Serial Intent

by Steve Bradshaw

  Wolfe and Landers would not be quiet if either one had fired the single shot. The silent passage of time increased the likelihood of a grim outcome. When Crowley reached the end of his wall and another hallway, he heard the whisper; “You will not stop—”

  Who is talking, Crowley wondered. That’s not Landers. It is not Wolfe. Stop what? Stop, like leave something or someone alone? Or stop, like bring something to an end?

  Another explosion!

  This one was closer. Crowley dropped to the wet floor, his world muted. Now he was blind and deaf. He looked back from where he came. It was a black hole. Where is my help?

  Light poured into the hall around the bend. It vanished with a metallic thud. But the light lingered long enough for Crowley to see the body. He crawled. Is that Wolfe? Crowley reached a boot. He pulled out his penlight and moved the small beam up the blood soaked pant leg to the torso and shirt sleeve. He recognized the bars.

  Oh God! “Commander, it’s me. Crowley, sir. I’m here. We’re gonna get you help.” He pressed fingers to Landers neck.

  * * *

  The relentless beeping and flashing lights would bother anyone conscious. It did not bother Landers. In the secured wing of ICU, the CPD Homicide Commander was strapped in the bed and surrounded by monitors, pumps, and IV bags. Outside his private room and at each floor exit, armed guards waited for an opportunity to blow somebody away.

  He had a gunshot wound to the head. Commander Landers’ condition was critical; his vitals were unstable and future unknown.

  “Doc said he had a chance,” Hutson muttered.

  “A small chance,” Crowley breathed.

  Wolfe stared at the monitors rubbing his bandaged leg. His arm had stopped hurting.

  “I can’t believe that Timberman guy,” Hutson said. “And I can’t believe you didn’t recognize him, Wolfe. He was on the front row. How could you forget a nut like that?”

  “You always know exactly what not to say,” Crowley scoffed.

  “Leave ’em alone,” Wolfe said. “He’s right. I should have recognized Timberman.”

  Crowley blinked back wet tired eyes as he stared at Landers’ white corpse-like body—his leader had fallen. The smell of alcohol swabs piled deep in the nearby trash can, and the smell of hospital-clean sheets on the bed made him vomitus.

  “I hate fucking hospitals,” Crowley said. “I hate everything about them.” He turned to Wolfe. “It’s been seven years since you saw Timberman. I must have worked a couple hundred homicides since then—you, probably more. There’s no way you could remember everyone associated with every homicide case, Wolfe.”

  “I should have remembered Timberman. He told me he was going to kill me if I didn’t find the guy who sexually assaulted and killed his wife.”

  “I guess a lot of people make threats,” Hutson said trying to get back into Crowley’s good graces. “I read somewhere it is part of the grieving process for some. They gotta blame. For most the day comes when they realize they can’t blame the world for what one sick bastard did.”

  Looking at Landers, Crowley asked, “You think we’ll catch the shooter?”

  “Yes. I promise we will,” Wolfe said. “And we are going to know everything, if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “‘We’re gonna know everything’, what’s that mean,” Hutson asked.

  Crowley shook his head and leaned out from the wall so he could see Hutson’s face. “I’m about to lose it with you, Joseph. We do not have time for you to be so dense.”

  “I guess I missed something,” Hutson said.

  “Let me catch you up. We’ve got a string of sniper executions in the city. We got an odd connection with the Sorensen family. Dr. Sorensen may be a serial killer, and some guy named Dario is runnin’ around with a diary and killin’ people. Old lady Sorensen is a member of the fucking CCLR. And now we have two of our people shot by an unknown assailant.”

  “There were a lot of people at the Congress Plaza Hotel that don’t like the criminal justice system,” Hutson said.

  Crowley leaned back shaking his head and checking his watch. “I think Wolfe nailed it. We are seeing only the tip of the iceberg and the CPD is the Titanic.”

  “After Timberman shot you, why’d you go back stage?” Hutson asked.

  “They pulled a .38 caliber slug out of me,” Wolfe said. “It went through my arm and buried in my leg. Timberman had a .22 caliber.”

