Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  The thought of that last task brought a smile to her lips, and for the first time, she looked forward to getting home at the end of the day.

  • • •

  Lydia sat in her small office and read the report on the hair she’d found. She slammed the paper on her desk. The noise halted Adams as he walked past.

  “Problems?” He stuck his head around the doorjamb and smirked, and then flinched at the stare she leveled in his direction.

  “Yeah, you could say that.” She pushed the report toward him. Although she’d never worked with a partner in this precinct, she considered him the closest she had to it. He had accompanied her on several cases and stakeouts. They’d pulled all-nighters poring over clues, and they’d put away their share of criminals.

  And although he had a reputation as quite a ladies’ man, nothing developed more than a plutonic understanding. When she first started working with him, he put the moves on her as a matter of course, flashing a grin and cavalierly offering to show her the sights. After turning him down several times, he finally resigned her to the position of “one of the guys.”

  Now she looked across her desk at the paper Adams lifted, and growled under her breath. “Animal hair.” She waved at the page. “No animal broke into those apartments. There were no tracks at any of the scenes.”

  “They’re saying Canis lupus fur.” Adams sat in the chair across from her, and set the paper down. “I don’t remember seeing a dog at any of the scenes. Did all the officers on the raid file their reports with you?”

  “Yes.” She shook her head. “And none of them reported seeing anything flee the fire. Not even a rat.”

  “He had to leave the house somehow.”

  “Well, duh.” She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair.

  “I am just saying,” he lifted his hands in surrender, “that if he waited until the officers were gone, he would not have been seen.”

  She slammed her hand on her desk. “Right! A dog would not have waited; it would have run out barking its furry head off. Only a person would have the intelligence and the control to wait in the crawlspace of a burning house for a chance to escape unnoticed.”

  “What are you saying?” Adams crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “That the lab is wrong, or that the Bestial Butcher is a beast after all?”

  Without warning, a wave of disorientation washed over her. She raised a hand to her forehead, her fingers like icicles against the ache that throbbed there. The chill gave her some relief.

  Switching hands, she shook her head. “No, I don’t know.” She dropped her hand and contemplated Adams, the closest person she had to a relative. “This case keeps getting screwier and screwier.” She ticked off points on her fingers. “We assume that his body would have gone up with the house, but it doesn’t. The only possible clue left at the scene was dog fur.”

  “And you were attacked and your apartment was broken into,” said Detective Henson, standing in the doorway, holding a folder.

  “You’ve matched the DNA,” she said, more a statement than a question. She didn’t know what to make of this detective. During the day, several people stuck their heads into her office to warn her that he intended to wheedle his way onto the Butcher case.

  “Yup, to your dog.” He drawled the last word and sat in the other chair across from her desk. “I also intercepted a report regarding a hair found under Jacobs’ right middle fingernail.”

  Replete with fury, Lydia fought the urge to jump across the desk and throttle the twerp. With effort, she schooled her features and folded her hands. “And?” Pleased that her tone didn’t give her away, she found waiting for Henson to flip through the folder slightly more tolerable.

  Finally, he pulled out a page and passed it across her desk. “If you look closely, you can see that the hairs you found on the scene and the one found under Jacobs’ nail is the same.” He waited with a hopeful look, as if expecting a pat on the head.

  “And the DNA sample of the urine in my apartment matched that of the hair.”

  “Yes.” Henson leaned across her desk. In a conspiratorial tone, he said, “Lydia, you were attacked and your apartment was trashed by the Butcher.” He almost whispered the nickname.

  Although she’d possessed no evidence, she’d come to the same conclusion the night before. Now she had hard evidence. Just another nail in his coffin when she caught the bastard. Was it her, or did Henson enjoy this far too much?

  For the first time since Henson entered the room, Adams spoke. “All right then, what’s our next move?”

  “First, I have to get another rabies shot today.” She grimaced. The corners of Henson’s mouth twitched slightly, testing the limits of her control.

  “Fun. Do you need a lift?” Adams asked.

  At least no one could see the steam pouring out of her ears. “No, I need you to go question the little old lady that lives across the street from the torched house.”

  “Little old lady?” Adams raised an eyebrow.

  “Use your charm. She’s a busybody, but she could be skittish. I have a feeling she saw something.” Lydia hoped so, anyway. “Perhaps she’ll remember more than a shadow with the proper interviewer.”

  “You got it.” He gave her a playful salute and left.

  She turned to Henson. “Your guys went over my apartment with a fine-tooth comb yesterday, right?”

  “What are you looking for?” he asked, interested.

  “Clothes, shoes, anything salvageable.” Not that she wanted this creep pawing through her clothes any more than a homicidal maniac.

  “Anything that wasn’t pissed on?” He chuckled and she felt the heat of her rage rise in her cheeks. “I think one of the gals can put together something for you. I’ll have her bring it by.” He walked to the door, then twisted around and smirked. “It seems to me that this dog is coming after you personally. Maybe you should hand over this case to someone more detached and objective? Someone who isn’t a target?”

