Butterfly Kisses

by Patrick Logan

  The man slid off the hood and Drake thought that maybe his luck was changing. That he might get out of this jam unscathed.

  He was in no mood for a fight. What he needed was a drink.

  “You? A detective?” the man glanced at the Crown Vic, and then at the man with the baseball bat. Without exchanging a word, the latter reared back and swung the bat, shattering the rear taillight and spraying the concrete alley in red plastic. “I’ve never seen a detective that drives such a piece of shit car.”

  Drake shook his head.

  What’s with people today? First the fucking peanut vendors, and now this… do I look that bad?

  “I’m a detective,” he repeated, hoping to finally break through to these guys.

  “If you 5-0, then I’m Donald Trump,” the leader said.

  And with that, bringing up the president’s name, Drake knew what little luck he might have had had run out.

  Where before he wanted to avoid a fight, Drake found himself wondering if he was going to come out of this alive.

  The most surprising thing was that this realization didn’t affect him as he expected it to. What did he have to live for, anyway? Everyone at the precinct hated him, maybe all of New York, and his late partner’s wife and daughter loathed him.

  I should be dead, he thought, a grimace forming on his face. Not Clay—it should have been me lying on the ground, a bullet hole in my chest.

  “I’ll tell you what, cracka. Let the girl go and get into your car and get the fuck out of here. You have one chance.”

  Drake couldn’t believe his ears. Death wish or not, there was no way he was going to listen to an ultimatum from a street thug.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t you and your boyfriends go get another coupla forties, get drunk, and feel each other up? How about that?”

  The second he finished his sentence, the skinny black man sprinted at Drake. He was awkward, and perhaps a little drunk, and Drake easily side-stepped a looping right hook. As he stumbled past, Drake drove his fist into the man’s side, hearing him grunt as the air was forced from his lungs.

  Drake stepped over his hunched form and reared back, intent on delivering a blow to the side of the man’s head next.

  Only he never got a chance to throw the punch.

  Just as he was about to thrust his fist forward, the baseball bat struck him in the side.

  The only thing that saved Drake a collapsed lung, or worse, was the fact that he was leaning backward at the time of impact. The baseball bat landed just above his right hip, and as soon as Drake felt contact, he went with the blow. Propelled by the momentum of the bat, he was sent spinning like a top, dispersing some of the impact.

  A flash of searing pain shot up from a spot just above his hip, and he grunted.

  Knowing that another strike was imminent, Drake tried to straighten, but found he couldn’t; his right side refused to do anything but curl protectively.

  The muscular man with the baseball bat stared down at him, smiling with bright, almost florescent teeth.

  Drake groaned in agony, then reached for the baseball bat. To his surprise, he managed to grab it. The man yanked it backward, but Drake refused to let it go, knowing that if he did the next blow might be to the back of the head.

  “Get the fuck off me,” the man grumbled. He pulled his other hand back and in a lightning flash his thick knuckles rapped off the right side of Drake’s face in a rabbit punch.

  Stars filled his vision and Drake had no choice but to let go of the bat.

  Coughing, which caused agony to shoot up his right side, Drake could only just make out the silhouette of the baseball bat as it was hoisted into the air again.

  “Do it then,” he said, spitting blood onto the ground. “Just fucking end it, put me out of my misery.”

  Drake closed his eyes in expectation of the finishing blow, thinking about Clay and how he had died.

  But it never came.

  Instead, he heard the familiar squawk of a police siren, followed by a car screeching to a halt.

  “Fuck! Run! Run!” Someone yelled, and Drake opened his eyes.

  A portly police officer with horseshoe hair leapt from the squad car, gun drawn.

  “Freeze!” the officer hollered. “Freeze!”

  Predictably, the thugs did not oblige. Instead, they turned and sprinted, bolting past Drake’s Crown Vic and deeper into the alley. Even the man whose ribs Drake had cracked seemed to heal and channel his inner Usain Bolt.