  “Someone backstage shot you. Did you see them?” Hutson asked.

  “When Timberman shot the last of his first round, I found my gun. When he shot the last of his second round, I got my shot off and saw him look backstage before he dropped. I turned and got hit. I saw a gun pull back into the curtains. I must have moved just enough to avoid—”

  “—getting it in the head,” Crowley said. “Landers and I got up there after Wolfe went backstage. Landers followed Wolfe’s blood trail. You arrived later, Hutson. That made it possible for me to go look for both of them.”

  “Landers and I were shot with a .38 caliber gun,” Wolfe said. “I was bleeding. Got lost in the dark. Passed out.”

  “I followed your blood trail to where Landers got shot,” Crowley said. “When the paramedics got there, I continued on the blood trail and found you out cold—blood loss. I got a couple of tourniquets on you and called paramedics. We got the lights down there turned on. I checked basement exits and found the .38 revolver stuck between ceiling pipes. It had been shot three times. No prints or DNA. We don’t know who shot you guys.”

  “I get Timberman,” Hutson said. “I don’t get why anybody would take the chance to shoot you and the commander at a public event.”

  “I took a look at Glendora Timberman’s homicide case file last night,” Wolfe said.

  “Damn Wolfe, don’t you ever give yourself time to heal?” Crowley scoffed.

  “I know my limits,” he said rubbing his leg. “Paul Timberman’s wife was raped and killed in front of him seven years ago. The poor man had a photographic memory—bad in so many ways. Although beaten unconscious, he remembered everything, including the killer.”

  “That had to help,” Hutson said.

  “He picked the guy out of a lineup—100% positive ID. Timberman had previously filled out the paperwork. The guy who killed his wife had a scar below his left ear. He had a gold star earring with a red stone—a fake ruby—and he walked with a limp. Later Timberman picked him out of a lineup.”

  “What about biometrics?” Crowley asked.

  “Even biometrics. We had them from Timberman months before the lineup—height, weight, age, hair color, complexion, and build. The guy had a leg shorter than the other.”

  “So, you caught him,” Crowley said. “I don’t get why Timberman had a beef with you.”

  “Jack Noway. He pronounced it—no way,” Wolfe said. “The guy was a real clown. He had top legal representation. Belonged to the Marcantonio crime family. Noway had an airtight alibi on the night of the killing. His attorneys got the DNA thrown out. They successfully challenged the integrity of the chain of evidence. They built a case around police tampering and got Paul Timberman’s testimony as an eyewitness thrown out—delusional. Prosecution was forced into a corner.”

  “Happens too much,” Hutson said. “Forced to plea bargain to get them off the streets.”

  “Pleaded down to manslaughter,” Wolfe said. “The bastard was out on parole in five years, another one of those early-release programs.”

  “So Timberman watched Noway have sex with his wife and then kill her,” Crowley said. “The courts screw them again, and the monster gets back on the streets to do it again.”

  Wolfe got up and walked to the only window in the room. He lifted the slat and squinted at the sun on the white snow. I’m not going to tell you about my private chat with Lindsey—her story about the two visitors and their organization that seeks justice denied.

  And I’m not going to bring up the Dario Group mentioned by Barry Woods. I don’t need mo
re people on a list. Sure as hell Crowley and Hudson would blabber and get a bullet.

  And they don’t need to know the identity of the person who shot me and probably shot Landers. I’ll find them alone, but I could use help connecting the dots with the Sorensens.

  “Back when I was working the Timberman homicide, something said at the time did not mean anything to me then,” Wolfe said.

  “What didn’t mean anything to you,” Hutson asked.

  “Paul Timberman had anger management issues. He was under the care of a doctor.”

  Crowley got a text from Sergeant Irwin, the POD program. He stared at the short message in all caps—LANDERS INSTRUCTED I CONTACT YOU IF HE OUT. WE FOUND SOMETHING AT GARAGE ON WASHINGTON. DO NOT DISCUSS WITH TEAM. COME SEE ME ASAP.

