Serial Intent

by Steve Bradshaw

  “So his software takes one frame from a video and enhances the undefined space between the well-defined pixels? I suppose it is like bringing into focus a portion of an image there but not visible to the camera lens.”

  “Yes. The software fills the undefined gaps between the defined pixels employing the most logical information gathered. That means it creates and adds to the knowns.”

  “This is not rocket science,” Fitz said. “FBI and CIA have had this stuff a long time. They use it in satellite-intel and with drones. Their optics can read a license plate from space. Their computerized enhancement programs can find a fingerprint on the license plate.”

  “That’s impressive. What do you have here, Bert?”

  “I’ve got biometrics on this mystery guy. Look at the first few pictures. We now know he is six-three and weighs 235. He is quite muscular, probably a body builder or professional athlete. If you saw him walking down the street, you’d notice. His biometric profile makes him stand out. He is enormous from all angles. Why is that important? Because it tells us he travels at night or the world would know about him by now.”

  “Is there more to those muscles than size?” Fitz asked.

  “Yes. The guy’s very strong, Fitz. They estimate strength in the order and magnitude of five men. One hit from this guy, you probably die. And he is agile. We have video of him jumping a six-foot chain linked fence with two feet of coiled barbed wire across the top.”

  “He had to jump eight feet up and three feet out to clear that barrier,” Eldon said.

  “And he did it from a crouched position,” Michaels said rubbing his forehead.

  “Okay. What else do we have?” Babcock asked.

  “We have minimal facials.” Michaels passed more pictures around. “His face is abnormal and somewhat shocking. Again, if you saw him you’d never forget it—an overhanging brow, a hideous scowl, bulging facial muscles, and a thick neck. He has shaggy black hair and a wild mustache. He looks hideous. Only his mother could love him.”

  After the soft chuckles, Cranston said, “I’m afraid this information is not as helpful as I thought it could be. We are still no closer to identifying this man than we were the first time we looked at the video.”

  “We need only confirm he is a problem for our vigilante group,” Eldon said. “If so he becomes another viable avenue of investigation. Remember, our focus is to identify the group that killed Marcantonio and his people.”

  “That beast was not happy when the sniper shot Pender on that vacant lot,” Fitz said.

  “And now we have a dead sniper found in a parking garage on Washington Avenue,” Michaels said.

  “Although they don’t identify the dead man as a sniper, inside information says his head was crushed by barehands,” Cranston said.

  “Sounds like our guy,” Michaels said.

  Eldon shuffled some papers. “We need to confirm it. Can you get a hold of POD video on Washington Avenue? I want to see who went in and came out of that garage.”

  “I can get it,” Michaels said.

  “If we can confirm the man on the South Side is the one who killed the sniper on Washington Avenue, then I am sure our vigilante group would be interested in obtaining that detailed information. They will want to protect their sniper investment in the future.” Eldon leaned back comfortable with the strategy they had backed into.

  “Access to that information should smoke them out,” Cranston said.

  “I’ll make a call to my contact at CPD,” Fitz said. “If the POD video exists, I’ll have it by tomorrow and get it to Michaels.”

  “Good. We have an action plan, gentlemen,” Eldon said closing his file.

  On the other side of town, Sally Day put down her cell phone with her heart beating faster. Margaret Sorensen just told her the Chicago police had found Frank Peters. He was dead in his Tahoe parked on her street.

  When Sally looked out her kitchen window thinking about her odd encounter on Birch, she saw Detective Wolfe walking her way in the snow.

  Twenty-One

  “The problem isn’t the statutes,” Landers said. “It’s the maneuvering of high-priced defense attorneys. If you got the bucks you can get murder one reduced to murder two—killers are back on the streets under six years. That’s the argument. Our criminal justice system was never intended to handle the deluge of creative and overly ambitious lawyers, or new technology.”

  “It is a dog eat dog world,” Crowley said.

  The Citizens for Criminal Law Reform (CCLR) held the annual meeting at the Congress Plaza Hotel in downtown Chicago. The hotel offered rooms discounted to $110 and provided free meeting facilities and complimentary catering services.