  With the side of his face pressed against the concrete, Drake watched their feet—a blur of Nike Technicolor—all but disappear. He sighed and closed his eyes. There was no way that Officer Donut was going to be able to catch them, and he couldn’t exactly drive after them with Drake’s car blocking the alley.

  With tremendous effort, Drake somehow managed to push himself to his knees, then to his feet. The agony in his side was still flaring, but the pain in his face had already become a dull throb.

  “I said, Freeze!” the officer repeated.

  “They’re gone, dumb ass,” Drake muttered.

  “This is your last chance! Freeze!”

  It was only then that Drake realized the officer was talking to him.

  What the hell?

  Drake turned slowly in his direction, arms raised. As he did, he noticed Veronica, who didn’t appear to have moved the entire time he was getting pummeled, slide two steps to her right.

  “I’m a detective,” Drake said, keeping one eye on her. “Detective Damien Drake, 62nd Precinct, Badge Number 09813. My shield is right there on the ground,” he nodded toward the shield that he had dropped when he had broken the stoop man’s ribs.

  “Damien Drake, I recognize the name,” the officer said.

  Great, Drake thought, half expecting the man to just shoot him right then and there. But then the officer shrugged.

  “Sounds familiar, anyway. Okay I’m going to grab the shield and check it out. Don’t move, okay?” his voice was calmer now.

  As he did, Drake saw Veronica start to slide even more quickly along the wall.

  “This is my suspect—I’m bringing her in for questioning. For Christ’s sake, don’t let her run.”

  “Just a sec,” then to Veronica, the officer added. “You stay put, miss.”

  When the man bent down to pick up the shield, Veronica made a break for it.

  Oh, no you don’t, Drake thought. Pressing his right arm protectively against his side, he started after her.

  “Hey!” the officer shouted, but Drake ignored him.

  Shoot me if you want, but I’m not letting her get away after all this.

  Despite the pain in his ribs and his throbbing face, he managed to catch the girl in only a few strides.

  “Friends of yours?” Drake whispered in her ear as he pulled her roughly toward his car. He opened the door and threw her in the back seat and slammed it closed. Then he turned back to the officer.

  “Can I have my shield back?”

  The man looked up and swallowed.

  “Yes, I’m sorry Detective. I didn’t know, I thought—”

  “Whatever,” Drake grumbled. He swiped it from the man’s hand.

  “You okay? Your,” he waved a finger in a circular motion around his temple, “face is pretty swollen.”

  “Fine,” Drake said, turning his back to the man and making his way to his car. He coughed once and spat a phlegmy wad tinged with red corners.

  “Hey, you want me to go after them? Call in some backup?”

  Drake shook his head.

  Backup? They’re long gone by now.

  Drake shrugged and got behind the wheel of his car. Then he leaned out the window.

  “Are you going to move your car, or are you going to make me reverse all the way back to 62nd?”

  The man’s eyes bulged and he quickly hurried to his squad car.

  “I’m sorry—sorry.”

  As the officer started to back out of the alley,
Drake spotted a black Range Rover drive by.

  Maybe I wasn’t as stealthy as I thought.

  But when he finally managed to drive out of the alley, the Rover was gone.

  As he passed the police officer, the man hollered after him, “Detective Drake! Your tail light’s broken!”

  Drake looked up to the mirror and saw that a horrible swollen lump was already starting to grow around his right eye and temple.

  “Give me a fucking ticket,” he grumbled, then sped off.

  CHAPTER 35

  Detective Chase Adams passed several uniformed officers on the way to the boardroom, all of whom eyed her strangely.

  Chase stared back, but bit her tongue.

  What the hell is wrong with everyone? Is it Drake? My association with him?

  It was obvious that some of the more experienced detectives, especially those who had worked with Clay, were not happy that she treated Drake without disdain or anger. She also knew that they gave her a little leeway because she was new.

  Or pretty.

  Maybe both.

