His age is late forties, early fifties. He’s been stripped of his clothing except a pair of black Speedo-looking underwear. His eyelids are stapled to his brows, the sockets vacant. All that is left are gapping, black holes of nothing. There’s no blood on scene, and with the wounds described, there should have been plenty of it. Okay, this will be an interesting one. He has a bullet wound to his thigh that more than likely was the first of many.
Normally, I would be more excited about this murder because I live for the twisted ones, but I am too wrapped up with the Smith murders. All I can think about is finding justice for Leah and taking the sick man who did that to her down.
Although I saw him at a distance, I haven’t forgotten that killer’s face. His chiseled jawline, broad shoulders, and his unmistakable, sharp, piercing eyes will live in the forefront of my memory until the cuffs are slapped around his wrists. Then I will make sure I attend his execution since there is no way in hell that asshole isn’t going to get the death penalty.
Gabe lightly elbows me, directing my attention back to the dead man at my feet. I recapture my sights on him and begin to assess his wounds. Along with his missing eyeballs, the man has missing skin on his chest, just below his shoulders. The chunk of skin missing was cut out with some sort of razor blade, small scalpel, or knife, because the pattern is a perfect star shape. When I look down his body, the same shapes of skin are missing on his knee caps. Interesting, but it appears the fatal wound is the single, large knife wound in his chest, plunged directly through his breast bone and into his heart. It’s like the killer was trying to saw him open with one deadly motion.
Jim comes through the tent behind his assistant. He begins to assess the wounds as he looks over his wire-rimmed glasses while the technicians snap pictures.
I have no desire to be in the tent any longer. I want to go back to work on the Smith case. I feel like this is huge waste of my time, being completely consumed with the other case.
Turning on my heels, I start to head for the exit when the entire tent gasps in unison. Curiosity is never something I can ignore; therefore, I turn back around and look down at the victim who has been rolled over to his stomach.
The wound appears to have gone straight through his back, but that is not what I am looking at. Etched in the skin is a huge clue that sends my blood pumping rapidly and has my stomach dropping to my feet. Just below the knife wound is the final carving in the shape of a huge V.
I look up at Gabe who looks back at me, our mouths completely agape as we realize we have a much bigger problem on our hands.
Six of us stand around the body, staring at the letter V on the victim’s back, and I know we are all thinking the same thing. I can’t help voicing everyone’s thoughts out loud.
I whisper, “We’ve got a serial.”
Chapter Six
Nikolai
July 18, 2015 8:57 a.m.
Twenty hours and three trains later, I arrived in Zurich, Switzerland on a breezy, cool day. The morning sun is shining overhead, its golden beams passing through the glass roof of the train station and lighting up the white sandstone floor.
As the staff announces it’s safe to depart, I pull my briefcase from under the seat and exit the train to my left. Then I stand on the wooden platform and locate the nearest exit to the street. I flag down a taxi and point him in the direction of the bank. I am here for one purpose: to make a large withdrawal and find Stephan.
He is an old associate, a criminal opportunist, one I know I can depend on. He doesn’t work for anyone in particular. He only works for money, and when you hand him a healthy stack of American dollars, Stephan will do just about anything for you. I don’t have great trust in him, because if the price is right, he will be one of the first to go behind your back. However, I can use his expertise and connections to get myself a problem free trip to America. By problem free, I mean get my gun-toting, knife-carrying briefcase into the country.
I’ve always enjoyed coming to Zurich. The mountain air smells refreshing, like you’ve just stepped out on the ski slopes. Quaint, brick buildings add an old-world charm to the skyline, and the thoroughfares are trash free. As you walk along the streets, the people of Zurich always flash you a smile, and I feel like I’ve gone to another planet.
There was never an opportunity to smile growing up in the Russian orphanage. The caretakers were just as horrid as the kids who lived there. I would never wish that upon any child, but what choice did I have when I was a baby? None, really.
I don’t know who my parents were. If the day comes when I ever figure that out, I’ll probably show both of them the sharp end of my bowie knife.