  If she couldn’t get this smartass out of her office soon, she would put him through a wall. Leaning forward, she quietly replied, “Being a target is an asset. When I want him, he’ll come to me.” She paused a moment, then continued. “And being as you solved who broke into my apartment, your interest in this case is over. I’d like that file now.”

  He looked at the folder in his hand, reluctantly taking the two steps to her desk, and handed it over. Chagrin radiated from him. The firm, thin line of his lips and the hardness in his eyes told Lydia he would try to find another way to insinuate himself into the case.

  • • •

  Sergeant Adams pulled his police car to the curb in front of Annette Lenz’s house. He had stopped to check into her background before he ran out to question her. Heck, he didn’t need an eighty-year-old woman falling apart because he made a comment about a child who hadn’t called in over a month, or her husband who died last year.

  But the interview should be fairly straightforward. Ms. Lenz had never married. She had worked in a clothing factory until it closed, and now she kept busy as a self-employed seamstress. Many of the women in the area had gowns altered by Ms. Lenz. In fact, she came highly recommended.

  He went up the front walk, wondering how she would welcome him. In a normal investigation, he would have made this visit two nights ago. However, the police raid had caused the fire, so he doubted she witnessed any crime committed. He really needed her daily observations of the person who lived across the street, and if that person was around of the night of the fire.

  Glancing at the front window, he saw the drapes move. Smiling, he mounted the steps. As he lifted his hand to ring the bell, the door opened a crack. Her security chain clacked against the wood.

  Two eyes peered around the doorframe. “Yes.” Her voice wavered slightly, though not from age. He sensed a trace amoun
t of fear.

  She was a full foot shorter than him and silver-haired. Her cherubic face pinched as she squinted around the door.

  “Hello.” He pulled his badge from his pocket. “I’m Officer Adams.”

  Her eyes darted from his badge to his face and back again. “If you have a moment, I would like to ask you a few questions about your neighbor.” He folded his wallet and waved it over his shoulder.

  “I talked to a fellow yesterday.” She stepped back and closed the door enough to unhook the chain. “I didn’t see too much.” She motioned him inside. “Would you like something to drink?” She led him into a front sitting room, then bustled down the hallway, presumably into the kitchen, without waiting for him to accept. Much like his grandmother.

  The room resembled the front room of his grandmother’s house with white walls, landscape art, and antique furniture. Sofa and chairs with thin padding on ornate wood frames that looked as though they would give under any weight. He carefully sat in a chair by the window, attempting to see through the gauzy curtains.

  The carcass of the burned house across the street ruined the view. He leaned back in the chair in an effort to get a better look, and his rickety perch groaned in protest. Startled, he quickly straightened and glanced around for Ms. Lenz. The sound of ice tinkling into glasses reached him.

  Breathing a sigh of relief that she had not discovered his mischief, and that the chair held firm, he decided to stand.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, he wandered to a credenza located opposite the entrance of the room. Multiple picture frames were arranged on top, all of which contained photos apparently taken at final fittings for dresses Ms. Lenz had altered. Prom dresses, wedding gowns, and in a few it appeared she’d sewn dresses for entire wedding parties.

  “Ms. Lenz, these gowns are beautiful,” he called down the hall.

  Nothing.

  “Ms. Lenz?” Instinctively, he rested a hand on his gun and unfastened the thumb break in case he needed to draw his weapon. He moved along the hallway, fighting the urge to call out again.

  When he reached an arched doorway, he could hear a scraping sound around the corner. He leaned against the wall, breathing in shallow puffs. The idea that the Butcher might not be human made him more than a little anxious.

  His grandmother once told him to beware of a world beyond his perception. The last time he’d visited, she rested her bony hand on his and told him to carry a talisman with him wherever he went. She had pressed an ornament of some saint into his hand. He didn’t really believe in luck, so that disk currently resided in a junk drawer in his apartment. Hell of a lot of good it did there.

  The sound of a screen door falling closed came from the rear of the house. He drew his weapon, and taking a deep breath, spun into the kitchen.

  His gun leveled at the only thing in the room that moved — a cat. It sauntered across a center island toward a tray that held two glasses of lemonade. Halfway across, it stopped and crouched. Leaning its head over the far side of the counter, it meowed.

  Something didn’t feel right. Instead of holstering his weapon, he scanned the kitchen and a dark hallway that led to the rest of the house. He moved along the wall toward that hallway, around the island and the cat.

  When he cleared the counter, he found Ms. Lenz, dead. She lay on her back with her legs tucked under. Whoever killed her had allowed her to slip silently to the floor under her own weight.

  He stepped closer. Her light blue eyes stared toward the ceiling. The cause of death was obvious at this angle, her throat ripped open. Blood from the injury pooled around her head and stained her silver hair a dark maroon.

  The edges of his detachment frayed at the sight. By the nature of the wound, he could tell she’d died instantly. Probably without fear. Her last emotion most likely that of being startled.