  But now she was wondering if giving Drake another chance had been the right decision. After all, he was teetering on the edge—even she could see that. He was so close that a strong fart might push him over. And yet she meant what she had said to him that first day.

  Chase could handle the heat coming off of him, but she wouldn’t set herself alight. If push came to shove, and she really, really hoped it didn’t—the fact was, she felt for Drake, and what he had been through—then her hands were poised and ready.

  She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed Drake’s number once again.

  Still no answer.

  Chase swore and raised her eyes just in time to see a young officer in full uniform walk by and look her up and down.

  “What are you looking at?” she snapped.

  The man blushed and shook his head.

  “Nothing… sorry,” he said as he hurried past.

  Chase pulled the conference room door open, and breathed in the cool air, thankful for at last having a moment to herself. She placed a folder on the table and opened it, sifting through the photographs she had downloaded from the Internet.

  Then she started putting them on the cork board with Thomas, Neil, and Chris, marking the connections with lengths of thread from one photograph to another. When she was done, she stepped backward and stared at her work.

  Too many damn question marks, she thought with dismay.

  The door opened and Detectives Yasiv and Simmons stepped into the room.

  Henry’s eyes went to the board first.

  “Jesus, what is this? John Gotti’s family tree?”

  Chase frowned.

  Simmons, however was only staring at her, his eyes bulging slightly more than usual. Henry followed the man’s gaze, and his expression quickly matched that of the much older man beside him.

  Chase took a deep breath.

  “I get it, you all hate Drake. But you know what? I don’t give a shit. Whatever you think of him, whatever you think he did, he is still a detective and a damn good one. All that matters is the case… all that matters is finding the killer before he strikes again. So just fucking deal with it, okay?” she spat, and then immediately regretted her words. She was angry; angry that they were no closer to the killer despite her crochet work on the board, angry that if the killer’s pattern stayed true, he was going to strike again in another day or so and they had no clue who his next victim was.

  Chase swallowed hard, trying to enact her poker face.

  Henry shook his head.

  “What? What is it, Detective Yasiv? You couldn’t stop running your mouth at Mrs. Pritchard’s place, so please don’t hold back now.”

  The man’s eyes darted to Frank and then back again.

  “It’s just…”

  “Oh, for Christ sake,” Chase cried. “Spit it out!”

  To hell with the poker face.

  “It’s your outfit,” he said at last. “You look like a dark-haired Geni Bouchard.”

  “A what?” Chase exclaimed. She glanced down at herself and her heart skipped a beat. And then it flooded her system with blood, especially her cheeks and ears. Chase wasn’t one to embarrass easily, but for the first time since her superior had caught her with a needle still poking out of her arm back in Seattle, she was mortified.

  She was still wearing her white tennis outfit, the tops of her breasts still damp from sweat, the hem of her skirt barely covering her upper thighs.

  Chase took three deep breaths, scolding herself for being so careless with each one, and then addressed the detectives.

  There was nothing to do but own it now.

  “Alright, get over it. I was playing tennis with Clarissa Smith and didn’t get a chance to change.”

  The two men continued to gawk.

  “You guys okay? You want to go to the bathroom and work the wood out of your peckers? No? Okay, then let’s get started.”

  She turned, trying to will the blood from her cheeks when the door opened again.

  “Oh, sorry I thought Detective Adams…” Officer Dunbar’s sentence trailed off when Chase spun around again. “Oh, I, uh…”

  “You too?” Chase said.

  “I’m sorry—”

  Chase cut him off by raising a hand.

  “Sit down, Dunbar.”

  The man did as he was told, placing a thin hardcover book that he had in his hand on the table. Detectives Yasiv and Simmons also sat.

  Chase turned to the board, her face flushing again when she realized that she had spun too quickly and her skirt had lifted.

  Well, fuck it. I’m here, I’m wearing this. Let them fill their spank banks. I have a—three—murders to solve.