The taxi pulls up outside of UBS bank, and I regain all my focus as I pay the man and step from the car. I button my black suit jacket and tug on the bottom. Then I pull my shirt at the wrists, adjusting the black diamond cufflinks.
With my briefcase at my side, I stride through the glass doors and take in the vast lobby of the bank. The décor has changed significantly from the last time I was here. Just as you walk through the door, you are greeted by a large reception area with deposit and withdrawal slips. Tucked in the recesses of the bank managers’ offices is the waiting area. Four white, leather chairs surround the large, glass-top coffee table, and under your feet is a white, gray, and black area rug. The zigzag patterns mess with your eyes the longer you stare at them.
I step to the next available teller and meet her with a smile. Her cheeks flush, and then her perfectly straight, white teeth beam from behind her shell pink lips. She is young woman with shiny, white-blonde hair and vibrant, blue eyes. Her royal blue cardigan matches her eyes and the white, button-down shirt underneath is as shiny as her hair. She looks like someone who would be in the commercial for USB bank instead of an employee. Although she is attractive, she seems very fake to me. For some reason, I find it rather amusing. My eyes glance down at he ample breasts to notice the top three buttons of her shirt are undone, exposing her cleavage.
“Can I help you, sir?” the fake-looking teller singsongs in my direction.
I lean forward, smiling again, and glance down at her name plate. “Yes, you can, Eva.” I chuckle to myself. Figures. “I need to make a considerable withdrawal from my account.”
She returns the smile. “Do you have your banking information with you?”
I pull my leather wallet from my left breast pocket and hand her a card with my account information on it. I also pull out my driver’s license and my passport, knowing I will need two forms of identification before they will even consider helping me.
Eva takes the information and punches her pink fingernails into the keyboard. She freezes and glances over to me then back to the screen before her eyes go wide for a moment. I think she’s realized how much money I actually have in my account. It was on the upside of fifty million the last time I checked.
The criminal underworld is a very lucrative business, not only with my former role with Stravinsky, but also with the money I invested. I don’t spend frivolously on shit I don’t need. When I wasn’t living on the streets as a kid or locked away somewhere, I stayed in the Stravinsky mansion, a hotel, or up until two days ago, with Anna. I bought cars then sold them just as quickly. I never kept anything for too long. The only possessions I do have are listed under my alias, Vincent Black. When I get to America, I will not speak my given name to anyone. As far as the public knows, it will be Vincent Black purchasing what he needs, standing next to them in the elevator, or waiting in line behind them, not Nikolai Petrov. However, now that my sweet Anna is no more, I will need to find someplace to lie low once I put my plan in motion. I will need to find somewhere to completely disappear that is away from the United States and Russia.
“How much would you like to withdraw, Mr. Petrov?” Eva asks, bringing me back to the conversation.
“One million American dollars,” I reply frankly.
She looks back at her computer then over to the offices behind me. “I will need
to get my manager’s approval. One moment please.” Eva abandons her station and walks to the offices over by the white furniture.
Moments later, an older, chubby man comes from the office. He is short, his head barely coming up to my shoulder, with gray hair in a comb-over. He is wearing round, wired glasses that sit on the tip of his nose, and his fingers are covered in gold rings. He sort of reminds me of the greasy Italian man who works as the accountant to the Mancini family. He walks quickly with no authority, only purpose.
“Mr. Petrov.” He extends his small, stumpy hand, and I shake it firmly. “I’m David Zaugg, president of this branch. Please come this way, and we will discuss your transaction.”
I wink at Eva, making her melt, then follow the fat man into his office. I haven’t made a withdrawal this big in nine years, so I hope some bureaucratic bullshit doesn’t slow this down.
When I step over the threshold and into the office, I smell cinnamon and coffee. The office is very minimal, only holding an L-shaped black desk, book shelves, two black leather chairs on the opposite side of the desk, and a small filing cabinet.
