Dark of Night

by T. F. Walsh

  • • •

  A few minutes later, Lydia led the way to Ralph’s office and darkroom at the end of the hallway. Located closest to the restroom, of course.

  “Come on in,” called a gruff voice in response to her knock.

  Ralph’s workspace stood in sharp contrast to the front office of the forensics lab. The pristine desk held a computer and desk lamp, both on and functioning. Ralph sat in a chair behind it. On seeing Lydia, he stood and lifted a manila folder.

  “I was just about to run this over to your office.” He placed it in her outstretched hand.

  “I guess we saved you a trip,” Ryan said.

  “Nothing in there that you’d be able to use in the paper.” Ralph’s lips tightened into a thin line.

  “Don’t worry.” Lydia flipped through pictures. “He’s not here as a reporter.”

  “They’re always reporters, my dear.”

  She chuckled a bit as she pulled out two pictures of the victim’s throat. “Could you blow these up please? I need to get better detail on the edges of the wound.”

  He withdrew a piece of paper from a drawer in his desk and wrote the numbers of the pictures and added several notations beside them. “Not a problem.” He smiled at her. “You look peaked. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Fine, thanks. Send them to this address when you’re done. I’m staying in a different apartment. Mine was vandalized.” In truth she didn’t feel well at all. Looking at the pictures made her very hungry. Nauseatingly so.

  “Yes, I heard about that.” He attached the page to the pictures and set it in a basket on the wall next to a door labeled Darkroom — do not enter when red light is on. “You take care of yourself now.”

  She offered him a weak smile. “I will.”

  In the hall, Ryan confronted her, gripping her arm gently. “You are not fine.” He held up a hand to stave off further denial. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She shook her head. “I’m hungry, that’s all. Next time I go to the doctor, I should have my blood sugar checked.” She forced a laugh.

  Ryan studied her for a minute, still holding her arm. “I know this steakhouse … ”

  “You read my mind.” She laid a hand over his, keeping his hold on her arm. “Lead the way.”

  • • •

  After a luscious lunch of rare prime rib and salad, though Lydia only had a bite or two of lettuce, they drove to Hank Jacobs’ house.

  He had received a clean bill of health from the hospital, but the police shrink ordered Jacobs to take a week to recover at home before resuming his duties. As with any officer, Jacobs didn’t like his forced inactivity.

  Lydia received reports that he still followed the Butcher case from home, logging into the police database and requesting copies of lab reports. Although a psychiatrist visited him once a day, something compelled her to look in on him.

  They pulled in front of his suburban home, and right away Lydia knew something was off, though nothing actually appeared out of the ordinary. Canary yellow siding welcomed visitors. Children’s toys lay scattered about a yard filled with green grass bordered by a white picket fence.

  Flowerbeds lined the front of the house and either side of three steps leading to the front door. Tulips bloomed beside azalea bushes starting to bud. Begonias grew in front of them, little pink and red blossoms lifting their faces toward the afternoon sun.

  Both cars stood parked in the driveway beside the house. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

  “It’s early afternoon. The children should still be in school,” Lydia observed.

  “Yes.” Ryan followed her up the sidewalk to the front door. “What do you think we’ll find?”

  “Nothing, I hope. I just want to look in on him.” She stopped short of knocking and offered Ryan a crooked smile. “Just call it maternal instinct.”

  “You have killer instincts, not maternal ones.” He smiled.

  They chuckled as she pressed the glowing doorbell.

  After ringing it a couple of times, Lydia started to worry. As she tensed to move around to the back of the house, the door opened a crack and the blonde head of a woman appeared around the frame.

  “Yes?” The question grated from the woman as though it took all her strength.

  “Hello.” Lydia peered closer. “Ellen?”

  “Oh, Lydia.” Ellen Jacobs breathed. “It’s you.” She opened the door wider until she stood framed in the doorway.

