Kill Them All (Drexel Pierce Book 2)

by Patrick Kanouse

  After handing his detective a coffee, the captain sat down with the other two. He shook his head.

  Drexel said, “No point in delaying it.”

  “Make it quick. We need to get some sleep tonight. I know we’ll have long days before us.”

  Drexel started with his report. The apparently abandoned house, the U-Haul truck, no suspicious activity since, even the helpful neighbor mowing. The interior of the house was stripped of everything, though what was left had been dusted and bagged. The victim was in the basement, the body had been frozen after being dismembered, and no freezer was found in the house. Someone had stored Brittany’s frozen body and waited until very recently to display it in the empty house. But how long?

  Victor shook his head, walked out, and came back a few minutes later with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red that he kept in his office. He threw out the coffee in the extra cup into the trash can, poured a generous three fingers in, and offered the bottle to Drexel. He downed the last of his coffee and poured in the scotch and slid the bottle across the table to Daniela, who ignored it.

  “What do we know about the victim?” asked Victor.

  Daniela pulled out a file and opened it. “She was reported missing by her parents on December 16 last year. Her parents called the police, and the Missing Persons Unit, or MPU, began investigating. Detective Benoit Cadenat was the lead investigator. I haven’t had time to absorb the report completely, but it seems like the parents organized some searches and swept the University of Chicago area. They were stopping by businesses to see if anyone had seen her as well as searching the parks and shorefront for her body. The only thing they found was a bit of video surveillance on the night she disappeared. But nothing, apparently, that led investigators anywhere. It’s still an open case.”

  Victor tapped the desk with his index finger. “This isn’t going to be the news those parents wanted to hear.” He twisted his jaw and downed the last of the whisky in his cup. “Better tell them this evening.”

  “We’ll alert MPU, too. Get everything they’ve got on her disappearance and talk to the lead detective,” said Drexel as he rubbed the back of his neck.

  Daniela said, “And I’ve already requested that surveillance footoage for the night she disappeared.”

  “So based on that information, our killer has had Brittany since mid-December. He could have killed her that same night or the next day and then frozen her. Or he could have kept her hostage, only killed her recently.”

  “Risky keeping her alive and locked away.” Daniela grabbed the whisky bottle and took a drink straight from it. “But look at what that guy did in Ohio. Cleveland, I think. Kept a number of girls as hostages for a decade, surrounded by other homes.”

  “Yeah, but this guy, our guy—he always intended on killing her. To get to this diagram—symbol—hell if I know. This entire thing,” Drexel motioned a circle in the air with his entire hand, “it means something to him.”

  Victor nodded. “That’s a dark rabbit hole to follow. But whatever this killer’s plan is, what drives him, it should help us find him. Pierce, this is your case, but Daniela’s yours for the duration.” Daniela smiled. Victor continued, “That said, I’ll give you the number of one of the FBI’s profilers here. Giulia Vivaldi.” He smiled. “She’s good. She might be able to help.”

  Drexel nodded and gave Daniela a thumbs-up. The captain had let Drexel work cases alone for years, often at the chagrin of his supervisors. In the end, it had worked out. Drexel cleared as many cases alone as some partnerships. But he knew this case was too big for one detective. Daniela had proven in an earlier case to be invaluable in its resolution, and as her reward, Victor had promoted her to Special Liaison with the Homicide Unit. No longer strictly a forensics technician, she was also not a sworn police officer. And also having a profiler might help him get what he was looking for in a potential suspect more quickly and set a trap to lure the killer out of hiding. “Yeah, I want the FBI’s number. The CSIs and ME have a lot to do. So Daniela and I will start with Brittany. We need to build a timeline of her disappearance.”

