by Taylor Lee
Charlie broke in, “Toni Anderson, Nate. We have the recording. I had it transcribed for you. I also interviewed Toni. To see if I could pick up any vibes. The transcript is in your folder – third tab down.”
“And who interviewed her besides you, Charlie?”
“Tim Martin, the probie. He was pretty excited. Can’t say as I blame him. Not every day you see an aggravated murder and the first witness on the scene is a fucking lingerie model. He practically pissed himself when she unwound herself from that recliner on—” Charlie stopped mid-sentence, his florid face flushing an even brighter red. “Fuck, Nate, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t….”
Nate leaned back in his chair and eyeballed each of the men around the table. His voice was dangerously soft.
“Let’s get one thing straight. Laura Peterson is/was the wife of our vic. She is our primary witness at this point. We will be interviewing her multiple times. The fact that I had the misfortune of being married to her is of no concern. When I interview her this morning, it will be the first time in three years that we have spoken. Please keep that in mind.”
Charlie raised his hands in apology. “Sorry, Nate.”
Nate narrowed his eyes and glared at each of them landing on Jim.
“Overview, Jim. Your impressions after a night to sleep on it.”
The little man’s deeply furrowed brow creased further. “Can’t say as I got much sleep. We worked most of the night. Overall, I don’t have much more than what we discussed last night, Nate. If anything, the prelim underscored what the poor devil went through. Some of those slashes are bone deep. If I didn’t know better, reminds me of my days in Chicago. This kind of whip play is what you’d see among the gangs, or more likely the syndicates. A little too neat for the gangs. Definitely professional. Way beyond what you’d see in a normal sex scene, or worst of the BDSM clubs. Those cuts were meant not only to maim. They were meant to kill.”
Nate added laconically, “Ya think? The fact that they cut off his off his dick and his balls is a bit of clue to their intent as well, wouldn’t you say?”
The men around the table all laughed nervously, several of them adjusting their pants with a muffled groan.
Nate mused. “Ya know, as many times as I’ve threatened some low life piece of shit that I’d cut off his dick if he didn’t answer my question, can’t say I’ve ever seen it done.”
He snorted and shook his head. “Charlie, for the benefit of the members of the team who weren’t there last night, do a quick recap of your interview with Laura.”
Charlie looked down at his notes and rattled off a series of declarative sentences. “Got the call from dispatch at 12:01. Toni relayed her message. Said Laura Peterson who lives at 219 Overview Lane called 911 begging someone to help her. Said her husband was dead. Toni got the stats and tried to keep her on the line, but she was disconnected. When you listen to the recording, Nate, you’ll hear that she was incoherent for the most part. Only her name and address were clear and she said over and over that her husband was dead.”
“She mention that he’d been killed?”
“Nope, just kept saying that he was dead and begged someone to help her. When we got there, Doctor James was pulling up the driveway just ahead of us. Apparently she’d called him right after she called us.”
Nate frowned. “Did she say why?”
“Nope, and neither did he. Just said he got a call from his service saying that Mrs. Peterson had an emergency and asked him to come immediately.”
Nate leaned back in his chair. “Where was she?”
“She was out on the porch when we arrived. Huddled on one of the lounge chairs. She was pretty damned hysterical. Not making a lot of sense. We asked her where her husband was, assumed he’d had a heart attack or the like. She just kept saying, ‘In there. In there.’”
“She mention where she’d been?”
“Nope, but her Jag was out front and the engine was still warm. We left it there. And I told the overnight team not to touch it.”
“When did the doctor give her something?”
Charlie frowned as if thinking back. “You know Nate, gotta tell you. After we saw Mike hanging on that cross, Laura became a hell of a lot less interesting. About the time we called you and Jim, the EMT’s arrived. I know a couple of them helped Dr. James get her upstairs. When I went up to talk to her about twenty minutes later, the Doc said he’d had to tranque her. That she was hysterical.”