The fat man motions for me to sit down as he walks around his desk and takes a seat. I unbutton my suit jacket and sit with my right ankle propped up on my left knee, my elbows resting on the arms of the chairs, and I steeple my fingers, waiting for the interaction to begin.
“So, Eva tells me you need to make a large withdrawal from your account.” He leans forward as if to intimidate me or make me feel powerless because of his status at the bank.
I only glare back at him. Nothing intimidates me, least of all short, balding, fat men.
“We don’t get large requests like this often. What will you need this money for, Mr. Petrov?” The snide smile on his face makes my anger rise.
“What I do and how I spend my money is no concern of yours, but I’ll ask you, is there going to be a problem with my request?” I lock my glare on him, showing him I will not be pushed over and will get what I want before I walk out those doors.
He goes to push back again; however, I stop him cold.
“I’ve been a customer here for nearly twenty years and hold over fifty million dollars within my three accounts, Mr. Zaugg.” Dropping my foot to the floor, I stand from the chair and place my palms on his desk. I lean forward and slice him wide open with my penetrating stare. “I assure you this will be your last day in this establishment if you don’t produce what I want in the manner that I want. Am I understood?”
He nods. “Well, it will just take some time to put all that together, Mr. Petrov. How do you want that?”
“Good.” I sit back down, propping my ankle back on my knee and continue, “I need fifty wrapped bundles. In each bundle, I want twenty thousand in one-hundred dollar bills. I will be back in two hours time with a way to transport the cash. I expect this to be done to my satisfaction if you want to avoid looking for a new job tomorrow, Mr. Zaugg.”
With that, I walk from the bank with my briefcase in hand and head toward the shopping district three blocks down. With a smirk on my face, I make my strides a little longer, a little slower, and soon, I am strolling like a carefree man in a park. I am walking like I man who was just freed from prison days ago, and this makes me feel invigorated. I will be heading to America soon and will finally be able to put my plan in motion. The smirk remains on my face as I keep up my carefree stride while I head down the street in search for a luggage store.
Two hours later, Eva and Mr. Zaugg are filling the large metal suitcase with my requested cash as I sip on a coffee in his office. I contacted Stephan, letting him know I’m in town and in need of transport. He agreed to meet with me at the Zurich Airport’s private jet terminal. I just need fifty thousand dollars in my hand. I accepted and smiled to myself. If Stephan knew how much money I was carrying with me, he wouldn’t be afraid to ask for half.
The lid to the suitcase shuts and Mr. Zaugg looks over at me with a proud gleam on his face. I walk around the desk and open the lid back up then count the bundles to assure all the money is here. However, I had no doubt they would be. I’m certain the fat man thought I would destroy his career if he cheated me. What he doesn’t know is that I would have gutted him like a fish if any of this was handled incorrectly.
I extend my hand to the fat man, which he happily takes. “Thank you, Mr. Zaugg.” I turn to Eva and extend my hand to her. She places her soft palm in mine, and I lift her hand to my lips, kissing the top. I can hear her gasp with pleasure. “It’s been a pleasure, Eva.”
She says nothing as I let go of her hand and shut the lid of the suitcase. I run my fingers over the combination, mixing up the number, and then pull the heavy case from the desk. Next stop, Zurich International Airport.
When I arrive at the private terminal, I pay the taxi driver then head into the hanger where I find Stephan sitting in a chair, scrolling through his cell phone. Once he stands, we shake hands.
“Nikolai, it’s been too long.” He covers his other hand over the top of mine that is still secured in a handshake and smiles a genuine smile. “I heard you were doing some time on the inside, so I will tell you, I was surprised to hear from you.”
I let go of his hand, and then we walk over to the chairs, sitting down. “Why so surprised, Stephan?”
“Well, I heard you were dead, killed in prison, so yeah, I was a little shocked to hear your voice over the phone.” Stephan claps me on the back and continues, “But I’m sure glad you’re not.”