  “The CCLR is not to be confused with the ACLU,” Landers said. “They do not seek an end to harsh policies from policing to sentencing. CCLR members are the survivors of murder victims. They believe the justice system failed miserably.”

  Crowley walked into the Congress Plaza Hotel behind the commander. “I suppose all these people witnessed first-hand the legal maneuvers that buried damning physical evidence and discredited eyewitnesses. I bet the system stomped all over their rights.”

  “The courts transformed their truth into something perverted. They saw facts twisted or omitted. They experienced a system that set aside the inexcusable.”

  “I don’t think I could handle it if someone killed one of my family members and the legal system let ’em go,” Crowley said.

  Three days after the shootings at the Chase Tower, Burnham Hotel, and parking garage on Washington Avenue, members of the CCLR trickled into the city. Their agenda was packed. Six months earlier Commander Landers volunteered Detective Wolfe to speak on crime prevention. It was Wolfe’s turn to represent the homicide department. Landers saw the outing as part of Wolfe’s ongoing therapy. He needed him to engage with the community in more ways than standing over dead bodies and chasing killers.

  “You think Wolfe will show up?” Crowley asked.

  “Don’t know,” Landers said while surveying the bustling lobby. “I got a text from him early Friday morning, a response to my inquiry on his status. He said he was fine, reminded me he was off duty, and suggested I leave him alone.”

  Crowley chuckled. “I guess I can understand that. He’s been through a lot. I was surprised he walked out of the hospital the other night. I left him there out cold with IVs.”

  Without a word, Landers walked to the registration counter and returned with a CCLR program packet. In the small alcove on the edge of the flow, he scanned each document and passed them to Crowley. “I don’t know about this group,” he muttered. “These people are way too emotional and definitely on a mission that could get them in trouble. Vigilantism has no place in the modern world,” Landers said. “Taking the law into one’s own hands to get justice according to one’s own understanding of right and wrong is a roadmap to failure. History has shown us the way. Our system has problems, but it’s still the best way to get to the truth.”

  “Our justice system is based on one premise—people are innocent until proven guilty,” Crowley said. “Today that premise no longer holds. A lot of people are guilty and use the system to get away with a crime. They use all those rights to beat the system. They got nothing to lose.”

  “You think so?” Landers sighed.

  “Today, we have people committing crimes on video. We have DNA putting them at a crime scene,” Crowley said. “We have the best investigational processes in the history of the world—CSI, forensic pathologists, advanced technology. In spite of all that, we let too many guilty people go because of an outdated legal process and crazy technicalities. Today when some people walk into a courtroom we are one-hundred-percent certain they are guilty. They laugh in our faces. They can tie us up in knots. They can cost county and state governments millions.”

  “I can’t disagree with much of that,” Landers said. “But I don’t like rapid change. I got a bad feeling about what’s going on here. One day you will
have more respect for the work that came before you. A lot of good people put their heart and soul into this legal system.”

  “Did you hear from Sergeant Irwin?” Crowley asked.

  “POD program? Not yet,” Landers said still surveying the lobby for anything irregular. “He’s got people on it. He’ll call when he has something.” He grabbed Crowley’s arm. “I think I just saw the Sorensen lady.” He pulled him behind the pillar. “We need to watch her.”

  “I never met the lady,” Crowley whispered. “I thought she was in the hospital after spending the day in that closet with Hutson.”

  “That was Tuesday. It’s Saturday.” Landers leaned out. “Well, she was crossing the lobby at a pretty good clip. Nice recovery,” he muttered. Where the hell are you now?

  “Hello, Commander Landers.” The soft voice came from behind them.

  Shit! “Ah . . . Mrs. Sorenson, I thought you were in the hospital.” Landers pinched his tie. Crowley stepped back. “How are you feeling?”

  “Thank you for asking. I feel much better. My husband’s funeral is now behind me. I had to get out of the house. I don’t think I will be able to stay there, Mr. Landers. I don’t feel safe.”

