Serial Intent

by Steve Bradshaw

  “Ground zero! Good to know,” Crowley mumbled trying to avoid the blood on the walls.

  “I don’t think it’s too much of a reach to conclude whoever killed this man also killed the two snipers, the three Detroit Bloods, and Frank Peters.” Winston said jotting notes.

  “The victim—Eldon Babcock—is the son of the man who owns this house. We have confirmed he came here from his father’s funeral.”

  “Tully gave me that information,” Crowley said. “Why did you call me over here? I can see the guy’s dead. I know he’s the son of our unsolved homicide at Willis Tower.”

  “I know you do,” Winston said pushing his glasses back up his nose and patting Huntsman on the back. “Don’t worry, you will adjust to this. It takes a few times.”

  “Foster!” Crowley boomed. Damned kids. “Why did you call me over by this God-awful mess? I don’t know why we can’t discuss matters outside.”

  “I asked you here to point out a few things that may be relevant to your investigation. First, the ‘Skull-Crusher’—the name the ME gave him—did this and was very mad at this victim. The forces applied to Eldon Babcock’s head were much greater than those applied to the others. That could be significant. It could suggest a closer tie, greater motivation.”

  Crowley turned away to suck in some fresh air from the nearby room. “Okay. I get it, a closer connection. That may be important. What else?”

  “I believe the deceased had something important in his possession, something that fueled the rage behind this vicious attack. I believe it was a document the Skull-Crusher wanted for purposes unknown at the moment.” Winston flapped open the deceased’s suit coat and looked up at Detective Crowley. “Every pocket is torn.”

  “Okay. The Skull-Crusher was looking for something. A document fits in a pocket. I get all that, but it doesn’t help me when I don’t know what was taken.”

  Winston got up pulling off and dropping his bloody gloves on the body. “It’s something that might make sense later. Follow me.” They stepped over the body and went to the study at the end of the hall.

  “The desk chair is by the desk and turned away,” Winston said. “Someone sat there.”

  “That’s what you do at a desk, Winston,” Crowley scoffed.

  “I think the deceased sat here last. I know the owner of the house is wheelchair bound. He would not use the desk chair.” He pointed. “It’s normally kept over there, indentations in the carpet.”

  “Okay. You think Eldon Babcock sat in that chair before he walked down the hall and met his murderer. Continue Mr. Foster. Provost told me about you, a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

  Winston opened the center desk drawer with a newly gloved hand. “This was the only drawer open a few inches. All the others were closed, the layer of dust on the wood handles undisturbed. Look here. There’s a fake bottom in the top center drawer, the one opened by Eldon Babcock. I think he knew about or found the secret compartment while going through his dead father’s things.”

  Winston aimed his penlight. “You can see something’s still in there. It’s an envelope. It’s been tossed in there, like an afterthought, possibly tossed there after the contents were removed. I think Mr. Babcock had the contents of this envelope in his possession when he was attacked, the contents now missing.”

  “Let’s take a look at the envelope,” Crowley said.

  Winston removed it with tweezers and grasped one corner. Winston laid it on the blotter.

  “THE DARIO GROUP CHARTER,” Crowley read. I’ll be damned. That group name keeps coming up. Winston flipped the envelope. Crowley leaned closer and squinted. “You got a magnifying glass on you, Foster? Can’t make out what’s printed on the flap.”

  “Always,” Winston said pushing his glasses up his nose and pulling it from his pocket.

  “The print on the flap—looks like a faded address.”

  They leaned closer, noses in the magnifying glass. “It says—Sorensens. I can’t make out the street number, but it says—Birch Avenue, Middle Beach. That’s all we gonna see without the proper equipment,” Winston said. “Have you heard of—?”

  “—It’s not Middle Beach. It’s Miller Beach. It’s in Indiana, northeast of Gary on Lake Michigan. It’s not too far from the city.” Crowley turned to Huntsman. “We gotta go. Keep up, son. Thanks Winston.”