  This was not the Ellen Jacobs Lydia remembered, whose hair glittered like gold in the sun and whose skin, pale as milk, seemed flawless. Her quick wit and sparkling blue eyes never failed to make her the life of any party.

  The woman standing before them now seemed to have little life left. Her hair clung to the sides of her head like matted straw. Bruises covered the once flawless skin, and her eyes gazed unresponsively from sunken sockets.

  Though she’d been through hell the past couple of days, Lydia thought it best to hide her reaction to Ellen’s visage. Instead, she continued as if Ellen answered the door cheerfully, like normal.

  “I just wanted to stop in and visit with Hank.”

  Ellen hesitated, and Lydia swore panic briefly animated Ellen’s deadened features. “Of course.” She held the door wider. “Come on in.”

  As Lydia stepped into the house, she shot a glance over her shoulder to Ryan. Her concern echoed in his features. He nodded at her silent request for him to ready for anything. Suddenly, she regretted bringing him along. This could turn into a trap. The only reason she didn’t call in backup was because the Butcher didn’t take prisoners, and nothing in his profile suggested he would.

  The living room held no surprises. In fact, everything about it seemed normal except, of course, for the haggard woman standing before them.

  “Would you like some coffee?” Ellen offered, her head tilted, staring at a patch of light on the carpet.

  “No, thanks,” Lydia declined in a conversational tone. “Just came back from lunch.”

  “Hmm.” Ellen sank into an easy chair, her eyes glazed.

  “Is Hank here, Ellen?” Lydia asked, using her husband’s first name. She wanted to sit with her and ask what happened. She longed to offer a shoulder and support for a person who, although not considered a close friend, she would still call her friend. However, the oddness of the situation made her edgy. She glanced at Ryan who shifted his stance and looked both concerned and cautious.

  “I’m right here,” a gruff voice came from the hallway.

  Unable to identify the voice, Lydia reached for her revolver. No sooner did she grip the handle than she recognized Jacobs.

  First, she noticed the growth of his beard. The once clean-shaven face now wore a full beard at least two inches long. It covered the whole bottom portion of his face up to his cheekbones.

  He prowled into the room. Never a clumsy man, he now moved smoothly, almost gracefully, to stand behind his wife’s chair. She flinched when he softly rested his hand on her shoulder. This confirmed to Lydia where Ellen’s wounds came from.

  “What do you want?” Layers of disrespect and contempt dripped from his tone.

  Lydia smiled at the officer she’d worked with and trusted to cover her back on more than one occasion. “I came to see how you were doing, Jacobs.”

  He nodded. “Thanks for stopping by.” He lifted his hands and under the T-shirt that clung to his body muscles rippled. The skin on those arms had healed perfectly. No sign of an attack marred his flesh.

  “You healed well,” Lydia said, moving to the couch. Ryan followed and sat beside her.

  Jacobs’ eyes narrowed and he shifted forward, fingers digging deeply into the back of the chair. Poor Ellen’s expressionless face screwed up in fear, her head tilting to one side.

  Seeing this, Jacobs blurted,
“Oh God, Ellen, go make some coffee.” He smacked the chair as if starting a horse. She darted from the room, gasping as she rounded the corner. “There’s been something wrong with her lately.” He smiled at them coldly. “I sent the kids to her mother’s for the week. Can’t have them around while their mother turns psycho. Ya know?” He twirled his finger by his ear and grinned.

  “Oh, yes.” Ryan spoke for the first time. “Completely.”

  Jacobs nodded, as if agreeing with his own wisdom.

  “Jacobs?” Lydia asked. “Has that shrink been by to check on you?” She watched for his reaction.

  “No, he never showed.” He sat and leaned back into the chair, his gaze darting to the hallway. “I didn’t call ‘cause I’ve never felt better.”

  A crashing of what could only come from an entire cabinet of glasses hitting the floor reverberated from the kitchen. Ryan and Lydia both half rose from their seats at the sound, eyes on Jacobs and his reaction.

