
He had big plans.
They walked toward him in the crowd. He caught a glimpse of their badges, swinging from lanyards on their necks as they approached.
Damn. She was alive when I left her here.
The two cops got closer. He coughed into his fist. He needed to leave—quickly.
Chapter 3
We spoke with a few more people at the scene. None of the office workers could shed any light on what we’d found. I left and returned to the station a little after nine o’clock. I walked in and headed straight for the lunch room. A cup of coffee was in order, one that didn’t taste like burnt motor oil. A few minutes later, I sulked back toward my office, empty handed. The station’s coffee machine had been on the fritz again.
I walked through the bullpen—a large rectangular room with twenty-plus desks separated into cubicles by low walls. In the morning, the bullpen was quiet, but by the afternoon, it bustled with activity and noise. The crew that made up the graveyard shift had just headed home. Their nights consisted of dealing with the city’s drunks and domestic disputes. The day shifters were just starting their day.
Offices of department heads and detectives lined the perimeter of the bullpen. The two larger offices in the back left of the room were mine and Captain Bostok’s. I headed into my office. The interior of my glass box rode the line between order and mayhem. I made an effort to keep things inside my office organized, but the never-ending paperwork that funneled through my office made it a losing battle. File cabinets lined my back wall. They had been full for so long I didn’t remember the contents. The rest of my office was pretty standard—a small couch, two guest chairs, a couple tables, some miscellaneous books, and a computer. Service awards and photos of my nephew filled the shelves behind my desk.
I walked around and took a seat in my extra-large office chair. I’d picked it up a couple days prior—real leather, built solid, and made in the USA. The chair cost over a thousand bucks. It was worth every penny. My job could involve long nights of desk time. A good chair was a necessity.
I grabbed the phone and called Steinberg in missing persons. I ran the woman’s description by him. He had no one similar who’d been reported missing. He said he would call around and get back to me.
Hank walked into my office, holding two tall cups of coffee. He took a seat across from me and slid one of the cups over. “I stopped at a coffee shop on the way back. I didn’t want to roll the dice with the machine.”
“You would have lost.” I grabbed the cup and took a drink. The coffee was far better than the gas station swill I’d drunk earlier.
“That’s what I figured. Are you staying or going?” Hank dunked his mustache into the coffee cup and took a sip off the top. He squirmed in my guest chair.
The fact that it was my day off had escaped my mind. I kicked the idea around in my head. While the thought of going home was nice, I had no plans. I would just think about the case between reruns of whatever was on television. “Think I’m going to keep looking into the brand on the woman’s hand until I hear back from Ed at the M.E.’s office.”
“New photo?” He nodded at the picture on the shelf behind my desk.
“Yeah, it’s this week’s addition.”
Hank set his cup of coffee down and walked over to the edge of my desk. He picked the frame up from the shelf.
The photo was of my nephew, Tommy. Melissa, my sister, younger by seven years, managed to take, package, and send at least a dozen photos of my nephew to me each month. That was aside from the daily e-mails, which included more photos and videos. When I told her I didn’t have frames for all the pictures she sent, she started sending them in little photo albums. I’d only been back up to Wisconsin to visit a few times since moving. My sister reminded me of this with each conversation and e-mail.
“Little guy is getting big. When are you going back up to see him?”
“Well, I planned to this spring, but we had that spurt of gang shootings. The fourth of July would have been nice, but it’s too late to request off now. I don’t know—maybe fall. The thought of going up there in winter doesn’t do too much for me. My old man and stepmom have been laying on the guilt trips nice and thick as of late. I’ll have to go up there soon.”
“How are they doing?”
“Same as always. Living the retired life.”
Hank set the photo back on the shelf and retook his seat across from me. He squirmed again. “Did you get new guest chairs?”
“Yeah, why?”
“These things are awful.”
I tapped the armrest of my chair. “Most of the office budget is under my ass. They aren’t that bad.”
“You aren’t sitting here. This might be the most uncomfortable chair I’ve ever sat in.”
“Try the other one.”
“It’s the same thing.”
I shrugged.
He let out a long sigh as he rearranged himself and looked for a more comfortable position. “Don’t put off seeing your family for this job. It comes with vacation time for a reason.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll get something set to go up there.”
He took another sip from his cup. “You need me for anything? I can’t sit in this torture device any longer.”
I shook my head. “Not yet. Finish up whatever you have on your desk. Check back with me in a couple hours.”
“Sounds good.” He got up and walked out.
I walked over to the guest chair and tried it out. He was right—it was pretty damn uncomfortable.
For the rest of the morning and early afternoon, I tried to find a reference to the brand on the woman. I looked online, which netted me nothing. I called over to the team that worked cold cases. They had nothing in their files that involved branding or lingerie. I went down the list of local tattoo shops to see which ones did branding. No one would admit to branding a woman’s hand in the last twenty-four hours. Rick called to tell me they’d come up empty with their dumpster diving. We were getting nowhere. My stomach rumbled and told me I’d missed lunch. It rumbled again and told me I’d missed breakfast as well. I dialed Hank’s desk.