I smile and nod. “Yes, that’s a rumor I’d like you to keep spreading.” His interest piqued, he sits up straight in his chair and cocks his head to the side. “It is unfortunate for the men who wanted me dead that I will be paying them a visit, which is why the urgency, Stephan. So I need you to pretend this meeting never existed.” I pull out the fifty thousand he requested up front and double it for his secrecy.
He nods his head in understanding, tucking the stacks of cash into his jacket. He knows revenge is inevitable when you cross someone as ruthless as me, and Stephan will be happy to oblige anyone if the money is right.
“Here is your itinerary.” He hands me a flight plan with all the pertinent information. “I was able to get you on a flight that leaves here in thirty minutes. You will stop in Greenland and Ontario, Canada to refuel. Then you will enter America in Seattle, Washington.”
Confused, I ask, “Why not New York or some place on the east coast?”
“Because Ivan has been contracted to pick up some fancy business man in Seattle and transport him back to Zurich. This is the only way I can get you into America immediately. If you want to wait another week, I can have Ivan fly into New York, but it will take about that long to line everything up.”
“No, I need to go tonight. I will figure out the rest when I get stateside.” I shake Stephan’s hand as Ivan waves to us, indicating he’s ready to go. “Thank you for your efficiency on this matter.”
“I understand, Nikolai.” He claps me on the back again as we walk to the plane’s stairs. “When you get to Sea-Tac, you shouldn’t have to worry about customs. I’ve paid Monty handsomely to allow you to pass with no troubles.”
I shake his hand again before climbing the stairs. “Thanks again, Stephan.”
I spot a plush, leather seat in the back of the plane. I put both my cases next to me on the floor and fasten my seatbelt. Leaning back in my seat, I adjust my frame, getting settled in for the seventeen hours of travel.
As I drift off to sleep, I smile a small, happy smile. I can finally see my plan becoming a reality, and this pleases me. It pleases me greatly.
Chapter Seven
Josslyn
August 7, 2015 12:57 a.m.
My mind is on overload when I leave the crime scene of the unknown man by the ports. He was posed, left for the police to find. The killer wants us to know he’s only getting started. I would be lying if I didn’t say I was excited about this. I thoroughly enjoy working the serial murders, but it’s not the happy exc
ited I usually have when I get a serial killer case; it’s the vengeful excitement.
In light of the first set of murders, I felt this emotional transformation from a pure rush that comes from working a case to a hateful determination that is indescribable. I know I’ve seen the man responsible for the murders of the Smith family, and he will be in my handcuffs if that’s the last thing I do. However, the man is my little secret for now.
I didn’t tell Gabe about the dangerously, alluring man in the crowd, because he would have looked at me like I was crazy. Then he would blame my vision on lack of sleep or something, but I know differently. I know I saw him, and it’s only a matter of time before I see him again. I can feel it in my gut.
I got the same feeling when I was searching for the Butcher of Blythe Harbor. I spotted him in the crowd when we were called to his third crime scene. At the time, I didn’t think he was real, though. I was new to the police force, and the last thing I wanted to do was chase after a figment of my imagination. However, when I finally laid eyes on him for real, I knew he was the man I saw that day. From that day on, I have always believed in my gut instinct and won’t deny it my attention.
The moment I arrive home, I take a shower and have a bite to eat. Thirty minutes later, I am sitting on my bed with notes and pictures sprawled out as I upload the latest pictures on my laptop. I stare at them, comparing image after image. I look for the littlest details on each one, hoping a clue will come from nowhere.
I pull the ten images of Ryan Smith and lay them all in a row. Some are shot up close, exposing the wounds to the back of his head and the V carved out of his stomach. Others are the full length of his frame, along with the surrounding area.
“There has to be something between this man and the other,” I say out loud, peering over every minute detail.
When the twenty images finally load on my laptop, I pull them up individually and compare them to the ones of Ryan Smith. I look at each one slowly, painstakingly until I feel like my eyeballs are going to explode. An hour passes by, and I still don’t have a single, freaking clue how these crimes are related.
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