  “Damn woman.” Jacobs stormed from the room.

  “Something is very wrong with him,” she whispered to Ryan. “I need to get him back to the hospital.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, then straightened when Ellen came into the room with a tray, followed by Jacobs. Ellen set the tray on a coffee table, then glancing furtively at her husband, poured a cup of black coffee and lowered her face as she offered it to him.

  He accepted it and waved her off. Released, she almost ran down the hallway.

  Ryan poured for himself and Lydia while she asked, “So, how are you feeling?”

  “I already told you, I’m fine.”

  “I know, but I would feel so much better if you had a checkup.”

  His gaze wandered toward the hallway. “Yeah, but if they don’t show … ” His beard parted and eyes flashed in a hideous grin.

  “We can take you to them, Jacobs,” she said, figuring she should just come out with it.

  “What!” He jumped from his chair, his mug crashing against the wall. He hurled the coffee table to within an inch from her nose. “I’m fine. I’m not going anywhere.” Biting off the last word, he stormed from the room.

  Down the hallway, he broke through a door. A scream and then a thump. Lydia, who’d rose again when Jacobs stormed from the room, drew her weapon and started after him. Regardless of their history or how long she’d known him, she could not allow the obvious abuse of his wife to continue.

  The poor woman half stumbled, half crawled from the room. Lydia stowed the gun and reached for her.

  “Oh, God.” Ellen’s eyes rolled. Ryan sprang from the couch to offer his support. As they helped her down the porch steps, the sound of growling and splintering wood reached them. Ellen shuddered and passed out.

  “I got her.” Ryan scooped the comatose woman and Lydia ran ahead to open the rear door. As he slid Ellen gently into the car, Lydia jumped into the driver’s seat and grabbed her radio.

  “This is Davis. I need a unit at 1015 Sunshine Avenue.” Even as she spoke, guilt washed over her. She should’ve been able to help Jacobs. “Domestic disturbance. Taking wife to the hospital. Husband is extremely violent.”

  “Copy that,” came the dispatcher’s response.

  “This is Arnold,” another voice boomed over the radio. “We’re close, we’re on the way.” A pause. “That’s Jacobs’ house, isn’t it?”

  When Ryan’s door closed, she backed out of the driveway and replied, “Yeah.” She glanced to her right. Ryan’s mouth formed a grim line and his eyes caught hers. She knew Arnold and his partner would not be enough. “Dispatch,” Lydia called again. “You better up that to three units.” She flipped on her siren and sped toward the hospital.

  Chapter 11

  Adams heard the call to respond to Jacobs’ house. He sat at his desk, fighting panic that rose in his throat like bile, knuckles whitening as he gripped a maroon mug. Since the Lenz murder and the twist of fate that spared his life, he could not relax. He jumped at every noise and felt eyes boring into the back of his neck even when he knew he was alone.

  His recent anxiousness worried him more than the murder. This was not the first time he’d faced danger. In fact, two years ago, a female serial killer took an unhealthy interest in him. Always he kept his composure and laughed off the stress.

  But instinct told him he faced a different situation. Nothing about this case followed the natural order, and he could not seriously consider the supernatural.

  He kept his expression neutral as he sipped coffee and listened to police teams attempting to subdue Jacobs.

  The chief limped past Adams’ desk, pausing to listen as the officers coordinated before approaching the house. The chief had ordered an open radio and voice record of the raid. Internal affairs would want to investigate one of his men losing his mind. Recording the raid could also assist should the Jacobs family file a lawsuit down the road. It was strictly a cover–your–ass move. One the chief couldn’t afford to do.

  When their eyes met, Adams waved to a chair. Nodding at the invitation, Fairweather sat and leaned back, stretching his legs and tenting his fingers over his middle. They sat in silence as the raid started.

  “Jacobs! Police, open up!” Pounding followed.

  Crackling on the radio filled the seconds the team waited. “Do it.” A rhythmic thudding started.