  Crowley ran down the hall and jumped the corpse. Huntsman followed holding his mouth and tie. They piled into the cruiser. Winston and Tully watched the cruiser fishtail down the icy road clipping snow piles until it disappeared.”

  Officer Tully turned to Winston. “I should give the man a ticket, right?” he said with a soft chuckle. “You must have come across somethin’ that fired him up.”

  “An address,” Winston said. “Probably my next death scene.” He waved at the morgue clerks waiting on the porch with a crash bag.

  “That sounds creepy, young man,” Officer Tully said.

  “Sorry. I’m just anticipating.” The morgue clerks approached. “We are ready to bag and transport. Don’t want to lose the brain hanging out, so be careful.”

  Winston slid the Dario Group envelope into another evidence bag and stuffed his last clean pair of gloves in his pocket. Unlike the surgical arena, it was more about protecting him than the body.

  * * *

  She opened her eyes. The white room came into focus. Then she saw him leaning over her. The man’s face was swollen, eyes black and blue, he was unshaven, and his head was wrapped in a bloody bandage. When he smiled, only half of his mouth went up. His face was dead and white.

  Please don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone. Please. I don’t want to die. Sally day closed her eyes, cringed, and pulled her covers up to her chin.

  “Ma’am . . .”

  That word was not what she expected to come out of the face leaning in her face. She opened one eye a sliver. He was leaning closer. She closed it and played dead. He knows I’m awake. He knows I was looking at him when I pulled my sheets up. Oh my God.

  “It’s okay, ma’am. I’m a friend. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

  She opened her eye again. She found him, and then looked around the room. “Where am I?” she asked.

  “Miss Day, you are in intensive care at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. You have been shot, but you are going to be okay. A large caliber bullet hit you in your shoulder. You have lost blood, ma’am. They gave you more. You have been unconscious, shock I suppose. The doctors said you were never in danger of dying and you will heal completely.”

  “I’ve been shot?”

  “You were shot. You will not die, ma’am. Do you know your name?”

  She opened both eyes and focused. The man had on a hospital gown and a head bandage. “Who are you?” she asked. “Are you a patient, too?”

  “I am Commander Louie Landers, Chicago PD, Bureau of Investigations, homicide. Yes, I am currently a patient here too.”

  “How do I know you’re not lying?” she asked. Landers held out his badge case with the shiny gold star and photo ID.

  “Okay, I suppose. I am Sally Day.”

  “Good. I wanted to know if you knew, because I know,” Landers said as he offered to adjust her bed. “You mind? I hated being flat on my back. I’ll give you some incline. You’ll love it.” He pressed. She went up and then held a hand up for him to stop.

  “Why are you here, Mr. Landers?” Day asked.

  “I think you know why I’m here. People are dying in the city, and you have information I need. The carnage must stop, Sally Day.”

  She looked away and avoided the commander’s eyes. “I don’t have any information. I was shot by someone. I have no idea why. One of your detectives came to talk to me about my friend, Ellen Dumont. I think he brought bad people into my neighborhood. I think they were trying to shoot him, and I got in the way.”

  Landers did not have time for games. Wolfe, Hutson, and Crowley were on a collision course. They knew the Dario Group existed, but had no idea where they met
or the magnitude of the problem. The monster crushing skulls in Chicago had to be stopped.

  “Okay, if that’s how you want to play it, Miss Day.” Landers turned and headed for the door. He paused. “When I leave this room, there’s a very good chance you will be eliminated by the same people who eliminated your friends, Ellen Dumont and Barry Woods. I’m sorry you have to die young, and in such a terrible way. This time you were lucky—the .50 caliber projectile that tore the hell out of your shoulder only nicked you. The one that hit Barry Woods in the nose blew off the back of his head.” Landers left the room.

  As the door slowly closed, Sally Day’s heart beat faster and harder. Margaret Sorensen is going to kill me. She knows I talked to Wolfe. I broke the rules. Ellen and Barry are dead. I was only in this thing because of them. After a few meetings, I didn’t even believe in anything those people were doing, but I couldn’t get out.