  Victor waved for Drexel’s notebook, which he slid over to his captain. He slid it back with Vivaldi’s number written at the top of the inside cover. The three of them left the conference room and dropped the reports at Drexel’s desk. He and Daniela grabbed the keys for one of the detectives’ pool cars, which were parked across Congress Parkway. They walked in silence to the car. He popped a peppermint in his mouth and offered one to Daniela, who refused and instead took a drink from her Monster can. He sucked on the peppermint and avoided biting into it and crunching it up. He needed it to wipe out the smell of the scotch before he told the Days their daughter was dead.

  Chapter 4

  On the way to the Day’s house on Kimbark Avenue in Hyde Park, Daniela and Drexel discussed how to inform the Days their daughter was murdered. This was their first notification together, and the choreography of dealing with the grief while obtaining information was a delicate act. They passed the famed Robie House—its red-brick and wide eaves over its many windows evoked the American prairies—and turned right onto a tree- and house-lined street. Hyde Park had a long and colorful history: the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition with its promise of Chicago rising from the ashes, which included the first Ferris wheel, the showcase for the alternating-current system, and an assassination; the Museum of Science and Industry, and home of President Barack Obama and several Nobel Prize laureates. The historic houses of Kimbark Avenue captured much of that essence of the glorious past. The red-brick houses were two and three stories, built in the early twentieth century, when Chicago was growing and becoming the center of capitalism in the upper Midwest. Lofty oak and maple trees rushing into full leafage, their branches thick and arching, filled the green lawns. A street full of promise and beauty.

  Daniela parked their car across the street from the Days’ house and turned it off, letting the keys sway and bang the dash. Without a word, she pulled out the keys, opened the door, and stepped out. As she and Drexel walked to the edge of the property, they saw tacked on the large oak tree a “Missing” flier, tattered and straining at the nails embedded deep in the tree’s flesh. A photo of Brittany. A phone number and the promise of a $50,000 reward.

  The lawn did not have a weed in it. Instead, it was a lush, thick, and green, even under the shade of the two oaks in the front yard. As Drexel started up the steps to the porch and the front door, he saw around a large shrub, a man sitting on a chair. He lowered his book, grabbed his gold-metal framed glasses by a temple piece, and held them away but close to his face. “Hello. May I help you?”

  “Mr. Day?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m Detective Sergeant Drexel Pierce and this is Daniela Longfurd of Chicago PD.”

  Jeffrey Day shook his head in a tight, fast back-and-forth motion. His eyes grew in size and his bottom lip quivered. He grasped the enormity of what he was about to learn. He knew what was coming, for he had prepared for it—unwittingly—to hear that his daughter had not eloped to California and youthful dreams or some other crazy but much happier fantasy. He believed, hoped his daughter was still alive until Drexel appeared on his porch.

  Daniela said, “Mr. Day, is your wife here?” She made loose fists with her hands, rubbing her thumbs over her index fingers.

  He shook his head. “No. No. She’s got night class.”

  Daniela took several steps toward Jeffrey and crouched down near him. “I’m very sorry to tell you this. But we believe we’ve found Brittany.”

  “Is she—is she—?” Tears formed and hung at the edges of his eyes.

  Daniela nodded once and frowned.

  “How do you know it’s her?”

  “We’re not 100 percent sure yet, but the woman we found matches the description and her university ID card was with her. The ME—the medical examiner—will conduct the necessary
tests to make sure.”

  He blinked rapidly, and the tears fell. “No, no, no.”

  “Can I call your wife for you, sir?” Drexel asked.

  Jeffrey nodded slowly. He stood up and stared out to the street. His knees buckled, and Drexel took two steps toward him and helped him sit back down. He screamed. An angry, grieving scream erupting out of his body. Drexel kneeled beside him and wrapped his arm around the man’s shoulders. Daniela rubbed her hands together. Jeffrey cried hard, unable to even catch his breath. He calmed to sobs after a few minutes. Drexel stood up. Across the street, one of the neighbors stood on his porch, his hand to his mouth and shaking his head.

  After a few minutes, Daniela reached over and placed her hand on Jeffrey’s arm. “I know this is shocking. Can we call someone for you?”