  “Battering ram,” the chief commented softly. Adams nodded. “Damn shame he cracked.” Adams felt the older man’s critical eyes. “You still together?”

  Not exactly startled by the question, the sergeant had a response ready. “Shook up, sir, but not scrambled.”

  The sound of wood splintering distracted them both. Shouted orders and responses of “Clear,” held them riveted for several seconds. Then the voice of Sergeant Garofoli came across the line.

  “Sir, there is no one inside the home. The place is trashed. The car is here, but no one’s home.”

  The chief straightened and pressed the button to respond. “Then he’s on foot. Set up a perimeter and sweep the area. He’s a danger to himself and others. Find him.”

  Once his boss dispersed the raid team, Adams could feel Fairweather’s eyes drilling into him. “Look. I’ve been in this job long enough to know you’re shaken.”

  “I was in the house.” Adams spoke softly. “He could have taken me out so easily.”

  “You were meant to call it in.” He tapped a finger on the desk calendar. “If he’s followed this in the media at all, he’ll know Davis is the lead on this case. He’s playing with her by toying with you.”

  Adams wanted to smack himself in the forehead. “Her apartment was a message.”

  “Right. That’s why I’m thinking about telling the media she’s off the case.”

  Adams let his jaw drop. “You know there’ll be no living with her after that.”

  “Naw, she’ll understand that’s just for the media, to give her some space.” The captain stood and leaned across the desk, putting a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, kid. He didn’t leave you until later. It’s not like he’s going to hunt you down ’cause you got away.”

  Though he meant to help, the chief’s comment only made Adams feel worse. He rubbed the back of his neck and resolved to go straight home to his cat at the end of his shift.

  • • •

  Ryan agitatedly rubbed his hand over his face as Lydia checked Ellen into the hospital and arranged for a therapist specializing in battered women to visit on a regular basis. After tucking Ellen safely into her room, then hearing how Jacobs had escaped the raid, Lydia asked Ryan to meet her at the apartment later. “I need to stop at the office, and visit Jacobs’ kids. He’ll probably try to reassert his control over them.”

  “Just promise you’ll be careful.” Ryan took her hand in both of his and stepp
ed close. Her face flushed and her eyes dilated before hardening and darting, glancing down the corridors. Loving her reaction, he brought her hand to his chest and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  His reward came when her breath caught in her throat, and she leaned into him for a second before stepping away and withdrawing her hand. “Don’t worry. I think I’ll have half the force wanting to work off the clock after this.”

  Glancing into Ellen’s room, Lydia’s brow furrowed. “I wonder if the Butcher is so bloodthirsty because of a disease.” She stared into space and whispered, “If it’s contagious. And Jacobs caught it.” Ryan questioned if she still registered him standing in front of her, until her vision refocused. “I need to ask around here before I stop at Ellen’s mother’s house.”

  He nodded slightly and reluctantly let her jog down the hall.

  In the parking lot, watching the coming twilight, he decided to follow the instinctual pull to return to the Jacob’s house.

  Long shadows stretched across the street as he clipped his press pass to his shirt pocket and started his car.

  • • •

  Apparently, somebody had plugged any media leaks. A cop losing it made big news, yet the street in front of the home was deserted. He drove slowly past, getting a sense of the situation. Parking a block away, he sauntered along the sidewalk toward the house.

  He imagined, to a casual observer, he looked relaxed, his hands in his pockets, his pace slow. Nobody could tell he saw and heard everything around him.

  A baby cried in the house next door, hushed by a cooing female voice. A trio of cats sat side by side on the porch across the street. Their ears turned forward, they stared unwavering at the left corner of the one–story ranch that, until recently, held a police officer and his happy family.

  Ryan paused at the end of the driveway. The sky darkened enough now that the street lamps flickered on.

  He didn’t have a plan for confronting Jacobs, but Ryan sensed him in the house and went around the side into the deep shadows of the back yard.