  “Commander Landers,” she yelled. Please don’t leave me here, she thought. I know they will come back for me. They will never leave me alone. I know too much. They will do everything necessary to protect the Dario Group. “Mr. Landers,” she yelled louder.

  The door opened.

  “What have you decided? Are you going to waste my time with part truths, or are you going to tell me everything you know and have a chance to live?” Landers spoke with cold eyes.

  Sally Day felt the unbearable terror and found the courage to speak. “I will tell you everything.”

  “Is the Dario Group targeting convicted killers released early from prison?”

  “Yes. It is their mission to kill all the monsters. The Dario Group has been around since the 1980s. The members are broken-hearted survivors, their loved ones sexually abused and killed. The predators responsible beat the legal system.”

  “What is the involvement of the Sorensens?”

  “Dr. Jacques Sorensen started the Dario Group. His wife Margaret now runs it. I think he was killed by Dario, a man with a terrible mental disorder, multiple personalities. The ‘Dario’ personality is dominant and dangerous.”

  “How are Dario and the Dario Group connected?” Landers asked.

  “I was told Dario took his name from the Dario Group and adopted his own twisted mission. Mrs. Sorensen will not discuss the matter. Since her husband’s death, she’s been running the group, but I think she’s confused and frightened.”

  “Is Dario killing the snipers?” Landers asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever seen Dario?”

  “No. I heard he is very different,” Day said.

  “Different?” Landers asked.

  “He’s a monster, bizarre physical changes accompanying the mental changes.”

  “Sounds like an extreme medical anomaly. Is it your understanding the Dario personality comes and goes as it pleases?” Landers asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why a sniper killed Barry Woods?” Landers asked.

  “He spoke to the Chicago police about the Dario Group. That action broke a bylaw. That’s why he was terminated.”

  “They terminate members?”

  “Lindsey Fetter is a member. At the last meeting she said she told Detective Wolfe about the Dario Group. She said Mr. Wolfe understood. He was tired of seeing monsters return to the streets to kill again.”

  Wolfe said that, Landers thought.

  Sally Day watched his eyes narrow. She said, “The members voted Lindsey not be terminated because of a bylaw infraction. I don’t trust them. They will kill both of us.”

  “The behavior fits a predictable pattern for control-crazed people. They think they can do a better job than the professionals assigned to the difficult tasks. They get in over their heads. The self-aggrandized crusaders turn on the very people who share their beliefs.”

  “I feel terrible about the whole thing,” Day said.

  “Do you know if Dario is part of the group? Could he be a rogue factor?”

  “I don’t think anyone knows but Margaret Sorensen. I get the sense he is out of control and unpredictable. She cuts off all discussion about him. She said she would handle Dario.”

  Landers scratched at his bandage looking out the third floor window at his city in the snow. It seemed that looking out windows was the place where he did his best thinking, but this time he struggled to hold onto a line of thought. His head ached and the drugs kept him on the edge of groggy. He kept losing his place in the discussion. He knew he was going somewhere, but he kept getting sidetracked.

  “Meetings!” He exploded. That’s what I need to know. “You had meetings.”

  “Yes. I attended four. Well, that was after they screened me like a cancer patient. After I was approved, I went to a meeting every sixty days. That changed when the targets increased.”

  “Targets?”

  “People with serial intent, Commander.”

  “Serial intent?” he asked.

  “Serial intent to kill,” she said. “Like a Bengal tiger has serial intent to kill. It’s an animal born to kill efficiently and often to eat. It must. It can’t stop.”

  “Right—a Bengal tiger.” There is a metaphor that captures the true sense of terror I’ve witnessed my whole career. “Tell me Miss Day, were all the members of the Dario Group required to attend meetings?”

  “Yes. No exceptions. We heard cases and voted. There were a slew of convicted killers released over the last six months—end of term governor pardons, I suppose.”