  “Three victims, all of which who grew up in New York City. All have the same MO: butterfly slurries, a butterfly drawn in blood on their backs,” she began, pointing to the appropriate photographs as she spoke. “Frank and Henry, you told me that Mrs. Pritchard informed you that the three vics were all friends when they were younger. We also have Clarissa Smith, wife of the deceased and her creepy servant Raul. Above them, Weston Smith, Thomas’s brother. And at the very top we have Kenneth Smith of SSJ,” she moved her finger laterally now. “We also have the mysterious ‘V’ that we found in Thomas’s phone, and then this is Dr. Mark Kruk, first the Smith’s marital psychiatrist, but now probably just Thomas’s.”

  Chase moved her hand to the very top of the board, where she had placed a photograph of a monarch. Beneath the butterfly were three strings like silk threads leading to each one of the dead.

  “And this is our killer. Our Butterfly Killer as the press calls him or her,” she said sourly before turning back to the others. “Anything else? Am I missing anything?”

  Henry opened his mouth to say something, but Frank spoke up first.

  “Mrs. Pritchard couldn’t say much about the boys, other than that they used to play together.”

  Chase nodded.

  “Beckett called this afternoon. He was in Montreal, and confirmed what we all feared. Chris Papadopoulos or whatever his name is was definitely the Butterfly Killer’s first victim. Matches the MO. Female blood on his back, no fingerprints, no fibers, no DNA at the scene. Our killer is meticulous, careful, and determined.”

  Silence fell over the room. Eventually, Officer Dunbar spoke up.

  “I’ve got something, Detective Adams,” he said hesitantly.

  “Shoot.”

  He lifted the book off the table and held it for them all to see.

  DEER VALLEY ACADEMY, 1992-1993 Annual Yearbook, the cover read.

  Chase’s eyes lit up. Seeing this reaction, Dunbar was encouraged to continue.

  “Mrs. Pritchard was right: all three of our vics went to high school together. In fact,” he flipped open to a specific page marked with a sticky note. “I even have a picture of them together.”

  Chase leaned in close.

  “Let me see,” she sai
d, and Dunbar handed the yearbook over.

  The photograph depicted four boys, their heads thrown back in laughter, their eyes wide. In the background was a fifth boy, half-cut off by the frame. Unlike the others, this boy’s head was hung low, his lips curled into a frown. His long arms hung limply at his sides.

  Chase recognized the first three, and pointed to them, saying their names out loud as she did. When she came to the fourth boy she pointed, and looked up at Dunbar.

  “Who’s this?”

  The man was smiling proudly.

  “That is Tim Jenkins.”

  “Who?” Chase asked.

  Dunbar shrugged.

  “Still working on it.”

  Chase pointed at the kid who was cut-off by the border next.

  “And this?”

  “That I don’t know. It’s not even clear if he’s supposed to be in the photograph or if he just photobombed. I searched through the yearbook and couldn’t find anyone that looked like him.”

  Chase nodded and turned back to the board. She affixed another piece of paper in the same row as the other victims, but off to one side. She wrote the name Tim Jenkins on the paper, but didn’t run any strings.

  Potential victim or suspect?

  “Great work. Anything else?”

  When Dunbar didn’t answer right away, she looked over at him.

  The man appeared uncomfortable again, as he had the first time he had seen her outfit.

  “What now?” Chase asked.

  He mouthed the words, Cell phone, his eyes darting to Frank and Henry.

  “It’s fine, go ahead,” Chase encouraged him.

  Dunbar cleared his throat before continuing.

  “Someone had deleted most of the information in the phone; either that, or Thomas was a pretty boring guy. Anyway, I was able to recover some deleted texts from about three months ago. It looks like Thomas contacted Neil out of the blue; as far as I can tell from combing the social media sites, this was the first contact they’d had in years. Anyways, he starts asking some strange questions…”

  Chase raised an eyebrow.

  “Strange? How?”

  “I dunno, it all just seems like idle chat, like they aren’t really saying anything. But I get the impression that they are saying something. Some sort of bro code, maybe.”