“Sergeant Rawlings.”
“It’s Kane. Come to my office.” I set the phone back on the receiver.
He walked in a few seconds later. “What’s going on? You hear anything back from Ed yet?”
I rattled my fingertips across my desk. “I’m about to call him. He should have the autopsy report done by now. Want to grab lunch and go pick it up?”
“Works for me.”
I pulled myself closer to my desk and grabbed the phone. I dialed the medical examiner’s office.
Within a ring or two, the receptionist answered. “County Medical Examiner’s Office.”
“Hi, it’s Lieutenant Kane. Is Ed in?”
“Sure. Let me get him for you.”
I spun a pen between my fingers as the hold music played in my ear.
“Medical examiner.”
“Hey, Ed. It’s Kane.”
“Hey, Lieutenant. I was just going to call you. I got your report ready. Want me to send it over?”
“We were just leaving for lunch. We’ll stop in by you and scoop it up. Should be there within the hour.” I hung up the phone. “Ed says it’s ready. Take out from Dotana’s?”
“Sounds good. Real food will be a nice change. Karen has been packing me these microwave meals for lunch all week. She says they are good for me. You wouldn’t know it by the flavor. They are really bad. You ever ta
ste a microwaved veggie burger?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“It’s not good. Not good at all.”
“Ever think of telling her you don’t like them?”
“I don’t know. I guess they’re not that bad.”
I shook my head. “So you’re afraid to tell her is what you’re saying?”
“Whatever. It’s not worth getting into it with her.”
I smirked.
We let Captain Bostok know we were taking off and walked to the parking garage. I grabbed the keys to one of the station’s gray, unmarked, Dodge Chargers for the trip. We popped into Dotana’s on the way. It was a little greasy spoon down the street from us. Most of their customer base was people from our station. I had a hunch they would be out of business if we all stopped going. I made a point to stop there often. We grabbed a few burgers and ate in the car.
Ten minutes later, we drove through the gated entrance of the county medical examiner’s office. Hank and I walked up to the front doors of the complex—a long, tan building with green-tinted windows. Our county opened the multimillion dollar facility in 2009. From what I heard, you would gag from the smell of the old place on Morgan before you ever got out of the car. I was thankful I hadn’t gotten to experience it. Hank and I pushed open the front doors.
Ed stood at the front desk, chatting up the receptionist. He cut his story short when we approached. “Kane, Rawlings, how we doing?”
“As well as could be expected. Tell us what we got,” I said.
“Cause of death was a brain injury.”
I nodded. “That wound on her head?”
“Yup. I have to say, it’s a new one for me.”
“New one?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s new, all right. You guys want the office version or the look-and-see?”
I glanced at Hank, who shrugged. I figured the look-and-see option couldn’t hurt. Maybe we could learn something from Ed’s presentation. “Look-and-see,” I said.
“All right. Follow me on back.” Ed turned and started down the hall.
We trailed after Ed, past the refrigerated storage area of the morgue. They conducted the autopsies in the room ahead. The thick odor of death grew stronger as we walked. Ed pushed opened the swinging doors, and we entered the room. Stainless steel covered the walls while, for some reason, red was the color of choice for the floors. Ed continued past a row of covered bodies, stopping at the second from the last. He laid the folder he was carrying on a shelf and grabbed a set of latex gloves from a push cart. He pulled the gloves onto his hands. “This is her.” He drew back the white sheet.
Hank and I stepped in closer.
“Here’s our cause of death.” Ed pointed above her right ear. Red damaged skin was visible through the stubble of her shaved head. “Her hair was doing a good job of covering the extent of the damage,” Ed said.
“What are we looking at here? Small-caliber bullet?” I asked.
Ed shook his head. “Nope. X-ray showed nothing inside. I’m about ninety-nine percent sure it’s from a drill.”
“Someone drilled into her head?” Hank asked.
“That’s not all. They poured boiling water in the hole. The damaged skin around the hole is from scalding. Brain was, for lack of better words, cooked by boiling water.”
I rubbed at my eyes. This was bad.
“Anything that suggested she fought back?” Hank asked.
Ed shook his head. “We scraped her nails and looked her knuckles over for any signs of bruising—nothing. We checked in her mouth—no flesh from biting or anything like that. I found faint traces of bruising around her chest and waist. I think she was tied down. She couldn’t fight back.”
“Was she dead before any of this happened to her?” I asked.
Ed shook his head. “No. She was alive.”
“Any signs of sexual abuse?” I asked.
“Negative.” He paused. “I just got the tox report back before you guys showed up. We got a little something there.”
“What’s the something?” I asked.
“She tested positive for Xylazine.”
Hank shrugged. “And that is?”
“It’s a horse anesthesia and tranquilizer.”
“Spelling?” I asked.
Ed gave it to me.
I jotted the word Xylazine in my notepad. “Is that something that’s injected?”
Ed nodded in confirmation.