  “Oh, Jesus. How do I tell Whit? Oh my god.”

  “We can call her for you.”

  With trembling hands, he gave Daniela his cell phone. He said his wife was Whitney and she was teaching a class at the university. Daniela passed the phone to Drexel, who walked off the porch and across the street, out of earshot of Jeffrey. He found Whitney’s contact information on the phone. He called the first number, her office. When it bounced to voice mail he hung up. He called her cell number. When it, too, went to voice mail, he hung up and immediately redialed.

  Someone answered. “I’m in class.” The voice was hushed.

  “Dr. Whitney Day?”

  “Who is this?” Whitney’s voice had switched to a normal volume.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Drexel Pierce from the Chicago PD.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “Your husband is okay. However, he needs you to come home.”

  “What?”

  “Your husband, Jeffrey, needs you to come home.”

  “What’s this about?”

  Drexel grimaced. “It’s about Brittany.”

  They waited fifteen minutes with Jeffrey. Drexel went into the house and returned with a box of tissue and a glass of water, unable to find a stronger drink. The father sobbed. He shook his head and said several times, “I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it.”

  A brown Prius pulled up along the curb and before it had stopped, the passenger door opened and a woman stepped out, around, and ran up to the porch. Dressed in faded blue jeans, a light flowery blouse, she clutched a red windbreaker. “What’s happened?” Whitney’s expression and her tone had a slight tinge of hope to it, the pitch rising at the end of her question. She knew the truth, but she hoped she was wrong. Drexel could tell the driver, a woman with a dark brown knit cap who looked up at Drexel and then to the Days, knew the reality. Knew if Brittany was okay, Jeffrey would have called.

  When Whitney saw her husband, the hope disappeared and the reality grasped like a noose.

  “I’m very sorry, Dr. Day,” said Drexel.

  Daniela and Drexel stepped back and allowed them their moment of grief. They would have many more moments in the days to come. They had, indeed, had many since December. Drexel walked down to the car. The woman, in her late thirties or early forties with shoulder-length blond hair, rolled down the window. “So it’s bad news?”

  He nodded. “What’s your name?”

  “Cheryl. Cheryl Barber. I work with Whitney.”

  “Thanks for bringing her.”

  “Sure. Feel awful for her. For them.”

  Drexel nodded. “Did you know Brittany?”

  “She was one of my students last semester. And I’ve known Whitney for a couple of years.”

  “I’ll contact you later. I’ll want to talk to anybody who knew her. It will help.”

  “I’ve already talked to one detective.”

  “Yep, but it helps me to hear it directly.”

  Cheryl nodded once.

  Drexel turned around as she started to roll up the window. She said, “Sorry. Excuse me?”

  “Yes?”

  “Was it bad? I mean, was it bad for Brittany?”

  He leaned over and placed his forearm on the roof of the car. He scratched his chin with his free hand. “It’s over for her now.” He nodded once and smiled grimly before turning and walking back up the sidewalk, pulling the flier from the tree and crushing it into a small ball he stuffed into his pocket. Behind him, he heard the window slide up and the car drive off.

  On the porch, Whitney clutched a tissue. She said to Daniela, “What happened? Can we see her?”

  Daniela said, “Let’s sit down.”

  Once inside, the Days sitting on a dark leather couch, holding hands twisted through their arms, the detectives across from them in a matching couch, Daniela let them know their daughter had been murdered.

  “We knew,” said Jeffrey, “that she wouldn’t run away, wouldn’t disappear like that.”

  An artificial Christmas tree still stood in the living room with a small clump of presents beneath it.

  Daniela said, “We’ve just started the investigation, but it seems likely she was abducted and then killed.”

  “Did she suffer?”

  “We don’t think so, no,” said Drexel. He did not, in fact, believe this to be the case.

  “Can we see her?” asked Whitney.