Nate eyed Charlie for a minute and then said, “Good work, Charlie. I’ll want you to come with Dan and me when we interview her today. Stay in the background. See if you can pick up anything that she says that she didn’t say last night. I’ll have her transcript, but if she mentions some fact that she didn’t give you, let me know. Sometimes, after the initial shock wears off, the witness remembers more facts or different versions of the one she gave.”
He was pensive, tugging on his chin.
Dan broke the silence. “What are you thinking, Nate?”
Nate focused on his partner, then glanced at the men who were all watching him intently.
“The intended messages are crystal clear. The murderer or murderers want us to know that Mike ran up against some important assholes—the wrong ones to play around with. But there is more there.” He frowned, his jaw tightening in concentration. He muttered almost under his breath, “It’s just out of my grasp…”
Seeing all the men watching him, he expanded. “Look, at first glance this looks like what Jim surmised. Professional. But the scene is too clean. Pete said it was cleaner than a frog’s armpit. We’ll be lucky if we get any prints at all. DNA? Unlikely at best. But I can tell you one thing for sure: No hired killer is gonna do what this one did, except for a hell of a lot of money. Chance of leaving behind evidence is too damn good. Whoever paid to have this done or sent someone to do it, paid through his ass. And the killer? Finest whip work I’ve seen. Like Jim, I’ve seen some spectacular work among the hard core BDSM camp, and in the martial arts community. Philippines, in particular. I also agree with Jim that this is unlikely the work of gangs. Too clean, too methodical.”
Letting his words sink in, Nate fastened on a bespeckled man at the end of the table who was tapping away on an iPad.
“Pete, get the best forensic accountant team you can find. If you need to go the Cities, or fucking New York City, makes no difference. Just get the best, most thorough sons of bitches you can find. I’ve got a call in to Eric Jacobs. Told him to see if he can get Nunn and Weise. If they aren’t available, Eric’s got a line on every crooked numbers guy or ambulance chaser there is. The white collar assholes that have one of their balls on the side of the law, the other with the crime boys. Their dick swings whichever way pays the best.”
Dan guffawed. “Think the Chief is up to paying that kind of money, Nate?”
Nate returned Dan’s grin. “Hell, Dan, wouldn’t be life in the fast lane if the Chief wasn’t on my ass for something.”
He turned back to two of the techs at the end of the table.
“Stan, pull your techie boys off their Call of Duty Black Ops and Battlefield Three games and dig up every goddamn thing you can on Mike Peterson’s finances. And I mean go deep. You got my permission to cross any fuckin’ lines you want. Just because Mike inherited most of his wealth from his prick of a father and grandfather doesn’t mean he didn’t want more. If the mob is involved, you sure as hell know that money is as well. Hell even if they aren’t involved, we all know that money is at the base of this mess. Mike always was a devious son of a bitch. No telling what he’s got hidden behind those lumber yard walls and sawmills. Find out where he got his scratch and what he did with it. And who the hell he screwed in the process.”
Nate shoved back and unwound his tall frame from his chair. Nodding to Jim, he said, “Call me the minute you get any updates.”
He glanced from person to person.
“Hope none of you have vacations coming up in the next couple of months. Or that y
our wife is due to deliver. We’re gonna be close to 24/7 for weeks. Welcome to biggest case ChicadiafuckingFalls has ever seen. Glad you’re on board.”
Motioning to Dan to follow him out to the hall, Nate said over his shoulder, “And some of you desk jockeys might want to hit the gym like I do. Better than taking your stress out on the wife and kiddies. But don’t get so healthy you don’t join me at the Pub on Friday night.”
His chuckled, “Swear to god, some of our best work has been done over Kieran’s watered-down booze.”
He closed the door to a resounding chorus of agreement as the team prepared to hit their desks.
Dan waited for him around the corner. “What do you need, Nate?”
Nate hesitated then looking at the earnest expression on about the straightest damn cop he’d ever known, he decided to reach out.
“Look Dan, you know every fucker with a badge or not is gonna be talking about the fact that Laura and I were married, and I am heading the investigation. I can use a buffer. Sure as hell I don’t want to interview her alone or in any compromising positions. I don’t trust her as far as I’d trust a priest with a ten-year-old altar boy.”