  Adams moved around the front of the counter to the kitchen door that faced the backyard. The heavy door stood open. Only the screen remained closed. In the dirt beyond the cement doorstep, a fresh print caught his eye. It looked like a man’s hiking boot, about size eleven.

  After searching the remainder of the house, he called Detective Davis. She would want to work the scene while forensics took a cast of the print.

  “Davis,” she answered in a strained voice.

  “This is Adams. I’m at the Lenz house. You need to get over here. Now.”

  “I just got pumped up with rabies shots. What do you need me there for? She not talking?”

  “Nope. It appears the Butcher came in and ripped her throat out just after she let me in.” He suppressed guilt that he hadn’t followed the old woman into the kitchen.

  “What? How the hell? Shit, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, he got away though.” She released another string of expletives he decided to talk over. “He left a distinct print this time. I’m about to call in the lab guys, but I thought you would want to check out the scene first.”

  “Christ, okay. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Call ’em in. Just let them get started. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Got it,” he said, ready to hang up.

  “Hey, Adams!”

  He lifted the phone back to his ear. “What?”

  “If that reporter from the Daily Times, Ryan Williams, comes by, hold him for me, okay?”

  “You got it.” He nodded. He knew the reporter talked to Ms. Lenz the day before.

  “Don’t let him cross the police line. I just need to talk to him.”

  “Right.” He hung up and looked around the kitchen again. The cat still sat on the counter, only now it regarded him with accusation.

  “Hey, I didn’t do this,” he said to the cat. With a slight twist of its head, the cat walked to side of the counter, then hunched to lick its paw.

  Chapter 8

  Lydia drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she whipped in and out of traffic. The bulb on her dash streaked the cars ahead of her in red. The rabies shot hadn’t hurt as much as she expected; however, it still presented an unpleasant experience. The call from Adams nearly pushed her off the emotional tightrope she walked.

  Growling in frustration, she waited for a minivan to edge out of her way. Ms. Lenz’s murder pitched her plans for the whole evening. She intended to surprise Ryan with Chinese food from her favorite restaurant, a little bit of everything so he could pick what he liked.

  She hoped he would pick her. Running a hand through her hair, she snorted. What the hell was wrong with her? On her way to investigate a homicide, most likely committed by an unstoppable madman, and she could not stop thinking how fantastic Ryan looked sipping his coffee that morning. Another car in the way. This time a cherry red convertible with a bleached–blonde driver babbling on her cell phone, oblivious to the siren. Lydia slammed her fist into the dashboard.

  When she arrived at Ms. Lenz’s house, the forensics team had already arrived and the area bustled with activity. A yellow police line fluttered in a slight breeze. The coroner’s van waited at the curb with its driver lounging against the rear bumper. The front door of the house stood open, and figures inside crossed in front of the light.

  She pulled behind the van and tried to gather the tattered strands of her emotions. She had not imagined her evening going this way. She closed her eyes and leaned against the black vinyl of her seat.

  Chinese food and wine, with some candles maybe. He would smile, pleased that she stayed and then … She shivered with the pleasant thought of the potential such an evening could hold.

  Calm now, she opened her eyes to the distasteful reality before her. She stepped from her car, lifted a hand in a wave to the coroner’s men, and started up the driveway.

  “There you are,” a disgruntled voice sounded behind her. On the other side of the van, parked by the curb, sat a patrol car. Beside the car, restrained by
a uniformed officer, stood a very annoyed Ryan.

  Her hopes for the evening fell even further. And what she had to do next would only make things worse. She held up a finger, and started along the drive. A strangled, “What the — ?” caused her to cringe.

  Although several people examined the living room, most of the activity was centered in the kitchen. Lydia made her way toward the crime scene. Adams stood in the center of the room with a pad and pencil, sketching the scene. The department photographer stood near the body, taking final shots and speaking into a headset recorder as he worked, logging each shot.

  He always ended with close-ups of the body. Ralph had a sensitive stomach. Since his first day on the job when he lost his lunch all over his subject, an arson victim, he never looked at the body until the end of the shoot.

  Everyone knew Ralph’s problem, and knew to give him an escape route to his car. There he kept a plastic-lined garbage can so he could retch in peace and not disturb the scene. The department would not tolerate such peculiarity from any other photographer. However, Ralph’s crime scene photos helped to solve cases more often than not. He was the best.

  Giving Ralph room to work, she moved to inspect the print outside the back door. She crouched beside a woman with short blonde hair who readied to pour plaster over the boot print.

  “Susan, what can you tell me about the print?” Lydia asked the officer, as the white liquid covered the shape.

  “Not too much, yet.” Susan glanced at her. “It appears to be from a hiking boot, men’s size eleven.” She shook her head, blonde spikes of hair wriggling with the movement. “That’s all until I get it back to the lab. I’ll check tread patterns, weight distribution, blah-blah.” She winked at Lydia and whispered conspiratorially, “Don’t worry. I’ll be able to tell you if a dog was wearing them.”