  Crowley pocketed his cell and joined Wolfe at the window. Looking down at Landers and all the tubes, he swallowed hard. The words on his cell added to his nausea. Was it actually possible Wolfe killed that sniper with his bare hands? Is he capable of such a thing?

  “I don’t see how anger management issues seven years ago matter today,” Crowley said. “After losing a wife and getting screwed by the legal system, it seems normal to go nuts. Granted, few people would actually follow through with a plan to kill somebody.”

  Hutson cut in. “Shooting a CPD Homicide Detective in front of 500 witnesses is suicide, Wolfe. That guy wanted to get even with society and have someone put him out of his misery.”

  “It’s not that,” Wolfe said. He dropped the slat and turned to Crowley and Hutson. “Paul Timberman had $100,000 deposited into his personal account days earlier.”

  “That adds a wrinkle,” Hutson said.

  “Who would want you dead?” Crowley asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did you find in Timberman’s file that means something today?”

  “Paul Timberman was a patient of Dr. Jacques Sorensen.”

  Twenty-Four

  Why is he coming here? What does he want? If they see him, it could be misinterpreted. They could think I’m breaking rule number twenty-seven.

  “Mr. Wolfe,” Sandy Day said opening the front door. Her alluring persona from the first visit had curiously morphed into an irritating sneer and impatient demeanor.

  “Miss Day. May I come in?” Wolfe asked

  “No. It’s not a good time. I’m leaving.”

  Wolfe gently pushed the door open with little resistance and walked inside. “I won’t keep you long. Thank you.”

  “Okay, a few minutes, only. I have an appointment, an interview for my column.” She peered up and down her street and closed the door.

  Wolfe missed nothing. He sat in the same spot he had for the interview following the Dumont killing in the Wunders Cemetery. “Did you know Frank Peters, Miss Day?” he asked. He watched her lose her balance and sit on the edge of the sofa. She then pulled her hem down over her knees, an action opposite her behavior the first time she had met the handsome detective. That answers that question. Now how and where?

  “I don’t know, Mr. Wolfe. Why do you ask?”

  “So, you may know Frank Peters,” he pushed.

  “I said I don’t know,” she snapped. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge lately.”

  “Did your phone call from Mrs. Sorensen put you on edge?” Wolfe asked

  “Excuse me. How would you know I got a call from a Mrs. Sorensen? Are you bugging my phone? If you are, I will press charges for invasion of privacy. I know the law.”

  Wolfe smiled. “Do you? That’s always a good thing. Do you think I would know if I had not taken the necessary steps to satisfy a circuit court judge? I don’t think you want to make any waves, Miss Day. Actually, I like you. I hope you do not get any deeper into this mess than you already are.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t know what you could possibly be talking about.”

  “Did Mrs. Sorensen tell you Frank Peters had been watching you?” Wolfe asked

  “If you bugged my calls, you would know the answer to that.” She never said a word.

  “Actually, I doubt if she did warn you,” Wolfe said leaning back in the stuffed chair and studying the attractive woman with a major problem, possibly the largest problem in her life.

  “Frank Peters is dead,” Wolfe said. “He died in his Tahoe parked in front of your condo. Did you know Frank was a serial rapist-killer, a real sicko?” He watched her take the news like a hit on the jaw. “The pervert left twelve women dead in four states. We never would have figured that out, but his odd death put him on the medical examiner’s autopsy table. Frank Peters died waiting for you to go to sleep, Miss Day.”

  “There are a lot of people living in this complex. What makes you so sure it was me this man was watching?”

  “That is a very good question,” he said as she straightened and raised her chin of defiance. “Funny thing, he had a key to your condo.” She sank. “He must have found where you hide your spare. Please tell me you don’t put it under the front mat.”

  “I do,” she mumbled. “I’m not feeling so well right now. I think you should go.”

  “You didn’t ask me how Frank died, Miss Day. Aren’t you the slightest bit curious?”

  “How did he die?” She asked.

  “Someone out there is watching out for you, Miss Day. Someone stopped Frank Peters from tying you to your bed, raping you for hours, and then butchering you. Seems Frank liked to carve up his victims and hide body parts around the house.”