  “I see.” Landers eyes moved to her CCLR badge. “So, you are a guest speaker.”

  “Do you support the CCLR?” Mrs. Sorensen asked. “Jacques and I have been members for many years. They asked for our support. So many here have lost loved ones and still have no justice. That is a terrible situation, Mr. Landers.”

  “I spend every day of my life trying to right those wrongs, Mrs. Sorensen.”

  “Oh my! I just realized now I am one of them.” Sorensen’s busy eyes found Detective Crowley watching from the fireplace. She looked down, removed a handkerchief from her black pearl purse, and dabbed her dry eyes.

  “Have you had contact with Dario?” Landers asked watching for a reaction.

  “The Dario in my husband’s diary?” she asked looking away.

  “Yes, the Dario who killed your husband and brought his diary of secrets to you.”

  “I hope you do not judge Jacques too harshly, Mr. Landers. I seriously doubt the authenticity of that old book. I believe it is my husband’s wild imagination. I think he was writing a book. If I’m wrong, I am saddened because I never knew he was troubled. I suppose psychiatrists are masters at hiding emotions.”

  “I believe the diary is authentic,” Landers said looking down at the old lady. “There are several people named, Mrs. Sorensen. We will investigate each one. I know you want to know the truth. We will have answers soon.”

  “I hope so,” she said stuffing her handkerchief back in her purse.

  “You didn’t answer my question, Mrs. Sorenson. Have you had any contact with Dario?”

  “I don’t know the man. I never saw him.” Her eye twitched.

  Landers pushed. “You didn’t see him when he delivered your husband’s diary?”

  “No. And I don’t know that he did.”

  “That’s what has us scratching our heads, Mrs. Sorensen. We don’t know how that diary got all the way from you husband’s cabin in Algonquin to your kitchen table in Chicago and you not know it.”

  “Maybe Jacques kept it at the brownstone,” she said. “This is the first time I’ve talked to anyone at the Chicago police department about the matter. No one has asked my opinion.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you were interviewed at the hospital.”

  “I was, but it was very brief. My attorney is an old family friend. He was concerned my medical condition was deteriorating. He stopped the interview.”

  “I apologize for the question,” Landers said as he continued to study her every word and body language. He was no longer surprised by people who believed they could outsmart everyone. Landers knew truth and facts always stuck together, and lies always fell apart—eventually.

  “I guess when you were interviewed we did not have the physical evidence in place that moves your husband’s diary from Algonquin to your kitchen table.”

  “I can’t imagine anything that would prove such a thing,” she said.

  “Oh yes, that and the timing. I don’t know much about the science. I do understand fingerprints and DNA. And God knows we had plenty of that all over the cabin—your husband, your kitchen, Detective Hutson, and even the ropes used to tie him up.”

  “I don’t see how that—”

  “Seems we caught a break, Mrs. Sorenson. Our CSI people are very talented. They found something. They found chlamydomonas nivalis—microscopic algae. Turns out that stuff is all over the Peter Exner Marsh and your cabin. It is a snow algae—a derivative of that polar ice algae you hear about on the National Geographic channel. They call it watermelon algae. It turns pink and smells like watermelons. We don’t see it much in the city.”

  “I don’t see how this algae you have helps—”

  Landers leaned over Mrs. Sorensen. “It is in Dario’s fingerprints on the diary.”

  “I see,” she mumbled. “But how does that put this Dario person in my kitchen? I suppose the algae and his fingerprints prove he handled the diary, but we still don’t know when.”

  “Did I forget to tell you chlamydomonas nivalis does not like warmth?”

  “You did not mention that.”

  “It dies when the temperature goes above freezing. It’s a colony of cells. The cells closest to the warmth die first. Layers of cells beneath die later. Amazing, isn’t it? We can determine timing based on the death of layers of algae cells.” He leaned closer. “That diary was brought into your kitchen Tuesday morning around the time Detective Hutson arrived.”

  “I don’t know why that is important. I did not see it or the man.”