“You know I’ll help you any way I can, Nate. Much of the preliminary interviewing I can do. When we get to the crunch, you’ll have to come in. But by that time, I’m assuming Laura will be out of the picture.”
Nate gave a derisive snort. “Best you know, Dan, before we get started. Laura is never out of the picture. If there is drama involved and a camera close by, you can be sure she’ll be front and center.”
He sighed.
“Nope, Dan. For a camera whore like Laura, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. The beautiful bereaved wife of a lumber baron who was murdered in a gory style? Possible sex angle? Hell, the press will eat it up. And the only person who will like it more is Laura. I just don’t wanna be in the picture with her.”
Chapter 6
The smell of sweat hit him in the face, along with the chomping beat of Nine Inch Nails. The clang and clank of the weight machines underscored the low groans and occasional shrieks of the muscled men and a few women who were beating their gym hard bodies against steel and rubber.
Nate headed for the locker room. In minutes, he’d stripped off his ubiquitous black t-shirt and jeans, and replaced them with gym shorts and a ratty tank inscribed with the slogan “You Can’t Outrun a Cop”. Lacing up a pair of LeBron X Plus sneakers, he strode into the gym. Each person he passed stopped what they were doing to call out a greeting.
‘Hey, Detective’ ‘Stryker-man,’ ‘Big Dog,’ and the like.
Nate mumbled a response of sorts and headed for the bikes. Every day of the week, he started his grueling workout with a ten mile hard course stint on the bike posting no more than a four minute mile. The state-of the-art facility was Nate’s baby. He was a shrieking monster when it came to the physical stamina of the police force. He insisted that a fat out of shape cop was a disgrace to the uniform and razzed anyone who disagreed. More than a few cops sucked in their gut and hid the doughnuts when Stryker walked by. Knowing that four months out of the year, the ground was frozen solid and covered with as much as twenty inches of snow, Nate took away the excuse of bad weather. With the support of Chief Roberts and Fire Chief Halloran, they browbeat the city council into building the facility that became the pride of the upper Midwest. The political hacks basked in the positive attention quickly assuming responsibility for creating the $20 million facility. Nate snorted. JFK was right: Success has a thousand fathers. In this case, the mayor and city council members who screamed the loudest at the cost, were the first to take the credit when the press named the CFPD the most fit police force in the country. Even more humorous was watching the mayor et al strutting through the magnificent facility in their overweight, under-exercised bodies pointing out to visiting press the physical and mental health benefits of exercise.
Today, Nate drove the bike like a maniac. He knew the price of stress and he knew what worked for him. From his teenage years as a hotshot basketball star, under the watchful eye of Chief Roberts, his surrogate father, he learned the value of hard physical exercise to create a mind that was as powerful as his body. For thirty minutes he pumped the bike as though the hounds of hell were at his heels. And in essence they were. Unable to erase the murder scene from his mind, he let it float through his endorphin charged brain. He was missing something. That was clear. He let the scene float, didn’t try to force the answer. He had faith in his memory. Sure as hell the pictures would always be there. He just had to visit them often enough to let the elusive details emerge when they were good and ready. Gallons of sweat pouring down his body was often the trigger.
Glancing around the gym, his eye caught an unusual sight. Chicadia Falls wasn’t lily-white. At least not totally. Hell, they had their token minorities like most Northern Minnesota towns. Native Americans were commonplace, especially with the nearby reservation, and Hispanics were no longer an unusual sight. Hell, even Asians were beginning to filter in discovering the advantage of water, trees and endless blue skies as long as you could handle the four months of 30-below weather. The Midwest was known for its acceptance of different races, more by ignoring the outliers than inviting them in.
So yeah, a little color wasn’t that unusual, but a black guy? Nah, not so much. And in the police gym? Never.
From under the curtain of sweat that poured off his face and body, Nate took in the unusual sight. The guy was a piece of work. Short-cropped back hair and an unusual fringe of facial hair framed a square-jawed young Denzel Washington lookalike. In fact the damn dark brown Adonis was even better–looking, if possible. Even in gym shorts and a tank he gave off a ‘distinguished’ vibe. Clearly this guy didn’t hail from the streets. But it wasn’t his movie star looks or even his whipcord cut body with lean, defined muscle from head to toe that caught Nate’s attention. It was his knowledge of the gym.