  Landers muttered walking small circles at the end of her bed. Where was I going with this? Think. Shake the cobwebs out. Wake up.

  “I hope me telling you all this means I will not be charged with a crime. I did not participate in any of the killings. I did not take part, Commander Landers. Every time I parked my car, before I went in the meeting I said a prayer. I said—”

  “—Right,” Landers shot back. “I don’t care about that. I’m focused on keeping people alive, Miss. Day. These crazy people are still running around out there.” That’s it—where did you meet! “Tell me all the places where the Dario Group met.”

  “We met at the same place every time,” she said.

  He spun around. “I need an address, now!”

  She closed her eyes. “I don’t recall a street number,” she said. “But it’s an old house on a dead end road. I believe it is Birch Avenue. I remember the sign—Miller Beach. Yes. It’s on the lake east of Gary, Indiana.”

  When Sally opened her eyes, she saw her hospital room door muffle closed.

  Thirty-Three

  “An eternity passed in a handful of seconds.”

  * * *

  Crowley pulled over and gave rookie detective Huntsman precise instructions. “I’m leaving. You’re staying here. I’m going on foot.”

  Huntsman had puked three times in one hour, twice at the Babcock murder scene and once on the side of the road at North Lake and Birch Avenue—but that one was because of Crowley’s terrible driving.

  “Give me a half hour, then call SWAT—they move damn fast and I need time to locate the house. I will leave one of my gloves on the road in front of the place. Tell them no lights or sirens, and look for my glove. Tell them we got the vigilante group responsible for at least a dozen kills. I don’t know what we’re gonna run into, but SWAT knows how to handle most anything.” With a wink, he slapped Huntsman on the back. “Wish me luck, son. One day you’ll be doing this and someone else will be waiting for back up.”

  Huntsman nodded and watched Crowley disappear into the night on the snow-covered road. Crowley’s coat flapped in the waves of sleet that moved off the lake across Miller Beach. “Good luck,” he said with little thrust.

  When Crowley opened his eyes, he did not know where he was or how much time had passed. His head was sore. His hands and ankles were tied tight. Lying on his side, he struggled to look around the (apparently) empty room. The first thing he saw was the candle flickering on a windowsill about twenty feet away, and through the torn curtains he sa
w bars on the windows. Ragged strips of wallpaper hung from the walls, and the ceiling had large water stains and dirty cobwebs in the corners. Crowley thought he was alone with nothing but a roll of carpet against the far wall—then it spoke to him.

  “Who are you?” The words seemed to slide across the wood floor and mildewed carpet like a rodent scampering for food. Crowley reeled. “I’m Chicago PD. Who’re you?”

  There was a long silence. “Ya know they’re gonna kill us don’t ya?”

  “Who am I talkin’ to?” Crowley pushed.

  “I’m Whitten,” he replied. “I think I know why I’m here. Don’t know why a cop—”

  A door opened. More light fell into the room. Crowley smelled a fire. He closed his eyes and watched through slits—being unconscious would be best.

  The large shadow of a man filled the doorway. He had a thick neck and bulbous shoulders. His arms touched the door jams, and his clenched fists hung like sledge hammers. “Shut up or I’ll kill you, Whitten.” The fuming anger and sour breath filled the room.

  Crowley waited a few minutes after the door closed. “Why’re you here, Whitten? And who the hell was that?”

  “I just got out of prison. That was some kind of friggin monster they call Dario.”

  “And why were you in prison?” Crowley asked.

  “Murder, but I didn’t do it. I had bad lawyers. I was in the wrong place and got blamed. The system screwed me good.”

  “Who’d they say you killed?” Crowley asked.

  “They said I raped and killed a lady—Mason. Yeah, I raped her alright. She wanted it, but I didn’t kill her. She just stopped breathing. They say I beat her. I didn’t touch her.

  “Her old man’s been buggin’ me every day since—get a life, man. He’s gotta be behind all this shit. He said he’d get me, the little punk.” Whitten’s words trailed off. “I should have killed him, too,” he muttered.