  “I wonder why Dario would bring that diary to your home after killing your husband.”

  “I don’t know if Dario killed Jacques,” she said.

  “And why was that diary found under a stack of newspapers?”

  “I’m sure you will figure all that out one day, Sergeant Landers.”

  “Commander,” he corrected her. “May I ask, are you meeting someone here?”

  “I know a few—” Her eyes widened. Her mask of deceit dropped away as she stared into the crowd behind Landers.

  Seconds later a large hand gripped Louie Landers’ shoulder. He turned to find Aaron Wolfe. “Hello sir,” Wolfe said with eyes locked on the old lady.

  “Detective Wolfe,” Landers said. We were just talking about you. I mean Detective Crowley and me.” Landers spun around searching the alcove knowing Crowley had backed away on purpose. “Never mind, he’s around here somewhere.”

  “Detective Wolfe,” Mrs. Sorensen said. “Yes. I met you that day. You were so kind as to release us from that dark closet. I’m sorry. You startled me. I could not place you, but then I remembered. I was groggy that day. The doctor said I had an attack of some kind.”

  “You seem better now,” Wolfe said with curious eyes.

  “Yes, much better, thank you,” she said with an awkward pause. “Well then, I will leave you two gentlemen to discuss police things. Thank you again for your help. Goodbye.”

  They watched her melt into the crowded lobby that was moving into the main hallway and meeting rooms. Landers pulled Wolfe closer. In a harsh whisper he asked, “Where the hell have you been? Three days, Wolfe. I need to know from you what happened on Washington Street and in that parking garage.”

  Wolfe towered over Landers. He was not intimidated in the least. He had expected an even more colorful greeting from the man he had known for two decades. Wolfe reached into his coat and pulled out a fat sealed envelope. “These are my reports, hand written, and detailed,” he said. “All of your questions are answered here.”

  Landers eyes dropped to the envelope and returned to the only man he did not understand and could not control. “That does not tell me where the hell you’ve been.” He grabbed it.

  “You don’t need to know where I’ve been. I have my time. I was off the clo
ck.”

  “You keep that up and you’ll be off the clock for good, Wolfe.”

  “Any time you want my badge, you tell me. I have enough history with you and the CPD to be left alone when I want to be left alone. I work for you. That’s it.”

  Although he did not like it, Landers could not argue. Wolfe had a right to privacy. “Fine. What was that thing with Mrs. Sorenson? Why’d she freeze up like that when she saw you?”

  Wolfe panned the lobby more out of habit than purpose. “I’m not sure. I think she knows I’m watching her. Maybe she thinks I know more than I do.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s in my report,” he breathed. “The Sorenson’s were up to something. There’s a reason the old man was killed in the cabin in Algonquin. Hutson showing up at the brownstone when he did, it may have messed up someone’s plans. Mistakes were made.”

  “What mistakes?”

  “Hutson saw something. Not enough to kill him. Killing a homicide detective puts everything under the microscope—they didn’t want that. Maybe it was best to knock him out, tie him up, and buy time. Along the way someone forgot to take the old man’s diary. The contents of that little book are sick and incriminating. It could be a map to something bigger.”

  “And how does that implicate Mrs. Sorenson?” Landers asked as Crowley walked up.

  Wolfe acknowledged Crowley with a slight nod and turned back to Landers. “How does someone live with a serial killer for fifty years and not know they are sick? How long was Mrs. Sorenson in that closet with Hutson? Why wasn’t she tied up? Why wasn’t she injured?

  “I saw her that day. She knew her husband was dead, and it did not bother her in the least. She played the role of frail little old lady at the brownstone. Now watch her. She’s gallivanting around this hotel like a middle-aged woman. She’s a guest speaker at a meeting for people who want to take the law into their own hands. That should tell us something.”

  Crowley leaned into the conversation. “Where have you been, Wolfe?”

  “Shut up, Crowley,” Landers boomed. “We’ll talk about that more, later. Tell me what happened in that parking garage on Washington, your words.”