“That stuff is all regulated, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, if you want to call it that. Every vet, zoo, Department of Natural Resources, and game farm in the state should have it. There is a black market for it as well. They have a big problem with it in Puerto Rico. I saw a show on it. Guess they mix it with heroin—turns people into walking zombies.”
“Don’t zombies normally walk?” Hank asked.
Ed didn’t respond.
“Any more highlights?”
“Small clover tattoo on her hip. It could help with an ID.”
I made a note of the tattoo. “Can you tell us anything about the brand she had on her hand?”
“It was early in the healing process, so my guess of not more than a day old should be pretty accurate.”
“Any idea what it means?” Hank asked.
Ed shrugged. “I took some close-up photos of it and placed them in the file.”
“Where is the lingerie she was wearing?” I asked.
“I have the clothing bagged for your forensics guys. You want to take it with?”
“That’s fine. I’ll drop it off with Rick when we get back,” I said.
“Okay, her clothes are right over here.” He pulled the sheet back over her head and walked to a row of slotted shelves at the side of the room. Ed took a bag from the shelf and handed it to Hank.
I jerked my head toward the folder he’d brought in. “Is that our report there?”
“Yup.” He grabbed it and passed it over.
I thumbed it open. Photos of her injuries and photos from the scene and the autopsy report filled the file. “So animal tranquilizers, tied up, branded, and dressed in lingerie?”
“Death by drill and boiling water,” Hank interjected.
Ed nodded. “Looks like you gentlemen have your work cut out for you.”
“Yeah.” I flipped the file closed and put it under my arm.
“That’s about all I have for you. I need to get started with these other autopsies. Everything else is in the file there. Good luck on the investigation, guys.”
“Okay, Ed. We’ll see you,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows. “Not too soon, I hope.”
We headed back toward the station.
Chapter 4
He’d experienced many ways of taking women’s lives. The first, second, and third he’d overdosed. Beating, strangulation, and drowning befell his next victims. He had shot a woman a few years back, but it had left him unfulfilled. 2013 marked his twenty-third year—he was an old pro at his trade. His changing methods and locations kept him out of the spotlight.
His last year had been filled with hospitals, doctors, and an inevitable death sentence. Before he went, he planned to achieve something he’d never had in his forty years—his fifteen minutes of fame. The plan for the women wasn’t death though it was always a possibility. He had something more in mind—something more dramatic.
He pulled his baseball hat low on his head—his dark, thinning, stringy hair curled out from beneath it. A thick, black-and-gray beard covered most of his sunken face. He peered out of the windshield at cars and people. They came and went, some quicker than others. He was keeping a watchful eye on a loading zone. His car was third in line. His cell phone rested on his stomach—a stomach that had once fallen over his belt line. It was now flat. The phone sat on a light-yellow polo shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. He tapped the button to play his video, which loaded and began. On the screen was a close-up of a woman’s face—the woman that had died by the dumpsters of the Manchester buildin
g. Tears ran from her cheeks into the pillow below her head.
Her voice trembled through the small speaker of the phone. “I have money. Please, don’t do this.” Her words came slow and slurred. She was drugged.
The camera blurred, zoomed out, and then focused on the female, bound to a bed. Two tie-down straps, over her chest and midsection, kept her movements at a minimum. The sheets covered her legs. She wore a green teddy—a lacy piece of lingerie with a low, plunging neckline. She wore a matching green thong bottom. Rope wrapped her wrists.
She wiggled against the straps. “What are you doing? Please. Please.”
The same man watching the video walked on screen. He held a syringe and a glass vial. The tip of the needle drew a measured dose of Xylazine from inside. He gave it a squirt into the air and then plunged it into her arm. The fluid inside the needle disappeared into her vein.
“That should do for now,” he said.
“Please don’t. Let me go.” Her pleading faded off as the drug made its way through her bloodstream.
His attention focused outside the car’s windshield, and he pulled up one car length. Then his eyes reverted back to the phone’s small screen.
The woman’s head lay facing the camera. Her blond hair fell against her shoulders and covered her right eye. He walked back on screen holding a blowtorch in one hand and a branding iron in the other. He fired up the blowtorch and held the flame over the iron until it glowed a fiery orange. Her skin sizzled as the iron sank into the flesh of her hand.
He looked up from the video playing on his cell phone and smiled. The branding was his calling card. The press, police and world would know who was responsible.
He walked off screen and returned with a small pull cart on casters. The little wheels squeaked as it moved. A cordless drill and miscellaneous tools sat on the right side of the cart, an assortment of books and syringes covering the rest.
He picked up a tape measure and a marker. With the tip of the marker, he made a circle at his desired entry point. He loaded a bit into the drill’s chuck, spun it closed, and tightened it with his hand. The Xylazine he’d pushed into her arm rendered her unconscious. His knees rubbed her sides while he straddled her. With a handful of her blond hair to pull against, he put the tip of the drill bit on the marked area of her skin.
Malevolent (Lieutenant Kane series Book 1) Page 2