  “That is horrible,” she muttered.

  “We never would have known about him. Turns out Frank had been a busy boy for several decades, but he had no record. Standard operating procedure, the ME submitted his DNA to CODES and got a match. Frank Peters’ DNA connected him to a dozen dead ladies in the south.” Wolfe leaned toward her. “You were number thirteen.”

  “I can’t talk to you,” she whispered.

  “Is it because you will be executed like Barry Woods?” Wolfe shot back.

  Her eyes widened. “How do you know?”

  “I was with him. He told me everything. He told me about the Dario Group. Is that where you met Frank Peters? You need to talk to me. This thing has gotten out of control. More people are going to die. You could be next.”

  She slid back on the sofa and nodded. “But he was a kind old man, I thought.” Nervous, she got up and went to the window. “He did act strange the last time I saw him. We were leaving a meeting. He walked me to my car. He offered to follow me home, concerned about my safety. I felt uncomfortable. I declined. I thought that was it.”

  “He followed you home. The meeting, was it the Dario Group?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you meeting about?”

  “They had a contracted sniper who backs up our members. The sniper was killed. They were very concerned about how he was killed. They also needed a replacement.”

  “Who killed the sniper? Do they know?” Wolfe asked.

  “Yes. Dario killed the sniper.”

  “Who is Dario?”

  She opened the curtain and wondered where Frank Peters parked his Tahoe and why she had not noticed him out there. She always looked outside for unusual things. After Ellen was killed, she had no idea what would happen next. She had never wanted to join the group.

  “Dario is a sick person. We don’t know much about him. He was being treated by Dr. Sorensen. Dario took on the name and mission of the Dario Group, but no one knows who or why he kills. Now that Dr. Sorensen is dead, Dario may be out of control.”

  “Who runs the Dario Group, who are the members, and where do you meet?”

  On Wolfe’s last word the glass exploded and Sally Day flew back against the sofa and fell to the floor. Wolfe dove from the chair and dragged her into the kitchen and out of the line of fire. Three more bullets pelted the interior of the condo. Glass window panes exploded.

  Wolfe yanked a dish towel from the edge of the counter and pressed it against her shoulder wound. Must be the new
guy—he missed, Wolfe thought.

  “This is Wolfe. I’m at the Kelly Park Condominiums on North Kenmore south of Byron. Don’t have the street address. Triangulate my cell. Get SWAT to cordon off a two block area, West Byron Street, North Wilton Avenue, West Grace, and North Kenmore. We’ve got an active sniper. I am under fire. Get an ambulance out here now—use the alley west of Kenmore. I have a wounded female. She’s losing blood fast. Bring blood for transfusion or we’ll lose her.”

  The next two bullets shattered the kitchen window.

  You can’t see me. You’re guessing. I will find you.

  Twenty-Five

  “I heard Louie is gonna die,” Sergeant Irwin said so only Crowley could hear him in the busy coffee shop. They hid in a corner beyond the glare of the sun beating down on the melting snow.

  “It doesn’t look good. But the docs told us the bullet lodged in his brain where it is possible he could be okay. They just don’t know much about the brain. He could die all of a sudden, or wake up like nothin’ happened. The good news is the swelling’s down. That was the first hurdle. Avoiding infection and throwing a clot are the next worries.”

  “I don’t know the details about how he got shot, but I did get a look at the confidential report that goes to top brass—the highlights. It said the commander was in pursuit of a shooter at the Congress Plaza Hotel.”

  “Right. One of our detectives was speaking at the CCLR conference. A guy on the front row had a problem with the CPD. Some time ago he lost his wife—killed. They caught the guy. The killer was in and out of jail in no time.”

  “It seems the scum of the earth are getting away with murder more and more.”

  “We thought it was that simple here—thought the guy snapped and wanted to take it out on the homicide detective that worked his wife’s case. We later find the guy made a deposit for $100,000 earlier. We’re not sure it’s connected, but it looks that way.” Crowley waved for a coffee refill. “We are at square one on this thing. We have no idea why anybody would pay that kind of money to kill a CPD homicide detective.”