He watched the guy, dripping with sweat, work the circuit. While he didn’t lift at Nate’s weight, given the difference in their bodies, his weights were damn impressive. But the dude really caught Nate’s attention after he finished the circuit and donned a pair of hammer fist gloves. Clearly the guy knew what the hell he was doing. He attacked the bag like a pro but it was the addition of a series of impressive taekwondo high/low kicks that had Nate climbing off his bike to take a closer look.
Wiping off a layer of sweat from his head and chest, Nate tossed a towel around his neck and ambled over to get up close and personal. The guy ignored him for a few minutes finishing a pattern that Nate recognized. When he was done, he stripped off the gloves and tossed them in a pile of his equipment and grabbed a towel from the shelf. Swiping at his glistening body he moved toward Nate.
Nate arched a questioning brow. “MMA?” When the guy nodded, Nate pushed, “UFC?” referring to the gold standard competition of the Mixed Martial Arts circuit.
The man shrugged as though competing in the world class competition wasn’t a feat achieved by only the most select fighters in the world.
“Yeah, didn’t get very far. It was a while back.”
Nate guffawed at the guy’s understated response and pressed. “If it was a while back you seem to have hung on to those skills.”
The guy shrugged again. “I work at it.”
Nate eyed him for a long moment, then held out his hand. “Name’s Nate Stryker.”
The man shook his hand and replied. “Sam Carter. Good to meet you.”
Jerking his head at the ring in the center of the gym, Nate queried, “You wanna go a couple rounds?”
Sam looked him over and shrugged again. “Hell, why not. You have a few pounds on me but people say I’m quick.”
Nate chuckled. “Bet you’re modest, too.”
A smile lurked at the corner of Sam’s mouth. “Probably about like you.”
Nate grinned. Already a handsome guy, Sam’s responding grin had the power of a thousand watts. Nate grabbed a pair
of gloves from the rack and motioned to the headgear as he took one off the rack and strapped it on.
“I always insist my men wear it. Your call.”
Sam raised a brow and grabbed the protective gear. “Are you joking? I plan to use my brain long after this body wears out.”
Nate’s appreciation of the cultured, understated guy ratcheted up. As they climbed into the ring, he asked, “For blood or show?”
Sam laughed, a pleasant confident sound. “Hey, blood scares the hell of me. Always for show.”
They shared a laugh as Nate held down the ropes, a courteous gesture that Sam acknowledged with a pleasant nod.
It didn’t take Nate long to recognize a military trained fighter. Basic close quarter combat training was required of all soldiers. As opposed to the hard core MMA fighters, CQC relied on basic takedown and escape moves. But Sam, like Nate, had taken it to a high art going well beyond the basics required in the Army. His admiration growing, Nate would put money on the fact that the guy who was matching him kick for kick and strike for strike had been Special Forces. Both of them had a stand up style that relied more on the traditional martial arts. Nate saw elements of Taekwondo and Muay Thai in Sam’s fighting along with basic grappling techniques. For the most part they were evenly matched except that Nate held back on submission holds, knowing instinctively that was where he would take Sam if he chose. For the moment they both seemed to enjoy showing off a wide range of flashy kicks and strikes that soon had an admiring audience circling the ring. Finally no longer able to avoid a takedown, Sam conceded to Nate’s clear ground control mastery and raised his hands in acceptance.
A round of applause rang out from the cops and firefighters standing four deep around the ring. Nate agreed. It had been a long time since he had fought as talented a fighter as Sam Carter. If it hadn’t been for Nate’s superior strength, Sam could have taken him on technique alone. Nate bounced to his feet then extended a hand. They exchanged a fist bump then acknowledged the reaction from the crowd.
Nate grinned at his buddies. “You thought I was hardcore, guys. This guy could teach all of us a few things. He’s good. Damn good. Glad he let me win.”