  Daniela and Drexel had discussed this specific topic and agreed seeing Brittany’s body would not be helpful.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Drexel.

  “Why? Isn’t that what people are supposed to do. Identify the body.”

  “I’m sorry, but, well, the murder was gruesome. I wish I could tell you differently.” Drexel rubbed his chin. “There’s no easy way to say this, and it will come out. After she was killed, her body was dismembered.”

  “Oh my god!” shouted Whitney. “Oh my god!”

  “Was she raped?” asked Jeffrey, a cold flash of anger creeping across his face.

  “We don’t think so,” said Daniela.

  “Why would someone—why would someone—?” asked Whitney.

  Drexel leaned in and said. “Not a thing in this world, no answer will ever really satisfy us. If there’s an answer, we’ll try to get it. But…” He paused and let that sink in. “What happened to her was awful. Was beyond what any parent should go through, and I’m sorry you have to. What we can do is try to find who did this. So we’d like to ask you some questions.”

  They nodded. Jeffrey made a pot of coffee and placed a white carafe on the table between them with four mugs. Drexel took notes while Daniela and he asked questions the Days had been asked repeatedly by the missing persons detectives. Brittany was a freshman at the University of Chicago, where her mother was a professor in the Divinity School in the philosophy of religions, and lived at home with her parents. She was an only child. Jeffrey—a writer of thick biographies of obscure Enlightenment Europeans like James Burnett, Francesco Mario Pagano, and Leonhard Euler—and Whitney offered, indeed encouraged, their daughter to stay away from home while in school, but she insisted otherwise. The autumn semester had ended a few days before their daughter’s disappearance, so many of the students were already back at home, but Brittany had a couple of friends who lived in Chicago: Kayla Logenfeld and Carrie Bosworth. On December 15, Brittany told Jeffrey at two in the afternoon she was going with her friends to the university bookstore and a coffee shop, the Beans. That was the last Jeffrey or Whitney saw or heard from their daughter. Brittany had performed well in school, had not told them about any boyfriends, and had never mentioned any stalkers or the like. According to Brittany’s friends, nothing seemed wrong or out of the ordinary. Just a normal day. A normal day that turned into an ongoing nightmare.

  Whitney had called both the university and Chicago police the morning of December 16 when she got up and noticed her daughter had not returned home or left any messages.

  Brittany’s parents, with enco
uragement from the Chicago police, had organized searches and a hotline. Cadres of friends, family, and volunteers had swept through the area, knocking on doors, searching parks, and putting up flyers. All of it coordinated with the police, who ensured an organized search that sought to preserve any evidence found. On December 19, a volunteer saw Brittany on a video from the O’Neal Pub a few blocks north of the campus. The time stamp was 9:09 p.m. on December 15, and she appeared for three seconds walking east on the sidewalk. A police surveillance camera a block east of the pub captured her again as she waited to cross the street. The camera then panned away. When it returned, she was gone. On December 20, the Days offered a $10,000 reward for information leading to finding their daughter, which they increased over the following weeks to the current $50,000.

  Drexel asked them if they knew of anyone named Simon. They did not. He thought it was a long shot, that the name was a pseudonym.

  That evening, a weary pair of detectives left the Days’ house. As Daniela drove them out of Hyde Park, she broke the silence. Her right hand gripped the steering wheel and her left pulled at her hair as she said, “You know this isn’t the last, right? There’re going to be more killings. Boss, whoever did this isn’t done.”

  * * *

  Back at the station, while he grabbed a cup of coffee from the pot in the kitchenette, Drexel called his brother, Ryan. “Hey.”

  “Hey there.” Sounds of traffic in the background.

  “Sorry to call you at work. Case landed on my desk today, and I’ve been working it since.”

  “Sure. Sure.” The squeak of a van door followed by its clicking closed. Ryan worked as a plumber for Plumber Savior. Drexel imagined him carrying his belt of tools in the large, five-gallon bucket he carried to and from the van at job sites.